Troubadour Horror Zone: This is the fourth part of our new horror/thriller series, featuring creatures or myths. We will be posting a new story each week, written by a different author each time, with an introductory essay written by Chris Deal. This week the them is about ghosts, and the ghost story is written by Kelcey Wells.

Essay on ghosts: by Chris Deal

Horatio says ’tis but our fantasy,
And will not let belief take hold of him
Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us:
Therefore I have entreated him along
With us to watch the minutes of this night;
That if again this apparition come,
He may approve our eyes and speak to it.
-Hamlet, Shakespeare

The ghost, that phantasmal dead, the incorporeal shades of the life that came before, has been part of human thought for as long as we have existed. According to a poll by Harris Interactive in 2003, it showed that 84 percent of people believe in the survival of the soul after death, while a more recent poll in the United Kingdom showed that only 53 percent of people there believed in life after death. Normally, such thoughts go hand in hand with religious belief, though that is not always the case. Still, in a 2007 poll by the Associated Press and Ispos, 34 percent of people responded that they did believe in ghosts, roughly the same amount of people who said that they believed in UFOs.

Regardless of the amount of current believe in ghosts, the idea that there is life, consciousness, beyond that of this world has long been a key part of human existence. The main term for the concept, the aforementioned “ghost,” traces back to the Old English “gást,” which seems to originated around the fifth century, and the Proto, or Common, Germnic “gaisto-z,” part of a language some believe has roots stretching back to the Nordic Bronze Age around 4,500 years ago. Some even trace the word to the pre-Germanic word “ghoisdo-s,” meaning fury or anger, believed to be a key principle of the mind and consciousness. The term spirit, it seems, traces back to the Latin word for breath, spiritus, which can be seen as an interpretation of the source of belief in the soul, and in ghosts, the sight of the breath in the cold, the filament that made people wonder just what it was. This idea, perhaps, then led to the first religions, ancestor worship and animism.

Of course, considering that the idea of dead souls that have remained in the sphere of the living is a concept that is all but universal, it is plain to see that there are countless forms that ghosts have taken, as well as countless motives for them to haunt us. Normally, ghosts are presented as appearing much like they were during life or at the moment of the death, such as Jacob Marley from Dicken’s “A Christmas Carol”, or more recently, the ghosts from the Ricky Gervais film “Ghost Town”. A dated portrayal of ghosts was the use of a white shroud covering the actor’s body, a technique meant to allow the actor to quietly enter the scene as well as doing away with the traditional and, by 1800s, ludicrous appearing armor that ghosts, such as Hamlet’s father wore on stage. Such portrayals have been seen in “Beetlejuice”, “Peanuts”, and “Caspar the Friendly Ghost”. A recent variant is the stringy haired, sometimes waterlogged ghosts common to Asian film and theater, the Onryō who seeks revenge, an archetype that’s been seen recently in “The Ring” and “The Grudge” films. There are countless other ways a ghost can be portrayed, but a constant is the ethereal, mist-like appearance they often take, a throw back to the idea that a person’s breath was their soul.

As for the dead’s motives for remaining on Earth, that too is as varied as human culture, but for the most part, it comes down to the idea of unfinished business, that there is something they were unable to accomplish during their life that prohibits them from “moving on” until it is done. Examples for this include the Patrick Swayze film “Ghost”, “The Sixth Sense”, and practically every other supernatural story in some way or another. Other times, the ghosts might just be evil, and enjoy causing pain and destruction of some sort, such as the ghosts in the “Ghostbusters” films or, arguably, Samara from “The Ring”.

Ghosts are, perhaps, the most ubiquitous of all paranormal characters, the idea stretching back to the earliest of human superstitions. There have been countless portrayals, and many of us still believe in the shades that haunt, as television shows like “Ghost Hunters” proves. Perhaps they are real, and one day humanity will have proof for such ideas, or maybe the idea is simply a comfort for those afraid of what happens after our personal ends.

Ghost story: The Daughters of Erzulie by Kelcey Wells

I have put several blocks of liquid night between me and the claustrophobic heat of the club. But in these still hours, the shudder and drive of loud chatter and louder music still clings to me. Disembodied voices and phantom percussions ricochet from buildings and skitter down empty alleyways, running call and response with my over-clocked heartbeat. The residue of warm sub-bass mingles with the glow of streetlights, as the early autumn chill adds a crisp sparkle to nearly deserted streets.

I reach the corner of Washington Square Park and my feet freeze up short of the curb. My ears draw whispers from the bushes. My mind populates the shadows with darting figures. The small patch of artificial wild appears alive with menace. I gaze up at a towering elm with the moon nestled in its high branches. The Hangman’s Elm, as they call it on the walking tours. It is a survivor from the days before tourists, before the bohemian spirit of The Village and before even the mansions and manners of Henry James. It stood tall and vibrant when its surroundings were grisly paupers’ graves, its proximity to the bone yard turning its stern limbs into expedient gallows.

I shake the folklore and campfire stories from my mind and cross the park’s shadow drenched threshold. Moonlight flickers through the trees and the sodium street lamps cast angular streaks across the paving stones. As I make my way toward the central fountain square, my head floods with memories of youthful nights stretched out into hazy mornings. I have lost a lot of time in this park, riding out extended intoxications, searching out afterhours invitations or just wasting the hours until the first morning train back to Jersey. Now, a few years on, I have a proper job and a place in Soho. I am still up for the occasional binge of late night clubbing but with any luck, I will be home, showered and tucked into bed before the sun rises.

I emerge from the narrow pathways into the open square. A chilling cold rolls over my feet. I hear the gentle gurgle of running water, though the fountain sits dry and still. I imagine Minetta Creek, long drained and filled in, still weaving its way across the square. Washington’s grand arch is unlit. My eyes strain to pull its massive dimensions through the thick black. The change in lighting plays tricks with my eyes. My perception flickers about. Distance and depth flatten out and become indiscernible without concentration. Shadowy figures appear out of the corner of my eye. A second glance reveals only empty darkness. Doubting my senses, I take a long probing look and this time make out three distinct figures up ahead of me. Their silhouettes rise sternly from the impenetrable background.

There are three women, each wrapped in a dress of brilliant white linen. Two of the women are tall and thin with dark skin and angular features. The third woman by comparison is heavier and more curvaceous, her skin a shade lighter. The face of the third woman, as it gains definition in the moonlight, is incredibly familiar to me. Were they at the club? Did we share a moment or two of dance floor intimacy, fresh sweat, teasing glances, perhaps even whispered seductions? I have no detailed memory, no visual recall of ever meeting these women, but as I move closer my more primal emotions gain weight. I see the heat and lure dancing in her eyes and I am disarmed. Truth or fiction, memory or not, I swear I know this woman.

The three women gracefully encircle me. They lock me in their intense stares from every angle. I’m prey ensnared in a trap of my own complicity. She tilts her head gently as she smiles at me. My mind races, an endless swirl of cheeky pick up lines, pithy observations, self-effacing entreaties, but I do not speak a word. Instead, a subtle quiver and stammer leaves me silent. She places a gentle finger to my spasm fraught lips, calming them instantly.

“Shush, now little fly.” Her voice has a lyrical cadence that tantalizes, teases and mocks all at once.

“You are trapped, my little buzz, in our lovely web, here at the fork of the phantom brook. But do not struggle nor fret, for there is no escape now, only our mercy or our ire. Which you receive is yet to be decided.”

The two taller women begin to walk slow deliberate circles around me singing quietly, a repetitious incantation in a tongue I do not recognize.

“Ago, Ago, si, Ago la., Erzulie, mamou lade, Erzulie Frieda Dantor, mamou vodoun, Ago, Ago, si, Ago la.”

The other woman, my beautiful captor, lays a caressing hand on my cheek and looks me over, shaking her head slowly with disapproval that makes my stomach turn.

“Oh poor little rich boy, a knave in this palace of self made kings. On this island built on the backs and from the souls of the tricksters’ children. It may not have been you. It may not have been your daddy or your daddy’s daddy. But your ancestors sometime, someway dealt in the suffering of our kin, built empire off of their toil and tore joy from their flesh, I assure you, and now it is your time to pay the bill by the fire, by the rope.”

A lurid laugh oozes from her pouting lips as she steps back from me and into a pool of moonlight. With hypnotic seduction, she unwraps the linens from her body. I strain my eyes to make out her lurid curves. The shadows contort in obtuse angles as the glare of electric street lamps gives way to the fierce flicker of fire light. Flames rise from the empty fountain painting sinister swathes of crimson across bare flesh. She stands defiant before me, naked to the waist. My eyes trace an intricate tattooed rose vine as it emerges from the remaining cloth of her hips, rises up around the luscious curve of her breast and blossoms against her collarbone.

The blood in my cheeks runs cold. I fall to my knees as my legs give out under me. The phantom traces of percussion I have carried with me from the club transform into a frantic drumming. The two chanting women have disappeared into the night but their singsong incantation still traces its way through my head.

“Ago, Ago, si, Ago la, Ago, Ago, si…”

She steps toward me, grabs the short sweat soaked hair at the back of my neck, and pulls me to her. My head fills with a musky aroma of morning rain and burnt sage. Where I expect heat, her flesh is cool. The only warmth is my own. Sweat drips from my cheeks and runs cold across her skin. She guides me up across her body. My lips trace the course of the twisting vine along the gentle curve of her stomach and deep into the firm curvature of her breast. She does not taste of sour or salt. Instead, my senses are overcome with notes of earth and autumn, crisp fall air and late ripening fruits. Her firm grip forces me to my feet where I bury my face deep into the softness of her neck.

Her flesh, so soft and supple, here at the rise of her throat, turns tough and twisted. My fevered tongue and lips trace a long band of scarred and gristled flesh along her cheekbone. I pull back with a shock. A menacing look contorts her face. With a deliberate motion, she pulls up her long dark hair to reveal a blistered necklace of deep scarring. The skin is raised and jagged pink against her creamy dark skin. I reel back flailing for escape. The other women are behind me. Their menacing elongated shadows slice across my own. They slide the rope over my head with care and precision. The twisting strands of hemp dig in to the flesh of my neck. I gag and struggle for breath as my throat is constricted. The chanting and the drumming grow louder, as blood rushes in my ears. I can feel the heat of the raging bonfire on my face. The world blurs and swims through a well of tears and then everything descends mercifully into darkness.

When my eyes flutter back open, the world is pitching and rocking around me. The ground spins far down below. My head pulses with heat as it fills with blood. My chest convulses as my lungs struggle for air. I watch my legs flail and kick out ahead of me in impotent struggle.

A crowd of onlookers stands far below. They hold lanterns, candles and torches. Their dress is of a distant time. The world around them is wild and untamed. Then suddenly the vision changes to a more familiar sight. A crowd of present day New Yorkers stares up at me shouting into cell phones. I look around for solace, but find only the bodies of the two tall thin women hanging beside me. They dangle lifeless, gently swinging in the still air. The scene below has changed once more. Torch wielding onlookers begin to shout and cheer at my torture.

The dark cobalt sky finally yields to the first rays of dawn. The two corpses beside me flicker and fade in the dawn light. The crowd below solidifies into a modern mob scene as police and fire fighters arrive. But I remain strung up and suffocating. The frantic tussle of my feet slows and goes still. My body shutters and then settles. I feel the morning sun on my face and let my vision go dark.