Ditch had seen a lot of things in his time. Flying pigs. Dancing elephants. Mice in all the colors of the rainbow. He had heard a great deal too! Like the sound of growing grass and the sunbeams banging mercilessly on his windows in the morning.
But those were the occurrences born out of his religious practices, especially the part about returning from the state of enlightenment back to the mundane and imperfect world, also known as the Path of Hangover.
An actual ghost, however, was definitely a novelty. One that was, surely, causing Ditch to consider rethinking his life.
Hmmm... he had not had the chance to drink yet, so that was not the reason for the apparition’s presence... So, a contrario, that meant that... oh, yes, the specter had had some liquor! Wait, wait, yes! Maybe it was the one having a moment of clearer, heightened perception? Maybe it was Ditch who was a part of a religious vision?!
... urgh, migraine, better forget all of that...
“So... wanna drink?” Ditch repeated himself, having sentenced all of this treasonous thinking to oblivion. Besides, the ghost was just staring at him with those empty eye sockets of his and it was rude to allow awkward silence to do its thing. “I know you can hear me, so, here! It’s good, it’s fresh and it’s on me.”
He presented the flask to the phantom, following the tenets of Boozeist generosity. But the wraith, who seemed to have been Free Verse indeed, did not react. Just kept staring. Almost as if confused by the offer, or even offended by it.
Oh, great, he was a poet and a teetotaler?! What a disgrace to the nation of Equestria!
Ditch put the cap on the flask for the moment, though with great disappointment and reluctance.
“Alright, so, you don’t want to drink... So, can you be, like... a bit more lively another way, rather than staring at me like this, cause this is just getting... weirderer... Can you talk?”
The ghost looked down and his transparent visage frowned. Its lips opened and it appeared as if it tried to take a breath, but Ditch could not hear even a gasp. Despite the continuous attempts, the wraith looked breathless and, curiously, consternation appeared on its face. Or, at least, a haunting image of one.
Ditch took a step forward, though the three remaining hooves were, for some reason, voting to get away, post-haste. Thankfully, his body never believed in democratic rule, rather having adopted Boozeist theocracy as its government.
It meant bonuses to Inebriation yields!
“Not to interrupt... but I think your breathing broke...” Ditch pointed out and the ghost looked up again, its phantasmal brows knitted. It opened its mouth and shook its head, forgetting the whole inhaling business, and yet let out a sigh.
Ditch felt a shiver down his spine. That was less of a groan of frustration and more a wail from the depths of... whatever it was that had depths. The tone itself was echoing, unnatural. Like when you reached nirvana far too quickly and decided that the epitome of enlightenment was serenading some random mare from underneath her window.
Well, at least until the Royal Guard showed up and... offered you critique. And they were a bunch of nitpickers!
“Wow, okay, look, I know you must be a bit upset, cause Canterlot air is just the bee’s knees, but could you take it down a notch? It’s the middle of the night!” Ditch protested, waving his hooves.
The wraith focused its attention on him and opened its mouth again. “I... am aware.”
Well, that was interesting! He could talk after all. Surprisingly, he sounded whispery and breathily and not like getting quartered, twice.
So... “octoered”? “Eightered”...?
Thankfully, the wraith’s voice wasn’t of such tone, so Ditch did not have to use up more of his valuable, for rather exclusive, brainpower to think of a neologism!
“Alright, you can talk, grand! So, uhm...” Ditch planted down the shovel and held the shaft like he was safeguarding a banner of sorts. “I guess I should start with this one matter. Like, its past bedtime, kinda in both senses, so shouldn’t you be, like... you know...?” he glanced at the grave. Glanced hard. “... asleep?”
The ghost stared at Ditch unblinkingly. It did not have much to blink for, to be fair. “I... am dead...” it stated, though it might have been a query as well.
“Well, yeah, rather spectacularly too, if the Reverend told the truth. Yet you’re still talking to me, so, you... failed at dying? Somehow?” Ditch asked, not sure how one could be such a klutz to be a poet, teetotal, and crap at shuffling off this mortal coil.
And then the grim realization came.
“Oh no!” Ditch slapped himself on the forehead and slid the hoof down, giving himself the stereotypical, long face indeed. He realized what this had to be about. The only reason why somepony around here would ever come back, even after being given the prim and proper burial by Ditch was...!
“You want to lodge a complaint, don’t you?!”
The ghost would have surely blinked, but, considering its predicament, only tilted its head. “... pardon?”
“A complaint! A remonstrance! A statement of dissatisfaction!” Ditch wailed with no less talent than the phantom. He trotted in place, wired. Now this, this could make him lose his job! If the Reverend would learn...! “Great! Fantastic! What’s the matter? I got the depth wrong? You don’t like the view? You wanted the columbarium after all?” he counted the possible reasons, then paled. “Oh, Ol’ Granny’s Cherry Hooch, is it Mr. Voyeur?!”
He pointed at the nearest other grave, with the photo of an older, stealthily-and-yet-obviously-perversely grinning gentlecolt.
“I tell him every night to leave other denizens alone, but you know how old ponies get!”
“... wait just a moment...”
“Ah, bunkum, no, were you one of those that wish for a flowerbed around their grave?! I have to let the soil rest for a moment, I will get to it as soon as possible!”
“... could you...?”
“... oh crabapples, did I get the coffin in upside down—”
“Wait.”
The ghost tried to put his hoof on Ditch’s lips, which only caused his phantasmal appendage to pass through the stallion’s jaw, leaving behind a feeling of cold paralysis.
Like after drinking chilled mimosa.
... if anypony would waste their throat for such a slop, of course!
Ditch was not certain what exactly stopped him from continuing his rant, the touch or the horrid thought of drinking mimosas, but he locked gazes with the apparition... even with it missing vital components for that to happen.
“Wait... Don’t be scared, I’m not here to... complain,” the phantom assured him, though also perturbed by having just trespassed through somepony’s muzzle. “I... am not sure why I am here and not... someplace else...” It looked confused for a moment. Well, more confused.
Ditch indeed calmed himself, though he fought an overwhelming urge to seek solace in his faith that instant. At least his employment was safe, for the ghost did not want to file any grievances.
... no, his employment wasn’t safe, he was talking with a ghost!
“Alright, alright, wait up...” Ditch sat down on the cold grass, holding his tool close. “You... are Free Verse, right?”
The phantom glanced at the grave, his expression no less melancholic than the one of the pony portrayed on the tombstone. “... yes, I am. Or was...? It’s... hard to tell?”
“I mean, you look like quite the dead ringer, yeah, but... can you double-check, somehow? Like, I don’t know, what do you remember about the way you splat—perished?” Ditch quickly revised his question.
The apparition pondered for a while and the anticipation was truly to die for. What a day! A test of faith, a threat of being sacked, now a spook. What was this, some sort of a comedy?!
The ghost finally stared up to the best of its eyeless abilities and spoke. Its tone was now distant and almost dreamy. Still anemic though. “Existence left its sense behind... Space was gone... and Reason and Logic followed right after, like fallen leaves that trace the gust of wind...”
“... oh, boy...”
“Time took its bow... and Death, of eyes sapphire, of curls like jonquils innocent, smiled...” it recited, looking blankly into the unspecified, grave distance, the tone of its declamation evocative and hauntingly beautiful.
Yes, Ditch could only groan at that. “Pshh, you’re Free Verse, alright...”
The ghost squinted his sockets at the tone. “Is that... disapproving I hear? I admit, this is all... eerie, and yet I have tried my best to describe what I recall in a more lyrical—”
“Listen, buddy...” The shovel tilted as Ditch stood up and leaned onto it. “Normally I don’t give a cocktail about poetry, because, honestly, who cares about either of these two, but I have to admit that my cemetery suddenly being haunted does sour the mood, so you’ll have to excuse me for being a little sulky!”
“It’s not by my choice that I am here!” Free Verse lively... well... “deadly” protested. “I have... jumped down,” he admitted with some reluctance indeed, “but the next thing I know is just... appearing by the grave! Mine!” Silence rang for a moment, as he pointed at his own visage on the tombstone. “It’s not like I am pleased with this scenario! I’m... not sure how and why I can even talk with you!”
“Whoever those ‘How' and 'Why’ are, how about you ask them nicely and get spirited away, or something?!” Ditch demanded. Really, was it so hard to think of?! Just forgetting this whole ghost business and leaving?! “Disperse. Vanish. Dematerialize. Go to the Happy Stampeding Grounds—”
“That’s a buffalo belief.”
“Convert if you like, Dances with Sonnets, just leave my graveyard be! I have its reputation to uphold!”
Free Verse huffed and gritted his ectoplasmic teeth at first. Yet then shook his head and closed his eyeholes. Ditch saw his expression tense up and it looked like... the edges of his form began to dissolve, indeed!
Wow, all of this completely unnecessary talking and all it took was some...!
A faint, turquoise light enveloped the ghost’s form and restored its incorporeal wholeness.
... bols.
“Why are you still here?!” Ditch asked, frustratingly grabbing his shovel. He was so irked up even its hilt felt warm through the leather wrappings, just great!
“I... I don’t know,” Free Verse replied, looking pained. And sounding panicked. “I’m... Something’s holding me here. I... I cannot leave. Something... something...” He trotted in place in consternation, his transparent hoof holding his temple. “But I cannot... I... I’m stuck. It’s stuck!”
“It’s stuck, it’s stuck!” Ditch parroted, wiping the sweat that had formed underneath his clay mane. “I don’t care about your... paranormal constipation, you’re not staying the night, chump!”
Free Verse glared at him and Ditch was forced to look into not one, but two abysses. And he refused to blink, though this was a rigged contest.
“Well, you might as well brew me some spectral tea to help me with it, you uncouth undertaker,” finally came the acerbic quip from the ghost.
“Suppositories work better for that, so how about I stick my shovel up your—!”
Ditch wanted to resort to profanities, but there were other residents present and the next thing he knew would be them ratting on him and his behavior to the Reverend.
He took a deep breath, produced his flask and took a big, refreshing and burning gulp of the alcohol. The heat spread through him quickly, extinguishing the rage for the moment with the honey, the nectar, the ambrosia of booze.
“Okay... okay...” Ditch spread his forelegs wide, sitting down again. “Let’s... go back a little...” he proposed, still crossing gaze with Free Verse’s not-gaze.
Even the wraith looked exasperated. “Yes, let’s...” it agreed, taking his place as well. Grass seemed positively happy that it was not getting smothered under two pair of buttocks.
Ditch, still less so about the matter.
“Alright...” he began, not knowing where to do so, actually. “You... are a ghost. Free Verse, can we agree on that?”
“Indeed...” the phantom replied, looking less angry, but still rather depressive. “Free Verse, born in Cloudsdale...”
“... and splattered in Canterlot.”
“How very respectful of you...” the apparition sneered. “You treat every one of your... clients that way?”
“They are slightly less talkative. Besides, are you an expert on etiquette when chatting up the dead?” Ditch pointed out, rolling his eyes.
“...touché,” Free Verse admitted, looking to the side. “Still it’s my death we’re talking about. Kind of... bizarre.”
“You can say that again... So...” Ditch tried to organize the random thoughts in his head. They were now moving in a bit more orderly fashion, thanks to the first signs of the upcoming alcoholic salvation. “I guess we’ll start this otherworldly relationship from scratch. I’m Spadework, but you can call me Ditch.”
“Ditch... How very... extraordinary to meet you, Ditch” the ghost admitted, shrugging and extending its hoof.
“Yeah, yeah, likewise...”
Nope, still no actual contact after trying to grab it, just more cold mimosas, causing Ditch to rub his hoof to fight the freezing feeling. Talk about a cold shoulder.
Hoof.
Whatever.
“I hope you will understand if I tell you, Free Verse, that I do not want you to get all friendly with me, right? The sooner you get your spectral rump out of here, the better.”
The phantom poet shrugged. “As I have told you, it was hardly my choice to just... appear here like this.” He glanced at his grave once more. “To be fair, I... actually wanted to... disappear. Cease. Utterly and finally... Like but a memory fleeting, like but a frail butterfly, th—”
“... that had a lil’ fling going and pregnant got a fly,” Ditch perfected the poem abruptly, then his muzzle scrunched. “Yuck... Okay, listen, why exactly did you want to paint the town red in such a camp fashion I don’t know and—”
“Let me guess: ‘and you don’t care.’ ”
“And I don’t care, exactly, you win a prize! One-way ticket to the Great Beyond, I’ve heard it is wonderful this time of the year, you just have to mind the gaps on your way there and avoid manifesting on a calm and neat cemetery!”
Free Verse said nothing, just kept glancing with a vexed expression as Ditch continued. The lack of eyes made it all the more convincing, too!
“So, I would like to get rid of you pronto, if that is not entirely inconvenient for you, right?”
“You have made your wishes abundantly clear...” the ghost pointed out sardonically.
“You know, this is supposed to be a respectable place of eternal rest, after all, not a motel for the stiffs in transit.”
Free Verse sighed. “I take it you are the main and only caretaker, then?” he asked and Ditch nodded his head fervently. “Well, the situation is both strange and rather simple... You don’t want me to be here, I don’t exactly want to be here either, so...”
“So let’s stop bickering for the moment and try to see what can be done about it?” Ditch took the only guess that was likely.
“Indeed...” Free Verse admitted, giving him a somber look. “Like the waters of two streams come together in a river, the paths of our Fate conv—”
“Urgh, shut up and go jump off a—oh, right, never mind...”