The Man in Black: A Ghost Story (5 page)

I thought about my dad a lot.

There was one Saturday in the weeks that followed where I thought about my dad more than I ever had. I thought about Albert, how He’d came back, how He hadn’t truly passed over to the other side until He saw his wife one last time, until He knew His home would be taken care of. All of His anger and guilt had built, only to silence after one last goodbye. I wondered if my dad was the same. Had he visited me, too? Did he watch over me as I slept? Did he look after me even in death? I didn’t know, but I knew he passed on in peace, and that was what kept me together.

Like people, spirits need their love and their reassurance, too.

Until then they just wander, alone.

I slept well that Saturday night. I’d make sure to work hard the next week and to spend what I had on brightening the flat up. I’d look after John and Violet upstairs, too. I’d look out for the little terrier, and I’d follow up on Mary and her wishes.

I looked forward to what the future had in store.

I looked forward to life.

I saw the dog the following day, nose in his bowl come the usual time. I’d seen John and Violet that same afternoon, putting out the grub alongside a small dish of water.

I’d slept better. The wind howled outside, an epitome of rage. The snow had stopped and it rained instead, washing the dirty white away, making room for a new Spring. Sunlight shone through the soot on the windows, though more brown than bright. The dog had finished his dinner by the time I went to the kitchen and finished off my cup of coffee. He sat in the rain, ears down. I looked out at him, his saddened eyes swollen and lost-looking.

I was wearing my underwear and not much else, but I went outside anyway.

The rain hit me harder than I thought it would, attacking my hair first. It poured down my face as I kneeled down with the dog. I pulled the wet hair away from my cheeks as I petted the animal, pulling myself close to him as if to bear all the warmth I had to give.

He cried a little at first, but I got him to follow me to the alley. I remembered how he’d sometimes just sit and stare at the house like it was some home he’d always wanted. Of course, it had been. It had always been his home. It’d be his home again. I sat with him in the alleyway, then on the step, and then finally inside of the back door. He seemed hesitant to the idea of coming in, but once I’d opened a packet of biscuits, he sniffed and gave in.

The first thing he did was settle down by the stove. He limped around before that, but I thought it best not to inspect his wounds until after. His tail rarely wagged.

I thought about Mary and how she said they never could think up a name for him. Albert never bothered with names, she said, but I knew exactly what I wanted to call him. Somewhere in my mind, even from the first time I saw him with John and Violet, I knew his name.

I went to one of the cardboard boxes in the kitchen that I never did get to unpack and rummaged around for it. I nearly didn’t find it; it was always easy to misplace. After some searching I felt it beneath the papers and the ornaments I’d kept as mementos. It was a little twisted, but its colour hadn’t faded. I washed it in the sink then set it aside for the dog. He had rested enough, and when I came back his tail perked up and his head tilted. I thought I saw a smile.

I picked him up gently, cradling him in my arms. The water in the sink was warm and lovely, and so I washed him. His wounds weren’t as deep as I’d first thought, but I cleaned and dried them, wrapping them up tight. From dinner I put some leftovers on a plate and put it down by the stove. I made a bed for him from some blankets then settled him in, tucking them around his skinny body. His ribs were sharp, but I’d soon fatten him up. I didn’t know what to do about the limp. I thought that with enough rest and attention it’d ease off. I’d go into Durham sometime during the week, I thought, to get him a bed and some other essentials.

Once he’d dried off properly I attached his new identity. It fit perfect. I petted him until he’d had enough, then got myself out of my wet underwear and into some thick clothes, ready for bed.

I looked over at the dog, his nose in the food, his wounds clean and his coat fluffy. His new name suited him; it jangled beneath the stove light.

The smell of bacon fat floated down the stairs, and somewhere behind me the Man in black watched, and that was alright. I smiled properly for the first time in a long time.

Red was home, and so was I.

JORDAN MASON

Born in Durham, England, Jordan has always been drawn to the supernatural, paranormal, and often darker sides of life.

He resides in his hometown with his soulmate, Bethany, and canine companion, Buster.

Jordan supports the Ethical Author Program Facilitated by the Alliance of Independent Authors.

Find out more at
thejordanmason.com