Somepony was banging on the window.
Fiercely.
Mercilessly.
Head-poundinglissly.
Ditch grimaced and groaned, slowly coming to. This sound was... nauseating! It was piercing his brain with the strength of a thousand. Of a million! A million strong! What... what was the meaning of this?! His shack must have been under attack!
Man the harpoons! Repel the invaders! Huzzah—
Ditch hissed as a lightning bolt of a headache crossed from one of his temples to the other. His valiant thoughts were way too valiant.
Something had to be done about this intrusion, though. A daring nuisance coming from the outside? And at this hour?!
Sigh. Step by step, old chap, step by step. Thirst... no, “first” things first, second things second, and all that jazz...
Ditch focused all of his might and power. He needed to manage the impossible. He took a deep, fatigued breath of air and dust, he gathered the strength of ancient powers within him... And a one, and a two...!
... and he lifted one of his eyelids. He glanced left – floor. He glanced right – floor. He glanced up – brown mane... oh, and floor too.
Faced with such irrefutable evidence, he had to draw the logical conclusion.
He had become one with the floor.
... or he was just on it. That kinda made sense too.
He inhaled deeply, another breath of dust and dirt entering his lungs, causing him to cough heartily. His time of enlightenment and rest was over, it seemed. If he found himself back in the imperfect material world, more so resting on the wooden low point of it too, that meant he had entered the dreaded Path of Hangover. The dangers of this terrible journey back from spiritual and spirituous Nirvana were many and perilous, and Ditch had a feeling that the banging on the windows was but one of the obstacles that were waiting for him today.
Speaking of which... with a moan of protest coming from his body, soul and heart, he somehow managed to roll on his back fully and glance the way of the unbearable ruckus.
Oh, of course... Who else could it have been?
No, not good padre Last Rites telling Ditch that he was late for a funeral. First of all, that hadn’t happened yet and was never going to. Second, there were no funerals scheduled for today from what Ditch could somehow recall.
So, if it wasn’t everypony’s favorite sky pilot, it must have been... yes, of course.
Sunrays.
That banging on the glass was sunrays. Ramming themselves against the invisible target constantly, like a swarm of dumb flies. Even though the window was, in this instant, quite visible and distinctively brownish.
Ditch needed to do something about those pests one day... Maybe a net, or... oh, a sticky ribbon! Now that was an idea! Let them come in and glue themselves to it, he could then keep those little blighters and hang them up during the night to save some lamp oil!
He could write about that to Her Royal Majesty, Princess Dyslexia! Maybe she had recommendations for the type of sticky ribbons to use, her being responsible for this scourge and all...
Before any of that, as it had been established already, Ditch had to deal with his low position. He braced, his muscles as sluggish as his head. Something cracked in his spine, a sound that ripped his tender ears to pieces. He endured it, though, and managed to sit up.
Oh, great, now what?! Somepony grabbed his shack and started to spin it, huh?! Going round and round and... and...
Oh, Gravity, thou art a heartless b—
Ditch retched, almost falling back over, but kept the contents of his stomach in, somehow. He had to face the wrath of that particular harlot before the balance of the world could be restored.
She seemed particularly nasty today. Had he stood her up last night, or...?
Wait... wait, wait, wait.
Ditch scratched his head fiercely, hopefully slaying at least a louse. Something... something was off about his memories. They felt like they had been from a couple months back instead of yesterday, but... no, that was not it. No... he... he met somepony.
Oh, sweet, he must have had a date! How many years had it been?
... however, their face was all... transparent-like. And spooky. And...
... oh bols!
Using the fact that the shack was still slightly tilting, Ditch looked around trying to match its pace. He did not need another reminder of that hayburger. And yet, despite expecting to see the unwanted and transparent obvious, he found no trace of his ghastly companion.
Huh... well, maybe Free Verse actually managed to get his spectral rump out of the cemetery, figuring out his plights and all? That would have been nice. Not that Ditch hated company, since the place was rather populated at this point in its history, but there was a distinctive difference between the dead and the not-so-quite-dead-but-still-dead-and-yet-not-so-much-dead-although-dead...
... urgh, his brain was rolling no worse than his stomach.
And an idea bubbled up from that waxing and waning, actually. Maybe... maybe Ditch just had too much to drink and started seeing things? I mean, he saw things rather often, but they were busy with parades, hippety-hoppety, and not talking with him and criticizing his drinking!
Who could tell?
... wait, actually, there was somepony. Similarly disparaging to that apparition, but possibly appropriate.
Wasting little time to clean himself up, because, to be honest, who had time for this on a daily basis, Ditch draped himself in his fatigued, sturdy cloak. He took his shovel in his hooves, with veneration and adoration. She had quickly become dear to him, yet was perhaps even dearer today... She would make sure that a freshly-dug hole would not become Ditch’s destination in his, slightly wobbly trot.
Because it was one thing to take care of the inhabitants, but sharing their living space... “dying” space... “having-dying” space, rather, was uncouth.
Dauntlessly, for dealing with his disposition was a doughty deed, Ditch dived deep into his diurnal duties, digging, dusting and disinfecting his delightful domain of the departed.
... definitely departed!
Locked in his duties, he was actually hoping to stumble upon his local patron and plight. Not that he did not appreciate the good padre and his efforts to console the grieving and conduct ceremonies, but... religious differences and all of that.
They shared this land, holy for the both of them, peace should have been the top priority, right? Right?
Thankfully, whilst Ditch was taking care of some weeds that tried to sneak their way from underneath the gravel paths, the rather bright, immaculate mane of Last Rites definitely-not-sneaked its way from between the gravestones.
“Padre!” Ditch shouted quite eagerly... soon regretting it in his head.
“Ah, Spadework, good day,” the unicorn replied somewhat cautiously, giving him a once-over. “I see you are... eagerly back to your tasks, without much regard for your own well-being. Again.”
Ditch checked his cloak and his hooves. Some dust, an equal measure of dirt, a smidgen of a cobweb, a pinch of... whatever that one was. Fair wear and tear, what was so wrong about it?
“You know me, padre, giving my all for the community, right? I live by their silent appreciation!”
“Quite so,” Last Rites warily agreed, his gaze betraying his lack of understanding.
Huh, and here Ditch thought ponies of the cloth were supposed to be kind, helpful, open to others and providing all the succor. Not intolerant, condemnatory bigots...
Sigh. Maybe in other, distant realms and worlds they remembered their true mission.
“Well, yeah, anyway...” Ditch looked about for witnesses, but the closest mourner was nowhere to be found. “I... actually wanted to ask you something, padre. Or, I should say, ‘Reverend’, cause its sorta, kinda, your thing?”
To say that Last Rites’ eyes lit up was to be disrespectful to light and to eyes at the same time. The unicorn’s gaze could rival those swarms of sunlight from the morning, now far less loud, but far more hot.
“Oh? You wish spiritual guidance, Ditch? Maybe about what we covered yesterday?”
Ditch just planted his shovel down, leaning on it a little. Support of loved ones was paramount in strange moments of life.
“Well, not really, but... uhm...”
“Please, be plain, child!” Last Rites encouraged him with a gentle expression.
Hah! Now he was gentle! What a twist!
“I mean, I was... ah...”
Haunted by a ghost? No.
Visited by a spirit? No.
Drinking spirit? Well, yes, but that was not the topic.
“... I was wondering about the... the dead.”
The unicorn cocked his eyebrow. “That is understandable when being at any place of burial, child.”
“Yeah, I know, Reverend, I am not saying I forget about them, they are a very nice clientele,” Ditch admitted. They were, usually, really delightful... aside from his latest punter. “I just wondered, like... what happens then?”
Last Rites blinked. “When?”
“Then-then.”
“I... what ‘then-then’?”
Ditch wanted to answer.
His knees buckled.
He keeled over, holding his heart.
He heard Last Rites’ confused and scared shout, but he could only collapse on the gravel, harking and heaving. Tossing and turning.
“Spadework! What is the matter?!”
It was too late. Far too late.
With a cry no louder than a mouse’s squeal, Ditch lay spread on the pathway, his eyes bulging, his tongue hanging from his mouth.
“Ditch! Ditch!” Last Rites was shaking him fiercely, panicked out of his mind.
... no reason why, Ditch was just trying to give him a visual clue.
“Then-then-then,” he stated, calmly glancing at the unicorn, who exhaled in a yell, slumping down on the fine rocks and wiping his sweaty forehead.
“Ditch, you varmint, you scared me to death!”
“There we go, you got it, padre!” Ditch replied, smiling and getting up, healthy as could be. “I knew you just needed a hint!”
The unicorn was fanning himself with his hoof, shaking his head. “Good Harmony, for what misdeeds?!” he asked the sky, but it remained above the issue. Ditch patiently waited for the padre to regain composure and color to his muzzle. “Well...” He cleared his throat after checking the state of his robes. “If you are asking me about afterlife, Ditch, I could invite you to a catechesis and I could—”
Ditch took a step back and waved his forelegs, taking his turn in getting panicked. “Wow, wow, wow, padre, you are a fine stallion, but I’m not swinging that way!”
The nerve!
Last Rites took a while, but finally planted a hoof on his face. At his own shame, rightfully so! “I... I won’t even try to discern where your thoughts wandered, Spadework.”
“I will tell you exactly, padre,” Ditch replied, getting this conversation back on its respectable track! “I wondered if you could, like... come back?”
“From beyond?”
“Yeah! Like, a ghost, or phantom, or some other malarkey.” The matter was made clear and purified of strange suggestions!
The unicorn huffed, taking care of his fringe, which ended up quite disheveled in the last minute. “There have been many claims about apparitions coming to haunt places dear to them, or visiting their relatives, but as much as we believe that spirits of the departed persist after their bodies’ deaths and venture to the afterlife, we know that those tales are nothing short of folklore, child. For once you cross that point of no return, you find pleasure and satisfaction like no other and join with Harmony in perfect, profound unison.”
... what kind of a raunchy religion was that?! Ditch was not interested in... in “unisoning” of any sort right now! And especially not one like that! Everybody with this one mare?!
Perversion!
He got his answer in the middle of this obscenity, but still...!
Calm, calm... Praise the jewel in the bottle, praise the jewel in the bottle.
As Ditch was trying to find inner peace and avoid temptations of this most vile sort, Last Rites turned to him again.
“Why are you asking, exactly? I wouldn't think anything, let alone fables of ghosts, could spook a grown stallion like you.”
Was he still teasing?! “That’s not it! Actually, I don’t want to know anymore!”
The Reverend took a step back with indignation. “Control yourself, Caretaker Spadework! Have you enjoyed spirits already today?!”
“No, and I don’t plan to! No spirits of any sort!” Ditch stomped his massive hoof down, causing gravel to shoot out in all directions.
“Good! Good,” Last Rites first shouted and then... approved with some satisfaction, though still visibly shaken by the outbursts. “Go... sit down in the shade for a moment, take off that coat of yours, the Sun must be getting to you,” he advised, turning to leave. “And remember about the funeral tomorrow.”
“Yeah, yeah...” Ditch grumbled under his breath, grabbing the shovel and heading the other way, abashed by everything.
He spent the rest of the day trying to wrap his head around what he had heard. Not the saintly smut stuff, but the part about there being no ghosts of any sort... so, had happened yesterday, exactly? Some sort of a very, very complex hallucination? Maybe he needed to ask Well Oiled about any unsavory additions to his moonshine! Ditch expected reliability and trustworthiness!
Speaking of which, thanks to his unswerving tool, he had just finished preparing the new grave for tomorrow, the sun having set but a couple of minutes ago. He wiped the sweat of his brow, pushing aside the tangled bush of his mane. He spent the entire day so busy, he almost forgot about his own, proper rites and obligations! After such good work, he was going to calmly get to his shack and meditate and maybe forget all about this strange—
“... greetings, Ditch.”
... son of a chicha!