A Boat Trip, Drunken Ghost Hunting And Casual Vomiting

A Boat Trip, Drunken Ghost Hunting And Casual Vomiting

The day started in the usual manner.
Going into town with my friend (we’ll call him 'The Cardinal') under the
pretence of a long shopping trip. This always meant five minutes in a shop,
followed by five hours in the pub. We weren’t exactly health freaks, as you
can imagine, but life was good. Stumbling from the pub, shielding our eyes
from the blazing sun, we ventured to our respective homes to get prepared
for the evening’s adventure.

The boat trip was what you’d expect around the bay. There were lots of
ups and downs and the occasional swell (though, that better describes my
bladder, rather than the sea). More merriment, mixed with nausea.
The night was going well.
At the end of the trip we waved goodbye to the group that we went on
with (my girlfriend –‘future wife’- family and friends) and headed for the
town. Clubs and pubs beckoned us in. We tried to resist, but I have to
confess, we were weak.
We’d made a pact with the Devil many years before, along the lines of
“If you let us just get on with it, we won’t have to come around and red
hot poker your anus”. He got the message.
Many more drinks and some creative dancing on the dance floor, then
saw us heading back to my girlfriend's parents house, where I was staying.
On the way, we talked about how we were going to make a big name for
ourselves, by doing something great:

Musicians: starting a band, even though neither one of us could sing or play
an instrument.

Artists: controversially building sculptures out of dustbins – The Crucifixion,
with a Guy Fawkes dummy as Christ or a twenty foot high penis- erected
(pun intended) on Torre Abbey Gardens.

Or.

Ghost Hunters: being the first to actually capture real proof of their existence.

Being a rather avid reader of books on Devon ghosts at the time, I recalled
reading about a large house that was supposedly haunted, that was on our
way home. In our drunken state, we decided that this was an ideal time to
scope out the building.

On reaching the house, we saw immediately that it had an old cobbled area
in front of the large garage, surmising that this must have been an old stables originally, as we had the unmistakeable odour of ghostly horse shit wafting
up our noses (the idea that it was probably always a garage and the smell of
horse shit was actually coming from the freshly planted flower beds, eluded
us) convinced that we were on the trail of spooks, we carried on.
We discovered that the house had now been turned into flats or apartments,
so started to press the doorbells of all the flats, to see if anybody wanted to
come out to tell us about their ghostly encounters. No one came.
Moving to the back of the property, we stood in the gardens looking up for
spirit faces at the windows. No one came. Now staring up at the full moon
that seemed to fill the night sky, I realised that I was alone, (The Cardinal)
having disappeared.
A high pitched scream and rustling of bushes then brought me back to my
senses, as I caught sight of my friend hurtling past and out into the night.
Now, finding I was all alone, after watching my lump of a friend squeal off
the premises, I too started after him, (only, I was shouting in a manly way,
honestly).
I caught up with him at the bottom of the road, where upon he told me of
his dreaded, supernatural encounter.
“I thought you were behind me, but then I turned around and you’d gone.
Then, a gust of wind blew and something brushed against me.” (clearly,
just a bush, as we were in the gardens…Arse).
We just laughed.

Back home, we drunkenly sat in the garden contemplating the universe as
we gazed up at the stars and their many constellations ( Huge Bear, Dogs
Face, and The Old Beggar’s Crippled Fingers) I think that was what we
had spotted anyway.
At this point, out came my prospective father-in-law, to inform us of his
retiring to bed.
With a mighty inebriated man-hug, I stopped him mid sentence, holding
him back slightly.
A fan of rainbow coloured vomit ( like a proud peacock’s tail feathers)
issued from my mouth onto the newly laid patio. Turning back to him I
tried to continue with our conversation, only to see him walking away,
shaking his head.
This was not uncommon behaviour (we really were a bit wild).
Glory days.

This is one of many tales (parts of which may have hazily been left out).
The friend I speak of in the story will know who he is.
As will some of you.

Please feel free to comment on your own supernatural experiences.
Be they drunk or sober.