A Ghost Story

[Constantine Miltiadis]

The rain had been falling in thick sheets since midnight. Its crescendo hammered the tin roof and sounded like a waterfall of pins striking headfirst on the metallic surface with an infinite series of pings. Outside, the moonless night remained wet and mysterious.

Constantine prodded olives on the serving dish in front of him. From the batch he grabbed a particularly meaty, brown pebble-sized fruit between index finger and thumb. He examined the ripe shape and fullness before popping the mildly bitter and very flavorful olive into his mouth.

With all the tact of villager he made a fist and spit the pit between thumb and forefinger knuckle then dumped it into an ashtray littered with butts and the gray-white remnants of rich-smelling stimulants. Indeed, the small café was filled with the overwhelming scent of leisurely burning, locally grown, fragrant tobacco. There was a mustiness to the smell and it engrained itself into the young man’s clothing upon entering.

“So, tell me more about this house,” spoke Miltiadis with a heavy accent as he swirled the misty contents of his tall, thin glass.

“As you might presume, it is a little difficult to explain, Captain,” It was the mayor of the village talking. He was a pleasantly rotund man in his later years with streaks of white in a main of gray hair. His name was Costas and he had a well worn appearance. His skin was tight and loose at the same time, a product of years spent in the fields under intense sun.

Constantine smiled and his green eyes flashed with mirth in the light cast by the gas burning lamps. With a smirk still on his face, he took a sip of the liquorish-tasting liquor in his glass and swallowed hard. It went down with an intense fire.

“Try your best, Mayor.”

“Two nights ago,” there was a richness to his mountain voice, “we heard the screaming.” Small beads of sweat were beginning to form on the man’s brow. “It came from the house farthest from the road.” It really wasn’t worth the title road; Constantine had nearly climbed the entire way. In fact, the track wasn’t even worthy of being called a well-worn path.

“The one on the far side of this mountain?” Miltiadis gestured to where the road became broad and twisted through the collection of houses that passed for a village.

“Yes.” The Mayor seemed lightly frustrated and tense. His eyes were large and there was an aura of unease radiating from his stance and the way he gripped his own tall glass of local liquor. The man pressed a hand-rolled stimulant to his lips and inhaled deeply.

“Continue your story, Costas.”

He did.

[Constantine Miltiadis]

Walking up the thinly lipped, inclined path, Constantine began to doubt the intelligence of his decision to investigate at that moment. Without the moon to cast steady light, he had to rely on an old lamp that sizzled and popped as rain managed to enter the swaying mouth. Each step caused the wire-frame to creak with arthritic protest.

The ground was slick with downpour not accepted by the dry and cracked soil. Miltiadis grimaced as the radius cast by his crude device tumbled over the edge of the miniscule route and fell ten meters into complete darkness. By the barely audible sound of rocks falling from his unsure footing, it was a long distance to slip.

He kept his eyes fixed on the eroded, pact earth and his small circle of vision. As Constantine walked his mind locked like a vice on the story the Mayor had told him. It doesn’t really make sense, he thought to himself in utter concentration.

It was that momentary lapse in focus on footing that brought about the soldier’s worst fear. Water trickled down in small brooks that came together and rolled off the side of the mountain in great floods of loose dirt and vegetation. A booted foot found purchase in one of these jets for a moment, and only a moment.

Miltiadis was swept over the side like so much garbage.

[Constantine Miltiadis]

The cold water that ran down the dark soil was like ice to his flesh. With face frozen in shock, his eyes followed the falling orange glow of his lantern as it descended down the side of the mountain into the cavernous nothingness below.

Constantine swallowed hard and blinked even harder. He was confused as to his levitating trick. Why wasn’t he falling with his only source of light?

Darkness wrapped its blanket around him and left an empty, cool sensation. His heart pounded in his head and his left arm began to feel like a thousand pins had been inserted in the muscle. It was very, very uncomfortable.

As his eyes adjusted to the starlight and pale moon, he perceived his savior. Constantine’s cuff had caught on an outstretched root exposed by the bombardment of rain and its weathering of dry dirt.

Any wrong move would now send Miltiadis tumbling down into the gaping jaws of night.

[Constantine Miltiadis]

Constantine gently shifted his weight and clenched his jaw as the sound of stitches popping threatened his life. He forced himself to push out the thought of falling and brought a boot to the slick wall of dirt. With some effort, he found purchase on a rock and applied downward force.

Now that he was no longer solely relying on the whim of a thin piece of living wood, Constantine took more of a risk and grabbed a handhold. He began to move up the face of the cliff with care. As he took his weight of his foothold, the stone dislodged and escaped into the darkness.

Muddy water ran over the few rocks that Miltiadis could find and made them slick and slippery. Some were sharp and he could feel blood being drawn as he clung for dear life.

He finally dragged himself back onto the thin path and lay, still hugging the somewhat firm earth. That root had been a godsend. It was a miracle he hadn’t died.

Constantine stood, shivering from the cold and impending hypothermia, and began taking small, slow steps onward through the shrouding darkness.

The story Costas told me, he thought to himself and began recalling it.

Suddenly, before his mind could even call forth the beginning of the tale, a shriek rang clear through the sounds of the stormy night. It pierced Constantine and made his blood run cold, his heart skipped a beat. It was exactly as the Mayor had described.

[Constantine Miltiadis]

The door of the small villa was made from old, weathered wood. Constantine could feel the pulse of heat from behind the thick, aged frame. His tired eyes followed the vertical cracks in the olive-pit brown rectangle.

He rapped with a knuckle and felt the solid build through the dried smears of blood on his hands. Idly, Miltiadis brought a finger to his crimson lips and placed a wound to his tongue and tasted the coppery-salt flavor.

A creak whimpered from the portal as it yawned aside. Amber, a safe color, melted the night away and embraced him. From within a shadow stretched out and grasped his arm with a vice’s grip. He started and went wide eyed.

“Oh, poor man!” It was a girl’s voice, young and sweet as nectar. Finally, she came into the light and he could make out her soft features, dark skin, black, wavy hair, and exquisite eyes. Constantine opened his mouth to talk, finger falling out in the process, but remained fixated on those deep, jade pools that so intently returned his stare.

“Come in, come in!” It was another woman’s voice, older, a little husky, coated in his native language’s accent. She wore wrinkles like jewelry and they gave her a sage beauty. She put an easy arm around Constantine and guided him into the home.