All Hallows' Eve

Blood pooled across the cobblestones as I emerged from my body. I stumbled when I tried to stand - my limbs had turned to swirling rivulets of vapour.

Puddles of fresh rainwater reflected my ghostly pallor and several trees behind me, or rather, through me. Not a sight you see every day, my internal monologue prompted.

A dense fog settled across my vision, so I wiped my eyes, only to find my hand passed completely through my head. Omitting a gasp, albeit more of a strangled gargle, attracted another eddy of translucent vapour.

“Newly fledged?” it inquired, with a prominent cockney accent. The ghost wore a rigid top hat and heavy Victorian frock coat - the fashion of more than a decade ago. “Newly fledged from your body?” He repeated, eyeing my confused expression.

I nodded, gesturing to my lifeless form sprawled across the ground.

“Come on. Before the coppers find your corpse,” he said, turning to leave.

If I could feel my legs, I would imagine they felt something like jelly. Rooted to the spot, I tried walking, floating, flying, anything – but to no avail. If ghosts could roll their eyes, I expect my companion was doing just that.

“Will yourself to move. Imagine moving and move!”

Patience was clearly not his virtue.

I scrunched my eyes closed, did as instructed, and felt cold air waft around me. It was not so much a feeling as an awareness; a shard of ice passing through me. My eyes opened to see the twilight sky filled with whirling shapes of translucent smoke – intricate features carved from their faces. The ghostly forms were constantly shifting as if being in the same position for too long was painful.

We trailed through the bustling city, invisibility cloaking us from sight. Organ music danced in the air while the living prepared for All Hallows’ Eve.

“…cruel mockery of our livelihoods!” My companion complained of Halloween, his moustache bristling.

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Raymond,” said one of the younger ghosts.

A black cat walked through me, leaving an excruciating prickly sensation in its wake.

“You get used to it,” Raymond said, passing through a tree without flinching.

Drifting into a slum filled me with a sense that if I had a working nose, it would be protesting at the smell. Windowless rooms stacked on top of each other like threadbare tomes in a library.

We stopped in front of a warehouse adorned with a plaque reading: G.H.O.S.T. It was a simple building - corrugated iron walls and roof - its most notable feature being the lack of doors and windows.

“In you go, Fledgling,” said Raymond.

“Is there a door I can use?” I said, anxious to avoid repeating the Cat Incident.

Raymond disappeared through the wall with a snarl, leaving me alone on the pavement. Prickling encapsulated my shoulder, so I turned to find a living man with dark hair, his hand resting near my arm. He was taller than me, but when one is a ghost, height seems a trivial matter.

“There is another entrance,” he said, gesturing to the side of the building.

I followed him around, scanning the perimeter, hoping for a door – or even an unlatched window. He lied. Goodness, he means to ruin me – a ghost of ill repute!

A drain cover snapped off behind me, spitting rainwater like an angry camel. The man disappeared into the ground, gesturing for me to follow. I slipped down, finding myself in an abandoned sewer where pungent smells revelled in the air, seeking out noses to startle.

We sped up a case of stone steps and along an empty corridor. Through a gap in the wall, I glimpsed a crowded parlour. Ghosts lounged in transparent armchairs while a living girl read them the day’s headlines.

The living man opened a door that read: Imran Morghoulis – G.H.O.S.T. Consultant.

“Is G.H.O.S.T. an acronym, or a poor attempt at satire?” I asked, following him into the room.

“Ghoulish Hospitality Organisation of Spectral Transportation.” His eyes twinkled with humour. “Catchy, isn’t it?”

“Rolls off the tongue.”

“How are you with faces?”

“Quite terrible, I’m afraid. Why do you ask?”

“We need to identify your killer and resolve your death so you can pass into the next world.”

“Where do we start?”

“We start where it all ended.”

The site of my death was a lot busier than the last time I visited.

My body was gone, but this failed to deter a half dozen journalists, crowding around the roped-off crime scene, vying for a scoop of the action. Beside me, Imran, now dressed in a suspiciously procured police uniform, ducked under the barricades.

“What size are your feet?” He whispered, crouching down to measure a footprint.

“Size five,” I replied.

A pompous police constable approached; his brow furrowed in deep concern.

“Excuse me, mate. Where are your papers?”

Imran froze. He rooted around in his pockets, searching for something… and bolted – under the rope, along the cobbled path, through a copse of trees. I floated alongside him; the police constables thundered behind us.

We fled through a market, passing stalls of fruit, vegetables, and baked goods, while a towering trailer of pumpkins loomed before us. Imran tipped it over and the pumpkins spilt across the road like pearls unstrung from a necklace.

Ducking into a dark alleyway, Imran crouched with his hands on his knees.

“Your killer,” he panted, pulling a filthy swatch of orange silk from his coat pocket, “was a woman.”

He led me into a tavern – concealed within the deepest shadows of the city – where vampires sipped blood from crystal chalices, and ghosts bobbed between purple and orange bunting hanging from the ceiling. I think I spied Raymond in a corner, cradling a glass of transparent whiskey.

“Why can you see me?” I asked Imran as we sat at a wooden table overlooking the road below. “No one else living can see me.”

“I can see you because I believe in ghosts. I believe in you. Most people think ghosts are fantasy, but I know otherwise.”

I glanced out the window at all the people who thought I was a story – something that belonged in a nightmare. The living roamed the streets on All Hallows’ Eve, paying homage to the dead, dressed in capes with fangs protruding from their mouths, others wearing masks…

“Imran,” urgency sharpened my voice. “My killer wore a mask.”

The Hastings’ Bal Masqué was well renowned by the living, but infamous among the dead.

Men dressed in the elegant fashion of a bygone era whisked masked ladies, wearing vibrant shades of purple, orange and green, across the varnished wooden dancefloor. Haunting tunes enveloped the scene, lending an atmospheric eeriness to the occasion.

Imran was talking in a corner with a young vampire. The vampire hurried through the main entrance, flinching as she raced past the carved pumpkin lanterns lining the crowded streets outside. When he returned to my side, a question escaped my lips:

“What would happen if I didn’t die? If I stayed in this world as a ghost.”

“You would become like my uncle Raymond,” his warm smile tightened at the edges, “too weak to pass on to the next life.”

No wonder he believes in ghosts.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked. “I hear they have a fantastic selection of spirit wines.”

“Thank you,” I nodded, watching him disappear into the crowd.

A flash of orange caught my eye, so I turned to see a swathe of apricot silk hurry down a dark hallway. I trailed behind, floating as fast as my willpower allowed me, eager to confront my murderer.

The orange dress disappeared. In its place stood a roaring fire, thrashing in its grate, ready to devour something whole. Creaking reverberated through the room as a door slammed shut and a familiar masked face rose before me. She ripped the mask from her face and tossed it onto the flames.

Fangs impaired her speech when she spoke, but the fire had no visible effect on this vampire.

“My delicious dinner. I did not expect to see you so soon. How are you finding life as a member of the undead?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” My mind whirled, thinking of something witty to say.

“Depends if I let you answer,” her icy hands pushed against me, throwing me into the flames.

If I thought being prickled by a cat was bad, this was like being sliced through with a blazing sword – which was not entirely far from reality. Unbearable pain spasmed through my ghostly form. I tried crying out, but apparently, this was a luxury reserved for the living. The vampire grinned, revelling in the pain she caused me whilst I struggled against the flames, but they refused to relinquish their hold on me.

Imran burst into the room and tossed the vampire a knife. Arm the fanged killer, why don’t you. He ducked as the vampire thrust the blade toward him.

The young vampire and several police constables filed through the doorway, witnessing the crime scene. My killer howled in frustration when her pale wrists were bound in iron manacles. Warmth swelled inside me.

The room emptied of people, and Imran bent to help me up from beside the fireplace.

“They didn’t know she was a vampire, did they?”

He shook his head and led me through a concealed door to the street outside. The dark night was fading into a pale morning as the Hallows retreated for another year, giving way to the day of Saints. Imran stood opposite me. His warm hand – his living hand – found mine in a solid grasp.

My vision faded into darkness, but his warmth guided me to the blossoming light of a new world.