[The author at Highgate Cemetery, September, 2024. London. Photo is mine.]

When I was a child, I was afraid of ghosts. When I grew up, I realized people are more scary.

~~Anon

Once more, another year, another Halloween and another opportunity for me to share something spooky with you. No ghost photos this year. Not one urban legends. Instead, I offer you a story. It’s never been published before. It’s original and it’s centered in my hometown of Owego, NY.

Brew yourself a mug of Lapsang Souchong, open a bag of roasted chestnuts and curl up in your favorite distressed leather wing back. I hope you enjoy my story…

The Worm Moon

By Patrick Egan

            Dark forests and graveyards are not the best places to visit on nights of the Worm Moon.

            This lunar phase usually occurs in early March. At least it did this year. It is the last full moon of winter, a time when the snows began to melt, tiny sprouts emerge from the soil and the worm casts begin to rise in the mud. This heralds the arrival of robins that will feast on the aforementioned worms. The dirty snow turns to slush. The rotting leaves from long-ago Octobers fill the air with the smell of decay. The churchyard graves become intolerably soggy, but the backlog of burials demand that the dead be removed from a cold storage vault and the appropriate graves to be opened. Winter attempts to hold its grip on the countryside. But soon the vernal equinox arrives, and it will be a steady sure walk into the warmth of early summer.

            My late husband, Gabriel, God rest his soul, was not a good swimmer. In fact, he detested the water. When we would take one of our frequent road trips, Gabe would always pack his swimming trunks in the hope that the motel pool would indeed be heated as advertised. Alas, he never wore his trunks. A few toes in the water was enough for him to retreat to our room or find a lounge-chair under a large umbrella.

            He liked the idea of water, but he hated to be cold. He was always cold, poor guy, and it only got worse when he was diagnosed with leukemia.

Looking back, it was definitely the wrong decision on my part to have him interred soon after the appearance of the Worm Moon.

            Gabe did not take his diagnoses with grace–who would? Instead, he became bitter and resentful. Bickering and silence often spoiled our days. I tried hard to be the best wife I could be in this difficult and painful time. This became easy once I understood the real issues he faced. Not only was he terrified of dying, but he was also equally terrified of being cold.

            Gabe passed away, with me by his bedside and holding his perpetually cold hand, in the autumn, almost five months ago. It was October 10, but an early snowstorm and a series of hard frosts made a ground burial impossible. We had purchased a lovely double plot in Evergreen Cemetery. Every section in the upper part of the property were spoken for so I had to settle for a location not far from the Long Epitaph in the Pixley’s and Drake’s plot.

            His death was not something unexpected, out of the blue, like a bolt of lightning on a clear day. He had been treated for his cancer three years ago. At that time, I readied myself for the end that we both thought was imminent. We waited. Traveled and loved each other as much as we could. Then he went into full remission. We enjoyed three more years of a normal life, at least as normal as we could manage. At least we didn’t have kids. That would have made matters much worse. But, after a routine blood test, we were told that his blood work had abnormalities. As ready as I thought I was after his remission ended, the finality came as a shock. A toxic shock that sent me reeling into a depression that lasted months.

            With the arrival of the Worm Moon and the accompanying thaw, I was grateful for the wait to be over. I could have him removed from the winter vault and interred properly. It would bring a certain sort of closure to his illness and death. I could begin healing.

            Many weeks went by, and my sleep went untroubled. But once he was buried in that soft wet soil, the dreams (or should I say nightmares?) began to disturb my nights.

            The first such dream happened ten days after the graveside service. I was raking leaves and cleaning away the winter damage to what was once our garden. My head was lowered while I worked the detritus into a pile for the compost bin. I nearly tripped over his shoes.

            “Why did you do this to me?” he said. “Why?”

            Then he quickly vanished.

            A few nights later he returned to me.

            “Don’t you care? Doesn’t it matter? Why do you want to hurt me like this?”

            This time I looked into his gray eyes. I saw the wetness of tears and the look of intense sadness.

            “What do you mean, Gabe?” I asked.

            “My grave,” he said, holding out his hands. White dead hands that were brown with mud. I sat up against the headboard, my hands clammy and my forehead wet.

            Soon, perhaps a month after his burial, he came again to me. It was late in the afternoon. It was my beloved and it was not a dream, I was very much awake. I had just finished a glass of Chardonnay. I turned the TV off and rinsed the glass. He was standing at the foot of the staircase.

            “Please. Do something. I am so lost, so alone and so cold. Please.”

            “What am I supposed to do?” I asked him. “What did I do wrong?”

            “I’m so bloody cold now. The water is everywhere. I’m drowning.”

            He stood before me for ten full minutes before he faded slowly, like a dissipating mist. I felt no fear, only deep sorrow. A sadness that one experiences when someone you love is in a kind of pain that you feel you cannot erase.

            I was confused. I didn’t know what to do. What’s done is over and done. I can’t change anything.

            Two days later I was packing up his remaining clothes to take to the Open Door Mission, when I saw him out of the bedroom window. He was standing in the yard, beneath the oak tree.

            What will the neighbors think if they see him standing there? A couple of teenage boys walked past our house and failed to notice anything. I realized that no one could see him. Only me. From my viewpoint on the second floor, he seemed anxious–and a little angry.

            He was gone by the time I stepped out onto the front porch.

            After my dinner of chicken salad, while I was washing the plate, I could sense his presence in the kitchen. I turned around to see him and was startled to find him only a foot away from me. I could smell a foul odor of decay, rotten leaves, and water. His breath was fetid and smelled of mold. The look in his eyes unsettled me. He was angrier than he had ever been in life. His mouth opened. The scream that came from his throat forced me to cover my ears.

            “I can’t stand it anymore. Do something, I’m begging you! Do something, anything but you have to make things better for me.”

            “How can I make anything better, Gabe, you’re dead. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

            “If you ever loved me, you would know what to do.”

            He faded away once again. I climbed the stairs and took a Valium tablet. I needed sleep. Quickly. As the drowsiness washed over me, I suddenly understood what was being asked of me. I knew what to do now. It would have to wait until morning to work out the details of my plan.

            I dreamed of worms.

~ ~ ~

            I knew a teacher at the local high school. I called him and asked if he could meet me at the bar in the Parkview Hotel around 5:00 pm. His name was Aaron.

            I arrived early and ordered him a beer and a white wine for myself. He arrived at 5:20 and settled in the booth across from me.

            “How are you getting along?” he asked after taking a large sip of his IPA.

            “About as bad as you could imagine,” I replied.

            “Oh, what seems to be the problem beside the obvious, of course?”

            I told him about the nightmares and the visits.

            “Damn. That is some bad crap you’re going through.” He reached for my hands. I saw something in his eyes that unsettled me. I think he was misreading my words. I felt that he was looking for something–hoping for something. I hoped that he wasn’t seeing me as a desperate widow in need of something more than words of comfort. I pulled my hands away gently. I couldn’t afford to alienate him right now. I needed him for something, alright, but it was not going to be what he wanted.

            “Move over here,” I told him. “Let’s talk.”

~ ~ ~

            Two nights later, I found myself waiting beside Gabe’s grave. The others would be here soon. I looked down at the thin mat of grass.

            “This better do the trick for you, honey. If it doesn’t, don’t blame me.”

            My friend arrived. He had three members of the varsity football team with him. I took him aside.

            “They know this is mega-confidential I hope,” nodding toward the tall seniors.

            “Not to worry,” he said. “They’re sworn to secrecy. And besides, a small baggie of joints, and the promise of more to come, can be a powerful incentive to keep quiet. Don’t worry.” He looked up at the nearly dark sky and stared for longer than I thought he should.

            “Something wrong?” I asked.

            “Looks like a Worm Moon tonight.”

            I looked into his eyes. “How do you know about the Worm Moon, I asked.”

            “Huh. Everybody knows about the Worm Moon.”

            “Wow,” I said. “A pay off with something that was illegal just six months ago. Quick thinking. But this thing tonight. We’re breaking the law, so will your little baggie do the trick?’

            “I have a contact in the Main Office. A secretary who has the key to the file cabinet. He’s a good friend. Get my meaning?”

            “Oh, yes,” I said. “Oh, yes.”

            Two hours later, our job was completed. We had disinterred Gabe’s casket and hauled it into the woods beyond the cemetery wall.

            It was dry soil among the trees.

            These days, when I visit Gabe, I bring flowers. Poppies were his favorite. I do believe he likes his new digs. The pun is intentional.

            I haven’t been screamed at by my loving husband since that night. That’s a good thing. I will miss the walks we used to take, right here through these very tombstones to sit on the hill, talk to Sa Sa Na Loft, smooch a little and look down over our town. However, that’s not ever going to happen again. Not with Gabe, anyway. I have a new friend.

            Aaron and I are going on our third date this coming Saturday.

©️ Patrick Egan 2024

[Illustration result of a google search.]

{Author’s Note: Please take a moment to click the LIKE button. I also encourage the reader to send me a comment. I hope to include this story in a new book of original Owego ghost stories to be published in 2025.}