“What the fuck!” Tom hollered loudly, stunning Bernadette on the other end of the line.

“Tom!” she shouted, “What’s wrong? What’s going on?” she demanded.

“Bernie!” Tom yelled, now in a complete panic, “Call the police! I think someone is about to attack me!” He was incapable of saying anything more, for just then a dark form started to materialise in front of him, and speech became an impossibility.

It slowly and frighteningly took shape, turning from black unclear wisps into the outline of a human figure. Icy waves of cold and menace streamed off it like fingers of death reaching for Tom. His cell phone had gone dead, and he realised he was rooted to the spot in one of the darkest areas of the park where the trees were thickest. Ironically, it was also mere metres away from the exit, and Tom could see the gate invitingly close, just beyond the now fully formed spectre. He finally recognised it as being a woman. He was startled to see who she was, and cringed back from her as she floated demurely towards him.

“This can’t be fucking happening,” he whispered in disbelief. “This isn’t fucking real!” he insisted.

His eyes were drawn to the ground where the spirit had been standing, and again he tried to bolt but couldn’t. There was the distinct shape of a mound like that of a grave, but it was ragged and the earth was raw, as if the grave had just been covered over, and hurriedly, too.

“No, no. This is not possible,” he uttered, shaking his head from side to side for emphasis. “I’m imaging this. This is not fucking real!” he screamed in horror as the woman stopped in front of him.

His staring eyes were drawn hypnotically to the red cord-marks around her pale neck. Her auburn hair floated softly and serenely around her face although there was not the hint of a breeze in the air. Her eyes were twin mirrors of ebony accusation, staring into Tom’s soul and making his heart pound painfully in his chest. The phantom lifted her hands to push her hair out of her face, and Tom couldn’t avoid seeing the broken nails and skin, signs of a struggle. He knew all too intimately what that struggle had been about.

“You can’t hurt me,” he suddenly hissed at the woman. “You’re dead and buried in that grave there! I’m not afraid of you because you can’t touch me, bitch,” he spat at her. In reply, the spectre treated him to a bloody smile, showing him her torn lips and broken teeth. On seeing those shattered teeth, Tom subconsciously rubbed the knuckles of his right hand. They bore faint marks of scarring.

In a movement faster than the blink of an eye, and in a blur of sight, the woman fastened a freezing hand on Tom’s throat again and said, hissing, “See!”

As if a projector had inexplicably been turned on, images were suddenly displayed on the screen of the black night in front of Tom. Although he tried to close his eyes and refuse to look at the scenes being played out in front of him, he was incapable of doing so. He was no longer in control, and he had no option but to look upon and relive that unholy night.

***

Tell us: What do you think happened that night?