Ficly

Mr. West Makes His Point

“A coward,” Major Percival repeated in disbelief. Fuming, the apparition waved a hand. The walls of the room dissolved, revealing a dank cellar with a beaten earth floor and fieldstone walls. “What a pleasant farmhouse you owned in Ypres.”

“Not so pleasant during the war,” quavered Mr. West. His bed had become a pallet of blankets by the bloodstained wall. “But we were talking about you, Major,” he said in a firmer voice. “About a dead man who holds his widow in thrall for 15 years, denying her the company of a living man. About a spirit who kills a boy’s dog to threaten the same to his enemies. About a reign of terror conducted by a ghost who can’t be injured in return—who’s forgotten what it’s like to be alive.”

German soldiers stormed down the narrow stairs. The air rattled with the sound of pistols being cocked.

“Go ahead and reenact your death, if you insist,” Mr. West shouted. He hadn’t felt so strong, so vital in decades. “Anything but face what you’re afraid of; the tunnel and the light!”

View this story's 1 comments.