The Orford Ghoul

I was hunkered in my usual booth at the Orford, the one they used for Tina and Bobby, deep in the dim corner where the light never quite arrives. tonight I skipped the usual cheap shandy and ordered a few large dirty vodkas, straight, no ice to soften the truth. it went down like a warm fist unclenching in my chest.

I borrowed a biro from the waitress and scratched lines on a napkin about life, love, death, the familiar march of beautiful losers and broken promises, half-believing the words might matter before the hangover rubbed them out.

the floor was cracked black-and-white tiles in a sloppy geometric sprawl, like the Milky Way drawn by a drunk stonemason. heading to the gents felt like crossing galaxies one unsteady step at a time, Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” drifting from the jukebox like an unasked prayer. already dizzy, the vodka working its damage, I made the long trek past the pub’s dead corner, the forgotten patch where dust and ghosts gather.

a shape flickered at the edge of my vision — thicker, darker than shadow, as if darkness had grown teeth. I blinked. nothing. just tiles and the song’s low hum. I told myself it was the drink talking, the way it does when it’s tired of your excuses. coming back was worse. there it stood — sudden, broad-shouldered, rising from the gloom, backlight bleeding around it like black oil carved into form.

a ghoul.

no face, just a heavy, wrong presence staring straight through me. my heart kicked hard, twice, then raced like a failing engine. vodka burned up my throat; the tiles spun into comets and shooting stars as I lurched away, nearly falling. I collapsed back into the cracked vinyl booth, chest heaving. stared at the corner again. focused.

there it was — smaller now, wrapped in black plastic bags, branches bent, lights dead: a Christmas tree someone had killed early and stashed for next year’s letdown. death trimmed with tinsel. a sickle of fairy lights.

I almost laughed, but the sound died between my ribs. I drained the vodka in one pull, lit a phantom cigarette in my mind — smoking’s long banned here — and stepped out into the cold Warrington night.

the street lay empty. no ghouls. just me and the echo of that song still looping behind my eyes. time after time. I went home to sleep it off.

tomorrow the tree would still be waiting.

so would I.

a tree in black bags,
a ghoul that was never there,
still, I went home scared