A message from an old friend

A man takes a walk through a graveyard and sees a familiar face.

• Short story
• Anthology

								
It is probable that every man whom has and will ever exist has been witness to an inexplicably obscure and impossible event.

For this, I am no exception.

This tale occurs upon a dreadfully dull, wet and mundane eve, of which the previous sunlight had been expended on a rather perplexing crime case study. This particular case had been consuming me within vexation and confusion, as this seemed to be the first case of a large portion in time in which I had not been able to solve within a fortnight of being assigned to such, yet there I was. 
The details of such a case are clouded by mystery but I shall try to illuminate such for wider viewing. 

A man whom seems to be untraceable- much alike to famous killers around such the time- had committed a series of atrocities consisting of a range of crimes, from as lowly as robbery- not lowly but compared to the rest of the offences this monster committed, it could be attoned to counting pennies at a bank- to as atrocious as murder; seven dead bodies, seven poor souls ripped from the ever growing, fruitful expanses of life. This man- no. this monster- he must be stopped at all costs. That is the fuel that drives me.

On this particularly vexing night, I had chosen upon taking a stroll through my happy location, to clear my mind. It seems that contemplating this case had brought about a sort of sullen darkness to my mind, and the kirkyard dubbed ‘Greyfriars Kirk’ seems to always clear my mind of fogginess and ill thought.

Entering the gates, a calm ease washed over me, a wave of clarity crashing. As I walked past Bobby and his owner’s grave, I attempted to scope out a bench to reside upon. As I did this, a hazy figure I could not quite discern the looks of wondered to my near vicinity, and as my full attention had been diverted and allocated towards finding my seat, the inevitable occurrence of us bumping into each other materialised in front of us. As he was approaching, I could not help but notice he had covered his face with his hands, as if weeping or shielding himself from a light downpour, yet the reason remained anonymous towards me. He had been keeping a heightened pace, which could have eluded to the fact of us bumping into each other’s shoulders. 

Once we collided, I had gone to mutter out the word ‘sorry’ and align my position amidst his, yet it would seem he had done the same as we were mere inches of proximity between ourselves, face to face. 

The first- of many- unusual details I had noted was this man’s skin tone. His skin… cold, pallid, blue. More pallid and meridian than a sheet of ice i would say. His face- no, his entire being!- had a desaturated, discoloured tone to it, even his lips! His lips, oh, his lips; how they cracked and flaked. If only the dead could live once again, they too would mirror such a look. A chill had encapsulated my body within a tingling sensation, almost as if my own system was telling me something had not been quite right about this encounter. I opened my mouth to speak, yet no sound escaped, as if the very voice in my throat had been stolen without a second thought. Then this man, as if nothing had occurred, he responded to my apology I had not made! In an obscurely deep tone too, might I add. 
‘Might you enlighten me, sir, and answer a rather simple question for me?’
In awe of such a tone, I simply nodded.
He opened up a particularly odd smile.
‘Good man! Now, is it not you, Eli Aspen?’

My blood turned frigid, camouflaging within this man’s skin, my saliva running sour. 

‘It is he, in flesh, in blood, and in soul.’
As if by some sort of witchcraft, the man had brought a radiance of sorts around himself, which made him seem to turn into a jolly old fellow in immediate action, as he beamed a smile so bright it could blind a man whom never saw a day of light before.
‘I perceived so, old friend! Why, it certainly has been a long time!’ 
‘It seems it has. I’m sorry, but I cannot seem to recollect my knowledge of you.’
The man seemed hurt upon this remark. ‘Why, my friend, have you forgotten about me and the many eves we had spent together? My, we even celebrated our graduation together with a drink at a certain pub, although that name had left my mind too.’
As if hitting a rather sturdy wall, my history with this man came back. Surely not, as the man i knew was just that, not a husk thereof one. I chose to believe it before, but looking back they only bore some resemblance. If this was him, he had fallen deathly ill, for this was no man. Alas, within the heat of the moment I blurted out, ‘The last drop! Oh, yes, how could I have ever forgotten about you?’
As I had finished my sentence a small chuckle escaped, before going quiet, a sign often seen with me, showing my inner clock working. 
‘Wait a moment, my friend. How are you-’ 
Before I could speak he had interspersed me. 
‘Small details, inconsequential, my friend. Come, let us walk.’
He had said it in a way that had an almost arrogant view, as if it would give all the answers needed. It did not complete such action.

So we walked. We had walked and we had talked for what felt like aeons, recounting old events, telling stories of our works, what had occurred since we had last encountered one another, though my esteemed fellow seemed to much rather prefer to listen than to talk. 

Eventually, time had passed on and we had done the same to a field of daffodils. I had made it a custom to pick a few and lay it upon a resting place of an old friend. Imbetween conversations with him, I had mentioned this, and he had said something that- looking back- made little sense at the time but makes all the more sense now and made me all the more wiser. He had gotten rather close to my ear and whispered something. 
‘Eli. remember this, for the years to come. Sometimes the bigger picture is the wrong one. What you need is right in front of you. What you want is right there for the taking. I learned this the hard way. Please, live a good life, my friend.’

I must admit, at the time it had made me think rather lower of my friend, as if he had been rather insane, though i dismissed it with a smile and a laugh. I had turned to pick up my flowers, when, suddenly, the world went quiet, as if every bird, person, animal and sound had died out. The only thing audible was my own voice pandering on about some case many years ago, though once this happened my silence soon followed. My mind knows it was only for a moment, but my very soul had told me it had been a lifetime. 

A lifetime of still, macabre silence.

But then, the world burst into sound, a flooding of symphonic harmony entered my ears, as if the very world was just born from an explosion. I had just picked the flowers, as I turned around to ask my friend if he, too, had just heard- or did not hear- this, but it seems he too died out, as he had been nowhere in sight. And then the realisation occurred.

Oh, how foolish, yes, how foolish! I had been alone all night, alone with my mind! How could I have ever convinced myself that the dead could walk once again? I had been so naive! So foolish, so childish to believe such! My mind had not been right all day, and this was because of such! I burst out laughing, though that slowly died, replaced by tears, tears and a muffled cry. Sometimes your own conscience is your worst enemy, and this was such a time. I cried for I had a reason.

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