Author: S. Suppes, Word Count: 666
Featured in Spooky Archaeological Tales: Live Stream – BonFire Night 2022
Normally, the ghosts aren’t helpful. It’s not their fault. Time has driven so many mad,
they rage against the bonds that keep them here and eventually fall into despair. They stop
noticing the passage of time. Some eventually shake out of the stupor and spend their time
watching us. Most prefer to keep away from the living since it reminds them of what they lost.
They stay in caves or other remote spaces.
I couldn’t tell the other excavators what I saw at the site. I had to wonder off alone to
talk to the ghosts who sulked on our overgrown tel. So many are ancient, they are so used to
being alone, ignored by the living.
I made one friend among them, a young woman. I think she lived in the Middle Bronze
Age. She knew the family who lived in the house I excavated. She told me about weaving
garments, spinning thread, grinding grain. She told me about a king in a city far away. We often
went to the top of the tel, where she continued to worship the gods in the ruins of her city’s
temple. There we would often sit together and look over the lush, green valley.
One day while we sat quietly, I asked about her death, about what it was like to cross
over and if she watched her body be laid to rest. She looked down forlornly and I worried I had
offended her. She explained that watching her little children mourn had filled her with deep
despair unlike any other, a sadness matched only by the disappointment of finding her spirit
tethered to this world and completely alone. Ghosts cannot see each other.
She took a long pause before answering the other questions. She told me her life was
taken by Mot, the devourer. I had read of Mot, a divine embodiment of death, and reflected that
everyone is a victim of the ‘god of death’ eventually. She said it is a monster whose hunger is
never satisfied, which feeds on men like cattle. It is never full and yet never starves. Most texts
I had read described him like this. But her details did not stop there. He came to her cloaked in
shadow and took away her life essence…took away her blood.
Her story guided my scholarly work for many years. I wrote extensively on Phoenician,
Canaanite, and Ugaritic mythology, as well as on daily life and household archaeology.
But I tracked him down eventually. He sent me a letter and we met at a table in the back
corner of a café. Tall and pale, a dark presence, emotionless under a black fedora. I sat across
from him; he did not meet my gaze. I sipped my coffee with uncertainty and tried not to shake.
Suddenly his eyes met mine, sharp and piercing, he asked me how I found him. I told him about
the ghosts. It was the first time I had ever told someone who was not a specter.
“Do you know what you are?” he asked.
That was a question I had never found the answer to. I had never met another like me,
and supposed I was like the ancient diviners or exorcists, granted some kind of special ability,
some sight beyond the veil.
“I always imagined the hereafter was lonely. What you are is the proof,” he said. “But
there is more life to be had if you are willing to accept the consequences.”
“Your existence seems just as lonely as that of a ghost,” I replied.
“What makes you think I’m alone?”
To my left one table away, a woman turned to look me in the eye. A face I had seen in its
spectral form at a dig site long ago. She walked up to us and smiled. He rose, they locked arms
and turned to leave. By the door, a figure stood and took his other arm. The sky darkened
slightly, and they walked out.
Leave a Reply