Old Smoke

[Joe Roberts]

While I was doing a bit of touring on the cheap back in the early 60's, I was staying in what had once been an old Army billet somewhere in Europe. Not that I know much of history but I knew tremendous tank battles had been fought around the area. On the 1st of November, All Saint's Day, (very early) morning after Halloween, I went into a cavernous washroom for a shave. But before that, while I had some hot water running, rolled a smoke. Old Holborn, strong Old Holborn. The Zouave on the Zig Zag packet winked at me, I could swear he did. Strange time of year, Halloween.

Lit up, took a lung busting first smoke of the day drag, and exhaled a stream of smoke, watching it mingle with the steam, then noticed something to my left, a man of average height standing in front of an old concrete twin washbasin. Used to see those everywhere, now they can't be had for love nor money.

Stripped to his waist he was, and shaving. Couldn't see his face, but he must have had a good memory for it, for him to be using a cutthroat razor and no mirror that I could see. I could just make out a thin lather on the right side of his face. I wouldn't like to know where his soap came from. There was a scrap of green towel over his left shoulder, and he'd fixed a razor strop to the wall in front of him. I thought of calling over to him but something made me stay quiet. Man was ripped, God he was ripped. Not modern 'roid rage ridiculous ripped but real hard man, don't rile me ripped. Tough too, didn't mind the cold at all.

Black trousers, old style waist with field grey braces dangling down either side and the legs tucked into black trooper's boots. Same sort as the California Highway Patrol still wear. Only difference is the originals were hobnailed. I'd have bet his were hobnailed, at any rate. A bit scuffed and as scarred as a veteran's memory, I'd also wager, yet clean and serviceable, and not a sound did they make on the flagstone floor. Either he was mighty light on his feet or ... I didn't like to think about the "or."

Another drag, more smoke, and he, or his form, seemed to take on more detail. Every once in a while he'd wipe his razor clean on the scrap of towel, grab the strop with his left hand, lean back, and hone the blade. Back and forth, back and forth and not a sound from that, either. Then his hand would move back to the right. He'd test the razor's edge with the ball of his thumb and nod his severely crew cut blond haired head, a well satisfied man.

His shave finished, he half turned towards me, as though he'd just sensed my presence. I could see his face now, skin stretched tautly over it and the skin of a ghastly pallor making the same image as the Hussars Death's Heads he'd have worn as collar dogs. His skull like face wasn't the real horror though, that honour went to the gash under his chin. Only took a tiny shell fragment to do that, I knew. Poor bastard got the closest shave he'd ever had then.

No blood though. Nothing like that. He just dissolved as did the last of the smoke from my cigarette. Gone like a wisp of smoke from a rifle's muzzle you might say. He vanished back into the hell of 20 odd years before, whence he had come. I had my own shave, a somewhat shaky shave I might tell you, even if I wasn't using a cutthroat razor. Never talked about what I saw from then until now. Some folks would just tell you to change your drug dealer, or your tobacconist.

[Joe Roberts]

I wrote this as a Halloween ghost story. I don't know if I'm any great shakes as a writer and would appreciate any comments.
Regards,
Joe

[Carousel]

I liked this, a good straightforward approach without any unnecessary trimmings.
Its all there, maybe a little polishing is required but not much.

The flat farm lands of the counties in East Anglia were commandeered in1940 for the building of airfields for the bombing of occupied Europe by Bombing Command (British) and later in 1943 by the American 8th Air Force. The loss of life for both British and Americans was horrendous. The British tour of duty was 30 missions which there was a 1in 6 chance of completing. The American loses were so bad that operations had to be suspended until the development of long range fighter cover was made available.

There are remains of these old airfields even today and the sites are notorious for the paranormal events are associated with them.
One such account concerns two police officers in 1998 who pulled over at 3 in the morning beside an old deserted airfield for their break. It was open countryside and farmland, no habitation for miles.
They poured out two cups of coffee from a thermos.
One officer turned to his mate and said
“Is the radio on, I can hear music
“No the radio is off, hold on I can hear it too?”
They got out of the police car and crossed the road.
“Its coming from those old building’s said the younger one “We better take a look”
“No, get back in the car”
“Why?”
“I recognise the song-- its Glen Millers Moonlight Serenade”
They never reported the incident until after they had retired.

Keep writing.
Cari.

[108 fountains]

What I like about this is that it reads as if I was listening to you tell the story around a campfire. The overall tone of the narrator, humorous with a bit of cheekiness, is appealing, and I think especially so in a ghost story. The langauge is conversational but not simple; the small details - the reference to Old Holborn rolling tobacco, the way the apparition used the razor strop and tested the sharpness of the blade - were perfect. Then the joke about the closest shave he had ever gotten - great timing! The title and references to smoke and tobacco throughout, especially in the first and last paragraph, were amusing and a bit cheeky, too. For a short Halloween ghost story, I would say you nailed it.