Bill saved himself from shitting his pants, but he did not save his beer. The bottle dropped to the wooden floor, hitting hard and spraying upwards, all over his sweatpants and the floor.
"Now me son. Youse best be gettin' a rag from in dere, in da kitchen and clean dat mess up 'fore it stains me floor."
Bill nodded and turned toward the kitchen.
"And youse best be puttin' our dat smoke, me son. Ifins youse wants to be smokin' then youse best be doin' it outside. Not in my 'ouse"
As soon as he walked into the kitchen, Bill flicked the cigarette through the open window.
"What the fuck?" he gasped, staring out the window, afraid to look back toward the living room.
"I did not just see that."
He shook his head.
"Its just the pressure of coming here. Stress. That's it stress. Its that superstition that matty was talking about."
"Whose youse be talkin' to in dere, me son. Youse s'pose to be gittin' a rag to clean up your mess. Its gonna be stainin' my floor soon."
Bill grabbed a tea towel that was hanging on the wall and wet it, quickly, under the tap.
"Okay Bill. Try to keep calm."
He slowly walked to the doorway that led to the main room. Peeking cautiously around the corner, he could not see anything, other than the beer bottle, on its side, near the spilled beer.
"Stress, that's it. Just stress. Imagination gone wild."
"Well me son, Ise knows one ting fer sure. Youse be stressin' me out 'bouts now."
Bill jumped slightly, turned and then screamed like a little girl.
There in front of him, standing in the kitchen, was an older woman, dressed in a simple blue dress and a long white shawl over her shoulders. Her hair was up in a bun. held by what looked like a knitting needle.
"Me son. Must youse be screamin' like that. Youse gonna wakes da dead."
She walked past Bill, or through him and into the living room.
"Now git movin' and clean up dat beer."
She sat in a rocking chair, near the couch and took some knitting from a macrame bag, that was hung over the arm of the rocking chair.
Bill walked slowly to where the beer was wasted on the floor and quickly cleaned it up, running back into the kitchen as soon as he was finished.
A condo in Jamaica was looking better by the second.
"Now me son, gits a dry cloth and wipes da floor again."
"Okay Bill. This is all just an hallucination. Maybe you fell down again.
That's it. You went outside to find Matty and got attacked by one of those mutant rats. Yea, that's it. You are passed out on the grass outside."
"'urry, me son, for it dries."
Bill took another tea towel and walked back into the living room.
The old woman was still sitting in the rocking chair; rocking and knitting.
She pointed to the floor.
"Well me son. Wipes it up and den come and sits with me."
Bill wiped the floor quickly and then sat on a wooden chair, near the front door.
"Whys does youse be sittin' way over dere. Come sits on the couch."
"I'm fine here."
Bill looked at his watch.
"I have to leave soon anyway."
"Leave? Me son, wheres does you 'ave to go?"
"Jamaica. I am buying a condo there."
The old woman stopped knitting and stared at Bill.
"Ifin yuse was plannin' to go to dat Jammy place, den why in da world is youse tinkin' 'bout buyin' me 'ouse?"
"Yourse 'ouse?"
She smiled and started knitting again.
"Yes me son. Dis be my 'ouse. At least it was while I was 'live."
"And you are what now?"
The old woman stared at Bill and laughed slightly.
"Ise be dead me son. Dead as a doornail."
She pointed through the door.
"Ise be buried in dat little cemetery out dere. It was a lovely service dey had for me. I jest wish me granddaughter had been dere."
She let out a long sigh.
"But she was far away on da mainland goin' to one of dem big schools, so she could be a liar."
"A lawyer," Bill corrected her.
She shook her head.
"Dats what Ise said, me son. A liar."
She pointed to the couch again.
"Now me son, youse be sittin' on dat couch likes Ise told ya too."
Bill walked over to the couch and sat at the far edge, as far away from the old lady as he could.
"I am Matilda Joyce Dove. And whats be dey callin' you?"
"My name is a ...
its a ..."
'Fuck', Bill swore in his mind. He couldn't remember his name.
He looked toward the door. He was sure he was unconscious on the ground outside.
"Cat gots youse tongue, me son?"
He took a deep breath.
"My name is William James Williams."
She stopped knitting and stared at me.
"Dat be a strange name, me son."
"They call me Bill."
She nodded and went back to rocking and knitting.
"Den Ise be callin' youse William. Its a good strong name. Ise likes it."
"Sure. Whatever you want."
Bill decided it was useless to argue with a ghost, especially when he just wanted out of Tuckamore Bay, on a plane and in a condo in Jamaica.
"So, William. Youse seems like a nice young fella and Ise tinks dat I will like 'avin' you livin' 'ere wit me."
Bill's eyes opened wide.
"With you?"
She nodded.
"Of course, me son. Youse wouldn't kick an old lady out of her 'ouse now, would youse?"
Bill was speechless. Partly because he was scared to death at the fact that a ghost was talking to him and partly because he was planning to make a run for it, jump in his truck and get as far away from Tuckamore Bay as he possibly could. As fast as he possible could.
"Cats got dat tongue of youse agin, William?"
Bill shook his head.
"You know what, Mrs. Dove?"
She smiled.
"Youse can call me Nanny Dove, ifin youse wants. Dats what everyone used to be callin' me."
"Okayyyyyy.
Well, Nanny Dove, its like this.
Ahhhhhhhhh ..."
Bill jumped up and ran for the door as fast as he could.
"I'm outta here."
At least that was Bill's plan.
He made it to the door, grabbed the doorknob, looked back quickly, to make sure no ghost was following and pulled hard on the door.
Unfortunately he was standing right in the path of the door and the door smacked him squarely in the forehead.
He grunted slightly and fell to the floor.
Nanny Dove