Ah, those good old Cape May days… by Jackson D’Catur
I have not much time for ghosts, until that point in my life (the very end) at which I will become one. I shall then haunt the D’Catur Mansion, which will be maintained as a museum to my life and works, and cause stuffed animal heads to fall off walls onto any visitors who fail to show sufficient appreciation of the grandeur of the place. I shall rest an icy hand momentarily on the back of any fat, sweaty necks I dislike. I shall also cause doors to slam shut, trapping those tourists who fall behind, alone, in the creepier parts of the house, and whisper “Get out!” in their ears.
When the museum is closed, at night, I will retire to the topmost turret and when I see passing children look up fearfully, I will press my white-powdered face against the window and scream silently as I point at them.
Of course this is no change to the routine I have in place now, except that I have a pulse at the moment (resting 50, peak exercise level 52 – I was rejected from the Apollo project for being too fit), and do not charge people to come and visit, although the idea has some merit.
I may permit some of Cape May’s other ghosts to make guest appearances: I have always been fond of the trio of local Indians who wander the streets wrapped in their pox-ridden blankets, wondering where all of the buffalo have gone. And the shade of Ernie Hemingway of course comes to visit once a year, at which time in the wee small hours one can hear the ghostly report of his elephant gun going off, and his enraged, drunken bellowing echoes around the streets.
And there are positively scores if not hundreds of Victorian children on tricycles, hollow-faced Civil War widows, vindictive old ladies and a boatload of drowned whalers who squelch ashore in their soaking clothes, leaving behind a stink of blubber.
But until I pass away, I am not for entertaining ghosts, whom I mostly believe to be faint-hearts who have not the courage to move on to wherever the dead actually belong: Heaven/Hell/Valhalla/whatever. I know for a fact that Ernie has actually done so, but has a special arrangement to come back regularly to annoy me. He will not tell me specifically what awaits after death, just that he has trouble getting enough tobacco for his pipe, and that “it’s a bit grim but the food is cheap”. Which could be Purgatory, or possibly Wildwood, which would be hell AND Hell.