It approached along a winding path, at a pace that could have been measured or sinister, depending on your state-of-mind. I wanted to shout--to cry out in fear--or barring that, at least run away down the trail and forget what I had just seen. Instead I did nothing, save gape and tremble, my imagination galloping away with a hundred horrible things that might soon happen. As it is, none of them did.
The figure had the form and face of a female, with bright eyes, flowing hair, and a frail look as though a gust of wind would disperse the apparition like foam to the air. It spoke--no, she spoke, saying something I did not understand. "Du snakker engelsk?" I asked, and the spirit closed her eyes a moment.
"As you wish," she said, her voice pure and touched with only the slightest of accents. Despite my fear, I chuckled a little inside. Even the ghosts of this country speak English.
"Thanks," I said, still wary. "I'm sorry, I--I didn't catch what you said before. The language here is foreign to me."
"I see that now," the ghost said with a smile that felt somehow both happy and sad at the same time.
Silence hung between us, so I said, "Yes, well, my name is--"
"I know who you are," the ghost said, and with a hand gestured toward the path. "Will you walk with me?"
Can a ghost walk? I wondered, but decided against asking. It's said that a man shouldn't say all that he thinks, but should always think about what he says.
The trail climbed a rise, and several times I tripped on an unseen branch or rock or root. It might have been an easier climb by the light of day, but the ghost seemed not to notice, and drifted along at whatever pace I could manage through the dark wood.
At length, she spoke again. "What brings you to Boserup Skov?"
"It is a special place for me," I said, and left it at that.
"You've been here before?"
"Once, aye." The path turned out of the trees, and before them was a farmer's fence, beyond which stood a steep hill that rose toward the starry sky, clad in the tattered remains of old corn-stalks. The stalks rustled even at the lightest breath of wind.
"You know someone in town?" asked the ghost, looking toward the hill's crest, where no doubt one could make out the spires of Domkirche, and the lights of the town. For the second time that night my innards turned cold.
"For a ghost, you know, you ask a lot of questions," I said, chewing at my lower lip. We followed the fence-line for a time, before the trail turned back into the woods.
"For a foreigner, you ask so few," the ghost replied.
"Could be you're right," I said, then added, "do you have a name?"
"No," she said, "not anymore."
"All right," I said, "how about Spirit?"
"As you wish," she said.
"Right, Spirit. So, Spirit--where are we walking?"
"You will see," said Spirit, and I cursed under my breath. It might have been my imagination, but I reckon she stifled a laugh at that. Damned ghosts.
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