The Ghost and I

I finished reading the ghost story and switched off the night lamp. I sighed and adjusted the bed sheet before settling in.

"Hi," said the spook materialising slowly in the corner of the room and drifting towards me.

"Are you a ghost?" I asked alarmed wishing I had kept the night lamp switched on.

"Yes, I'm a spook," he replied proudly, "and a barber to boot."

"Were you a hair stylist?" I asked a bit apprehensively wondering what sort of an apparition this was.

"Yes I was," replied the spook dressed in flowing white robes.

"Then why did you leave such a profitable business?" I asked.

"Most of my customers were bald and only wanted a shave," he replied regretfully.

"Bald patrons are not good for business then?" I questioned.

"The Bald came before the original egg," he replied informatively.

"You mean before The Big Bang?" I enquired, "That would make God a bald fellow."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Wouldn't know, never had Him as a customer."

"God wouldn't go to you, he has angels for that sort of thing," I said contemptuously.

"Nevertheless if He came it would be good for business. All the angels would follow Him and they all have such lovely golden locks," he sighed.

"You are being sacrilegious," I said a bit uncomfortably.

"Never cared much for religion," he said carelessly.

"Are you an atheist?" I asked.

"No, just a spook," he replied.

"I have never heard of a spook speaking about God!" I exclaimed.

"Don't," he said hastily, "we are the Ungodly."

"Oh!"

"You mean you worship The Devil?" I demanded sitting up in bed.

"No, no, He's too mean," he said hurriedly.

"So you are between The Devil and the deep sea?" I asked interestedly.

"It makes me seasick sometimes," the spook replied uncomfortably.

"I like the water, but I can't swim," I replied regretfully.

"You should, I can teach you," replied the spook helpfully.

"I wouldn't do that," I replied.

"Why?"

"Because I can't have wet spooks dripping all over the carpet," I replied.

The spook looked at the floor. "You don't have a carpet," he said pointedly.

"I'll get one," I replied.

"You should look out for sales on Amazon and Flipkart," the visitant said.

"Pepperfry more likely," I said kindly.

"Not much pepper please," he said swiftly, "just the salt!"

"What was that?" I asked.

"I'm speaking about breakfast with ham and eggs," he replied smacking his semi-transparent lips.

"You want breakfast?" I asked.

"You will fix me one," he replied nodding his ghostly pate. It was then that I saw he was bald.

"But you are bald!" I ejaculated.

"Don't you entertain bald guests?" he asked anxiously.

"Only those with receding hairlines," I replied.

"I can't go hungry, you know," he said wagging a thin ghostly finger at me.

"I've got some rat poison," I said meanly.

He clapped his ghostly hand to his head. "Not that again. I had enough of it!"

"You mean you snack on rat poison?" I asked.

"I did once and it turned me into a spook," he said regretfully.

"Why did you do such a thing?" I asked incredulously.

"I was looking for jam," he replied morosely.

"You kept jam and rat poison together?" I asked surprised.

"I was absent-minded," he replied.

"But didn't your wife look after you?" I asked pitying him.

"I was a life-long bachelor," he trumpeted as if it was a great achievement.

"Don't trumpet," I said crossly, "I like the saxophone better."

"But, they don't have it in Queen's English!" he exclaimed, "You can't have someone playing the saxophone when writing a dictionary!"

"You write dictionaries then?" I asked.

"Only when I'm not writing obituaries," he replied shortly.

"You write obituaries then?" I asked amazed. "Whose obituary did you write?"

"My own for not getting proper reading glasses for myself," he said with distaste.

"You are a short-sighted spook?"

"Yes, that's why I keep bumping into things," he sighed regretfully.

"But you go bump in the night yourself!" I remarked, "and you should have hindsight, if not foresight."

"I told you I was short-sighted," he replied.

"And, you are a bald hair-dresser too!" I said thoughtfully, "No wonder that so many hair-dressers are unemployed these days."

"They can follow me where I am, they won't be unemployed for long then," he said jauntily.

"Certainly not, you can't have them putting rat poison and jam in their refrigerators!" I said emphatically.

"I see you have a fridge, mind if I cool off in there some time? This constant yapping has tired me out," he replied changing the topic.

"By no means, be my guest," I said genially, "And don't put the jam and rat poison together or I will become a bald spook like you!"

The chap who was scaring the pants off me gently oozed into the fridge.

"There is a jam in here, I see," he chuckled.

"I don't have rat poison," I pointed out.

"You don't need to have rat poison, I'll put in some for you," he chuckled as he opened the door to give me a hair-raising wink.

I fell back weakly on my pillow and managed to switch on the light.

"Dash it, it's not done," he protested, "and I haven't had breakfast either."

"You can come back tomorrow when I've fortified myself properly with spirits," I said meanly.

"I can't," he wailed, "materialising is such a difficult business."

"Then wait for the full moon," I said kindly.

"Why?" he squeaked.

"For you to ascend to the moon and stop inflicting your beastly self on my sleep, my refrigerator and I!" I said sourly.

"I don't like mooning," he said fidgeting as he trickled out of the fridge.

"You could try moonshine," I said truculently.

"You mean country spirits? They make me feel bucolic."

"A country bumpkin you mean?" I asked.

"If you put it that crudely, yes," he replied.

"So you're a country bumpkin, who is also an alcoholic!" I ejaculated.

"Don't call me a country bumpkin, I happen to live in the city," he said with dignity.

"I know, I know, where do you carry out your haunting?" I asked.

"For the time being here," he said morosely.

"You have to pay rent then," I said liking the prospect of some extra money.

"I can't pay you, my account was closed after I passed into the hereafter," he pointed out.

"What about a credit card then?" I asked.

"I don't like plastic, I like plain money," he said.

"But it was I who asked for money," I pointed out.

"I don't carry cash," he said simply.

"Then what do you carry?" I questioned.

"Just ectoplasm," he said.

"That won't pay for jam and whatever else you want," I replied.

"It most certainly will."

"How is that? I asked.

"Boo!" he shrieked as I slipped under my bed sheet petrified.

I wiggled my toes at him. "Come back tomorrow," I pleaded.

"Tell your cook to rustle up some ham and eggs, jam and toast, and a flask of tea tomorrow night," he barked exiting, making my hair stand as if the national anthem was playing.