The Ghost of Clothes

by David E. Gates

the floor.

  “God! Can just one thing go right today please?” I said, looking upwards.

  I grabbed some paper towels from the kitchen and started sweeping the congealed cereal and milk back into the bowl. Once I’d cleaned the mess as best I could, I placed the bowl and towels in a heap on the kitchen worktop and returned to the lounge to get dressed.

  Unbuttoning the suit and the waistcoat that was beneath it, I removed the shirt and pulled it on. It felt warm and comfortable and I was pleased that I didn’t have to struggle with the top button against my large neck.

  I pulled the tie around my collar and fastened it as best I could with still the only knot I knew.

  Sitting on the chair which the suit was hung over, I pulled the trousers from the hanger slowly as not to cause any snags. They came free and I pulled them on, standing to complete the dressing of them on my lower-half and fastening the button and clip around my waist. It was nice to have found a pair of trousers that didn’t need a belt.

  I pushed my hand under the suit jacket and worked the waistcoat off, leaving the jacket supported upon the hanger. I put the waistcoat on and immediately felt well dressed. There was something about the tight and cosy feeling the waistcoat gave that made you feel good.

  Next, I reached down and grabbed the shoes placing them on the floor in front of me. I slid each foot into the left and right shoe respectively and tied the laces on each one.

  I stood up and checked myself up and down. All looked good. I lifted the hanger and removed the jacket. I put it on and it slid over my shoulders easily.

  I grabbed my wallet and keys and pushed them into the inside pocket of the jacket.

  As I walked across the lounge, my right foot came into contact with the still-damp carpet and the smooth under sole slipped and I lost my footing, falling hard onto my back, banging my head on the side table. As I struggled to move myself upright, I felt dizzy and my vision blurred. I shook my head to and fro as if to settle my eyes down. As I did so, I thought I caught a glimpse of someone standing, to my side, looking over me, dressed in a suit similar to mine. I reached up and rubbed my eyes and looked again but there was no-one there.

  I managed to get to my feet and gingerly walked across the damp area. The back of the shirt, and presumably the back of the jacket, were a little damp where contact was made with the residue of cereal on the floor.

  In the hallway, I seemed to stagger from side to side as I tried to reach the front door. I decided to sit down on the stairs and give myself a moment to let the dizziness pass.

  Whilst sitting there, I saw a shadow pass by the front door. I watched, waiting for the figure to return in front of the door again, given there was nothing and no exit in the direction the shadow moved toward, they would have to re-appear.

  After a few moments, when they failed to materialise, I stood wearily and went towards the door. Just as I reached it, there was a crashing sound from upstairs. ‘Was someone breaking in?’ I thought. I turned and ran up the stairs.

  I reached the bedroom and saw the tall-boy with its doors flung wide open and all three drawers removed from it and scattered across the floor in front of it.

  As I moved in front of it, I felt my chest tighten. It felt like the very air was being squeezed out of my lungs. I stepped back and the pressure eased momentarily. I placed my hand against my chest and moved forward again. The tightness returned though I tempered the restrictive feeling by pushing against my chest. I reached the tall-boy and looked inside. Nothing was there but the god-awful smell that was present previously.

  Then my attention was drawn to the drawers. In the bottom of each, was a newspaper. Presumably placed as a lining in the bottom to prevent clothes coming into contact with the wood base. Stained and yellowed, their age beating the colour out of them, I saw headlines which proclaimed strikes, increases in taxes and, fearfully, a tragic death.

  I leant down to read the story associated with the death. A train, it seemed, had derailed in a local village called Ropley. As a result, a man had been killed when the train ran over his body. His feet were cut off by the wheels of the train and his body pummelled into pieces by the force of the bodywork of the train striking him at speed.

  Workers and attendees from the emergency services had commented how the feet had stopped, in the middle of the tracks, still in the shoes, which were polished and standing upright.

  “You can tell the mark of a man by his shoes.” Ran one quote from an observer.

  It suddenly became clear to me. Not only was I wearing a dead-man’s clothes, I also appeared to be wearing another dead-man’s shoes.

  “Fuck!” I said.

  Suddenly, the tightness in my chest returned. It was as if the very fabric of the clothes I was wearing had shrunk and were pushing hard against my chest, tighter and tighter with each breath I managed to squeeze in and then release. The closest I could approximate the feeling to be was one of being suffocated. But this was nothing like the feeling I had when I put a plastic bag over my face as a child and felt the clammy inside of it suck against my skin as the air was sucked out of it before I would rip it off. This felt like I was being suffocated from the inside.

  I fell forward, gasping for air, landing half-on and half-off of the bed. I slid off, as I grappled with the buttons on the waistcoat, which seemed stuck fast. I pulled at the tie, to try and loosen the shirt, but the knot wouldn’t budge. I felt the amount of air I was able to intake reducing with each gasp as I let myself roll onto the floor. The muscles in my arms felt tight, straining against the shirt that felt like it was a couple of sizes too small for me, and the effort to raise them to the tie and shirt buttons became too much and I let them fall onto the floor beside me.

  As my brain became starved of oxygen, I saw bright lights. A myriad kaleidoscope of colours that seemed to emanate from above the tall-boy which seemed to tower over me.

  Then, a figure. Dark, indistinct but seemingly purposeful appeared. I couldn’t work out if it was above the tall-boy or was coming out of it.

  I was somehow conscious and recalled how people having near-death experiences had hallucinated and assembled the room they were in from their memory and surrounding vision to give them a “view” of the room from above. But, in my case, it all seemed reversed. Everything, the bed, the tall-boy, the scattered drawers, seemed to be above me, though I could still feel the floor beneath my back.

  I lay there, unable to move, struck still by something that had since loosened its grip on my lungs which now didn’t seem to be functioning. I wasn’t breathing. Or, at least, I felt like I wasn’t breathing. I tried to lift myself off the floor, but nothing in my body responded. I even tried to blink, but my eyelids remained open.

  The figure that previously appeared to hover over, or was coming out of the tall-boy, became more distinct. A man, dressed all in black, was leaning over me. Then another joined him. They were looking at me. I tried to make a sound, to move, to make them hear me and let them know I could see them. But nothing functioned. Nothing responded.

  Then I heard their voices.

  “He’s been gone a while.” One of them said.

  “Couple of days at least.” Said the other.

  I couldn’t understand what they meant. This had all just happened. In the last few minutes. What were they talking about?

  They both appeared alongside me, to my right, laying something wide and dark along the floor. I heard a long zipper being undone.

  “No.” I yelled, but no sound came. “No!” I screamed, but no utterance came forth.

  Then I was lifted. I felt a pair of hands around my ankles and another under my armpits as I was raised a few inches from the floor and moved a foot or so to the right.

  Then the sound of the zipper again. I screamed but my voice remained silent. I saw the light of the room disappear and though their voices were muffled, I could still hear them.

  “Nice suit.” One said.

  “Yeah,” Sai
d the other. “And did you see those shoes? Very nice.”

  “Not my style.” The first voice said again. “I prefer something Italian.”

  And then a woman’s voice. A voice I recognised. The woman from the charity shop. She was here.

  “You can tell the mark of a man by his shoes.” She said.

  THE END

  For more spooky encounters, read

  The Roots of Evil by David E. Gates

  About the Author

  David E. Gates has published a number of books and short-stories. He recently won first prize (Gold) for The Roots of Evil and third prize (Bronze) for Access Denied in the 2015 AuthorsDB Cover Contest, and has made a film about the battlefield memorials in Ypres, Belgium called Ypres – The Battlefield Tours (available at www.shelleyshow.co.uk).

  David has previously written film reviews for Starburst and Samhain magazines and interviewed the likes of Clive Barker, Terry Pratchett, James Herbert and many others. He has also written a number of short stories, a full-length motion picture screenplay, the screenplay to a short film and in his spare time hosts a rock radio show.

  “The self-publishing phenomenon enabled me to publish my first book, Access Denied, at the end of 2013. It’s a true story. A deeply personal and heart-wrenching account of my becoming a father and then finding out several years later that my daughter wasn’t mine.”

  David’s story and