I wish, right now, that I could at least say “’twas a dark and stormy night,” but when one is dead, and sitting around on a rather ethereal rump waiting for that vague promise of salvation to fulfil itself (and of course half-dreading that equally promised damnation), keeping up images and telling lies seem far less important. So I shall be truthful, and say that the night I was murdered was, well, a quiet, uneventful night; it was a boring night. Sometimes (not that I’ve had plenty of time to think it over) I almost wish that I had left the mortal plane with at least a scream or even a hoarse shout to stir the night, but all it took was a thump and a rather ungainly gargle at the back of my throat, and I was left there, floating about and staring at my own bloody neck.

When I thought about my last memories as a living, breathing, human being all I could remember was being desperately thirsty for a drink and fumbling into the library where I thought I had left my unfinished glass. The next moment there was a thump and a terrific pain surfaced at the back of my neck. When the dizziness cleared and I looked up, all I saw was what a dastardly job the labourers had done with my cornices, and reminding myself to tell Baddleton to get it fixed first thing in the morning. Then there were hasty steps and I saw a silhouette leaving the room and slamming the door, and looking around, right there below me, was, well, my own bloody neck.

Now, I know that most would think that I would have pursued my murderer relentlessly, moaning, flinging sheets about or perhaps rattling windows in their frames. Truthfully, however, (in consideration of my current circumstance favouring quite more virtue in my character) I was rather content sitting there and waiting for some pinprick to appear so I could see the light, or perhaps there would be some angel to behold and I would float gloriously through that ill-decorated ceiling. But none of that occurred, and so I parked the abovementioned rump in a rather plush chair (and this I know through memory rather than real sensation), and just waited.

I’ve always thought ghosts were beings accustomed to waiting, (and I do believe in ghosts – it comes with a fear of the dark and all things unknown that, in keeping with telling the truth, all shallow, self-centred people have in them) but to me the prospect of simply sitting and waiting for something, if anything at all, to happen was simply unbearable. Finally, I gave the chair up and tried to leave the room, and the most frustrating thing happened - I simply could not open the door. My hands grasped the knob and just lamely slid around the globe like dead jellyfish sliding off a rowing boat’s paddle.

“Good lord,” I said aloud, “I’m stuck in the library with the broken bottle of wine that killed me and I can’t leave!” And with a huge sigh that (I hoped) stirred the curtains a trifle bit, I said, “I must be in Hell!”

At which time the door promptly opened and in came Molly, who, with a determined expression, looked as though she was headed straight for the bookshelf. Undoubtedly, she was diverted, in course and in thought, by a rather bloody scene. Then she screamed, and this time, without a doubt, the curtains shook.




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