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BLUE MOON (standard:horror, 959 words)
Author: HulseyAdded: Jul 05 2003Views/Reads: 4496/4509Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A short ghost story.
 



Sorrow and self-pity were my sole companions as I trundled along the
moorland footpath. Even the scorching sun and the pleasant aroma of 
heather and bluebells failed to raise my moral that afternoon. 

After passing the signpost for Whitby, my eyes focused on the attractive
structure up ahead. The Blue Moon Inn stood out like an oasis in this 
scenic countryside of North Yorkshire. With its pale blue walls, 
festooned with numerous coloured hanging baskets, it certainly was a 
setting of beauty and a place I held deep in my heart. 

The gentle breeze wafting in from the sea, conspired to dry my tears;
tears for someone I truly love. I paused outside the inn and tried to 
evoke the memories from the past. My distress was accentuated, as I was 
unable to remember my wife's face. How long ago had she died? 

I sat down on one of the outside benches and asked myself why I was
here. Alcohol was definitely not the reason for my attendance. No, I 
was here because of Helen.   Other couples ignored me as they necked 
and whispered sweet nothings, actions that I used to take for granted. 
I recalled the last time that we were seated at this very table, 
holding hands and gazing affectionately into each other's eyes. 

Helen was delighted at my proposal that we try for a baby. My suggestion
for a celebration, only now I know would have disastrous consequences. 
If only, I kept repeating over and over in my pathetic mind. If only. 

I gazed up at the magnificent sign above the door, which portrayed blue
moon, a sight that Helen always commented on. I rose up silently from 
my bench as to not disturb the sweethearts and made my way towards the 
entrance. I paused and wiped away my tears before entering. 

The smoky atmosphere was unpleasant, the few revellers choosing to
ignore the lack of fresh air judging by their mirth. I approached the 
bar and looked around sheepishly, recognising most of the clientele. A 
slight nod here and there was ignored, but that did not surprise me. I 
would never have won any popularity contests in the Blue Moon, but even 
so, given the tragic consequences of the last few months, I would have 
thought that they would have shown a little more compassion. 

The jukebox burst into life and the haunting music of Blue Moon filled
the room. I took a stool at the bar and had a sudden urge to drink; a 
sedative against my sadness all the sudden seeming like a good idea. 

Harry Brightwell, the proprietor, glanced in my direction a few times,
but his conversation with Fred Hoskins appeared to have propriety. 
Maybe they were blaming me for Helen's death. Helen was like part of 
the furniture in the Blue Moon; brought in the extra punters Harry 
would say. He had only lost a barmaid, and not a wife. 

I refused to lose my temper, only because I wanted to retain my modesty
in the memory of Helen. I clambered from my barstool and was just about 
to leave, when a shudder unlike an electric shock surged through my 
trembling body. 

I screwed up my eyes and gripped the bar tightly when the barmaid
approached. I inhaled her perfume and the familiar aroma registered. . 
Her bushy, blonde hair was tied in a bun, but there was no mistake. The 
girl that was facing me was Helen. 

She looked up and said, “What will it be, Sir?” Her face was drained of
blood. She stepped back and whimpered, her eyes fixatedly taking me in. 
“Who are you? What kind of a sick joke is this?” 

She was exactly how I remembered her. With her high cheekbones and small
turned-up nose, Helen was often mistaken for a Scandinavian. Her bottom 
lip quivered and she held up a hand. 

“Helga,” I mumbled foolishly. That was my nickname for her. 

She continued to back off, shaking her head. 

Harry glanced at his prize barmaid in time to see her collapse. In his
haste, he knocked a pile of glasses from the bar. I leant over the bar, 
feeling helpless. 



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