She’d heard that on a certain day, at a certain time, you could meet your own ghost haunting the graveyard at St Mary’s.
In the hour before dawn, she stood beside the church’s yew tree, hands tucked under her armpits, cloudy breath mixing with the pre-dawn mist. Her gaze hovered uncertainly on every shadow and shifting light.
When at last the ghost appeared, it was as a being of trailing fog with eyes like fire, but a familiar face.
‘I’m sorry,’ the girl whispered. ‘I didn’t know — I needed someone to –‘
Gently, the ghost embraced her, one spectral hand stroking her hair, the other gripping her shoulder. Their touch was feather-light. ‘I know,’ they whispered. ‘I understand. It will be okay.’
Image by drippycat, used under Pixabay License.