Challenge 21 Response
Title: The Ghost int he Castle (for lack of anything more creative)
Author: ME! Um, Smeddley
Challenge: 21
Rating: PG for two instances of a mild swear word
Notes: I have no idea where this came from. I seem to like rambling narratives, though. It's voice posted in abridged version in my journal if you're too lazy to read... ~.^
You would think there would be something left to inspire me in this moldy old castle. Some nook or cranny I hadn’t explored that would move me to write great sonnets. Well, not ‘write’ in the literal sense, as I am non-corporeal and unable to hold a quill. Perhaps ‘compose’ would be a better word. Yes, I’ve composed a sonnet to each and every bloody thing in this castle, even if I can’t remember all of them exactly. I remember I had written them; I remember that they existed at one time.
Ah, yes, memory. You thought, perhaps, that when you died your memory, your mind, was infinite? That’s a cosmic joke. I wish I could tell you I remembered my death as clearly as if it was yesterday - okay, no, not my death. I don’t remember much about it except it was exceeding unpleasant. I’d rather that remained a vague memory, thank you very much. But my last day with… oh, what’s her name?! The love of my life, the woman I adored… Henrietta? Helen? Heather? No matter, I remember I adored a woman, and I must surely have spent a last perfect day with her (at least I would have romanticized that last day after my death, regardless of whether it was truly perfect). And I wish I could tell you I remembered that day as clearly as if it were only yesterday, but I don’t. I remember it as if it took place 564 years ago. Coincidentally, that’s roughly the time it did take place. Nifty, that, eh?
See, after you die time doesn’t slow down or speed up; your mind doesn’t expand, you don’t gain infinite wisdom. At least I didn’t. But then, maybe this is hell. Just like life, only, no touching. No women, no food, no wine. Just… being. If you can call this being. Funny, I remember wishing I could be a fly on the wall so many times back when I was alive. Unfortunately, I now realize that the fun part about the whole ‘fly on the wall’ bit was afterwards, when you’d get to spread what you heard. Simply knowing things - for as long as you could remember, at any rate - is no fun. I had even stopped eavesdropping entirely by the time the castle walls began to crumble and all of the people left.
It was rough there for awhile, I won’t lie. If a ghost could commit suicide, I might have at least attempted it. But then even if I had succeeded, I’d be a ghost’s ghost, and would that be any different? I mean, could I be less substantial? And what, you might ask, would drive a ghost to such desperate measures?
Well, you see, as all the old things I knew and had composed volumes of poetry to had faded and decomposed. It’s very depressing to watch everything you know turn to dust. And, yes, I’ve tried to leave the castle to explore the countryside, but every time I get too far away I get so very weary, and when I fall asleep - if the dead can ‘sleep’ - I somehow return to the castle. I wake up sprawled on the dining table, of all the indignant places. Something in my memory from long ago tingles, there’s something special about this table. I know it. But I can hardly remember who I was, let alone why a table would be important.
Ah, yes, who am I? My name is… was… Sir... something. I was a knight. I think. The clothes I wear are rich enough, so I must have been somewhat successful in life. I’d reached a fairly advanced age, too. So I was either a really good knight, or… what? That, I admit, is a bit of a mystery. Then there’s the whole poetry thing. I couldn’t tell you if that was something I started after my death, or if I was a bard in life. I realize that sounds pathetic but these things happened well over 500 years ago. Seriously, can you remember what you had for breakfast yesterday? No? Then cut me some slack. Perhaps had I drilled it into my head each and every day I would have remembered. I could have reaffirmed who I was and what I did and how I died every single day so I would never have forgotten. But I think I wanted to forget. I just don’t remember why.
But, luckily, just as I was at my worst - I was actually standing on top of the castle wall contemplating throwing myself off, and yes, I know that makes no sense but I was a little crazy, you understand - some more people came. They weren’t like what I thought I remembered, though I hadn’t seen anyone but the odd traveler in the distance for years. Centuries, perhaps. And admittedly, my memory is a bit fuzzy.
I don’t mean that they don’t look like people - they had the standard two legs, two arms, one head combination. But they didn’t dress or act quite the same. And they talked rather oddly, but I’m getting used to it. Even picking up some slang here and there!
It was also clear from the start that they were looking for something. And not a physical thing, either. They didn’t dig through the rubble or search the secret passageways. Instead, they just walked around, talking. And at first I thought I was completely unhinged, because it seemed they were talking to me! They would say things like, “Is there anyone here who would like to tell us something?” and wave a little gizmo around. And at first I would answer. I tried talking. Nothing. I tried yelling. Nothing. Nothing I did seemed to elicit a response. I figured they’d eventually give up, and that group finally did. But then another group came. And another. And more and more of them kept coming, with even more weird and scary gadgets.
I have learned, through careful observation and listening, how most of these gadgets work. Like the computer and the telephone. Very handy, indeed! They have access to vast amounts of information, though I do wonder how much of it is accurate. Evidently there’s quite a story behind this castle. Supposedly there was once a mystical amulet called the Stone of Sargon. And some nasty chap stole it and hid it long ago. There was bloodshed - murder - and plenty of mayhem. The sort of things that tend to encourage ghostly activities. This must have taken place about my time, according to my calculations.
I know, I know, it seems so obvious that this is me, right? I stole the stone-thing and got killed for being a bad person, and wanted to forget, so I did. And here I am, centuries later, still bound by the stone to the place I hid it. So very neat. So very predictable. Possibly true, of course, but there’s no way of knowing. I rather doubt it, but they are persistent.
You’d also think that if they wanted to research the legend, they’d be looking for the stone. And, to be fair, there have been a few archeologists that have poked through the castle. I take the most interest in them, because they make me think… I mean, what if they do find the stone? Am I suddenly going to remember or transcend or what? What if the stone doesn’t even exist, or isn’t here? What if I was nothing more than a nobleman who had a heart attack and died eating dinner? What if, what if, what if. It’s pointless to speculate, trust me - I spent the early years doing just that. Came up with nothing, or I wouldn’t still be hanging around this dump composing stupid little poems to all the new things I see. There was the recent classic, “Ode to the fresh dog turd” and “A sonnet to the new mold growth,” plus the every popular “Spin a spider web, spider!” None, sadly, destined for print and not only because I lack the capability to commit them to paper.
But back to the people. Most of them that come here call themselves ‘Ghost Hunters.’ They wave around these little instruments and claim to catch ‘hot spots’ and ‘voices on tape.’ Of course I know it’s all crap. I’m never where they say I am, I never said what they thought they heard, and I’ve never caused anything to move or made any strange noises. It’s an old castle, people. It’s falling down around your ears. That thumping sound? Loose rocks, nothing more.
And don’t even get me started on the ‘mediums.’ They claim to be in touch with their ‘spiritual guides’ who tell them all about the ghosts that inhabit the castle. Thing is, they talk about a tragic love-lorn maiden, a small child, a young man… Funny how they never mention the ghost of the middle-aged slightly pudgy man that’s standing right in front of them. And if these other ghosts they speak of exist, I’ve never seen them.
The really ironic thing? I am the proof that they seek, and yet I know they are frauds. They have to make things up because they can’t prove I exist - hell, I can’t prove to them I exist. I’m not even sure that I exist any more.
Author: ME! Um, Smeddley
Challenge: 21
Rating: PG for two instances of a mild swear word
Notes: I have no idea where this came from. I seem to like rambling narratives, though. It's voice posted in abridged version in my journal if you're too lazy to read... ~.^
You would think there would be something left to inspire me in this moldy old castle. Some nook or cranny I hadn’t explored that would move me to write great sonnets. Well, not ‘write’ in the literal sense, as I am non-corporeal and unable to hold a quill. Perhaps ‘compose’ would be a better word. Yes, I’ve composed a sonnet to each and every bloody thing in this castle, even if I can’t remember all of them exactly. I remember I had written them; I remember that they existed at one time.
Ah, yes, memory. You thought, perhaps, that when you died your memory, your mind, was infinite? That’s a cosmic joke. I wish I could tell you I remembered my death as clearly as if it was yesterday - okay, no, not my death. I don’t remember much about it except it was exceeding unpleasant. I’d rather that remained a vague memory, thank you very much. But my last day with… oh, what’s her name?! The love of my life, the woman I adored… Henrietta? Helen? Heather? No matter, I remember I adored a woman, and I must surely have spent a last perfect day with her (at least I would have romanticized that last day after my death, regardless of whether it was truly perfect). And I wish I could tell you I remembered that day as clearly as if it were only yesterday, but I don’t. I remember it as if it took place 564 years ago. Coincidentally, that’s roughly the time it did take place. Nifty, that, eh?
See, after you die time doesn’t slow down or speed up; your mind doesn’t expand, you don’t gain infinite wisdom. At least I didn’t. But then, maybe this is hell. Just like life, only, no touching. No women, no food, no wine. Just… being. If you can call this being. Funny, I remember wishing I could be a fly on the wall so many times back when I was alive. Unfortunately, I now realize that the fun part about the whole ‘fly on the wall’ bit was afterwards, when you’d get to spread what you heard. Simply knowing things - for as long as you could remember, at any rate - is no fun. I had even stopped eavesdropping entirely by the time the castle walls began to crumble and all of the people left.
It was rough there for awhile, I won’t lie. If a ghost could commit suicide, I might have at least attempted it. But then even if I had succeeded, I’d be a ghost’s ghost, and would that be any different? I mean, could I be less substantial? And what, you might ask, would drive a ghost to such desperate measures?
Well, you see, as all the old things I knew and had composed volumes of poetry to had faded and decomposed. It’s very depressing to watch everything you know turn to dust. And, yes, I’ve tried to leave the castle to explore the countryside, but every time I get too far away I get so very weary, and when I fall asleep - if the dead can ‘sleep’ - I somehow return to the castle. I wake up sprawled on the dining table, of all the indignant places. Something in my memory from long ago tingles, there’s something special about this table. I know it. But I can hardly remember who I was, let alone why a table would be important.
Ah, yes, who am I? My name is… was… Sir... something. I was a knight. I think. The clothes I wear are rich enough, so I must have been somewhat successful in life. I’d reached a fairly advanced age, too. So I was either a really good knight, or… what? That, I admit, is a bit of a mystery. Then there’s the whole poetry thing. I couldn’t tell you if that was something I started after my death, or if I was a bard in life. I realize that sounds pathetic but these things happened well over 500 years ago. Seriously, can you remember what you had for breakfast yesterday? No? Then cut me some slack. Perhaps had I drilled it into my head each and every day I would have remembered. I could have reaffirmed who I was and what I did and how I died every single day so I would never have forgotten. But I think I wanted to forget. I just don’t remember why.
But, luckily, just as I was at my worst - I was actually standing on top of the castle wall contemplating throwing myself off, and yes, I know that makes no sense but I was a little crazy, you understand - some more people came. They weren’t like what I thought I remembered, though I hadn’t seen anyone but the odd traveler in the distance for years. Centuries, perhaps. And admittedly, my memory is a bit fuzzy.
I don’t mean that they don’t look like people - they had the standard two legs, two arms, one head combination. But they didn’t dress or act quite the same. And they talked rather oddly, but I’m getting used to it. Even picking up some slang here and there!
It was also clear from the start that they were looking for something. And not a physical thing, either. They didn’t dig through the rubble or search the secret passageways. Instead, they just walked around, talking. And at first I thought I was completely unhinged, because it seemed they were talking to me! They would say things like, “Is there anyone here who would like to tell us something?” and wave a little gizmo around. And at first I would answer. I tried talking. Nothing. I tried yelling. Nothing. Nothing I did seemed to elicit a response. I figured they’d eventually give up, and that group finally did. But then another group came. And another. And more and more of them kept coming, with even more weird and scary gadgets.
I have learned, through careful observation and listening, how most of these gadgets work. Like the computer and the telephone. Very handy, indeed! They have access to vast amounts of information, though I do wonder how much of it is accurate. Evidently there’s quite a story behind this castle. Supposedly there was once a mystical amulet called the Stone of Sargon. And some nasty chap stole it and hid it long ago. There was bloodshed - murder - and plenty of mayhem. The sort of things that tend to encourage ghostly activities. This must have taken place about my time, according to my calculations.
I know, I know, it seems so obvious that this is me, right? I stole the stone-thing and got killed for being a bad person, and wanted to forget, so I did. And here I am, centuries later, still bound by the stone to the place I hid it. So very neat. So very predictable. Possibly true, of course, but there’s no way of knowing. I rather doubt it, but they are persistent.
You’d also think that if they wanted to research the legend, they’d be looking for the stone. And, to be fair, there have been a few archeologists that have poked through the castle. I take the most interest in them, because they make me think… I mean, what if they do find the stone? Am I suddenly going to remember or transcend or what? What if the stone doesn’t even exist, or isn’t here? What if I was nothing more than a nobleman who had a heart attack and died eating dinner? What if, what if, what if. It’s pointless to speculate, trust me - I spent the early years doing just that. Came up with nothing, or I wouldn’t still be hanging around this dump composing stupid little poems to all the new things I see. There was the recent classic, “Ode to the fresh dog turd” and “A sonnet to the new mold growth,” plus the every popular “Spin a spider web, spider!” None, sadly, destined for print and not only because I lack the capability to commit them to paper.
But back to the people. Most of them that come here call themselves ‘Ghost Hunters.’ They wave around these little instruments and claim to catch ‘hot spots’ and ‘voices on tape.’ Of course I know it’s all crap. I’m never where they say I am, I never said what they thought they heard, and I’ve never caused anything to move or made any strange noises. It’s an old castle, people. It’s falling down around your ears. That thumping sound? Loose rocks, nothing more.
And don’t even get me started on the ‘mediums.’ They claim to be in touch with their ‘spiritual guides’ who tell them all about the ghosts that inhabit the castle. Thing is, they talk about a tragic love-lorn maiden, a small child, a young man… Funny how they never mention the ghost of the middle-aged slightly pudgy man that’s standing right in front of them. And if these other ghosts they speak of exist, I’ve never seen them.
The really ironic thing? I am the proof that they seek, and yet I know they are frauds. They have to make things up because they can’t prove I exist - hell, I can’t prove to them I exist. I’m not even sure that I exist any more.