Colonel (Retd.) Frederick Bramlett-Foster sat at his green leather-topped antique writing desk, carefully constructing a letter. The thoughtfulness behind the letter’s careful construction was vastly at odds with the Colonel’s mood. He was furious.

He was just about to write a wonderfully scathing sentence (a sentence he’d just that moment thought up), when the vibrations from a passing lorry rattled the panes of glass in the French windows of his study. The rattling caused him to lose his concentration and forget the words he had been about to write.

“Damnation!” snapped the Colonel, as he threw his pen down onto the desk in exasperation. The pen clattered loudly against the leather surface and a large drop of ink sprayed from the nib and splashed onto the letter, obliterating the center of five lines of the Colonel’s writing.

“Damnation!” the Colonel shouted again. Angrily, he pushed his chair back from his desk and got to his feet. He crossed his beautifully furnished study and stood at the French windows, looking out across the landscaped gardens, towards the object of his anger – the road.

From the moment the road had been completed (over six months ago), the Colonel had hated it. His was not an unreasoned hatred – he hated it because it bordered his property – in fact it was so proximate that every time a lorry drove past (which was frequently) the windows of his ancestral home would shake and rattle considerably.

When the road had first been built, the Colonel had soon discovered this unpleasant fact and he had immediately written to the construction company responsible for the road. He had blamed them for his unpleasant situation and demanded that they do something to rectify his unfortunate predicament immediately, either by closing their road or by repairing his windows. The construction company, much to the Colonel’s chagrin, had not bothered to either acknowledge or reply to his letter.

Colonel (Retd.) Bramlett-Foster (not one to rest on his laurels) had then written a strong letter to his M.P., criticizing the Government’s shabby treatment of private citizens and their property, especially those private citizens who had (by their military derring-do) helped the current Government be elected. In terse, fully factual sentences, the Colonel had explained his unfortunate situation in full to the M.P., and then demanded that he do something about it.

A letter had arrived that very morning, written by an apologetic under-secretary of the M.P., sympathizing fully with the Colonel, but claiming that there was absolutely nothing the M.P. could do to help. The under-secretary did suggest that the Colonel simply hire a good glazier to refit the house windows, thereby putting an end to any shakes or rattles that the Colonel might be suffering from.

The Colonel had thrown the letter away in disgust and was now in the (interrupted) process of writing to the Prime Minister, in an attempt to get something positive done (once and for all) about his windows.

As he stood at the French windows, looking out across his well-kept lawns, past the ornamental fountains, on past the tennis courts, and on to the twelve foot high stone wall that surrounded his property, hiding that ugly road from his view, the Colonel that by going to the (so-called) top that he would get some satisfaction from that quarter.

“Excuse me, please,” a voice said from behind him. “I wonder if you could help me?”

After nearly falling through his loosely glazed French windows with surprise at hearing a voice other than his own in his study (for he never allowed any of his servants entry to his study), he turned to face the speaker and was greeted with a most unusual sight.

The person standing next to his desk was almost transparent, having only a silvery tinge to his or her body. The difficulty with identifying gender came from the fact that he or she had no head.

“Who the devil are you?” the Colonel snapped. “And how the blazes did you get in here?”

“I’m a ghost,” the transparent person answered, “and I got in by walking through the walls.”

The Colonel (a little disappointed that this strange-looking person wasn’t a burglar) strode across his study and sat down behind his desk.

“A ghost? A ghost, you say?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Well, in that case you’d better explain yourself. Then tell me how I can help you,” the Colonel added, deciding to be reasonably polite, simply because he’d never spoken to a ghost before.

“I appear to have lost my head,” the ghost said, sounding very unhappy.

“Yes, so I’d observed,” the Colonel said dryly. “But why have you come to me? I don’t have your head.”

“Well,” the ghost explained, “I have been wandering these parts for many years, searching for my head with no luck. For a reason I can’t explain, it’s these grounds that feel familiar to me. Down by the twelve-foot wall I can feel the presence of my head, but despite looking and looking and looking, I can’t seem to find it. Of course, having no head does make looking a little difficult.”

“I suppose it would,” the Colonel said, wondering how looking for something without a head had proved difficult for the ghost, but talking hadn’t. “Tell me,” he suddenly asked, as something occurred to him, “do you think that your head is in the vicinity of the road?”

“Yes, I do,” said the ghost. “I can’t bear to be near the road for long, because I always feel an overwhelming sense of dread whenever I get near to it.”

Colonel Bramlett-Foster suddenly had a wonderful idea regarding how he could help both himself and the ghost.

“You do realize, of course,” he said, “that you might be the ghost of someone killed on that road.”

“I have given that some careful consideration,” the ghost said. “And I think that you might be right. If that were the case, it would explain why I feel so uneasy when in close proximity to the road. It also means,” the ghost finished sullenly, “that I might never find my head.”

“If you have been killed on that road, there will be a record of it in the local papers. I could search through them and find that out,” the Colonel said. “At least you’d have an identity then, even if it took a while to find your head.”

“That would be something, at least,” the ghost said, a note of hope entering its voice.

“What if several people have been killed on that road?” the ghost asked.

“Then we’ll just have to see which one looks the most like you, won’t we?” said the Colonel, not sure if such an identification would be possible without the ghost’s head. He also thought (quite mercenarily) that if several people had been killed on the road, then his letter of complaint against it would be all the stronger. The higher the death toll, the stronger his case.

The Colonel glanced at his pocket watch, got up from his desk, went into the hallway, put on coat, scarf, gloves and hat, and then slipped his keys into his overcoat pocket.

“Are you coming with me?” the Colonel called.

The ghost floated through the wall and appeared at the Colonel’s side, making him start.

“Where are you going?” the ghost asked.

“To the public library, old chap,” the Colonel replied. “It’s where they keep copies of the local newspapers.”

“Does going there involve crossing that road?” the ghost asked uneasily.

“Yes it does. I’m sorry, old chap, I wasn’t thinking straight. You won’t want to go anywhere near that road, will you?”

“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”

“My dear chap, I understand perfectly. You stay here, have a look around or make yourself comfortable in my study, or something while I’m gone. Don’t frighten any of my staff though, will you?”

“No, I won’t. And thank you very much for all of your help in this matter. You’re a very kind man.”

As the Colonel made his way out of his home and across his ornamental garden, he felt a little guilty about how he was using the ghost’s misfortune to help achieve his own ends. By the time he’d reached the boundary wall of the grounds however, he’d managed to banish any feelings of guilt he’d momentarily had by reminding himself that if he was the one who got the road closed, then he’d be saving countless lives.

Outside the wrought-iron gates of his estate, the Colonel carefully made his way into the nearby town and entered the public library. He walked up to a desk that was marked ENQUIRIES and spoke to the woman who stood behind it.

“I would like to browse through some old local newspapers please,” the Colonel said.

“Do you have a specific date in mind, sir?” the librarian asked.

“Only the last six months,” the Colonel said.”

“Very well,” the librarian said. “If you’d like to take a seat in the reading area, I’ll bring them over to you.” She pointed towards a well-lit area that contained tables and chairs. There was no one sitting at any of the tables.

The Colonel was glad. He nodded curtly and made his way into the reading area. He sat at a large reading table in a corner. After a while, the librarian came over, carrying three large leather-bound files. She put them on the table.

“Each file contains two months of newspapers,” she said. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

The Colonel thanked her, and then watched her walk back to through to her desk.

Nice-looking filly, he thought, before turning his attention to the newspapers. He spent the remainder of the day diligently searching through the newspapers, going over each page carefully, but found nothing of any use to him or the ghost.

He made his way home. The ghost was waiting for him.

“How did it go?” the ghost asked, once the Colonel was ensconced in his study again.

“Sorry, old chap, but I couldn’t find a damn thing about anyone having been killed on that road.”

The ghost sighed sadly.

“Whatever am I going to do?” it wailed. “I can’t spend the rest of eternity headless, can I?”

“Don’t you worry,” the Colonel said hastily, genuinely feeling sorry for the ghost and its dilemma. “I’ll go out tomorrow morning and personally have a look for your head. If I fail to locate it, it won’t be for lack of trying.”

“You’re such a kind man to go to all this trouble on my account,” the ghost said. “How can I ever thank you?”

“No need to thank me, old chap,” the Colonel said, feeling uncomfortable because of the ghost’s gratitude.

True to his word, the next morning, Colonel (Retd.) Frederick Bramlett-Foster arose early, ate a hearty breakfast, and then went out into the grounds of his beautiful home. He crossed the lawn, passed the ornamental fountain, crossed the tennis courts, and halted at the small, wrought iron gate that was set into the high perimeter wall of his property. He fished an elaborate key out of his jacket pocket and unlocked the gate. He pulled it open, then peered out at the road.

“Thank you for doing this!” the ghost said. It had suddenly appeared behind the Colonel and had made him jump with fright.

The Colonel waved away the ghost’s thanks and asked if it felt up to helping him in the search.”

“I’d really like to,” the ghost said, “but I feel so uneasy – even just standing here, on your property. The road’s too near. Imagine what I’d be like out there…”

The Colonel tried to pat the ghost affectionately on the shoulder, but his hand passed straight through its transparent body.

“Never mind, old chap,” he said. “You go and wait in my study, and if I find your head, I’ll bring it straight to you – on the double. We can’t have a decent chap wandering around with no head, can we?”

After more words of thanks, the ghost vanished and the Colonel stepped out onto the grass verge of the road and pulled the gate closed behind him.

There wasn’t a lot of traffic about, it being reasonably early in the morning, a fact the Colonel was glad about. He knew he’d look a little conspicuous walking alongside the road, so the early hour he’d chosen for the search was an attempt to circumvent any attention being focussed on him by passing drivers and passengers.

He began to walk along the grass verge, following a natural footpath. After a few yards, the footpath stopped as the verge widened out. It was then that the Colonel noticed the ditch.

It was almost at the base of his boundary wall – as far away from the road as it could possibly be.

The Colonel suddenly felt mounting excitement – similar to the emotion he’d felt when on active military duty. He realized that it was quite possible for the ghost’s head to be in the ditch, hidden from view. He peered into the ditch intently, slowly walking along, hoping that he looked (to passing motorists) like a country gentleman out looking for his dog.

He scrutinized everything in the ditch (squashed drinks cans and cartons, soggy cigarette packets, torn items of clothing, discarded newspapers and ripped magazines, used condoms and orange peel) carefully, but saw nothing untoward.

The Colonel neared the end of the ditch and was just about to give up his search, when he saw something that resembled a silver-tinged sphere resting at the very bottom of the ditch, half-submerged in a puddle of muddy water.

With a cry of exaltation, the Colonel bounded forward and reached into the ditch. He managed to lift the mud-splattered head out of its watery prison, whereupon he placed it on the grass and pulled his Union Jack handkerchief out of his trouser pocket. He wiped the mud off the head and looked at the features of his guest.

Staring at him was his own face – wearing an evil sneer.

“No!” screamed the Colonel, scrambling to his feet and backing away from the head, horror and revulsion washing over him. He stepped back further – into the road. Into the path of an oncoming sixteen wheel lorry.

The driver did not have enough time to stop and the lorry hit the Colonel whilst traveling at sixty miles an hour, knocking him down and running him over. The rear wheels of the lorry ran over the Colonel’s neck, severing his head, which rolled across the grass verge and dropped into the muddy puddle at the bottom of the ditch. The driver managed to stop the lorry a little further down the road, then got out to see what had happened, although he had a fair idea. Several of the cars that had been behind the lorry slowed, then braked, either to offer assistance or simply to have a look at a fatality.

Everyone was so busy looking at the Colonel’s decapitated body that no one noticed the silver-tinged figure appear at the roadside. Neither did they see it pick up its head and tuck it under its arm.

The ghost of Colonel (Retd.) Frederick Bramlett-Foster, no longer uneasy by the road that had killed him, stood and watched the commotion for a few moments, then, pleased that it knew who it was at last (and very glad that it had its head back), disappeared into its loosely-glazed family home.