The haunting of Mickey Dean

It was a light mist that found Mickey Dean crouched low behind a moss covered headstone in the little cemetery just outside of town. He was to meet Emily McGuire, but she was nowhere to be seen.. Mickey was upset and sat on a long bench to think, wondering if the foggy weather had kept her away, or perhaps she was having second thoughts. It would be very sad if she had decided not to come, despite many assurances that she would indeed be waiting there, at twilight. So here he was, waiting beneath an angel monument, for their first kiss.

Mickey thought for a moment that he saw someone, or something. A black silhouette drifted behind the huge statue in the center of the grave yard. He might have been mistaken, and since it was well past the appointed hour for his rendezvous, he waited and watched a little closer.

The mist thickened into a drizzle, weighing down a hazy fog that now lay over the cemetery like pea soup. The edge of Mickey’s vision was blurry and all sounds muffled. Something darker than a shadow, moved out from behind the granite angel. Mickey saw it as a pitch black blotch and grew frightened. He had the sensation that it was watching him, following his eyes with its own. He looked down at his watch but it had suddenly stopped working.

As it moved before the statue, the blackness was suddenly sucked away; either up above the fog, or down into the mud. Mickey could not tell, but left behind was a translucent sheet of downy gray, the shape of which immediately reminded Mickey of Emily.
He studied the shape, his fear forgotten for the moment. Was that oval not a head, square shoulders beneath, gently curving hips and generous thighs? Those dusky pillars were definitely legs, leading to pointed feet that seemed to dance in the falling rain.
Dance? Surely I’m mad now, thought Mickey. But he was not mad, nor was this some trick of the rain. Dazzled by the site, he watched the apparition dance. A ghostly apparition who glimmered with an inner light, whose shape was finite, but whose substance was enigmatic.

It did indeed dance, and though Mickey felt its eyes upon him, he felt safer and more calm when he slid down behind the headstone, unknowingly digging his fingernails into the rain-soaked moss. He watched, awestruck for what seemed like hours as the ghost stepped intricate patterns beneath the cover of milky haze. The rain continued to beat down the fog and a deep chill worked its way into Mickey’s unmoving bones. He leaned hard upon the stone, restricting further the flow of his frigid blood.
The apparition shifted and twisted, spinning and bending to unheard music, raising its phantasmal hands above its ghostly head. For the moment it seemed to have forgotten Mickey, who grew less frightened, though colder by the moment.

The headstone that Mickey had sat upon, suddenly gave away, and he slid across its moss-slick face. Sprawled in the mud and seeing naught but gray soup, he raised himself to hands and knees. Immediately something thicker than fog engulfed his face. Mickey’s next breath filled his lungs with spectral foam, his peripheral vision spied a yellow spongy foam that threatened to suffocate him. Fog and rain were forgotten as fear invaded his senses. He pushed hard against the ground and somehow gained his feet. Standing, he could see the gray form below him. He knew his only chance to escape this discarnate was to flee. He pivoted in the mud and raced to the cemetery gates. He ran down the path that lead to the small paved parking area, slipping only once on the glassy rain-slapped asphalt. Never looking back, he ran along the unpainted highway, sloshing and splashing mud and grit as his feet touched down on the soft shoulder of the road. He passed someone as he ran, took time for only a glimmer of recognition before speeding around the turn that would lead him to his warm, dry, well-lit home. He banged his way onto the porch, slammed open the front door, flew up the stairs in two great leaps and locked himself into his bedroom, hiding and shaking beneath the covers until dawn bathed the room in the golden security of the morning sun.
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Emily McGuire stamped a foot in the pasty mud, shaking a finger at the giant angel that stood watch over the ancient cemetery.


“Grandmother! How dare you chase that nice boy away! How shall I ever explain? I only wanted you to see how nice a boy he was, and now you’ve ruined everything!”


The face of the stone angel softened for a moment. Mary knew this was no illusion. The face seemed to smile down upon her and the lips moved before Mary heard the soft love-filled voice of her late great grandmother.


“He came for a good night kiss, my dear. I did not want to disappoint."