A FLASH IN THE DARK
The Substitute
When the young boys had stopped throwing stones he ventured forth out of the wardrobe. The old man returned to the kitchen. Another window was broken, but that’s what young boys do.
He sat at the table, picked up the newspaper, and realised that he was dead. There was his name in the obituaries. He knew someone had died in that gas explosion several years ago, he just couldn’t quite recall who.
Throwing stones at haunted houses, that’s what young boys do.
But what do ghosts do? How could he confirm his own post-mortem self-diagnosis?
Only one thing to do.
He pulled on his jacket over his pyjamas and picked up his spade.
The churchyard was dark when he arrived but the moon made it bright enough to see. He found his name graven in stone and humming quietly he set to work. His back aching he dug through the night until with a sudden shock his shovel struck wood.
He threw down his spade and bent down to tear open the coffin lid.
A ghastly shriek froze him on the spot, “Dad! What on Earth are you doing?”
The young woman stepped out of the gloom and gently took him by his elbow, “Come on dad, let’s go home and get a nice hot cup of tea.”
Back in the kitchen, he removed his soiled slippers and she made them hot comforting tea for two.
“I’m sorry dear, I get so confused.”
“It’s OK dad, I know you do.”
“I thought I was dead.”
“You’re not dead dad.”
He sighed.
“I so regret not getting to see you grow up, you know”.
“I see you every day daddy.”
One cup of tea grew cold.
The old man gazed at his lonely reflection in the broken window.
“I still wish it had been me, and not you,” he whispered to the empty room.
He sat at the table, picked up the newspaper, and realised that he was dead. There was his name in the obituaries. He knew someone had died in that gas explosion several years ago, he just couldn’t quite recall who.
Throwing stones at haunted houses, that’s what young boys do.
But what do ghosts do? How could he confirm his own post-mortem self-diagnosis?
Only one thing to do.
He pulled on his jacket over his pyjamas and picked up his spade.
The churchyard was dark when he arrived but the moon made it bright enough to see. He found his name graven in stone and humming quietly he set to work. His back aching he dug through the night until with a sudden shock his shovel struck wood.
He threw down his spade and bent down to tear open the coffin lid.
A ghastly shriek froze him on the spot, “Dad! What on Earth are you doing?”
The young woman stepped out of the gloom and gently took him by his elbow, “Come on dad, let’s go home and get a nice hot cup of tea.”
Back in the kitchen, he removed his soiled slippers and she made them hot comforting tea for two.
“I’m sorry dear, I get so confused.”
“It’s OK dad, I know you do.”
“I thought I was dead.”
“You’re not dead dad.”
He sighed.
“I so regret not getting to see you grow up, you know”.
“I see you every day daddy.”
One cup of tea grew cold.
The old man gazed at his lonely reflection in the broken window.
“I still wish it had been me, and not you,” he whispered to the empty room.
A version of this tale made it onto the The Cranked Anvil Press flash fiction competition longlist in February 2021.
First Created: January 2021
Last Mutated: December 2021
313 Words
First Created: January 2021
Last Mutated: December 2021
313 Words