Sunday Sit Down – Ghost

Ghost Sunday Sit Down Over Heaven's Hill Blog

Welcome to this weeks Sunday Sit Down. Grab a cuppa and a comfy chair and sit down to read. I’ve always had a fascination with the supernatural, with something that is there but shouldn’t be there. I wrote this short story, or rather lines of prose, almost ten years ago and I’m still wondering who this ghost is. Happy Halloween!

 ~~~ Ghost ~~~

She floated through the hay barn, or appeared to float.

The night was growing in on their sleepy part of the world and the wet veil of darkness crept across the spent hay barn. She slid through the bales of tightly strung hay forks, mixing between the golden haze of straw, over ripe for bedding.

A lantern sung its light from her defiant hands as she stretched it out ahead of her slight body. Her silhouette was pure and blistering in the darkness and from the glow of the dimming fire light. On her shoulders she bore the weight of a full length white cotton dress. The floating cloth hung drearily down her sides reaching past her slender waist and hips, untouching. Naked underneath, the lamplight revealed her innocence and beauty. Another dream of pandora’s box, a silent recreation of need and want. If anyone could see her. She was immaculate, an utterance of something beyond a perfection. A quiet altitude that rose further than a flutter of the heart. As she strode across the mud leaden floor, spoiled promptly by excess straw, the dress, as loose as a drape or a tablecloth, clung to the grooves of her body. Between her legs, under her belly and below the curve and swell of her breast. The breath of air left a trail of white cotton that flared from her hips to her ankles as a veil of recognisance, a veil of something driven underneath. And as she strode, dress curving her slender body and lengthening those lucid movements, lamplight leading her way, a picture of beauty, of innocence and truth, of something serene and dark beneath those heavy lids that lust after her with, of something humanistic and something wrong, you notice, notice what makes her stand out. Not her dulcet voice that sings of rainbows in the glen or the blackness of her hair that matches the dark tones of her eyes or her cream white skin that bounds perfection of the flesh, but the dark brown boots she wears leaden with mud, below the veil of despair. Thick heavy working mans boots covered in the dust and dark mud of the fields of Agahower lake. Trailing a line of sequence. A message that said she once was there, a second or two before. A scattering of fragments of lives. She was simplicity, a design of future generations. Not a dream or a vision but a thought, a wanting and a need.

Geraldine Walsh © Over Heaven’s Hill

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