The specter shifted its translucent head to gaze wistfully out the library’s veranda window as the music invaded its silent study. The sounds of the party below touched something in the spirit, stirring up half-forgotten longings from a life long gone. Still, though he had no concourse with the living, this shadow of the past glided out to the boarder of his region, craning over the porch’s railing to spy the costumed ghouls and witches of the Halloween party.
They were young and beautiful, smiling and laughing. The ghost sighed and turned away.
And somewhere down below, smiling, a silent figure watched him go. He nodded to himself and sipped the tangy drink. It had been labelled blood punch, was too sweet, and the same color as the solo cup. Still, it had one quality he appreciated, alcohol. That much of the party was not a disappointment. Maybe, he mused, a few more sips of this “blood” punch would put new life in this drab assault of music and fools.
He was, however, disappointed again. His ennui joined forces with the liquor instead of succumbing to it. When he decided to go to the library, he could not say. He went, his legs more decisive than himself. He went and found some solace in the muffling the walls and shelves and long rows of books provided against the pounding din. He went and fell into a far more comfortable chair than those found around the pool, and, though not really drunk, allowed himself to sleep.
The ghost watched in silence awhile, staring at his guest and the plastic mask that had fallen from his head. Hardly a costume. This boy hadn’t put much effort into the festivities. A simple green faced Frankenstein with bolts in its neck. The youth, not privy to the ghost’s thoughts and perceptions, himself not perceiving the shade anymore in his sleepy state, did not have the pleasure of correcting the misnomer to the possessive, but snored instead.
And the ghost took the dollar tree mask and joined the living below, dancing as the sleeper slept.
Tale Told 