Ghost Children

Father Bouffant has only just left my home, having been here for two days straight. He arrived yesterday morning betraying every indication of debilitating inebriation, including an inability to locate his own arms. He had brought with him several carrier bags full of chocolate eggs which he had purchased for only 39p each at Safeways following the post-Easter slump in demand, a fact of which he was inordinately proud and boastful.

"These cheap eggs will tempt out the spectral bairns," he whispered conspiratorially.

I was informed that my house was swarming with the spirits of Victorian orphans (dead ones), and that these could easily be persuaded to quit the earthly plane in exchange for sweets. Father Bouffant crept around the walls (where, he asserted, ghostly children always hide) and occassionally offered up pieces of chocolate eggshells, then ate them himself when the phantoms failed to materialise to claim his treats.

When he had eaten the entire stock he called for a mug of tea then fell asleep in an armchair where I was unable to rouse him until this afternoon during Deal or No Deal? On waking, he disgorged a triumphant amount of semi-digested milk chocolate onto the carpet, claimed his body had been commandeered by H'Karr'karr the Rancorous One, and that a bottle of single malt whisky would flush the bleeder out. The demon removed from his system in this way, he collapsed and began speaking in tongues. As he capsized, from out of his pockets a great many children's teeth spilled out. When he saw that I had noticed these, a terrible look briefly distorted his face, and he began to writhe and scream.

"Ach, the spectral bairns are nay happy wi' ma interfering," he said, and stumbled out of the house in great haste.

I have no idea whether he will ever return, but the abundance of children's teeth and this talk of ghost orphans has left me unnerved.