Tomorrow's Ghosts by Charles Christian

1. The Face at the Door
    The blonde standing at my front door is wearing a pretty smile, a long, black fustian cassock and a white clerical dog-collar. She is my local parish’s latest vicar.
    It was inevitable the new vicar would come a-calling. They always do. They are drawn to me like moths to a flame. Though maybe a more apt metaphor is like missionaries to a cannibal’s cooking pot.
    It seems to be a particular problem in this parish. Don’t misunderstand me, there’s nothing wrong with living in a tucked-away backwater in rural Suffolk where nothing ever happens. It’s just that this is a tucked away backwater in rural Suffolk where nothing ever happens.
    For any man or woman of the cloth with ambition, a posting here is not so much a career setback as career suicide. There is a distinct chance of being forgotten by the diocese and left to moulder in their own churchyards with only Christmas, Easter, Harvest Festival plus sundry hatchings, matchings and dispatchings to occupy the empty hours. Outside of high-days and holidays, I’ve seen how parish life can slip into an endless round of fund raising coffee mornings, jumble sales and beetle-drives.
    And then they discover me. Alexis Byter... the local demonologist. At least that’s how I’ve heard myself described, which is kind of ironic as I’m actually on the side of the angels and spend a lot of my time doing the things the church once used to do for its parishioners. I’m not sure whether it’s because these meddlesome priests are curious to see what I look like, which must be a disappointment as I’m blandly normal, or whether they are hoping to convert me and bring me back into the fold.
    The knock at the door comes while I’m replacing the strings on my old Fender Telecaster. My finger-tips are soft, I need lighter-gauge strings these days. Besides, business is slow at the moment, so I’m allowing myself the luxury of wallowing in nostalgia. Remembering another life I used to lead a long, long time ago. The Fender is one of my few remaining links to that era.
    But let’s get back to the blonde. Standing in the shade of the porch, she introduces herself as the Reverend Ursula Southill, the recently installed rector for the parishes in this area of the county.
    “I hope I’m not intruding,” she says, “as I see you are not alone, but I was wondering whether I could invite you to a getting-to-know-you parish supper we’re planning for people who aren’t regular churchgoers?”
    I’m tempted to reply such a supper would be my idea of Hell but I’m more intrigued by her remark about me not being alone. “Forgive me for asking but what exactly did you mean by ‘You see I’m not alone?’ There are only two people at this cottage today and we’re currently facing each other.”
    My question catches her off guard and she stammers an explanation that she thought she saw a woman looking out of an open upstairs window as she drove up to the cottage.
    “What did she look like?” I ask.
    “Early middle-aged, blondish hair pinned up in a bun. She was wearing a long black dress and she was smiling.”
    “Ah, that’s all right then, it’s just the ghost who haunts this cottage. I’m impressed you saw her, not everyone who comes here has that ability.”
    Far from reassuring my visitor, my words have the opposite effect. The colour drains from her and, ashen faced, she staggers forward as if about to faint. I catch her up in my arms and help her into the house, walking her through to the kitchen and sitting her down on the large chintz-covered armchair I keep there. Chintz, I hasten to add, is not my scene, the chair is a relic left by a former girlfriend – a poet – who was heavily into shabby-chic but, like the Fender, that is a story for another day.
    “You look flustered,” I say, “you’d better sit still and I’ll make you a cup of tea. Or would you prefer something stronger? A glass of wine? I’ve got some
pinot grigio
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