The Orford Ghoul

I was hunkered down 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.

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, but coming back was worse. there it stood — sudden, broad-shouldered, rising from the gloom.

a ghoul.

no face, just a heavy, wrong presence staring straight through me. my heart kicked hard, twice, then raced like a failing engine. the tiles spun into comets and shooting stars as I lurched away, nearly falling, and I collapsed back into the cracked vinyl booth. I 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 neatly 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 and stepped out into the cold Warrington night. the street lay empty, no ghouls, just me and that song still looping behind my eyes, time after time.

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.