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Beware the Fogeyman
“Will you quit that durn caterwaulin’?” snapped Mrs Ogden from the pillow.
The sound stopped.
Figures, she thought. Edmund was always out in the garage at nights, working on his ridiculous planes. Now he’s dead, I can’t get him out of the house.
Through her weary old eyes, Mrs Ogden peered at the pillow next to her. First her bed had chilled hard, and now this.
“Ghosts don’t do that anyhow,” she added.
“They do too!” said Mr Ogden. His voice sounded as though from the bottom of a well. “Anyway, you said they howled. You got the grimmer-noire thing, you old witch.”
“Grimoire,” corrected Mrs Ogden, who licked her lips with the exotic tang. “No, you’re thinkin’ of banshees. They’re the ones who howl all night.”
“I thought they lured kids into swamps with their singing?”
“That’s sirens.”
“Heh.” His shoulder tried to nudge hers. “Can’t be. Never seen you do that.”
“Give over, you old fart.” Sitting up against the pillow, Mrs Ogden reached across and turned the lamp on. “Not two days since – You still there?”
“Still here, love.”
“Can’t tell in this light…” She squinted at him standing beside the bed. “Not two days since I brought you back, and you been driving me up the durn wall.”
“Hey, Aggie, look at this!” Grinning like a loon, Mr Ogden stuck his whole arm into his chest and waggled his fingers. “Ticklin’ me own ticker!”
“Go haunt the bathroom till you calm down, you senile fool.”
Beyond the feeble light of her lamp, beyond even the grim bars of the four-poster bed, only the gap in the curtains showed a greater world in the darkness. Moonlight peered through it.
Even this bed chamber was large enough to make her words echo back.
“Edmund,” she said, switching the lamp off and rolling over again. “Please. I’m tryin’ to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep, Aggie. Ghosts don’t sleep. Pity an old man longing his eternal rest, love. I’ve tried lying next to yer, but it just don’t come natural to me now. So I gotta talk.”
She shut her eyes tight. “No. Everyone’s gotta sleep sometime, Edmund. Won’t you try one more time? For me?”
“Ha,” he said, and briefly she felt his icy presence slip through the bed. “How, Little Miss Know-It-All? Ye daft besom, I can’t sleep if I can’t lay me down.”
“Please, Edmund. You always used to nap like a champion.”
“Also, I need my pills. I got that headache again.”
“I’m sorry, dear. Pills just go right through you. I can’t do anything about that… You still there?”
“Still here, love. And I need my back lotion. I feel the bulgin’ something fierce! That cancer won’t leave me alone, and I’m dead!”
To think, she thought, wishing she didn’t: a week ago I was at the funeral, bawling my eyes out for him. How can I sleep with night after night of this?
“Please say something, love. I need distractin’.”
She sighed into her pillow. “I kept your planes where you left them in the garage. Why don’t you go there?”
“Because my hands go through the little models! I wanna talk to yer.”
She’d had this manor for years, and suddenly it was too small for her. If she got up and made coffee and talked to him, she’d still feel trapped. If she went to the garage and bored herself trying to understand – let alone follow – his instructions, she’d still feel trapped. And if she kept missing sleep like this, her spells would stop working.
Oh yes, witching was a fine profession, her mother had said. Just be careful who you pick for a husband, she’d said.
Careful she had been. Sixty years ago, Edmund had laughed himself hoarse that candlelit dinner, when she’d nervously told the truth, and thankfully he’d laughed even harder when she’d shown him her cauldron and spellbooks.
“It’s just like me planes!” he’d said then.
“Please, Aggie!” he said now. “I need to move on. So do you. I promise I’ll see your ugly mug again someday. Just let me have the rest. It hurts.”
I know, she thought.
Even without him, she wouldn’t sleep that night. Why move on when he was right here? Close enough to touch?
Yet beyond her warm hand.
Weeping, Mrs Ogden recalled the spell. Then she opened her eyes.
Nothing.
“You still there?” she said.
No answer.
His infernal yacking was gone. Instead, her private hell returned to stay.
The sound stopped.
Figures, she thought. Edmund was always out in the garage at nights, working on his ridiculous planes. Now he’s dead, I can’t get him out of the house.
Through her weary old eyes, Mrs Ogden peered at the pillow next to her. First her bed had chilled hard, and now this.
“Ghosts don’t do that anyhow,” she added.
“They do too!” said Mr Ogden. His voice sounded as though from the bottom of a well. “Anyway, you said they howled. You got the grimmer-noire thing, you old witch.”
“Grimoire,” corrected Mrs Ogden, who licked her lips with the exotic tang. “No, you’re thinkin’ of banshees. They’re the ones who howl all night.”
“I thought they lured kids into swamps with their singing?”
“That’s sirens.”
“Heh.” His shoulder tried to nudge hers. “Can’t be. Never seen you do that.”
“Give over, you old fart.” Sitting up against the pillow, Mrs Ogden reached across and turned the lamp on. “Not two days since – You still there?”
“Still here, love.”
“Can’t tell in this light…” She squinted at him standing beside the bed. “Not two days since I brought you back, and you been driving me up the durn wall.”
“Hey, Aggie, look at this!” Grinning like a loon, Mr Ogden stuck his whole arm into his chest and waggled his fingers. “Ticklin’ me own ticker!”
“Go haunt the bathroom till you calm down, you senile fool.”
Beyond the feeble light of her lamp, beyond even the grim bars of the four-poster bed, only the gap in the curtains showed a greater world in the darkness. Moonlight peered through it.
Even this bed chamber was large enough to make her words echo back.
“Edmund,” she said, switching the lamp off and rolling over again. “Please. I’m tryin’ to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep, Aggie. Ghosts don’t sleep. Pity an old man longing his eternal rest, love. I’ve tried lying next to yer, but it just don’t come natural to me now. So I gotta talk.”
She shut her eyes tight. “No. Everyone’s gotta sleep sometime, Edmund. Won’t you try one more time? For me?”
“Ha,” he said, and briefly she felt his icy presence slip through the bed. “How, Little Miss Know-It-All? Ye daft besom, I can’t sleep if I can’t lay me down.”
“Please, Edmund. You always used to nap like a champion.”
“Also, I need my pills. I got that headache again.”
“I’m sorry, dear. Pills just go right through you. I can’t do anything about that… You still there?”
“Still here, love. And I need my back lotion. I feel the bulgin’ something fierce! That cancer won’t leave me alone, and I’m dead!”
To think, she thought, wishing she didn’t: a week ago I was at the funeral, bawling my eyes out for him. How can I sleep with night after night of this?
“Please say something, love. I need distractin’.”
She sighed into her pillow. “I kept your planes where you left them in the garage. Why don’t you go there?”
“Because my hands go through the little models! I wanna talk to yer.”
She’d had this manor for years, and suddenly it was too small for her. If she got up and made coffee and talked to him, she’d still feel trapped. If she went to the garage and bored herself trying to understand – let alone follow – his instructions, she’d still feel trapped. And if she kept missing sleep like this, her spells would stop working.
Oh yes, witching was a fine profession, her mother had said. Just be careful who you pick for a husband, she’d said.
Careful she had been. Sixty years ago, Edmund had laughed himself hoarse that candlelit dinner, when she’d nervously told the truth, and thankfully he’d laughed even harder when she’d shown him her cauldron and spellbooks.
“It’s just like me planes!” he’d said then.
“Please, Aggie!” he said now. “I need to move on. So do you. I promise I’ll see your ugly mug again someday. Just let me have the rest. It hurts.”
I know, she thought.
Even without him, she wouldn’t sleep that night. Why move on when he was right here? Close enough to touch?
Yet beyond her warm hand.
Weeping, Mrs Ogden recalled the spell. Then she opened her eyes.
Nothing.
“You still there?” she said.
No answer.
His infernal yacking was gone. Instead, her private hell returned to stay.
I really enjoyed the silly things Edmund’s ghost does in this story. It really feels like something a goofy old guy would do, and Aggie’s exasperation at his antics gave the comedy a bit more kick. I also like how the story examined how much it sucks to be a ghost. Your hands go through things, you can’t sleep anymore and you’re mostly just annoying instead of scary. It showed another side of ghosts that I hadn’t seen before, so that was appreciated.
The chief issue with the story is the tone shift toward the end. Throughout most of the piece, it’s a goofy tale about an elderly ghost that won’t go away. And yet by the end, it’s a tragic tale about how you can’t hold onto your loved ones forever. It honestly felt like the writer started the story with one idea, but then had another darker idea and worked that into the final part of the story. Maybe the shift could be done believably, but it wasn’t done well enough in this draft. I also thought the inclusion of Aggie being a witch didn’t quite work. There’s no real hint of it until the last third, so it seems like it was just a narrative excuse for Aggie to let Edmund go to the afterlife. I understand the need to explain why something is happening, but sometimes it’s better to leave things mysterious. I’d rather be focused on these two characters’ interactions than have a clear explanation for why their interaction is happening. If a story’s well-written enough, you often don’t need clear answers to make it compelling.
In the end, there’s a good idea here that just doesn’t mesh because of a wonky tone and too much explanation. I think if you take the parts that work and focus in on them instead of putting too many disparate elements together, there’s a decent story to be made from this.
The chief issue with the story is the tone shift toward the end. Throughout most of the piece, it’s a goofy tale about an elderly ghost that won’t go away. And yet by the end, it’s a tragic tale about how you can’t hold onto your loved ones forever. It honestly felt like the writer started the story with one idea, but then had another darker idea and worked that into the final part of the story. Maybe the shift could be done believably, but it wasn’t done well enough in this draft. I also thought the inclusion of Aggie being a witch didn’t quite work. There’s no real hint of it until the last third, so it seems like it was just a narrative excuse for Aggie to let Edmund go to the afterlife. I understand the need to explain why something is happening, but sometimes it’s better to leave things mysterious. I’d rather be focused on these two characters’ interactions than have a clear explanation for why their interaction is happening. If a story’s well-written enough, you often don’t need clear answers to make it compelling.
In the end, there’s a good idea here that just doesn’t mesh because of a wonky tone and too much explanation. I think if you take the parts that work and focus in on them instead of putting too many disparate elements together, there’s a decent story to be made from this.
>>libertydude
Yeah.
I loved the interaction between the husband and wife. It felt real. I liked the idea, I liked the execution, right up until the end. I feel like, instead of that last bit about "her private hell" there should have been a snarky wife joke.
The chief issue with the story is the tone shift toward the end.
Yeah.
I loved the interaction between the husband and wife. It felt real. I liked the idea, I liked the execution, right up until the end. I feel like, instead of that last bit about "her private hell" there should have been a snarky wife joke.
So I get you correctly, witch’s hubby dies. Witch feels alone, so conjures up his ghost. Then she can’t stand the wailing, so she casts him back into nothingness. Correct?
Superficially, it works. The dialogue is well paced and quite entertaining. But the story is a bit wobbly. You've chosen to spotlight the way both of them interact when he’s back, putting aside what she felt before—something you just hint at at the end. As a result, we don’t really understand why she elected to have him back, and especially why all this happens the second night after his "reappearance".
Also, what the others have said is justified. You chose to focus on the comedic aspect of the situation, sweeping the dramatic implication under the carpet, but then suddenly at the end you pull it back. That stacks over the unbalancing I mentioned before.
Nevertheless, there’s a lot to like here, the use of the word "grimoire", that English lacks, among them, but it needs yet another pass of refinement to burnish it completely.
Superficially, it works. The dialogue is well paced and quite entertaining. But the story is a bit wobbly. You've chosen to spotlight the way both of them interact when he’s back, putting aside what she felt before—something you just hint at at the end. As a result, we don’t really understand why she elected to have him back, and especially why all this happens the second night after his "reappearance".
Also, what the others have said is justified. You chose to focus on the comedic aspect of the situation, sweeping the dramatic implication under the carpet, but then suddenly at the end you pull it back. That stacks over the unbalancing I mentioned before.
Nevertheless, there’s a lot to like here, the use of the word "grimoire", that English lacks, among them, but it needs yet another pass of refinement to burnish it completely.
