 |
| "SORRY, NORMAN CAN'T READ!" |
"Tom’s first message from the other side was quite strange, and
obviously He was quite confused about being dead – especially since he still
had Norman, his dog, with him.
Oh, and he was residing in a disused Jewish Cemetery.
Strangely enough, Tom wasn’t even Jewish……"
The Ghost Writer.
1: “THE END.”
But the fates conspired against me and here I lay - dumped for the rest of eternity in a disused cemetery, the last tenant prior to me, took up residency back in 1919. Some of the residents hold this against me, after all, they were planning a big centennial party for 2019, and now I've buggered that up and they may have to wait for a few more years, before they can have a big knee's up.
Oh, some also hold the fact that I'm not Jewish against me, the 'Old Gentleman' put it bluntly: "He's just not kosher!"
Samuel Levy – Dyke (1826 – 1891) was always known as the 'Old Gentleman' even when he was young and not 'old' or a 'gentleman' – noted for shagging anything that could pass as female or imbibe anything that could pass as alcohol – he was totally dissolute by 22 and looked 52! - But clearly a man of wealth and position when he was breathing, the 'Old Gentleman' was residing in a lovely old family crypt with several members of his family, who he hated in life and was now stuck with in death - including his sour faced wife, who had never forgiven him regarding the two young House-Maids, who had to leave their service quickly, both in tears, clutching crisp £5 notes in their trembling fingers.
"£5 was serious money in those days – you could purchase a new suit, get pissed
for a month, buy a donkey or travel to Italy – and still have change for a slap
up meal!"
Tom.
Apparently, according to Lily, the wife could have been 'collected' and leave him alone to wait, but there's nothing like a woman's vengeance when it comes to infidelity - after which she had made his life a misery and she certainly was not going to be thwarted by a silly little thing like death!
They really get uptight about one other small detail - I've got Norman with me.
How, I don't know, he must have passed over at the same time as me (now that's what I call a loyal friend!) and they just get really upset when they see him wandering about the graves and crypts, urinating against the odd tombstone, stealing a bone now and again - showing his teeth when they yell at him.
Norman is my dog, my faithful little white terrier of five years, and here in this afterlife: NO DOGS ALLOWED!
 |
| "NORMAN!" |
"I found the old Commodore 64 computer, complete with
keyboard, dumped in a empty crypt, there were various other items scattered
about the place, including a smashed vase, small silver & gold trinkets,
some coins and the remains of a ‘blow-up doll’ called ‘Anal Annie’ and a box of
sex aids – proceeds of a burglary from some perverts house, I assume.
The old computer was connected to the ‘Deadnet’ and I was
surprised to find that it picked up the wonderful ‘WWW’ of the living! I signed
up with AOL, no, not that AOL, but ‘Afterlife On Line’ and opened an account.
My first connection was with a mad African witch doctor, who cast Voodoo spells
on line and did demonic possessions half price during Halloween.
After a few attempts I finally connected with my old friend’s Commodore 64!"
After a few attempts I finally connected with my old friend’s Commodore 64!"
Tom.
 |
| "MY OLD COMMODORE64 - TALKING TO THE DEAD- AGAIN!" |
“That gave me
quite a turn! My old Commodore 64 was in
the spare bedroom awaiting a trip to the local recycling centre, when it came
to life and it wasn’t even plugged in!”
The Ghost
Writer.
Some of these tenants paid a small fortune to be here, and they hold that against me too: "Bleeding free loader!" I heard the Rabbi mutter as he wandered past, followed by a two fingered salute from myself, growling from Norman, and "Snobby twat!" said loud enough to be heard - even by the dead.
This place is forgotten by the 'Lifer's' (that's you lot!) apart from some young couples, who shag here upon occasion - Oh, and the Satan Worshipper's who practice black magic rituals (they can't be very good at it because they practice a lot around here) and last week a couple of Neo-Nazi's tried to spray rude words on the walls of the 'Old Gentleman's' family crypt, but they bumped into Satan's mob, dancing around naked, drinking blood and goat piss from a skull - they had a bit of an altercation and the brave Jew hating, white supremacists got a good hiding and being true son's of the Master Race, ran off, vowing to tell their dad's.......
 |
| "SORRY SATAN, YOU'VE DEFINATELY GOT PILES MATE!" |
The bloody feathers floated about for ages and the smell attracted several foxes, who in their disappointment of finding no free meals - shit everywhere.
I respect their opinion of the place.
Norman has also taken to howling at night - he seems to enjoy that, the other residents are not so enthusiastic about it, but being dead has some advantages, you don't pay Tax and you never get toothache or catch some disgusting sexual disease from a quickie on Blackpool beach with a young, willing tart that had really strange toes.
Ah, the wonderful summer of 1969, cold beer, curry, an old Morris Minor with one working headlamp and a young tart who said: “Yes!” with real enthusiasm.
 |
| "TOM'S PASSION WAGON!" |
But no, just the tart, her weird feet and those damn goats!
The legacy from that brief sexual encounter was around for some time, the syphilis cleared up with treatment, the body lice lost interest and moved to pastures anew, but the memories of those awful feet next to my ears, they still hang around in the shadows of my mind, despite being dead.
In all my living years, I never thought death was like this place: similar to a weekend in Belgium - In winter - during a general strike.
The only good part about death is that you meet some real live characters!
If you believed that you had met some really, really strange people in life, then boy! Wait until your deceased, the place is crawling with some real head cases and nutters!
So, here I am dead. Brown Bread. Worm Food. Passed Over. Shafted: Big Time.
"Dead as a can of Spam." To quote a famous character in a British TV Sitcom, except that I'm no hologram, just dead and a little confused about it all, that's why I'm sitting on this slab, endorsed "Mary Goldstein-Jones (1876 - 1901) Asleep".
Who the hell does she think she's fooling! Well, she won't mind, like Edwin, she's not here, so I won't have to deal with more complaints about sprawling across people's homes, while watching the Moon rise and fall - That's quite a popular hobby around these parts, that, and arranging your mortal remains into humorous shapes and getting your friends to guess. Now that's real entertainment for a Saturday night! Some have produced fantastic creations to win, like 'last turkey in the shop', 'famous country houses', 'British Prime Minister's since 1800' and my personal favourite: 'How I died.'
But dedicated miserable gits will always find something to moan about.
 |
| "MOG THISLEWANK - THE GATE-KEEPER, IN LIFE AND NOW IN DEATH! |
But what really gets up his nose, was that the disappointed pair only received 4 Shillings (20p in today’s money!) for his carcass from the local medical school, who complained about the falling standards of corpses, and the only part of him they used, before dumping the sad remains into a local river, was his ears - and even they frustrated the Surgeons - Mog had kept his deafness very quiet.
It's Saturday night (I think) and I'm having a conversation with a bloke who was put under in 1799 and is still bitter about missing Pass-over that year (He didn't get the jokes about having his own special 'Pass-Over' that year, or that the Angel of Death never 'passed him over' that year - another miserable git!) Influenza had got him, died choking, crying, sweating and racked in pain and infidelity - his wife was downstairs 'entertaining' the local Butcher, in all those years of married life, he had no idea why they had steak nearly every day!
Unpleasant, but better (I suppose) than the young lady who rests a few plots away, died in childbirth, very young, afraid and in agony at the hands of a drunken, incompetent Midwife who shouldn't have delivered coal, never mind children.
 |
| "RUTH THUDSTEIN." |
His/her young mum was Ruth Thudstein (1774 - 1789) and she spoke to me; "Don't take any mind to those two, the Rabbi's alight and the 'Old Gentleman' is quite nice when you get to know him. That's my plot over there, the one with several plastic bags on, they're filled with old beer tins and rotting take-away, some of the local youngsters like to sneak in here and get drunk, smoke and fornicate. Most of the other's complain about it - But I don't mind, it's a bit of life where's there's none!"
She was clearly very young; her shroud was cheap faded linen, tied with a rotting gold coloured cord, hanging about her arms and waist. Her grave bonnet was at least twice the size of her head and had a habit of slipping down over her eyes; "Bugger!" She would exclaim, and push it up, revealing dark black hair, She always seemed to be smiling and was a very pleasant young girl - considering her fate.
When I asked Lily about her, she gave me a really sad look and confided that the girl could not be collected yet because of what she had done to the drunken midwife.
"How could she hurt that old drunk - She was dead!" I asked with great interest.
Lily explained that Ruth had contacted a 'Passer', a 'Deadie' that had powers which could allow the deceased to pass into the realm of the living as a spirit with a physical presence, and Ruth had returned and haunted the old woman, until consumed with guilt and fear, she had thrown herself into a local pond and drowned.
 |
| "THE OLD WATERMILL - NOW HAUNTED BY THE USELESS MIDWIFE!" |
Thus Ruth was condemned to this afterlife until her case was reviewed - She had broken the rules of death.
"Some of the 'Lifer's' also possess such powers and are called 'Live passer's',
they could easily manifest spirits, who almost have a 'physical' presence, such
as moving pictures about, switching on/off the TV, pinching your bum whilst
taking a leak and making you pee over your shoes – stuff like that!"
Tom.
Death's a funny old game; pity no-one really knows the rules.
That's the problem, right there, who knows the rules of the game called death?
I certainly don't and I'm bleeding' dead!
They never teach you about this stuff at school, do they? One of the most important events in anyone's life and they don't say a bloody word about it.
They'll bore you to death (pun unintended!) with Mathematics’ or History and other useless shit, but death?
Not a bloody word!
Pity you couldn’t drag a corpse into the classroom and let it explain to the kids about what happens on the other side of life – death! I bet that would be a lesson few kids dare skip! - Imagine an angry stiff after you because you missed his lecture – a note from mummy wouldn’t cut it with him!
It should be a mandatory lesson, stuck between 'Social Studies' and 'Home Economics’', the lesson could be called "How death buggers up your social life" or “The End.”
 |
| "WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY TEACHING KIDS TODAY!" |
I've had a good look around the overgrown, weathered tombs and crumbling crypts and worked out that the last internment was in 1919 (well, apart from me - obviously) Again, another victim of Influenza, and he's really not happy about it, in fact, downright pissed off by it.
A Young man of 22, Robert Horseheart (1897 – 1919) had fought in the trenches of Western France for two years, happily missed getting shot, blown up, gassed, dismembered or killed in some other unpleasant way, only to return to blighty, just another forgotten hero, and die in his bed from an enemy he couldn't even see, never mind fight, and he's still not overjoyed about that and is often referred to as 'Mr. Angry' by some of the other residents.
He had no real answers to my questions - except "Piss off! Leave me alone!"
Yes, a very unhappy dead person, he likes to hide in the deep holes that have appeared around the place over the years of neglect, shouting "Bang! Bang! You bloody Hun swine!” And scrambling out, he would throw his arms in the air and drop backwards into the soft dark earth, then sob loudly for someone called "My darling, darling Arthur boy."
 |
| "IF WE WALK REALLY SLOWLY, THEY MAY NOT NOTICE US COMING....." |
A lot of the older residents have no idea what World War One was about, and even less idea why he was buried in a naughty pink nightie - considered scandalous even for women in its day, never mind strapping young men and war hero's.
Then, of course, there’s Mr. Boggle. An inept Englishman, resplendent in shabby suit and tie, ‘pork-pie’ hat and with a strange walk – like he has a peach rammed up his arse! He doesn’t reside here, but is often seen about the place with a complete dumbfounded look upon his daft face. He’s very polite, always raises his hat to the ladies and he only says one thing; “What the F**k!”
No-one has any idea who he is or why he hangs around the afterlife, we not sure his even dead! Still, He seems harmless enough – and stupid enough.....
 |
| "MR. BOGGLE." |
“He sounds like our old Math’s teacher Tom, do you remember him?”
The Ghost Writer.
But my head is full of questions, questions and more questions - like a child in a brave new world who’s an idiot.
I have received few answers. So far here's what I have learnt (I know it’s a small list, but I'm still adjusting to this death lark) and in no particular order of importance:
1. I'm dead.
2. I'm still dead - and that won't get better with time.....
3. Spirit-Guides are suppose to assist the newly deceased to adjust to this ‘brave new world’ until they are Collected or Corrected – they are voluntary workers, who could be collected/corrected, but stay a while to help out – quite a few go on to be Collectors.
4. Young children can 'jump' into another life straight away when collected by a 'Collector' - adults have to wait until they appear in one of their ‘Soul Ledgers’, but many are collected at the point of departure (death to you!), others, like myself, have to wait here in the ‘Aftertime’, which is basically hanging about with you ‘Lifer’s’ – but you obviously cannot see us (except as described above).
What's that you ask? The 'Collectors?'
I must have mentioned them before.....I'm sure I did, but anyway, they're quite nice, not Angels or anything like that, more like Taxi drivers, without the attitude or boring stories about football or the weather, they do their jobs quietly and professionally, consider them as civil servants to the dead. They can pass through the worlds of the living and the dead with ease, just for your information, they can escort you to four destinations:
1. Heaven (no further explanation required there!)
2. Hell (tough luck, you poor bugger!)
3. The Soul Exchange (your soul is returned to the living in a new flesh suit!)
4. Another ‘Domain’ (I explain this latter – have patience!)
I met one on my way to Larde's home in the local Council bone yard, at the bus stop by the gates of the crematorium, he smiled at me and asked politely how long since I was alive.
He was reading a copy of “The Adventures Tom Sawyer” and looked like he was waiting for a bus.
 |
| "CLARENCE THE COLLECTOR." |
"Regarding cremation, whilst it appears to be the answer to over-stocked
graveyards, it does the deceased no favours – colloquially referred to as
'cinders' in the afterlife's, these poor buggers are homeless and wander about
trying to find a new abode.
Sometimes they are also referred to as 'Spirit Gypsies', 'Tomb Travellers' and sometimes: 'Bloody Squatters!' - The really unlucky ones were buried at sea or had their ashes scattered there...."
Sometimes they are also referred to as 'Spirit Gypsies', 'Tomb Travellers' and sometimes: 'Bloody Squatters!' - The really unlucky ones were buried at sea or had their ashes scattered there...."
Tom.
I didn't really know the answer, so I asked him: "What's new? Busy are you? What the hell is death all about?" Dumb questions I know, but give me a break, I'm new to being dead!
Then I noticed the accident happening, not twenty yards from here, a young boy, maybe eight or nine, laughing, shouting, running with his two mates, who with some wisdom stopped at the kerb, but he didn't - ran straight into the road and clearly never saw the big orange van with its headlights on, and yellow warning lights flashing.
Bloody National Health Service glasses for kids!
Then he was standing next to the polite gentleman, as a large crowd gathered around his mortal remains, the Collector whispered in his ear, they both smiled at me and were gone - lucky little bugger!
 |
| "WHAT VAN?" |
They both watched in silence, completely unmoved by what had happened.
I waved at them and shouted "Hey! How are you?"
The hippy look-alike stuck up two fingers and the filthy little man pulled his pants down and showed me his pock-marked, skinny white arse and then they too, were gone.
Bloody long haired, tree hugging shit-house and his repulsive friend!
I think Norman wanted to urinate on both - It would have certainly improved the smell of the dirty little git with the bad dental work.
Still, death does bring on change!
 |
| "DEAR GOD - WHY THE FUCK ME!" |
 |
FORWARD TO EPISODE 2. "CHANGES."
 |
 |
| "THE GHOST WRITER!" |
Copyright © 2011-2021 Stephen Williams. No reproduction of any part without permission.