Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2173026-Hes-Not-A-Child
by Paul
Rated: E · Short Story · Ghost · #2173026
It looks like a 7 year old boy, but it’s not.
“Hey there buddy, you okay? It’s a little late for you to be here in the park alone. Where’s mom or dad?”

“I’m just on my way to a gathering. Excuse me.”

“Whoa there, buddy. A costume party? At 11:30? When do seven year olds get to wander around at night. You need to be home.”

“Not a costume party, a gathering of like minds to discuss current events.”

“Like minds to...? But, the clothes, they look like something from a century ago. What are you ...”

“We discuss current events, what’s happening in the world right now? We do it every month and it is not a costume party, I have no choice about clothes, they’re what I was wearing. My mother and father decided to sleep in this time.”

“But ...”

“Right now we’re worried about your president. He could start a war and nuclear weapons would be used. If our resting place is destroyed we cease to exist. We are trying to decide what to do.”

“What? Decide what to do? You’re seven! You‘ll get to start deciding what to do in fourteen years.”

“That happened many years ago.”

“Where do you live. I’m taking you home.”

“Right there.”

“Oldtown? What street? ... address?”

“No, right there.”

“But ... that’s a graveyard.”

“I know. Number B-327c is mine. Come, I’ll get my father.”

“Wait a minute. They'd kick me off the force if I let a seven year old get hurt. Let me take you...”

“I’m not seven.”

“Okay, how old are you?”

“One hundred forty-seven. I was born in 1871 and died in ’78 so I look seven. You only got one of the numbers right.”

“Hi, I’m his father.”

“Holy Crap! Don’t sneak up on me like that. You scarred the hell out of me.”

“There’s no such place.”


“It doesn’t exist. Trust me, I’d know.”

“This child is telling me he lives here, in the graveyard. And that he’s 147 years old.”

“Yes. Would you like to see where we sleep? It’s just there, the three together. What you now call a serial killer shot the three of us. Five years later he visited our graves to remember and enjoy. They found him at our feet the next day, but never determined what killed him. Denise is sleeping, but I could wake her.”

“Wake her? What are you talking about?”

“Shake my hand.”


“Just do it, you’ll see.”

“But ... But ... I can’t touch you ... Holy crap!”

“Please take your hand back. You can’t feel me unless I let you, but it is uncomfortable with your hand buried in my chest. And, I can’t become solid. I can make any part or all of me solid, I can kill with a finger tip.”


“Now shake.”

“I can feel you, but you’re cold.”

“We are dead. Will you leave him here and not tell others? We don’t want tourists and Looky-Loo’s.”

“Absolut... where ...? Tell? Right! Who the hell would believe me?”
© Copyright 2018 Paul (lasardaddy at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2173026-Hes-Not-A-Child