Christmas is the best time of year for a ghost story. Especially by the seaside. The hemisphere shutdown is more intense when spattered by freezing waves, and the never ending weight of the sea.
I had always wanted to see a ghost. So when we had a weekend in Cornwall, just before Christmas, I had to get out at night.
Our rented cottage was in a coastal village, and I did not bring any milk. A deliberate excuse for a shop run on Christmas Eve. No one saw me put the torch in my pocket. They did not spot me turn left towards the docks.
The drizzle kept even the bravest townsfolk away. A few lights shone from the houses in the earlier part of the harbour. But by the rotting walkways of the beachside I reflected the torch off the glistening minerals in the concrete, and I was alone.
Everything stank of seaweed, and the roads were still cobbled. I twisted a corner, and reached the loneliest part of the town. The part where the beach was a wet mess in the darkness.
At last my prize was here. This is where the ghosts must thrive.
Ot once l knew I had misjudged the situation.
They swarmed along the path, moving alongside me in a translucent haze. Inside me. Their faces were beaten in, or swollen and bloated from the freezing water. Ragged stumps replaced many arms and legs.
Somewhere a bell chimed for midnight. My family would be warm in bed, fast asleep, the present wrapped and waiting for morning. I looked behind me, but the path already belonged to the dead.
