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Ghost, G-H-O-S-T, Ghost by Daithi
The boys hopped the fence, leaving their bikes hidden behind some mulberry bushes. Moments later the boys were wrapped in the same mist that blanked the colonial-era headstones of the cemetery.
“What time is it, Tommy?” asked Ryan.
Tommy said, “It’s three minutes until midnight. We have to hurry,” then Tommy gave Patrick, a small framed boy, a quick shove and said, “You scared, wuss?”
Patrick smiled and said, “You’ll see.” The truth was that even though Patrick was the smallest of the three boys he was the only one that wasn’t scared. If they succeeded in summoning the ghost he knew exactly what to do. His departed Irish grandmother had told him the secret.
The boys hurried to the center of the cemetery and quickly found the mausoleum that contained the family remains of Capt. Mathers.
“I have to hand it to you, Tommy. Picking an old slave-trader’s grave was pretty smart,” said Patrick.
“Yeah, if anyone’s soul is rotting in Hell it’s going to be his,” said Ryan.
Tommy smiled at their praise as he pulled out the parchment with the pentagram drawn on it. He also pulled out the razorblades, handing a blade to each of the other boys. As midnight made its arrival the boys sliced their fingers and smeared blood on the pentagram. Then they slid the bloody paper under the mausoleum door and began to chant, “Rise from the grave and serve us. Rise from the grave and serve us. Rise from the gra…”
T H U M P !
Something banged hard against the inside of the mausoleum door. Then the wailing began. It was an awful sound of despair and horror that physically hurt as it passed through the boys’ bodies.
Tommy and Ryan turned and fled, but Patrick held his ground. Patrick knew what to do. His beloved grandmother had told him the secret.
The Ghost passed through the doors of the crypt and advanced upon Patrick, but still he did not run. When the ghost reached out and wrapped its ethereal fingers around Patrick’s throat it was too late to run. Patrick didn’t even have time to scream as he heard the sound of his soul being ripped from the confines of his body. When the deed was done the ghost tossed Patrick’s soul aside and began pursuing the other two boys. Patrick’s soul watched his lifeless body crumple to the darkened ground.
After the light appeared, and Patrick had walked through it, he was met on the other side by his grandmother.
“Mammo, I did what you said. I held my ground and didn’t run. You said if I held my ground and didn’t run that it couldn’t hurt me.”
In her lilting Irish brogue Patrick’s grandmother said, “Oh, Padraig, you always were a wee bit daft. When visit’n me farm I told you to hold your ground, and not be afraid, if you were confronted by goats, G-O-A-T-S, goats.”
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