Phantasm
Definition
1 : a product of fantasy: as
a : delusive appearance : illusion
c : a figment of the imagination
2 : a mental representation of a real object
Was the ephemeral figure floating above my still prone form a product of my admittedly overactive
imagination, a fantastical product of an unknown realm, a weird non-April fools joke set up by my
irritating, prank-loving brother, a visitor from beyond the grave or had i simply developed psychic
abilities and was now projecting my altered dream state onto reality?
I closed my eyes. Darkness. I opened them again. It was still there, traditional bedsheet over the head
ghost, the fabric wafting ever so gently in some unfelt breeze. Did that knock out any of the previous
options or did it confirm any? If I didn't see it when i closed my eyes and was in my own brain, did that
mean it wasn’t my hitherto unsuspected superpowers or my imagination? Could you still see ghosts
with your eyes shut, being as they were a supernatural entity and therefore not prone to the laws of
the natural realm?
There were stains on the bed sheet. Old ones. It looked like the bedsheet of a teenage girl who hadn’t
quite got the timing right on her period and also loved to eat snacks in bed. One that had gone
through the washing machine a bit too many times and really, hygienically, should be thrown out.
I wondered if I should try touching it. It could, after all, still be a prank by my brother. I stared at it
doubtfully. My brother had a passion for things that ozzed, things that smelt and things that ‘surprise!’
exploded. Preferably in a combination mess of stench and gloop.
I did not share that passion. At all.
It was staring at me. I think. I wasn’t sure. It just had ragged cuts in the sheet for eyes and it didn’t
look like there was anything under there looking out. Just black, bottomless pits.
To be honest, it was really freaking me out and I'm not the best at mornings in the first place.
So I did what any self respecting person would do.
“Muuuuuuum.” I shouted.
Silence.
The ghost ..illusionary projection of my fevered brain… thing started to hover that much closer to my
duvet covered body.
“Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum!” Desperation adding a rather shrill note to my voice. “MumMumMUMM
MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.”
“In a minute dear!” she called back gaily, a weird thumping noise accompanying her response.
I ignored this. Mums, or at least my Mum, always seemed to generate weird noises from her habits of
tidying up after us, the pets, her husband, various friends in different states of despair and the
neighbours grandchildren. Also, I suspected but could never confirm, the odd burglar. Not that
anything had ever been stolen but.. Even in our quiet cul de sac there were rashes of the odd
larcenestic burglar, but they never seemed to reach our house. Indeed, they seemed to vanish from
one moment to the next. And there were though odd marks that appeared in the hallway which were
there one day and gone the next. Indeed, the marks would appear. The marks would disappear and
so would any rumours of burglaries.
Like I said, I had my suspicions.
My mum popped her head round my bedroom door.
“Yes darling?” she asked brightly.
My mother had, had always had, sincere aspirations to the Twinset & Pearls club. Her clothes were
always neatly and beautifully presented in pastel, the jewellery she wore was always exceptionally
tasteful and chic and her spine was at all times ramrod straight and her voice was never raised with
foul and crude language. My mother aspired to be a Lady 24/7 and, with the exception of when she
was driving, achieved this.
Today was no exception. Despite the early hour her hair was carefully styled and her shirt neatly
pressed, her smile radiant and beautiful.
Which seemed something of a shame really as she was splattered head to toe in this weird blackish
brownish greenish liquid. It looked utterly foul.
“Sorry darling I was just caught up with this.” She waved an incredibly limp looking dirty rag in my
direction which upon closer inspection, could be the twin of my own sheet entity, had it been floating
and not….squished.
“Was there something you wanted?” she asked, gesturing questionably with her personalised
consecrated axe (She always requests various consecrated (a little quirk of hers) weaponry for her
birthdays or Christmas. Our Dad thinks it’s totally adorable. You should see the upgrades to our
garden shed sometime. Or perhaps not, last Christmas Dad got Mum an Iron Maiden (he thought she
meant the band at first - you should have seen her face when she saw the tickets! He fixed that
mistake in a hurry). If your stomach is gentler than some peoples, our garden shed is definitely not
for you).
I bravely managed to shuffle the tips of my fingers out from under the duvet and pointed mutely at my
spectre.
“Oh, another one!” she huffed. “The whole neighbourhood has been infested with them.”
“Really?” I whispered, trying hard to not make eye contact with the mysterious phantasm. Considering
the damn thing had no eyes, this was harder than it should have been.
It was also beginning to look rather pitiful. It’s hovering had taken on a manic quivering state, kind of
like a hummingbird, as it kept trying to drift closer to its fallen brethren, then catching sight of my
mother and inching back.
Not making eye contact took on new depths as now fear and guilt were going head to head in mortal
combat inside my head.
“If you come over here sweetie, mummy will take care of it.” Mum called to me. She hefted her ax and
it smacked against the palm of her hand. It made a very final, head chopping kind of sound.
“Um, mum…” i began hesitatingly.
“Come on now darling, chop chop,” she said with an unfortunate choice of words, also slightly
impatiently she added, “I have to get the roast started soon as your Aunty’s coming over for lunch.
She’s broken up with her fiance again.”
“Which finance was it this time?” I asked, my attention temporarily distracted.
“Edmundo.”
“Was he the gangster one or the property tycoon? Or were they the same person?” I asked, genuinely
baffled.
“Now dear, don’t be rude. Mr Shanks was most certainly a legitimate business man - in some areas at
least. No, Edmundo was the younger gentleman she introduced us to last time. The one she met on
holiday?”
“The holiday she went on where you said it was basically a meat market for older women to conquer
and devour frailer, younger men? When you said she could have just got a red convertible instead if
she really wanted a cliche to show off?”
“...... yes.” Her smile was firm but her teeth seemed gritted. “Now come along darling, the roast
remember?”
I glanced back nervously at the floating sheet ghost above me. At this point it was now ever so slightly
shuffling (can you shuffle without feet? It seemed to be doing so at any rate. There was definitely no
other word I would rather use to describe its current movements) backwards, away from the axe.
I started to inch under the duvet towards my mother.
“Hurry up darling.” she said, growing more and more impatient. She made as is to yank the duvet off
me.
In a panic i sushi rolled it around me and dive rolled off the bed to end up pressed against my mother’s
legs. With a strength that was surprising coming from such slender arms, she hauled me to my feet.
I clutched the duvet around me protectively.
My mother smiled brightly at me.
“Now let's just get rid of this thing and then I can start prepping the joint to go in the oven.” she started
towards the bed.
“Wait!” I grabbed her arm. “Do we have to...kill..it? I mean, it’s not like it’s doing any harm.”
The apparition seemed to shrink in on itself slightly, its sheet even more pathetically wrinkled.
It looked like a dodgy old plastic bag that had been left out in the rain and even the tramps didn’t want
it.
Mum looked at me.
“What?”
“You do remember when I said the little whosists had already infested most of the neighbourhood?”
“Yessss?” I agreed, not sure where this was going but I already had a sinking feeling in my stomach
that I was not going to like to answer.
“Well, according to Mrs Simpest who lives at Number 9, it’s due to the fact that Mr Crewset at
Number 10 had not joined a Crochet and Knit Club as he had told his wife, but in fact had joined
the local Cult of Cthulhu and had instead devoted his Thursday nights between 6.30 and 8.00 to
aiding his fellow members in summoning his Lord and Master to reign down terror and the end
times on humanity, and most specifically on Ms Tipple at Number 11 who keeps letting her chihuahua
piddle on his prize roses.”
“Oh.”
“Oh indeed.”
“He was masterful at wielding that crochet hook though.”
“He was.” Mum said sadly, “but apparently some of the esoteric summoning equipment they used
was quite similar and therefore provided him with the perfect cover. Those delightful crochet cushion
covers he handed out last Christmas were apparently ritualistic summoning circles in disguise.”
“Now that I think about it, they did have a tentacle-y look about them.” I said thoughtfully.
“Lovely detailed work though.”
“Oh yes, sheer perfection. Such a shame such a talented handicrafts man fell to the dark side.”
“Sounds like Ms Tipple has some apologising to do.”
“I’m sure she would have been convinced to - if I hadn't seen her corpse being chowed down on
by her chihuahua earlier this morning when I nipped out to get the milk.”
“Oh dear.”
“Quite.” she sniffed. “Anyway, these things are, according to Mrs Simpest, some sort of
anti-angelic harbringer, meant to slay humanity and ease Cthulhu into this dimension with our bloody
sacrifices.”
We stared at the limp limbless plastic bag/ghost sheet hovering above my bed.
“How on Earth are they supposed to do that then?”
“I take it you haven’t seen the tentacles yet then?”
The ghost let out a blood curdling roar and began to unravel….
😂 Not sure I relate to the crochet guy or mum more... Amazing 🥰
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