Ane Hallae e’en Wird Hunt

Image copyright: Fiona Tinker

Thi herr oan thi back o ma napper stuid on its end. A coudnae believe ma ain een, bit thaur it wis richt in front o mi: a shooglin, hirplin, lowpin, birlin bodach that skitit fae wan fit tae thi ither, nivir stappin ir pechin.

Wull, it widnae pech, wid it? Whit wi it bein gey deid an that. Nae breith. Nae lungs ithir, fer that maiter. An whit wis it daein onywise?

“Ahem,” I cried. “Whit ye daein?”

Twa eldritch een cut intae mi. Bittys o thi bogle came tae a stap at different bits o time, gein it a ferr dirlin ootline.

“Ye kin see mi?” it askit.

“Aye, ah kin,” ah aunswert.

“An yer no feart?”

“Naw!” ah laucht. “Whit’s tae be feart o in a bogle that lueks lich it’s goat a live electric wire shuved up its erse?”

Thi bochan wis mortal-affrontit wi ma repone, weel, as aboot as mortal is a ghaist coud be.

“It’s nae funny,” it said, greetin. “Thaur a wis, aw happy in ma ain life, lovin aw ma American fillums, ma mahoosive American fridge, ma American beers an aw that. Than – bang! Hert stappit. Gemme ower. Deid.”

“Ah weel,” ah replied. “Hauppins tae us aw in thi end. Bit how come yer jitterin like a hytit jeely?”

If a ghaist cuid git a big riddy, this yin did. A richt beamer it hid.

“Mumm-chh…bbnn,” it said.

“Whit?” I cried. “Spier a bitty looder, wid ye? Ah cannae hear ye.”

Thi twa een sliced me agin. Bit this time they waur desperate, nae tryin tae be aw scary an that.

“Ach,” it moaned, “ it’s aw tae dae wi ma love o American fillums. See, when ah wis alive, ah ayewis went oan aboot hoo aw things American were better an aw that. Wis a bit o a blawbag, kin see tha noo.” 

It soucht. “An ken whit happened then?”

“Aye,” ah telt him. “Bang! Deid – gemme ower. Bit nae heavenly choir?”

“Naw, jist a muckle o deid American actors, whaud been feedin aff mi energy fae adorin them fer decades like, came fer mi. Wantin tae thank mi fer keepin thaim alive an that. Fer talkin aboot them sae much an sae aften. Said they wid hae faded awa by noo if nae fer me an ma obsession. Ah didnae ken ma energy an adoration wis gaun tae keep thaim stuck atween ane warld an thi next, I swerr.”

This wis affy interestin, so ah askit, “Did ye nae ken ye waur daein that? Did ye no feel it?”

“Naw,” it replied, soondin miserable. “Ah jist thocht a goat a bit tired an ratty an that. Didnae ken whit ah wis really daein. Mair fuil mi, eh?”

An wi that, it stertit tae shoogle an went back tae its jiggin.

“Stoap it!” Ah gowlt.

“Ah cannae!” it skirlt.

“How no?” Ah skirlt back.

“Caus am cursit! Aw they daft deid American actors walcomed mi tae thi ither side an gied me a name –  named mi intae ma efterlife – an ah hiv tae be thi thing they cried mi!”

I sterred at it. It hid tae be whitevvir it wis yon lang deid Americans cried it?

Noo, I ken thaur’s a fair bitty incomprehension atween American English and English English, let alane wi Scots as anither leid aw thi gither. Ah thoat a wiz fine wi aw three tungs bit even ah coudnae wirk oot whit wurds hid goat muddled up, why an whaur.

Onywise, ah jist carrit oan watchin as yon puir bodach jiggit, jampit and joukit. It really wisnae oanything tae be afeart o, it wis jist a desperate soul in its ain jiggin hell, tae tell thi truth.

“Help mi!” it screicht, as thi mirk o its boady twistit an birlt.

“Whit did they cry ye?” I bawlt at it.

“Thon ‘B’ wird!” it moaned in despair.  “It’s needin sayin an unsayin – pleeeeaaaassse!”

B wird?  B wird?

Whit widae gat twistit? Whit coudae gat twistit?

Bodach? Bogle? Bampot? Boodie? Whit wid American actors mibbe nae ken taae say richt? Apairt fae hoo tae say ‘Jekyll’? B wirds… nae J wirds…come oan, ween!

Then a muckle daud o inspiration skelpit me alang ma lug. O coorse!

“Yer a bogey-maun!” ah screikit. “A bogey-maun – nae a bluidy boogie-man!”

Thaur wis a skelloch o puir joy an then a bolt o licht shot up tae heivven.

“Yer a pure pal, so ye ur!” wis thi last thing ah heard is thi miscawed dauncin bogle coud at lang an last go tae its everlasting rest.

Ah didnae see whaur thi bogey-maun went tae or whit happened efter that. Bit, me bein it’s pal or no, ah jist hope it wisnae plannin oan bein thi bogey-maun unner ma ain bed – or a boogie-maun oan thi rug o ma flair!

Fiona Tinker

October 2021

Copyright Fiona Tinker 2021. All rights reserved.