When I get inside, I find the ghost watching television. It takes a moment to realise that the program is, in fact, someone’s home-video playing from a rather pricey looking camera that is hooked up to the aerial…do tellys still have aerials?
This camera and a selection of imaginatively dismembered bananas, which I passed hanging from the ceiling on the way in, suggest that tonight has seen an incursion from some group of bored people with nothing better to do than look for evidence of something that doesn’t exist. OK, yes, so he’s sitting on my sofa, but I am quite, quite sure he doesn’t exist, because it would be ridiculous if he did.
I chuck a ciggy in his direction, which he catches deftly with his tail. It disappears up his…shroud…sheet…thing and I can hear him munching away on it.
I know him as the ghost, but he is adamant that his full name is Monkey Ghost; pretty dumb name, if you ask me, but accurate, at least. Heh – who am I to talk anyway?
Take a monkey and put it in a pillow-case with eyeholes cut in it and there you go; my exciting supernatural sidekick. Like the Blair Witch played by Carmen Miranda. If it weren’t for his habit of ignoring things like gravity and walls I would suspect him of being a perfectly normal primate-in-a-bag.
He twitches his tail so that it crosses beneath his eyes and twirls the end of it as if it were a theatrically waxed moustache. He’s watching grainy, green footage of himself walking casually across the ceiling just behind a door lintel, followed by the shrieks and exclamations of the startled spook-hunters. They follow him through the door, but cannot find him, although they do locate a banana, covered in ‘ectoplasm’. The ghost produces a new banana and places it in a fold in his shroud where, presumably, his mouth resides. He fishes a Zipppo out from down the side of the sofa and lights the end of the banana.
I leave him too it and drag the three dead squirrels I made this evening towards my work bench.