“I WANT IT BACK” - A GHOST STORY FOR CHRISTMAS

Somehow I can’t help feeling that Christmas Eve is the best part of the holiday season. For most of us work is over and the prospect of those two extra days off lies pleasantly before us. The air is resonant with a marvellous feeling of anticipation, while the anticlimax of drink fuelled bickering and unappreciated presents (be they given or received) is nought but a distant echo of Christmas’s past.
Good or bad, I will not be indulging in the festivities this year. No carols or presents, no turkey or eggnog, no Christmas specials or oft repeated movies. Instead I will sit at the bedside of Terry, my eighteen year old son, hoping against hope, praying to a God I don’t really believe in, that he will wake from the coma he has been in for the past seven days. My dear wife Susan has been confined to bed since we got the news but is insistent that one of us at least is with him. So that then is how I will spend Christmas; alone with my son, with my hopes, my prayers, and my regrets.
How did “Old Blue Eyes” put it? “Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention”. For my part I have all too many; mercifully most of them small and inconsequential. The regret I feel about my beautiful, beloved boy cannot be so easily brushed aside.
Less than two weeks ago all had seemed right with the world; then Terry came home from university. He was not the happy, relaxed, up for anything eighteen year old who had left at the start of the term. Instead he was tired and drawn, nervous and introverted. When I asked him what was wrong I expected to hear one of the usual student replies: I had to cram for a test; my evening job tired me out; I’ve been partying hard and long. What I got instead was an unbelievable tale of childish fears made real. This is his confession; I guess its mine as well.

In common with many first year students, Terry was more interested in the students’ union bar than he was in studying. One side affect of this, apart from an almost constant hangover, was a seemingly irresistible urge to appropriate other people’s property. Don’t get me wrong, Terry is in no way criminally minded, it is just that the strangest objects have an uncanny knack of ending up in his room. You know the things I mean; ash trays, traffic cones, street signs, the orange shell of a Belisha beacon, a council litter bin, even a plastic table from a pub garden.
In celebration of Halloween Terry and some of his new friends from the University had gone to a fancy dress party at one of the local clubs. Returning home, much the worse for wear, they hit upon the unoriginal idea of braving the local churchyard. Once there Terry was immediately overcome by his magpie streak, deciding a headstone would be a fitting souvenir of the night’s activities. In his defence he only intended to “borrow” the stone for a day or two, but even so his friends, perhaps more sensible but probably less drunk, left him to it. Unable to secure his prize on his own, he scouted around the graves for a more manageable memento.
In an overgrown corner, far from the church itself, he literally stumbled across a small carved statue, almost hidden by the encroaching weeds. Although it struck him as odd that this particular area was markedly less well kept than the rest, he was nevertheless pleased, there being little chance of his “theft” being discovered any time soon. Crouching down he cleared away the tangled flora and pulled the statue free. In the near dark of the graveyard he could discern little of its appearance other than its height, it being about eight inches tall.
Returning to the world outside he stopped under a street light to examine his trophy. It was of a kneeling figure with outspread wings; he assumed it to be an angel but its doubtless angelic face was missing. This appeared to be the only damage and was as weather stained as the rest; it must have occurred soon after the statue was put in place. Pleased with his night’s work Terry set off home.
Still in sight of the church his drunken fug was suddenly penetrated by the certain knowledge that someone was watching him. Turning quickly he fancied he caught a glimpse of that someone disappearing into the churchyard. Shrugging aside a distinct feeling of unease he turned his back and continued on his way.
Ten minutes later and almost home that sense of being watched returned. Looking behind him he fancied he saw an indistinct figure melting into an alleyway. Doubtless due to some trick of the light, or of the alcohol he had so recently and diligently imbibed, he could almost have sworn that the figure was glowing. Dismissing this detail as fantasy he was nonetheless convinced he was being followed. The angel, now hidden beneath his battered Halloween costume, suddenly felt a lot heavier. Feeling a little guilty he immediately looked for somewhere to offload his looted treasure. Close to his digs he found the perfect place; an overflowing skip, testament to the university’s over-running building works. Relieved of his burden he stumbled up to his room.

Terry woke suddenly, unknown fear gnawing deep in his stomach. The room was quite cold, a biting cold that penetrated the body. Furthermore there was an unmistakeable odour, not the fond reminder of a vindaloo and eight pints, but a cloying, sickly sweet, rotting meat sort of smell. The clock on the beside table showed 3am but it was something at the end of the bed that grabbed his attention; a figure, six foot tall, its features hidden by the silver grey nimbus surrounding it. As tangible as the cold and the smell was the sense of dread that emanated from this terrifying apparition. Overcome by dreadful fear Terry, for the first time since he was a baby, soiled the bed, his bowels the only part of him still capable of movement
The figure slowly raised its arm, a simple yet menacing gesture. In a dry, rasping voice it whispered, ‘You have it, I want it back.’
With that it vanished, yet Terry just lay there, unable to rouse himself. Hours later his paralysis was finally broken by sudden understanding: ‘The statue! It wants the statue!’ Throwing on some clothes he rushed outside; the skip was gone.
Every night thereafter was the same; ‘It is mine, I want it back.’ Each night the terrifying phantom intoned the same seven words, each night Terry was unable to answer its demand. By the time Terry told me the story this phantom lost property clerk had called on him every night for over six weeks.

To be honest, I'm afraid I was less than sympathetic, telling him it was nothing more than a recurring nightmare, doubtless the product of a guilty conscience. I assured him that a good old family Christmas would soon set him to rights. I actually said ‘look on the bright side, at least you’ll have a ghost story to tell on Christmas Eve’. How I rue those careless, thoughtless words.
Shortly thereafter, a week ago tonight in fact, I answered the door to find every parents worst nightmare, a policeman waiting on the doorstep. Terry, whom I had presumed to be off visiting pals, had somehow been involved in a bizarre and terrible accident. He had broken into the local land fill site, I can hazard a guess as to why, and while digging through the rubbish he had failed to hear the bulldozer behind him. Spotting him at the last second the driver was powerless; the ‘dozers rusted scoop struck Terry full on the head, fracturing his skull and irreversibly damaging the fragile brain beneath.
Ever since I have been plagued by regret, wishing I could turn back the clock, wishing I’d taken his plight more seriously, wishing I’d told someone, wishing I had at least made him speak to our family doctor. It is not only guilt at his accident that plagues me; it is the certain knowledge that the fantastic tale he had told me was true, all of it, every unbelievable detail. How do I know? This is how.
As I mentioned earlier, I have kept vigil at Terry’s hospital bedside ever since he was brought in. On the first night, in the deep, dark quiet of the early hours, I was roused from a fitful doze by the combination of a sudden drop in temperature and the presence of a sickly sweet aroma. Knowing instantly what I would see standing there but powerless to resist I looked to the end of the bed; a figure, six foot tall, its features hidden by the silver grey nimbus surrounding it. Paralysed by fear I glanced at the clock on the wall; it was 3am. As I watched the figure slowly raised its arm, a simple yet menacing gesture. In a dry, rasping voice it whispered: ‘It is mine, I want it back.’
It has been back every night since, doubtless it will be back again tonight. Even as I speak, the temperature is starting to drop and the smell of rotting meat is slowly permeating the room…

COPPYRIGHT D M PAMMENT 2009