‘That’s not how it happened,’ I hear him say.
His shirt is a crisp white, but not as white as I am;
Not spectral, breath on the inside of a pint glass, a smudge on silver armour
Not translucent, windows clouded with the heat of conversation,
Shielding the pub from the cold.
I make a conscious effort to lean against the bar
(I could easily fall through it)
And listen, amused, as he explains the story to a rapt audience whose wide eyes flicker with warm lamplight.
There are much worse places to haunt.

‘Traitors gathered here, conspiring against the King,’ he whispers gleefully.
‘Doomed, executed just a short walk away from this very spot.’
Two heads swivel to the right, to the window
Picturing the flames of torches and hearing the clattering of armour
Only for their gazes to land on students in togas, rowdy and raucous.
I rattle a suit of arms myself, and extinguish a lamp for good measure, and then return to my post at the bar.
They whip back around, looking for the culprit, but they won’t ever spot me.
Pay attention.

‘People should watch where they gossip.’
Above us, where long shadows stretch between dark, arching beams
And projectors cast gentle hues upon textured walls,
A throat is cleared, and a chuckle echoes, bouncing off the rafters where flags flutter.
I drift towards the sound, and take a seat opposite him.
(Carefully, lest I slip through the chair)
The smile that his wet glass leaves on the wooden table matches the one on his familiar face.
He too haunts this place, observing tourists, historians and ghost-hunters from this perch,
Reflections of sportsmen in colourful jerseys dancing, reversed, on glass that houses a tapestry that rivals me in age
Can he see me? Can you?

Laura Ellison