The Ghost

A man walked into a bar and made straight for an empty table at the back of the room. Larson was somewhat worse for wear. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his face. He set the hat on the table. He waited. He didn’t have to wait long. Silently, suddenly, the ghost appeared. Baxter, dead for five days, and somehow looking well for it. Baxter, his most hated enemy. Larson knew not to cause a scene. It was happening with greater regularity. As soon as he was alone, and wherever he found himself, Baxter would turn up, just sitting there not saying a word, being dead. On this particular night, in his cups, Larson decided it was time to confront the ghost.

“Why do you do this?” he whispered.

With a barely perceptible movement, the other shook his head.

“Why are you shaking your head? It’s over, don’t you get it? You’re dead.”

Another shake of the head.

“I killed you,” said Larson, trying to stay calm.

Baxters’s eyes moved slowly to meet Larson’s and regarded him with unconcealed contempt. The headshake was more pronounced this time.

Larson felt a chill. His fear made him angry and, snarling, he lashed out at Baxter. His hand went right through him. He drew back, horrified. But the damage had been done. Events were repeating themselves. The room grew dim and he put a hand to his head and his hand went through his head. Then he realised, or remembered, he had no head, no hands, no body, and he disappeared.

Baxter picked up the hat, put it on, and walked out of the bar.