The Ghost

Steve’s face was white. He appeared to be in a trance as his autopilot sat him on the barstool. “Whisky,” he managed to croak out. He downed the drink as soon as the barman put it down, a trembling hand gesturing for another, as though he didn’t fully trust his voice yet.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the barman joked. Steve was a regular, but he rarely drank anything stronger than ale, the occasional Glenlivet to see in the New Year was it. He pulled a pint of eighty shilling and placed it before Steve, who downed half of it in a gulp.

“I did.” Steve’s whisper was barely audible in the quiet bar.

The barman stared at him, wondering if his friend was being serious. “You’ve been under a lot of stress lately, Steve. It was probably a trick of the light. Ghosts aren’t real.

Steve remained silent as he finished his ale. Nodding as his friend offered another. “It seemed so real, but it can’t be…” he shook his head slightly. “You’re right, Dan, it’s probably just stress.”

“Of course I’m right, I always am,” Dan said, putting the fresh pint down. “You are only just figuring that out, after all these years?”

Steve smiled, or at least tried to, his face refused to cooperate. “What time do you finish tonight?” he asked, out of the blue.

“I’m covering for a part of Sam’s shift so nine. Why?”

Steve went a shade paler, the image he had seen earlier replaying in his mind. “Stay and keep me company. I’ll buy.”

Dan looked hesitant for a moment then nodded. “Sure, why not.”

Steve relaxed at last. The ghost he had seen was Dan’s, covered in blood reaching for him. The watch had said ten past nine.


(word count 299)