Ghosties

The wind was birlin aw roon the head-staines in Piershill Cemetery. Aw roon aboot us the wind wis swirlin up the autumn leaves like some mad spin-dryer.

It wis late at night an me an ma pals were walkin hame efter a barry night oot at Mojo’s, the new nightclub up the Cowgate. The bus stoap wis at wan side o the cemetery, oor hooses in Mountcastle were at the ither. Quickest way wis also the spookiest. Past the big heid-stain dedicated tae The Great Lafayette and his wee dug Beauty. The famous magician was killed in a theatre fire in 1911. Thoosands lined the streets for his funeral procession and when ehs wee dug died they buried it with um cos he wis so devoted to it. Bitter-sweet eh?

There’s five ey us aw staggerin through this dark graveyard an we’re aw chitterin’ wi the cauld. Aw we’ve goat oan is wee skimpy dresses an’ high heels and wearin these mad face-masks – no a jaicket or coat atween us. Ma big pal, Lorraine, is singin some auld Peter Andre shite she must huv dredged fae some recess in her memry..

“Oh, no doubt you look so fine
Oh, girl I want to make you mine”

She’s aff her heid on vodka-cokes!

We’re hauf-wiy through when it aw begins tae kick-aff. Dawn sais ‘ye know it’s Halloween?’ which wis stupit cos of course we did, we’d jist been tae a Halloween Pairty, an then this terrifying scream sorta rises up in front o us. I say ‘rising up’ as it seemed to rise oot of the ground in front of us. It wis like the worst scream ye ever heard, like someone was being tortured horribly. I huv tae admit ah hauf pished masel and ah wis giggling which is whit a awiys dae when ahm scared oot ma wits.

Aw ae a sudden the air turns even caulder thin ye could even imagine an’ this figure appears afore us, huge it wis, about eight feet tall and clothed in shrouds. Like a giant oot the Michael Jackson vidjo. 

Thing is tho, it husnae goat a heid, an its no haudin wan under its erm eether.

It sterts tae reach out and thirs a hideous smell comin fae it, like keech and mouldy auld meatballs.

Wee Dawn looks at me and sterts laughin’. She turns roon tae the appiration and says

“haw nae-heid. Ye want tae git yirsel tae a launderette, yer mingin’ man!”

An’ then she kicks him sqerr in the haw-maws – luvs ur kick-boxin’ wee Dawn, ah widnae mess wi ur – and we trot on past the daft hulk lyin’ oan the gravel haudin’ ehs swollen nuts.

Barry night, but dying fur ma kip, likesays….!