Ghosts in the Woods

We’re halfway through the woods when I decide — against better judgment, but entirely in character — to bring up the afterlife. It’s one of those soft, green mornings where everything feels undeniably alive. The kind of morning that feels almost staged. Sunlight filters through branches like dappled brushstrokes. Birdsong flits through the trees, threading through the stillness. The ground is damp beneath our feet, leaves surrendering with a soft, papery crunch. “Imagine,” I say, because I can’t help myself, “How strange would it be if people didn’t actually die?” Mat exhales. I feel it. That small internal flinch. “I mean,” I continue, because stopping now would be wildly out of character, “what if we just… went somewhere else? Like a holding place. And what if—” “Amanda.” His voice tightens. “Please don’t.” I glance at him. His face has gone that particular shade — ashen, like I’ve knocked on a door deep inside him that very much prefers to stay closed. “And what if,” I say, softer now but still pressing, “the two places started to merge? Like… reality and whatever comes after. Overlapping. Bleeding into each other.” He shakes his head immediately. “Nope. Not today.” There it is. The willies. Fully activated. I almost laugh. Almost. There’s a rustle behind me. I turn. And there — peeking around a tree like he’s mid-game of hide-and-seek— is Mat’s father. Flat cap. Walking stick. Glasses perched halfway down his nose. Exactly as I remember him. Only… he doesn’t belong here anymore. He catches my eye. And winks. A proper wink. Small, but unmistakable. My stomach drops and lifts all at once. “What’s wrong?” Mat asks. I pause. Because what am I supposed to say? Oh nothing, just spotted your dead father lurking behind a tree like he’s waiting for his cue in a village panto. Even to me — believer of most things, queen of the gullible — that sounds… ambitious. “Oh,” I say lightly. “Nothing.” We keep walking. Through woodland that feels like it has eyes, watching without being seen. I try again, because clearly I’ve learned nothing. “There just has to be more than… you know. Lights out. Game over.” “Can we stop talking about this now?” Mat says, sharper this time. It’s not irritation. Not really. It’s deeper than that. Like I’ve brushed against something ancient in him. Something that whispers… don’t touch that. “Okay,” I say. I mean it, this time. Mostly. “What shall we talk about then?” He thinks for a beat. “We could just walk in silence.” Charming. We do. For a while. Feet crunching over fallen leaves. The soft, steady rhythm of it. The woods breathing around us. And then — “Peter Prick Pants, eh?” Clear. Crisp. Unmistakable. I swivel my head. And there he is. Peter. King of boat shoes and sockless feet. Pink jumper tied around his neck like he’s just stepped off a moderately disappointing yacht. That same smug, familiar air. Entirely himself. Entirely dead. “Jesus—” I whisper. He grins, delighted. “Didn’t expect to be remembered like that, I’ll be honest.” “I didn’t mean to call you that,” I say quickly, heat prickling up my neck. He lets out that exaggerated, booming laugh. The one that always felt half-performance, half-joy. Mat glances at me. “Did you just say something?” “Just speaking to myself,” I reply, far too easily. A completely sane and socially acceptable response. Peter falls into step beside us, hands clasped behind his back like he’s on a leisurely promenade. There are a thousand questions clawing at me. But where do I even begin? Hi, sorry, quick one — what’s death like? Fancy filling me in while my sceptical husband actively ignores your existence? “Bit awkward, this,” Peter says, nodding towards Mat. “Him not seeing me.” “You think?” I hiss under my breath. He leans closer, voice dropping. “You lot get so caught up in endings,” he says. “Love a neat finish. Beginning, middle, end. Curtain call.” I frown. “And?” “And it’s not like that,” he says, softer now. “It’s… continuous. Messy. Uncontained. Beautiful, if you let it be.” There’s something in his voice now. Something that doesn’t quite leave when the words do. “Don’t wait until you’re dead to understand that,” he adds. And then — like mist remembering it was never solid — he’s gone. Just… absence. I stop walking for half a second. Did I see him? Or have I finally tipped into full-blown woodland madness? Honestly, either feels plausible at this point. We reach a clearing. A wide stream cuts through it, water trickling over stones with that quiet, endless patience. The air shifts. Opens. softens. And there — My Nan. Hunched slightly beneath a tree. But not in the way I remember from the end. No frailty. No fading. Whole. Bright. Herself again. As she was when life still sat comfortably on her shoulders. She looks up. Smiles. It catches in my chest, tight and sudden. I want to run to her. Wrap myself around her. Tell her I miss her in ways that don’t quite translate into language. But Mat is still walking. Still moving forwards. Still entirely unaware that the woods have quietly filled with the dead. So I don’t move. I just lift my hand. She lifts hers. A silent acknowledgment. A shared I see you. And somehow, it’s enough. “See?” I say, trying again, softer this time. “There must be something more than just… nothing.” “Oh, this again,” Mat groans. I sigh. There are some people you simply cannot convince of things that live outside the neat borders of logic. Mat could explain anything away. Science, coincidence, wishful thinking. Me? I’ve never been built that way. I’ve been this way since I was six years old. Since the first time death brushed past me and refused to explain itself. My grandad. There one day. Gone the next. I remember lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, trying to understand how something could just… stop. It didn’t make sense. So I made it make sense. I remember the thought drifting in, already finished, already true. I am God. And if I am… then everyone else must be too. Six years old. Spiritual awakening, slightly unhinged edition. It settled something in me. Let me sleep again. And it’s stayed with me ever since — not the ego of it, not I am God in the loud, self-important way — but the quieter truth beneath it. That we are all something shared. Something continuous. A soul having a human experience. Which, admittedly, sounds like something you’d find embroidered on a cushion in a shop that smells faintly of incense — but still. I’ve always been drawn to what happens next. Not in a morbid way. Not in a let’s dwell in darkness kind of way. Just… curiosity. A gentle tug I’ve never quite shaken. And maybe that curiosity has made me more open. More susceptible. More likely to notice things others might dismiss as spirituality phooey. Because I have seen things. Not quite dead relatives popping out mid-woodland stroll levels — but things I couldn’t explain. My first home, for one. Haunted. Or so I believed. It started small. Objects moved when I was certain I’d left them elsewhere. The thermostat fiddled with like an invisible hand had taken an interest in central heating. That constant feeling of being watched — not threatening, just… present. Then it escalated. An invisible force pinning me to the bed. Breath trapped. Body frozen. Dark figures in doorways. One night, one crouched beside my bed, screaming — leave. “Probably a nightmare,” Mum had said. “It wasn’t,” I insisted. “I was awake.” Case dismissed. I was terrified. Alone. Unbelieved. And then one day — In the shower, a spiralling candle holder lifted into the air and smashed violently against the opposite wall, tea lights scattering everywhere. Not a slip. Not a fall. Thrown. The other things, I could explain away if I tried hard enough. Sleep paralysis. Stress. Imagination. But that? That was a message. Clear. Undeniable. Urgent. Get out. And I didn’t understand it then. Not fully. But I do now. Because at the time, I was in a relationship that was quietly, steadily destroying me. A man who treated me like something to absorb his anger. A life that was shrinking around me. That presence — whatever it was — wasn’t there to harm me. It was trying to push me out. Leave. And eventually, I did. And the haunting stopped immediately. Like a switch had been flicked. That was a lifetime ago. And now here I am. Walking through the woods with my very sceptical husband — and what appears to be an ever-growing gathering of the dead. And then I see him. My dad. Leaning against a tree like he’s been there all along. Shirt off. Gold chains nestling in curly-whites. Inspecting the bark like it holds something important. Alive. Not sick. Not angry. Not afraid. Just… him. I stop. “Dad,” I whisper. He looks up. Smiles. “You were right,” he says. It lands deep. Deeper than I expect. “I didn’t believe you, did I?” he adds, softer now. I shake my head. “No.” He exhales. Something heavy leaving him. “I was so scared,” he admits. “Didn’t need to be.” “No,” I say gently. “You really didn’t.” I glance at Mat. Still walking. Still grounded firmly in a version of reality that does not include this moment. “How’s the afterlife?” I whisper. Dad frowns. “Afterlife?” He lets out a small, almost amused laugh. “There is no afterlife,” he says. My heart dips. “Oh.” He steps closer. “There is only life after life.” I stare at him. My words. Given back to me like I dropped them somewhere along the way. I nod. Of course. And then — He’s gone. No goodbye. Just… elsewhere. We reach the edge of the woods. Mat slows, finally looking at me properly. “You’ve gone quiet,” he says. I smile. Maybe I have. Because here’s the thing — Maybe it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t believe. Maybe it doesn’t matter if anyone does. Some truths aren’t meant to be proven. They’re meant to be held. Felt. Lived quietly, without needing agreement or applause. We step out of the woods. And just before the path opens fully — I hear it. Footsteps. More than two. Not behind me this time. With me.