Due to recent events, ouija boards are no longer permitted on the patio

It was one of those crooked little pubs where every eye swings towards you when you walk in, and even a man of average height needs to duck his head to avoid braining himself on the beams.

I headed out towards the beer garden, pint in hand. The sign on the window made me pause.

A chortle from the shadows to my right, and a cherry-red gleam told me that there was someone there, having a quiet smoke, but might be amenable to company and telling the tale. He leaned forward, into the light. A small, wiry chap. Could have been a weathered forty-five, or a fresh-faced seventy.

I gestured to the notice, beer slopping over the rim, and asked him about it. He nodded at the bench for me to sit, and drew on his (oh gawd he even has a pipe!)

"Quiz night, Chewsdee, reglar..." was how he opened his story.

Turned out, one week, someone brought a ouija board, for a laugh. It started innocently enough. After the quiz finished, a few tipsy folk would crowd the board and ask questions. Giggling. Squealing, sometimes, whenever the planchette moved.

It was gibberish at first. Then one evening they sat out on the patio with it, and they got a clear response. Someone asked, "Is anyone there?" and it swung to YES without hesitation. A frisson of nerves rippled around the group.

"Who are you?" said another.

B-O-B

“Bob? Ghosts aren't called Bob,” someone muttered. It was meant to be a scoff, but they sounded uneasy.

"R-O-W-S-O-N..."

"Ol' Bob Rowson's not dead! Izzee?" .

"Give him a ring and check!"

Nervous chuckles followed.

"He was definitely in here last night."

"Wait! It's still moving!"

"What's it say?"

"S-I-N-G-S-B-A-D-L-Y-I-N-T-H-E-S-H-O"

Hearty laughter this time.

The ghost, whoever it was, was a bit of a blabbermouth. They discovered that the lady from number seventeen fancied the postman, and Steve Jenkins, one of the regulars, often wore his wife's bras. Sheryl, the treasurer on the village council who made such lovely cookies, didn't wash her hands.

"T-H-E-L-A-N-D-L-O-R-"

But that was as far as the spirit got. Barry disbanded the little meeting and put up the sign that same hour.

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Word count: 366

(NB. This excludes the title, subtitle, and author's note.)

Submitted on Tuesday 5th November

Quick Author's Note

A Year of Stories: I'm writing (and submitting, here) a story every day this year. This continues my 310 (!!!) daily micro-fiction story streak since 1st January.

ONLY FIFTY-SIX DAYS TO GO!

Please consider lending your support to the other creators on this madcap "a story every day" adventure. They're putting out excellent content every day!

Rachel Deeming

Gerard DiLeo

Thank you

Especially if you are one of the wonderful people who has been staunchly reading these daily scribbles since the start of the year. I see you, and I am extremely grateful for your ongoing support.

Thank you to those who leave feedback/comments.

I am making excellent headway catching up on reads. Where I'm already up to date with all someone's stories, I read someone else's in lieu!

If you enjoyed this one, the very best compliment you can give me is to share it, or read another!

Or, if you prefer a quickie, this wanky poem will only take you less than a minute:

Here's my latest dollar challenge. I think you might love it:

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Thank you again!