S. Harry Zade Asks a Question
By: Keith R Wilson
Tags: Ghosts, Literature, Fiction, Novel

S. Harry Zade Asks a Question

In hearing a ghost, dead some three hundred years, refer to a secret sin of his, the Cowboy heard enough. He hightailed it out of there and didn’t even stop to share with the Puritan preacher a brief fare thee well. Nor did he explore the rest of the quiet tombstones of the cemetery. The project of confronting the dead which he had so avidly began in the ancient churchyard, was now abandoned to this new development.

From what I understood of the Reverend Pierson’s warnings, uttered in difficult and archaic, if lurid prose, was that the Weather-Beaten Man in a Cowboy Hat, was damned. He had committed some horrible sin, which he, in his seemingly thorough exposition to the Therapist Emeritus, had omitted. This sin, like a gaping wound on his soul, left him open to infection by demons. These demons were using specters of the dead to get to him and would somehow involve him in a bitter revenge on the worthy inhabitants of Kenilworth. The town had been founded a few centuries ago, brief in the lifespan of demons, to wrest the land away from Satan.

This warning apparently made quite an impact on the Cowboy even though he shared little of the Reverend Pierson’s theology about demons and damnation and none of his prejudices about Native Americans.

I wanted to call after the Cowboy and get him to think and listen to reason, but I was trying to stay inconspicuous. I wanted to say, wait a minute, the Reverend Pierson was a ghost, right? He’s a ghost, warning you about ghosts; saying that Satan took on the forms of ghosts just to fool you. What if the ghostly apparition of the Reverend Abraham Pierson, the first rector of Yale College, was really Satan? Wouldn’t that be a double feint, worthy of the Prince of Darkness? Think of the chutzpah it would take for the Devil to play the specter of a respected, historically significant preacher and dress in purity, piety, and a Pilgrim costume. What balls it would take for Satan to denounce himself and his own evil, just to work some additional mischief on the unsuspecting town of Kenilworth for something their predecessors did four hundred years ago. The only one who could pull that off would be Lucifer, himself.

Indeed, a case could be made that the Puritans, their hands bloody from the English Civil War, were, themselves Satan’s legions, landed on the beach at Kenilworth, to claim an innocent Eden for the Devil. The original inhabitants, already decimated by disease carried by previous Europeans, had abandoned their village, allowing the monstrous minions to move in. You could argue that the ones who tell you the most about God are the enemies of God. The ones who complain the most about the Devil are, like corporations that pick your pocket while they say they’re saving you money, themselves double agents, just trying to throw you off. We moderns may understand this better than most. Not everyone who claims God as their own is a citizen in good standing of the Kingdom of Heaven. We get that; but it doesn’t mean we aren’t confused.

For the Weather-Beaten Man in a Cowboy Hat, it was enough that the ghost could refer to a secret sin. This was the trump card the preacher played. At that moment, standing alone in the ancient burial ground, I, S. Harry Zade, the narrator of this story, did not know what this secret sin might be that the Weather-Beaten Man carried around with him, under his cowboy hat. You can be assured that you will know as soon as I do. A storyteller cannot reveal a secret sin in a story in act three, without telling you what it is by act five; or, sooner, depending on the exigences of the plot. I would never waste your time, Dear Reader, with extraneous details.

The notion that a secret sin could result in his being haunted by ghosts led by the Prince of Darkness was an idea that even the Therapist Emeritus could share, even though she wouldn’t describe it the same way. She would substitute the phrase disavowed impulse for sin, hallucinations for ghosts, repressed for secret, contribute for result, emanating for led, and have his own unconscious psyche doing the emanating, rather than the Prince of Darkness providing the leadership. Replace any puritan preacher with the modern equivalent and you get a therapist. Take any dire warnings of eternal damnation and three hundred years later they are transformed into clinical formulations. Take the fact that a secret sin could result in his being haunted by ghosts led by the Prince of Darkness could so easily be transposed into repressed disavowed impulses contributing to hallucinations emanating from his own unconscious psyche, and you can see that nothing ever changes, it seldom gets better, but you can dress it up however you like to follow the prevailing fashion.

What was the secret sin, or repressed disavowed impulse, of the Cowboy? Have we seen any clues in the things he has said? Is there anything about his manner that might lead you to believe he was a monster? I have gone over his story as it has been presented thus far and seen no sign of it, except for the possibility that there being no sign, is, itself a sign. It shouldn’t be too hard to believe that any secret sin might result in the person developing a counterbalancing, compensating characteristic; a proud man acting humble, a lustful one respecting women, a glutton of human flesh becoming vegetarian. We so often take steps counter to our initial impulses that it might be good if we all had a secret sin if only so that we would act against it.

Still, despite the advantages, no one should ever wish to have a secret sin of their own, for it leaves them vulnerable to extortion by supernatural beings. I could see how worked up the Cowboy was to have it alluded to, much less revealed. I could see this, even though the night was pitch black and I couldn’t see my glasses, much less my hand, in front of my face. Having a secret is worse than having a zit on your nose. You must keep it concealed continuously and monitor its ripeness for the moment you can pop it and spray its oozing contents on the bathroom mirror. When that secret is a sin, it offers a secret pleasure, to be sure, but its puss is of the toxic kind that splatters, spreads, and clogs all your pores.

I took this occasion to reveal a secret of my own. Pop my own zit, if you will, among friends. I addressed the ghost and admitted that, while I looked like an ordinary academic, like him, I was really a fictional character.

I know how it is with real people and ghosts. Real people don’t associate with ghosts, even though they may have things to ask them; questions like, what’s it like being dead, have you seen so-and-so, and why do you go to the trouble to haunt people? But real people are too terrified by ghosts to speak up. I felt an affinity for the ghost, so I wasn’t frightened. It was like coming upon a countryman while traveling in a foreign land. We wouldn’t have anything in common otherwise, but the ghost and I belonged to related species. I was beginning to feel very lonely, being the only fictional character around. I trusted the ghost would understand what it’s like to not be real and hoped we could compare notes. I had sensed in him a yearning that I shared: to be real, have a body; and a craving to connect with people.

I was not prepared for Reverend Pierson’s reaction, for he seemed afraid of me. When I spoke, the ghost looked like he heard a ghost. He took a step back and beat a retreat into the mist. I hastened to follow my revelation with a question before he left. I said I hoped he could help me. There was something I wanted to know, of which, perhaps he had some knowledge. This was enough for him to stay and wait for me to formulate my question.

“Who is my Author and how do I get in touch with him?”

The Reverend Abraham Pierson, first Rector of Yale College, seemed to mistake me for someone else and chastised me for asking an honest question.

“Thou art a soul that has lost thy way. Return to the straight path and ask forgiveness of thy father. Cease a rebellion which wilt damn thou to perdition for all eternity.”