A Ghost Story

Friends and Readers,

I promised, some months ago, to post all of the stories and selections from my old newsletter here on Substack. This is one of those, and there are two more to go.

The scene is from Return of the Human. It takes place on an evening of the Spring Equinox celebrations in the village, but you don’t have to know that to enjoy the story, which is pretty self-contained.

Adam tells a story which echoes some of the themes in the novel, but you don’t have to know that, either.

Enjoy.

“To new beginnings!”

Boyd raised his glass, the chatter in the room died down, and we all followed suit, echoing him.

“New beginnings!”

We downed the traditional glass of hot meodu together, the fermented honey warming our throats as it went down.

A small group of the church and village leaders were gathered in Boyd’s library on the Franklyn estate, in front of a roaring fire, celebrating the last hours of equinox, the first day of the festival.

It was nice to be back after a day of coping with the strangers of Brushwood.

Since Boyd was a holder, the fire was real. The scent and pop of burning wood mixed with the warmth of the meodu and of the friendships in the room, giving the dancing light from the flames a magical power.

Having got our attention, Boyd moved the evening’s agenda forward.

“We’ve come to the hour of story. I move that our pastor do us the honor of telling tonight’s tale.”

He had asked me earlier, so I wasn’t caught by surprise. I had come prepared with a story my mother used to tell on this very night.

Everyone clapped, and I accepted the honor by leaning forward and setting my glass down.

The room became silent. I gave them a moment to build the anticipation, then began in a quiet voice.

“This all happened,” I said, “a very long time ago, in a village like our own.

“There was a young holder, much like Boyd, except that he was handsome and pleasant.”

That got a laugh.

“This holder,” I continued, “was deeply in love with a young woman in the village, and, as luck would have it, she was deeply in love with him.

“And so they were engaged, and set the date for their wedding on the spring equinox—the day of beginnings.

“It was a beautiful day, and the church was decorated with all the flowers of spring. The whole town turned out to share in the couple’s joy.

“No couple had ever been more attractive or happy as this couple on that day. The choir had never sung so sweetly. The church bells had never rung so brightly. The pastor was at his eloquent best, and he conducted the ceremony with unusual grace.”

I paused for effect, and another voice intervened.

“Is this a ghost story or a fairytale?”

It was Eve Dowten, sitting directly across from me. She was sewing something in her lap as she listened, probably some church project, her hands creating a tidy seam of expert stitches.

She looked up from her work and grinned.

“Sorry.”

I smiled and continued my tale.

“At the end of the ceremony, when the pastor beamed at the couple, and told them they were man and wife, and that they could now kiss, when the entire wonderful event was at its climactic moment, just before their lips finally touched, the light went out of the bride’s eyes, and she dropped down dead.

“The holder’s grief was inconsolable. That moment effectively ended his life. He returned to his estate and became a recluse. He never entered the village again, never again darkened the door of the church, spoke to no one but his servants, and only rarely to them.

“This went on for seventy years. He became old, and sick, and bitter. His estate deteriorated. The village, which was dependent upon the estate, became a dull and dismal place, weary and joyless.

“But the most joyless of all was the ghost of the bride, which haunted the church for all those years, waiting endlessly for her lover’s kiss.

“She knew, in her heart of hearts, that she could leave the church at any moment, if only she would allow herself to give up hope, to accept that her holder would never return to plant his lips on hers.

“But she steadfastly refused, proclaiming her faith that he would one day come for her.

“And so, year after year, she waited.

“On some days, especially on the equinox, the anniversary of her fateful wedding, she could see the visitors to the church, and some of them could catch a glimpse of her. But most of her time was spent in solitude, not seeing even those who were there, but just the holy walls of her prison.

“Then, on a solstice day after seventy years had passed, the holder lay on his bed, an old and withered man. The healers had been summoned, and they had told him he had only minutes or hours left.

“When he heard this news, a strange light came into his eyes. He sat up straight and ordered the healers and servants out of the room, to wait in the hall.

“After a short time, he opened the door and joined them, dressed in the same clothes he had worn on his wedding day.

“He marched out of the building he hadn’t left in seventy years, and into the village, trailing servants and healers behind him. He went directly to the church, and up the aisle to the same spot he had stood when his bride died.

“And when he got there, he found her waiting.

“As they kissed, a halo of light surrounded them, and they vanished from sight, together.

“When the servants returned to the house later that day they found the holder’s body lying in his bed, and his wedding clothes still hanging in his closet.”

The room was silent except for the crackling fire for a moment, and then a collective sigh went through the group.

It had been a successful performance.

I met Eve’s eyes with mine and smiled, perhaps a little smugly.

“Ghostly enough for you?”

“Yes,” she said, “but . . .”

“But?”

“I can’t question the bride, never having been a ghost myself. But the groom was clearly a fool.”

“Really?”

“Really. He traded a life of usefulness and happiness for something he knew he could never have. She was dead, and he knew it. There was no going back. Yet he made the whole village suffer, for all those years, when he could have just grieved and moved on.”

“Perhaps he was in love.”

“Perhaps he was just self-indulgent, and not interested in his effect on others.”

I smiled.

It had been a long time since I had enjoyed losing an argument that much.