The final seconds of my life were terrifying, noisy, farcical and painful. I flew through the air, propelled by a force unknown, flapping frantically with my leathery wings, trying to regain my own chosen flight path. I then stopped and SQUEAK!—lungs nearly popping—as I hit something. Five chubby, huge and sweaty digits enveloped me in yet another upward motion. My echo-location senses were pinging wildly as I knew I was being lifted toward the foul-smelling alcohol-drenched maw of a demonic, oversized creature. Cavernous sounds cascaded all around my ears and thunderous drums shook my small, hairy body. The last thing I felt was a crushing sharp pain as the creature relieved my head from the company of my body using its mandible. A few twitches. And squirts of blood. And it was all over.

 

Spirit rose a metre, and stepped aside. It is extremely difficult to describe how it feels for your soul to leave your earthly body, and how you gain all these new senses of extended sight, time, space, dimensions and presence—so I won’t bother. Suffice to say, as is tradition amongst the early or violently departed—I became a fetch, a phantom, a spook- a vengeful ghost. I would have my revenge against my earthly tormentor and decapitator, I vowed.

 

I am also an unliving embodiment of one the most cliched of all haunting phantoms- a headless ghost, cursed to carry my severed head under arm for all eternity. Sounds terrifying, right? Like the horrific Dullahan, the Irish headless horseman with a skull of fire, or the screaming headless Banshee of Anne Boleyn? Nope. I am three inches high, look like a mouse with wings, one of which is forced to clutch my small furry decollated head forever. About as scary as roadkill.

 

I began my campaign of terror and revenge in earnest. Though tiny, I was now gifted with psychic powers and perceptions, and could alter the feeble minds of men and exchange objects by the mere power of my will.

 

I started small. My tormentor enjoyed taking large quantities of pharmaceutical powder up its nose. I swapped these for ants and squeeked sepulcherally as the fucker winced and groaned. I made its life a drunken living hell of urine, feces and vomit. I thought I would toy with my prey before landing my killing blow. Little did I know that this was how the foul beast had lived previously to my hauntings, and my machinations had little to zero effect.

 

As the years passed, I grew weary of this and so manipulated the mediasphere to film his every move and beam across the planet. This only served to increase the beast’s following of worshippers. I winced as even my death became a chat show anecdote to be ridiculed and to service my tormentors infamy.

 

Finally- I saw my chance. The demon was riding upon his 4 wheeled carriage- a ridiculous contraption called a ‘Quad’. I channelled the levers and pulleys within the contraption and led it to a dangerous ditch. My soul leapt as I saw it flip, crushing the bastard in a squelch of blood, stupid John Lennon spectacles, hair, heavy metal and gears. This had to be it. My moment of dark triumph. I held out my wings ecstatically, expecting to ascend to the great guano-filled bat cave in the sky…

 

Alas, no. The anti-Christ arose three days later—barely scathed—with a number one single in the charts and the even-more unending devotion of his worshippers. My spectral form howled bitter tears of anguish and rage. Fuck this for a game of soldiers, I thought.

 

I spent the next decades instead tormenting the rest of mankind by creating the ghost point of culture, developing reality TV, boy and girl bands, and internet arguments. Quite petty of me, really.

 

The last time I saw my nemesis alive, he was hosting a concert. He looked old and frail, and could not stand. I did, however, enjoy the songs this time, and felt my calgar tap in time to the beat. His voice sounded powerful. I felt an inward warmth as never before toward my former foe. Perhaps it was time to forgive, forget. He didn’t mean it- it was after all, probably an accident, and probably a result of the universe playing silly buggers with us as it is wont to. I felt the weight of ages leave my wing membrane and clicked a click of relief. I looked fondly at the old man sitting in his chair, singing away. Like a grandad in a rocking chair. No longer a bat-chewing bastard.

 

Wait a minute- what fucking kind of shape is that chair? You fucking bastard—it’s a fucking bat!