Ghost Story

or: A Heard Unheard

In the small hours of the summer morning, the roof sings. Pigeons flutter and fly and coo. The church bells speak: ding dong, ding dong, ding dong. Fifteen minutes to the hour. Pigeon feet scratching, small birds trying trills far below. Sleep lingers. Soft sheets. Eyes heavy. Breath slow.

The curtains billow in the breeze, the balcony doors wide open, candles on the table, flickering light. No stars to be seen, just blackness. Standing in the corner, the shadows draw nearer, voices outside, familiar voices, laughter, wine glasses clink and clank, clink and clank, clink and clank, then silence. The breeze picks up. The wind blowing ever blowing, it tears on the curtains, it cuts into the voices that now sound higher ever higher, far away. The curtains fill the room and build a soft wall of whiteness there’s no getting out of the corner through the gust of wind that pushes in with all its might and pushes pushes small arms away THE VOICES SCREAM THE WIND PUSHES THEM FURTHER FURTHER INTO THE DISTANCE ANDDROWNSTHEMOUTINTHEFLUTTERINGANDTHECRYINGOFTHE

pigeon on the roof.