TREVOR TOOGOOD didn't believe in ghosts. So one evening, when he and his buddies were discussing an episode of the X-files over drink, he wasted not a single beer-stained breath in defending his educated opinion of the show vociferously.
``Ghosts are an ontological impossibility'' he would argue, drawing on his deep and vast knowledge of philosophy which his first pint of Guinness seemed reliably to endow him with. Every further pint fueled his vocabulary and loudness on the matter. In the past, the issue was usually resolved by the hostel warden. He would be called upon by Trevor's neighbours who were desperately trying to finish off an assignment or get some sleep. But this time, things were to turn out differently. So differently, in fact, that nobody ever talked about ghosts in that hostel the next day on.
Andy Chapman represented the other diametrical point of view -- that ghosts did exist and that the X-files were, in fact, the best that the world of scholarly non-fiction had to offer. Andy always wore a cross around his neck and kept a copy of the Bible beside his bed.
For the umpteenth time, Trevor finished his exposition of the theory of Epiphenomenalism with the enthusiasm of one who was obviously learning it, but with the authority of a master on the subject.
``So you see, a physical body is necessary for mental states. Noumena require phenomena, but not the other way around.'' Trevor concluded with a satisfied smile, rewarding himself for his eloquent delivery with two large swigs of beer before sitting down.
The next predictable move in this regular fortnightly routine was for Andy to rebut Trevor with a sentence that always began ``But according to a recent publication by Robertson and Greer...'' or some such equally anonymous authors. Today, however, Andy had been the very embodiment of variety. He had had Lager instead of Draught, and decided that the time was ripe for him to issue his ultimate challenge to Trevor Toogood.
``Well, if you are so cocksure of your views then, let's see you take the Mortimer test.'' said Andy.
``The what?'' asked Trevor, Greg, Dominic, Rafael and Robert in unison.
``The Mortimer test'' repeated Andy, very pleased that his newly discovered test should draw so much attention. Perhaps they will name it after him in future as the Chapman test for skeptics, he wondered. Boundless optimism is a faithful companion to mild drunkenness.
``In the eerie darkness of a new-moon's night, which tonight happens to be, by lucky co-incidence'' continued Andy who was thoroughly enjoying all the attention he was getting ``you are to spend until midnight all alone by the tombstone on Mortimer's grave.''
Mortimer's tomb had a notorious reputation. It was right in the middle of a cemetery bordering the north side of the college. In the past year alone, three students had committed suicide either on or beside the grave. Earlier this year, a student of English literature who had ``disappeared'' was also widely rumored to frequent the grave on new-moon nights as a ghost. People reported seeing him wander around the grave with the complete works of Shakespeare in one hand and a lantern in the other, reciting melancholic soliloquies from the bard's plays. Mortimer himself was a past professor of English in the college occupying the chair for Shakespeare studies. It was said that he became an alcoholic and later committed suicide when the University asked him to step down because of his alleged involvement in Satanic rites. People often reported seeing the old Professor Mortimer sitting gloomily on his tombstone at midnight.
``Phooey'' said Trevor who was by now charged with three pints of boldness and two pints of courage. ``I accept your challenge. For my part, I will require you to bear the entire cost of our next session's drinks for all of us if I don't change my beliefs by tomorrow.''
``Accepted'' said Andy, quite confident that Mortimer will prove him right.
``Okay then'' said Trevor and sealed the deal. With that the party ended. Trevor picked up his jacket, tucked a couple more bottles of beer in his pockets and set off with his friends for the north side of the campus to Mortimer's grave. Andy walked very close by Trevor, with his arm around his shoulder most of the time. He dutifully refreshed Trevor's memory of the morbid history of the grave and its unfortunate visitors.
When they had reached the cemetery, it was 10:30 pm and dark. The hostel could be seen at a distance from where they were, but it was out of earshot. If Trevor ever wanted help, he'd have to come back to the hostel. The walk in the cold autumn wind had had a mild sobering effect and the grim reality of the challenge was slowly dawning upon him.
``One last chance to recant and return with us'' Andy offered.
``Yes, I don't think this is a good idea'' said Rafael. Greg and Dominic nodded solemnly in agreement.
But there is nothing worse than losing one's repuation as a man when one is drunk just enough to be able to lose good judgment but not drunk enough to ignore such things as reputations. So Trevor disagreed vehemently, if half-heartedly. The others returned to the hostel leaving Trevor all alone at Mortimer's grave.
``Remember, you can come back anytime before midnight and we won't hold it against you.'' said Andy sardonically. Trevor pretended not to hear him as they walked away.
In the next half-hour Trevor examined his surroundings. In spite of his ostentatiously rational beliefs, he couldn't help feeling a bit scared. ``The mind believes, but the heart feels'' he could imagine himself proclaiming proudly at their next drinking session. ``Our fears do make us traitors'' he recalled from Macbeth. ``...traitors to our intellect'' he mused. Unfortunately, coining a clever phrase and reflecting on a tragic play didn't help much in alleviating his fears. So he decided to distract himself from his frightening thoughts by reading the epitaph on Mortimer's grave. Mortimer had chosen it himself just before he ended his life. It read
`The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns'
Save for me --
Rupert Henry Allan Mortimer.
Trevor shuddered. ``Reading the epitaph wasn't a very good idea'' he thought. It was time to top up his reserves of courage. He reached into his jacket and brought forth his first bottle of beer. He bit the top off in the vain hope that acting tough might confer a modicum of much wanted courage on a faltering heart, but promptly established the contrary. He put the bottle to his lips and tipped his head back slightly. Not a drop emerged. Utterly surprised, Trevor examined the bottle more closely and found to his dismay that it was completely empty. He placed it on the tombstone and tried the second bottle, but that too seemed dry as a bone. He checked to see if the bottles were cracked. They weren't. He didn't remember the caps being loose either, or his pockets wet from spilled beer. It was almost as if someone had drunk the beer straight out of the capped bottles without his knowledge.
He looked around and could see no one as far as he could see. The wind was picking up and it was cold. Yet Trevor was perspiring. He cautiously approached the cement platform on the grave and sat on it. His watch showed 11:10 pm. Fifty minutes, he counted, and he could get out of this abominable place.
He sat tight, facing away from the tombstone trying not to look anywhere at all except his feet. The cold wind had done an amazing job of restoring his soberness. No longer under the influence of courage-infusing alcohol, he began to wonder if he had perhaps made the wrong decision to accept Andy's challenge. Perhaps he should go back now. He would look like an awful fool, but still... ``No'' he decided. ``I can't stand Andy's self-righteous `I told you sos'. I'll wait it out. There's only about half an hour to go anyway''.
Trevor tried to close his eyes and wait. But that only made it scarier. He couldn't help imagining that someone was just about to tap him on his shoulder from behind. He projected the situation forward and saw him turning back to see Mortimer's pale face. He shuddered again, kept his eyes peeled and looked around to re-confirm that he was indeed alone.
The time was approaching midnight when Mortimer was supposed to make his routine appearance. Trevor's heart was beating very fast now. The hair on the back of his neck was standing and he had half a mind to run back to the hostel. He started to perspire even more and felt hot in his jacket in spite of the cold wind. He decided to get some ``air'' and took his jacket off and threw it down beside him.
Suddenly, he thought he saw something behind him out of the corner of his eye. A dark shadowy figure seemed to be making towards him. Trevor froze. He dared not turn around and look at it. He felt probed by the cold fingers of death as the icy air glided past his perspiring body. A tremulous bead of perspiration left his brow to splatter on his eyelashes. Terrified Trevor was about to give out a futile scream for help when he felt a little frigid finger running down the back of his ear. A puff of what seemed like warm cigar smoke seemed to travel down the back of his shirt along his spine. In total panic, Trevor grabbed the jacket he had thrown aside and prepared to make a run for it -- bet or no bet, he wanted to get out of here. ``To hell with Andy and his challenge,'' he thought.
But even as he was trying to run away, he felt a tug on the other end of the jacket. It was as if Mortimer didn't want him to go. He wanted him to stay and keep him company for ever, like the other young students who had committed suicide there and like the literature graduate who had ``disappeared''. It was then that Trevor heard Mortimer's spine-chilling voice.
``Waaaaiiiiiitttt...'' The groan sounded sickening, apparently emanating from deep inside the parched throat of a drunkard struggling to keep his syllables in sequence. ``Waaaaiiiiiit...'' The wind blew strongly again. Mortimer's grip on Trevor's jacket seemed to get tighter and it appeared that he was pulling Trevor toward himself. ``Waaaiiiit. Don't leave me Trevor. I want you'' Trevor's mind filled in. And these were the last words he heard.
They found Trevor the next morning by the tombstone. His face was white as if all the blood had been sucked away from it. His mouth was locked in what looked like a frightful cry. His right hand gripped his jacket tightly, locked into a fist by rigor mortis. The jacket was taut, its other end firmly caught on a nail in the cross by Mortimer's tomb. As the paramedics manouvered the jacket off the nail, the wooden cross leaned back to its original position slowly creaking ``Waaaaaaiiiii''. ``Funny'' the paramedic thought. ``Sounds almost human. He swung the cross back and forth again, just to listen. ``Weiii...wweiii'' it creaked. He shook his head in mild disbelief, turned around, zipped up Trevor into a plastic bag and loaded him into the ambulance.
That day Trevor's buddies of the previous night were in serious mourning. A terrible feeling of regret, remorse and guilt seemed to be stuck with them for ever. None felt more guilty than Andy who they say couldn't budge an inch from the chair in his room. He kept staring at two full bottles of beer on his desk as he listened to the coroner's report that Dominic relayed to him. They had established the cause of death to be ``Sudden myocardial infarction of unestablished aetiology'' and the time to be around midnight.