Little Ghost
Come, little ghost, sit with me a while, and whisper your woes in my ear.
The garden is so still and pretty this evening. Bleeding heart, foxglove, violet, all in bloom, and lavender scents the air.
Draw closer, my sweet. Show me your face.
Ah, I understand. You’re not yet ready. Remain in the shadows a little longer. I don’t mind.
I have learned patience since moving here; the rhythm of country life suits me. The plowing of the land, planting, reaping, then the fallow time. The long, cold sleep.
Sweet child, you are upset. You’ve set the pond to rippling, and the water lilies shifting, to and fro, to and fro.
What did I say to disturb you? The planting and the reaping?
Of course: the long, cold sleep.
Fret not, my child; we will not think of cold today. The bee-filled evening is thick with warmth.
Perhaps you are surprised, unnerved that I see you so clearly. Perhaps you think you are the first I have espied?
Not so.
When I was a child like you — so very long ago — I saw ghosts as clear and bright as living people. To me, the living and the dead were one. But I learned, from hard experience, that others did not see them so.
Why, I remember when I was no older than you — seven or eight? — and elderly Mrs. Prendergast visited our home. She was quite ill, and I watched in awe while her spirit struggled to escape, clawing its way from out her back, its face a pale mask of agony.
I said, in all innocence, “You will die soon, Mrs. Prendergast.”
My mother was so angry. “Wicked, wicked girl,” she screamed, and smacked me until I cried.
Now you are still, my sweet, and the evening is hushed, like a drawn breath held too long.
Was it the mention of mother? No?
Then what? The beating, perhaps, or…
I understand. Words can be so hurtful, it is true.
And what did they call you? What did they say you’d done? Come now, tell me. Surely it cannot have been that bad.
Never mind. Tell me when you’re ready — and, trust me, eventually you’ll be eager to speak.
I have experience in these matters, you see. I learned through the years that my special gift — if gift it is — extends beyond mere perception of the spirit world to…
How will I say this without sounding presumptuous, or even boastful? I possess, in a sense, the power of forgiveness.
I learned that from my own, dear Father. He was not very nice, you know. Not to me. He did things he shouldn’t.
He died at home, as was customary in those days, and I was at his bedside when his spirit arose, wavering, from his body. It looked much like him, but paler and more drawn.
I seized it by the ankle — yes, I have that power too — and, impelled by some dark instinct, said, “Not yet. You must say the words, or you’ll never be free.”
And he did. Four short sentences, as I recall. I admit that when he recited his transgressions, the acts done unto others, and to me, bile rose in my throat. But, oh, the peace that settled upon the face of that unhappy man.
I said, “See, Father, how relieved you are, how unburdened and free. All I ask in return is your company as I make my way through life. It will seem but a moment in your new state. And perhaps I might ask you, from time to time, to perform a little service for me. Bring me new friends, that I might unburden them, too. I’m sure you will agree.”
He’s with me still. Had you noticed? Of course you did. I saw you earlier creeping to the bedroom window where he peered out.
That was his price, my dear, and he pays it still. From you, I ask only that you bring me two new friends, alive, that I may ease their passage to a happier existence.
Why, there you are. Standing before me at last. The darkest shadow in the dusk.
You are trembling, as the leaves around us tremble. Not with fear, surely. With anticipation.
You have done this before, haven’t you? We have much in common, it seems. In life, they suspected and watched you, until all doubt was dispelled, though hardly believing a mere child could be so cruel. Who struck the final blow, I wonder?
Goodness, I cannot wait for you to whisper the whole, sorry saga of your misdeeds in my ear.
But first to business. They live in that cottage across the field. Two little girls, barely as old as you. I’m sure you’ve already seen them. How could you not?
They are most precious. Reared like peacock chicks on the finest grain. They bask in their parents’ love, and are already so sure of their place in this world. Not like you and me. We never enjoyed that luxury.
Why, yes, my dear, some might call them smug.
You know the song to sing. The role to play. Little girl lost, that’s it. All alone in the world, sobbing in the lonesome woods, crouched upon the ground, clutching her knees.
They’ll come to you. I can see them now. Exchanging glances, whispering, approaching step-by-step until they stand beside you. A final glance in the unspoken language of sisters, then the lightest touch upon your shoulder. The younger one, I think. She has the more generous soul.
Run from them. Run and laugh and beckon. Make a game of it.
But don’t make me wait too long, little one. Lead them to me when your game is done.
I will unburden them of their innocence. And you, my sweet, I shall forgive.
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