Not Dead Yet...

It sounded like the whine of a lawnmower and it was getting on my nerves.  The motor had some fault which created a shrill, stuttering sound which was impossible to ignore however hard I tried.  In desperation I slammed all the windows shut and returned to my work.

The next interruption was the doorbell.  First a short, hesitant burst, then the long determined ring of someone who refused to go away.  I cursed, jumped up and threw open the front door.  It smashed against the wall with a satisfying wallop and shards of glass flew out onto the doorstep, liberally covering my visitor with icy splinters.

            ‘Er...’
            ‘Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.’

I began to shut the door against the unwelcome guest but met some resistance.  One hand, holding a leather bound book, pushed back.

            ‘Er...’ he said again.
            ‘What?  I’m busy.’
            ‘Er... Busy?  With what?’
            ‘My work.  What do you want?’
            ‘Er... I need to tell you something.  Can I come in?’

            His voice did not sound eager to enter.  It sounded like the voice of someone who wanted to be anywhere except on my doorstep.

            ‘Come in?  No!’

I took in the meek demeanour and the give-away clerical collar and realised what his mission must be.

            ‘I suppose you’re collecting for something?  What is it?  The church tower crumbling to dust?’
            ‘Er... No.  Not exactly that.’
            ‘Well?  I haven’t got all day.  What do you want?’
            ‘Er...  I wondered.  Did you hear the exorcism?’
            ‘The what?’
            ‘The exorcism.  I thought I was getting through but then all the windows slammed and I lost the connection.’

I stared at him.

            ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

At the word ‘Hell’ he flinched and held up the book in a defensive gesture.  I read the words ‘Holy Bible’ in gold lettering on the cover.

            ‘It’s just that you’re dead, you see.  And the estate agent wants to sell the house and there are no takers, what with the haunting and the poltergeist activity and all...’

Words gushed from his mouth in a tumbled torrent.

            ‘So... er... I was asked to undertake an exorcism.’

I scowled at him.

            ‘Well, you can’t do it now.  I’m busy.’
            ‘Er... Only...  Did you know you’re dead?  Only some spirits don’t realise and...’
            ‘And what?’
            ‘Well, sometimes they just need a nudge, to be told and then they... Go.’

Despite myself I was interested.

            ‘Go where?’
            ‘Er... To heaven, I suppose.  Or, you know.  The other place.’
            ‘For a vicar, you don’t sound very sure about any of that.  Anyway, I’m busy and I’m not interested.  Goodbye.’

I tried to shut the door but he pushed back, with a little more force.

            ‘Er... it’s not really something you can ignore.  I mean, you’re dead.  You need to leave this sphere.’
            ‘Sphere? What are you talking about? I’m not going anywhere.  This is my home.’
            ‘Not any more.’

He opened up his Bible and started muttering something which sounded suspiciously like Latin.  It buzzed in my ears like the subsonic drone of a mosquito.  I tried once more to shut the door but this time there was greater resistance and the priest took a step forward, crossing my threshold.  With a howl of fury I threw everything I could at him.  Hats, gloves and scarves sailed by in a whirlwind of wool.  A vase shattered into fragments around his head.  Even the doormat lashed its way up into the air and did its best to envelop him in its folds.  At last, exhausted, I held up my hand.

            ‘Wait!’

The Latin stumbled to a halt.

            ‘What for?’
            ‘This is really rude, you know.  You’re trying to evict me from my home.’
            ‘It’s not an eviction.  The dead don’t have rights. This is an exorcism.’

I fixed my eyes on a small, angry pimple on his neck and squeezed hard.  He flinched but did not back down. I tried a more conciliatory tone of voice.

            ‘How is that fair?  I didn’t ask to be in this position.  I died before I could finish my life’s work.’

He peered past my glimmering form, into the darkness beyond.

            ‘What is so important to you that you refuse to accept that you’re dead?’
            ‘I’ll show you.’
I would have smiled but the scowl seemed to have been etched on my face at the moment I passed away. Instead, I drifted back down the hall, into the living room.  I could hear his heavy footsteps clumping along my carpet as he followed.  They stumbled to a halt as he turned the corner and saw my masterpiece.

            ‘Holy Mother of God!’
​
The Bible dropped from his hands.  Then I smiled.  Eleven Toby jugs sat on my mantelpiece, each with a clerical collar and eyes which followed you around the room.  Eleven little vicars who had had the temerity to try and exorcise me before I could complete my final work of art.
This one would make an even dozen. 

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