Madness! The voices of accusation, the finger that points and all the screaming, I heard, coming from the other side. There were fingers clawing at me, though a division of atmospheric fog separated us. I saw, I heard and I felt them. Their faces were burned to the bone and their flesh looked like branded hide. Their teeth black and grey were imperfect and missing here and there. I saw no babies or young ones. Just old bodies in a heap of scrap yard flesh burning, forever more. The stench of all this was eternal.

I asked, why? Where had love gone? Was there no kindness or mercy left to save old souls, like me? For that moment feeling sad, I must have felt compassion for the heap of abandoned godless lives.

I asked something or someone, why was I here? I assumed then, there was no God, as I had believed. But then I rationalized my thoughts. If my ideas were true, then why wasn’t I burning? Or was that coming later? Why am I observing this devastation and is there a lesson that I had to learn?

With that last thought I was sucked through the vacuum of swirling grey bleak fog. It was hot, then cool, then cold and finally comfortable like a tropical warm breeze and then, I looked and felt.

A simple green field of tender grass was under my bare feet and as far as my eyes could see. A tree line of Oaks in the near distance serenely invited me. It looked like a painting. Yes, a painting that I painted years ago. The field was peaceful, and there in the painting was total solitude! I was alone! Just as I chose to be. After all, the drama in this world was unending, And, this was my place, I had created the safest place in the world.

However, for some dad-gum reason, I battled with myself. The field was so beautiful, but on the other hand, so lonely and the place of eternal death was worse! And back and forth, my mind played. Then, asking something, what is it that the two places had in common and what was the comparisons that I am to understand?

The answer came. Quietness within one, and the eternal constant horror within the other, and that’s all, there was to consider. Only the visions of the two different places going this way and that, tangled my mind. Such, an internal battle. My sourish ego, wanted peace and the meadow offered just that. On the other hand, the faces and screams and fingers clawing were so present, but there were people present, but in torment. I had to choose isolation or tormenting souls.

Then, I considered my options. I could run to my pasture and forget the burned bodies with all their despair and screams. I could go to the field of fresh sweet greenness. I could. It was my choice. There was no God or gods forcing me. The decision was mine to make.

So, I asked myself questions. What is my mission and why would there be a need for me to go to that hellish place? What could I do there better than some other person who wanted to be there? After all, I liked solitude much better than those suffering screaming human souls. To add, I liked peaceful music, little talking and happy chirping birds and zero drama.

Those zombie souls facing hell, fire, and brimstone flashed back in my mind. This place was not my first choice. I mean, I bargained and asked if there was any payment for venturing there? Would I be rewarded monetarily? What is my gain, should I grudgingly choose this place of torment?

There were no real answers. Just a reminder of my future if choosing the green pasture. Quiet soundless lonely silence forevermore. I immediately decided upon the green pastures and was immediately transported to my place under The Sycamore Tree.

Suddenly, Ring Ring Ring! Roaring sound! Obnoxious. My hand grabbed the son of a bitching clock. Grimacing at the damn thing saw the small hand was on 3 and the long hand was on 00. Three AM, really?

Then, my eyes half shut, caught the landscape, the portrait that had hung on my walls for decades. Noticing that it was familiar, noticing that I had just been there under that particular Sycamore Tree, I got up and had to look closer. The sheets were around me while I stood gazing in the coolness. With the cell phone flashlight shining on the scene, I inspected the art. Well, I had been there. I was most certainly under that tree. This artwork was so boring and QUIET!
I grabbed it off the wall and threw on the floor. Stomping on the everlasting silence like a mad man.

Crazed! What are my options? I cried out. OH NO! No, not death by isolation, nor burning flesh? Then, all of a sudden ~ Huh, what’s that sound?

What? What do I hear?

Knock, knock. knock on my door.

Someone’s at my door! It’s 3:05! No, who’s there? I wondered. I moved to the door and stood frozen.

Again! Knock, knock, knock, ever so gently it rapped.

I had no choice but to open. I had to save myself from eternal silence and loneliness. I had to open. But, I was scared. Frightened of seeing the burning flesh and smelling the stench! Please. I cried. Help me. I must have lost my mind.

knock knock knock.

The peephole was covered with drops of water. It was raining. And, opening the door, which was made of cold hard steel, I tried my damnedest to move it. Slightly, it opened an inch, then two. Finally, with a great struggle it was opened enough and there in the passageway stood a young girl, in a red robe, with beautiful blue eyes.

She held a basket that held a kitten that was wet from the pouring rain. In her basket was a loaf of warm bread, cheese and a bottle of fine wine. Her cheeks were covered by the hooded cape, and she looked up so kindly and endearingly.

She, the young child of maybe of nine years said, “This basket is a gift from my father. He wants you to have this.” And, she lifts it to me, then, turns to go.

I said, wait! What is your name young girl? Please, don’t go … My voice trailed off as she turned away.

With rain falling so hard and from her hooded cloak, she turns to say, “Mercy, my name is Mercy.” And then, she disappears, she vanishes in front of my eyes.

I think the rain and moisture were playing a trick on my eyes, but then again, I’m not certain of anything. Standing for a moment in the door-sill, I hear the scrawny kitten meow.

Here, It must be said, that I don’t like cats. But, sensing it was a gift from a father, as the young girl said, took it inside, and soon thereafter, I named her Mercy. The cat grew to have very blue eyes just like the girl. And for many years, Mercy and I sat on the couch cuddled together. I often reflected on the ghost of memories past, which I call her, the young girl named Mercy. And, often thought I saw her dancing in Mercy the Cat’s blue eyes.

When Mercy, the cat, passed away, many years later, I realized that I found out what the meaning of mercy meant. And it was simple lesson; however, it took many years to understand the long-suffering meaning of mercy. The lesson of love came one horrifying night when a little wet scrawny kitten came from a little ghostly girl. She brought me a valuable lesson which was sent by The Father and it took years for me to understand, mercy. I loved that wet scrawny kitten that became a cat and today, I deeply miss her. My blue eyed cat was rightly named, Mercy.

To this day, I think about both Mercies and one other, God’s mercy. He had been merciful to me that cold rainy night so many years ago.

 

 Note: this is a fictional story written for a Halloween contest about ghosts. ©2015