Free Nowhere Near Milkwood by Rhys Hughes

sheer nastiness of his pickle sandwiches, it seems probable it will remain a secret forevermore. And this is surely nothing to complain about. Some things are best left unsaid.
    Anyway, Hywel was discussing the habits of the ghost of Hugh the Miller, who still haunts all wholemeal loaves and Danish pastries within a quarter of a mile of the spot where he died; he fell in a lagoon. Students and young couples picnicking on the shore have been known to find bloody fingers in their soft rolls and, once or twice, even a nose.
    “Like all ghosts he has grown too fond of the place where he died. He despises intruders and does his best to frighten them away.”
    It was at this point that the thin stranger shook his head and made his comment. Hywel turned purple and shuddered. I stood meekly and waited for the storm to break. The little fellow said:
    “Ghosts are not fond of the place where they died. You are mistaken there. Ghosts become bored very quickly with one area and long to move on. Many ghosts are actually itinerant spooks; travellers and strollers. The romance of the road is in their congealed blood – or lack of it. That is why they linger at crossroads. There is so much choice that they find it difficult to leave.”
    I studied the little man more closely. He was dressed all in black, with a dark cape, a top hat and muddy boots. He had long greasy hair and bushy side-whiskers. He carried a spade and there was the stench of the grave on him.
    “Of course,” he continued, “some phantoms simply can’t afford to live that way. They have to work for a crust. Instead, they spend a lot of time each year planning holidays and then they generally look down on their freer counterparts. Who can blame them? They pay their taxes like everyone else.”
    “And who might you be?” Hywel had managed to control himself. I had thought for one moment that I was about to witness a throttling, but now it seemed Hywel would content himself with merely a stomping and a gouging. I swallowed my drink hastily and held my breath.
    The little man lowered his gaze modestly. “I collect ghosts. I have quite a few now. I keep them in glass bottles in my cellars. I am thus able to offer my guests a selection of spirits.” He chewed his lip and tears rolled down his dusty cheeks. “Unfortunately, I don’t get many guests. None in fact. So I talk to the ghosts instead.”
    “Well that’s all right then!” roared Hywel sarcastically. “I didn’t realise I was in the company of an expert. So what is your name, friend?”
    “Alas!” The little man shook his head. “I’d rather not say. It seems to put people off. Just pretend I’m an ordinary customer. Now let me tell you about one of my favourite specimens. He’s quite a decent spectre.”
    I was about to reply that there was no such thing as a customer in the TALL STORY who could be considered ordinary. It is, after all, a pub that lies in another dimension, somewhere between dawn and sunrise and adjacent to both infinity and eternity. But before I could even begin to explain all this, the mysterious stranger had launched into his anecdote.
    “His name is – or was – Jocky McJocky and he was born in a castle near the remote Kyle of Tongue. There is a mountain there called Ben Hope which he used to climb without hope; he was a dour fellow when alive. After his death, his spirits improved and he took to haunting his fellows with great glee. Can you guess what happened? Well, he became a tourist attraction. Americans would relish the chance to spend a night in a haunted castle and, in the early hours, would often hold conversations like this:
     
    RONALD: What’s that noise?
    NANCY:  What noise?
    RONALD: It sounds to me like a dim rumbling from afar.
    NANCY:  Oh, that’s probably just the head of Jocky McJocky, executed in the courtyard with a rusty axe for drowning Lord McBroth in a pot of soup. He rolls his head up and down the corridors.
    RONALD: I see. But what’s that