The Ghosts, cursing and angry, dragged themselves from their crypts and unmarked pauper’s graves and ditches. The pipes had started their weird moaning and as it had been written in the Scottish Highland book of the Occult three thousand years ago the ghosts of murderers would need to stop their eternal slumbers whenever the bagpipes were played on the lonesome moors. They congregated in groups of three and four, moaning murder ballads between themselves, and waiting for the music to stop so they could be asked their question and return to their dreamless sleeps.
Seamus stopped playing the bagpipes. He could not see the murderer’s ghosts gathered, but he could feel them all around him. He gathered his courage.
“Ye murderers,” he cried, “I’ve come to ask you a question, as is my right as outlined in the Highland Book of the Occult.”
There was silence for a long moment.
“Ask ye your question,” said a whispery voice that seemed both close and very far away.
“I want vengeance,” said Seamus, “for I have been previously wronged, and it seems to m for all to be right in this world a man must die by my own hands. Tell me, those of you murders who sought vengeance, was it as sweet as you dreamed?”
Again, a long stretch of silence. A cold breeze began to blow across the moor.
Then, voices spoke from all over. “Yes,” they said. “Oh yes, how sweet it was. How worth this damnation for the sweet taste of vengeance. For the righting of wrongs. Vengeance is worth it,” they said, or variations thereof, until the moon came out from behind its cloud and Seamus knew he was again alone on the moor.
Written on 10/10/15 for a woman in a red shirt.
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