Vanessa

Has the naughtiest boy in your school ever stuck out his foot tripping up your head teacher making them badly cut their knees, but not bleed? Is that nit-picking woman who lives down your road (you know, the one who won’t give you your ball back when it goes in her front garden) always going to the doctor complaining of being ill, but never is? Or maybe you’ve punched your brother or sister so hard because they wouldn’t let you play with something that was theirs, swearing it would leave an enormous bruise, but it didn’t? And have any of your friends ever missed the deciding penalty in the final of the football league, or not passed their end of term dancing exam and still not cry? Then if they didn’t, you can be sure you know a Doppleganger, a ghost to you and me, the highest ranking one at that, there being three different rank when it comes to ghosts.

The First Rank are known as Scaglers, the hazy ghosts who do all the boring stuff like walking through walls, popping their heads out of someone’s cup of tea and doing the odd basic haunting, and who I should say are known to the Third Rank as ‘utter nuisances’.

Then there’s the Second Rank called the Jikers. These ghosts exist in animals, where they learn how to ‘live’ again, getting them ready for when or if (depending on how well they do) they eventually reach the Third Rank.

And lastly, the Third Rank, the Dopplegangers who have by this time been reborn three times since the first time and live among the Ragtags (that’s us by the way) who on the whole fit in rather nicely doing all the things that Ragtags do like live in a house, go to work or school, eat, drink and sleep and generally go along with all the Ragtags’ yawning ways, never doing anything ghostified – not ever, the Ragtags of course having no idea what they are.

But there is one thing that the Dopplegangers dread and don’t dare to even think about, its when they pass the Third Rank as there is only one place left to go, back to their first grave where they will finally sleep forever and evermore.

Which is probably why there is a particular family of Dopplegangers who aren’t like the ones who fit in nicely nor have they stopped doing anything ghostified and have only this week been expelled yet again from Mudlowling, this being the fourth village they’ve been found out and expelled from in the last year. But, miracles happen even to Dopplegangers, as somehow they managed to get away before the D.D.C’s (‘Dedicated Doggpleganger Catchers’) got them. And have at long last found yet another church to squat, but how, I will never know, decent churches being virtually impossible to find nowadays.

*

It’s been three weeks since that particular family of Dopplegangers were expelled from Mudlowling, and already they’ve drawn far too much attention to themselves, which is the point where you will now meet them - at the church on the highest hill in the sleepy village of Coppice Coil.



*

Eliza Butterlove, ‘maid, cook, cleaner, nanny, chimney sweep and general ghost body’, had done wonders with the old church on the hill, but not before her old mop and bucket started to get above themselves, near right insisting they mop the old church white washing-in plastic chairs and space-aged gadgets. But Eliza Butterlove wasn’t having any of it and sternly warned them ‘I want autumn and cosy and if you don’t like it, you can go and take a splash and a wipe somewhere else!’ Reluctantly, the old mop and bucket did as they were told, them having no chance of any-not-body else wanting them at their ripe old age

Eliza Butterlove, then mopped in two floors, the first having a large kitchen with utility room, her favourite, and a family room with two enormous sofas scattered with 100 or so fluffy cushions each sitting at least 10 people and a large stone fireplace reaching the top of the ceiling.
She then went upstairs and mopped in a sparkling bathroom and seven bedrooms, one for each of the children, their parents and a small snug one for herself, the old church now all autumn and cosy.

*

As the Doomer children each lay on their soft beds in their very own first time bedrooms that Saturday night waiting for the slow hands on their bedside clocks to hurry up, they did what they liked best – read, their favourites being anything and everything creepy, the more spine-tingling the better. And who were lucky enough two weeks ago to happen upon Ettie Proctor, an aged tavern owner, who had plenty to tell, and who the Doomers had since that very lucky day, met every Saturday dead on the stroke of midnight.

It was five minutes to midnight and the Doomers were now sneakily climbing down the dried brown vines from their bedroom windows, all looking exactly the same with long straight black hair and unusually white skin, wearing no other colour than black, and had to jump down the last 3 feet straight onto a grave, never forgetting to politely ask the grave’s dweller to be excused.
“Excuse me Norie” sighed Mon Mon.
“Sorry Mrs Havelock” excused Nell.
“Begging your pardon pleease Mr Rexford?” begged Gillad.
“Couldn’t be helped I’m afraid Eustace, I’ll try and do the swerve next time” informed Teddy.
“Blow it! Mr Postlethwaite, I really did try to miss you this time, really I did honest!” moaned Gun, but knowing what was about to come, squeezed his face and waited.
PUNCH! Mr Postlethwaite’s ghostly hand shot out from his grave followed by the top half of his see through body, his angry head stretching from his neck right into the face of Gun screaming “How many times have I got to tell you, you stupid boy! Stop jumping on my grave! No respect, that’s what it is, absolutely no respect whatsoever! And don’t think I’m not waiting for the day you get expelled, because it’ll be the happiest day of death!” and with that, he quickly sucked back in his neck and returned to his grave, the unsettled dirt smoothing itself back into place.
“Expelled! He’s put the mockers on us already spiteful sod!” huffed Gun “And could someone please tell me why it’s always me who gets the dodgy one under their bedroom window?” and with impish giggles, his brothers and sisters quietly laughed to themselves knowing they always secretly checked who laid in the graves under all the windows before they chose their bedrooms and were glad they did, having been reliably informed by Crachett Jack the graveyard’s oldest ghost, that Mr Postlethwaite was the nastiest ghost in the graveyard.

In their traditional straight line from the oldest who was 11 to the
youngest who was 7, being Teddy, Nell, Gun, Gillad & Mon Mon, the Doomers walked eagerly in perfect step towards a large grave, its white marble now grey with dirt, dust and mud, its side changing to a misted door as they neared it.
Knock, knock.
“Whose there?” the silver hatch in the misted door had just been opened by Elbert Jingles, the doorman, who was holding up his list of invitees as he peered at the sad dandy ghost waiting to be let into the grave.
“Penley Pelton” he replied as though he had a plum stuck in his mouth and with his name being found on the list, was ushered into the grave.

But Penley Pelton was a strange ghost by any standards, not least
because you couldn’t see his death spot. What about Tupper Sharry, you can’t see his death spot either you may well ask, but if you stared deep into his hollowed eyes, you’d be able to see the stubborn bullet that still lay comfortably in the back of his head. No, Penley Pelton had died with specialty – from a broken heart and the only ever sign of this was when he got upset where his heart, which was far too sensitive for a any type of ghost, would fall from his chest broken in two quietly weeping in sorrow..
Suddenly a sly little pauper named Alfie Jackanape known to everyone as a blagger, thief and ‘you get it, I’ll flog it’ type of boy, tried sneaking into the grave behind Penley Pelton, but Elbert Jingles was quick to catch him.
“Hold it you shifty little scallywag! Think you can get past me do you’ – I’m 200 not 300 now get out of it?”
“What? Gotta ‘ave your name down this week in all ‘ave ya?” conned Aflie Jackanape.
“Don’t give me that, you know the rules, if your names not down, you’re not coming in now clear off” Elbert Jingles wasn’t having any of it.
Alfie Jackanape held his arms up at being caught “Alright, alright, ya got me, but look gov, I promise if ya let me in, I won’t steal nuffink from no-not-body, go on Bertie let me just this once why don’ cha?”

Bertie! That was it! Elbert Jingles absolutely hated being called that name and stubbornly called the Goms by throwing one of the sculls patiently hovering next to him and threw it into the air outside the grave where a smoky body grew from its skull, a gloomy mask hiding its head and its not there eyes, and were the kind of ghosts you wouldn’t like to meet down a dark grave in the middle of the night on your own, and grabbing Alfie Jackanape, locked murky cuffs on his wrists.
“Oh, now why’d ya ‘ave ta go and do a fing like that for?” groaned Alfie Jackanape “Will the ‘respectin’ ya elders’ speech do nuffink to change ya mind, I’ve got at least 50 years on ya, ya know?” But it was too late as the creepy hands of more Goms crawled out from the dirt ground cuffing his ankles and pulled him down into its depths.

“Every Saturday night the same, maybe a few days in the Yellers will sort him out!” exclaimed Elbert Jingles. “Now, sorry about that whose next?”
“The Doomers” answered Teddy through the silver hatch. “VIPS!” the Doomers heard screaming through the misted door, their name zooming from the list, the letters of their name now large and sparkling gold changing to the words it exclaimed “Welcome, welcome!” then changing again “Ladies and gentlemen, please…enter and follow the black carpet directly to your seats, best in the house…” the Doomers walked through the misted door, a black slithering carpet having rolled itself out in front of them down the steps leading deep into the grave, the letters then lastly changing to “…and darlings, have an absolutely fabulous evening!” the letters now changing back to Doomer zooming to its place on the list.

The Doomers followed the slithering black carpet through the darkness of the grave helped by a squint of light from the glow worms sunk into the mud of the graveside until they reached the most infamous tavern in the graveyard ‘The Ghost & Guzzler’ and it was packed! Every-not-body who was any-not-body was there, the lower rank Scaglers having to drift about the ceiling.
“Oh, there’s Fanny Fortuous“ sighed Gillad as she dreamily sat down onto a mud worm chair having risen from the ground, and thought how romantic she always looked in her dusted white hazy dress of silk and diamonds her golden hair now matted flowing about her, being the legendary beauty to the court of King Charles II, her death spot obvious from the bright green poison slowly seeping from the corner of her mouth, and who at this very moment was being lovingly goggled at by her rejected love, Penley Pelton, the maker of her death.
“Stop staring at me! I HATE…” and as she was screaming the last word, her mouth opened so wide it became as big as her whole head spraying the exact same green poison that could be seen seeping from her death spot all over Penley Pelton “..Y...urgh…O…urgh…U!” Smash! Penley Pelton’s heart had just broken…again, and with a ‘serves you right’ kind of look, Fanny Fortuous regally turned away her head, her mouth shrinking back to its normal size. The ghosts in the tavern then erupted in glorious applause at the early start of the evening’s entertainment.

The ground then rumbled loudly rising out their host, Ettie Proctor, sitting on her notorious cobwebbed thrown. “Where’s me beer?!” her big mouth screeched as she stared at her empty mud worm table, making the scared black beetle spot she wore above her bright red pointy lips run across her scarlet cheeks straight into her ear for cover. A tanker of black frothy beer then floated to her which she grabbed and bellowed “Emily Flingers, can you please stop goin’ all invisible all the time, you’re gonna frightened the death out of me one of these days! Isn’t it about time you stopped all this stuff an’ nonsense, we’re all ghosts ‘ere ya know!” A whimpering cry then came from the still invisible Emily Flingers who, while in her embarrassed rush for the safety of the bar, crashed over all the mud worm tables and chairs in her way. “Never quite come to terms wiv the fact she’s dead I’m afraid!”
Ettie Proctor then took a large gulp of her frothy black beer and gave out a loud burp making her towering dirty grey wig slip from her head, her being completely bald underneath it. “Allow me” hurried Roper Crag, a slimy crawly-chum-lick, whose bony fingers went to straighten Ettie Proctor’s wig back on her head.
“Get off you ‘orrible grovelling tinker – I can do it meself!” which she awkwardly did, as the little beer she had was enough to make her go all wobbly, she then sat back into her cobwebbed thrown.

sully474

You have a few minor errors in sentences like these and a couple others, but besides that, it was most enjoyable. The language is very consistent, even though it wouldn't be used today. Excellent job.

Work on the minor errors, and also, some of the names are unrealistic. Work on that and you will have a great piece. I look forward to seeing chapter 2

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"Sure there have been injuries and deaths in boxing - but none of them serious." - Alan Minter, Boxer
"I get to go to lots of overseas places, like Canada." - Britney Spears, Pop Singer

Vanessa

Thank you very much - I will deal with the errors, but the names are supposed to be different. Do you think they are a little too much and spoil it?

Also, in relation to the language, if you came to the true East End of London, I'm afraid that is exactly the language you will hear and I can verify that it does still exist.

Thanks again.

eleutheromaniac

If the names have a specific meaning or connotation, I would keep them.

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sully474

Ah, then maybe it is the fact that you always seem to use their full name, rather than simply their first.

Jolly well my china plate.

__________________
"Sure there have been injuries and deaths in boxing - but none of them serious." - Alan Minter, Boxer
"I get to go to lots of overseas places, like Canada." - Britney Spears, Pop Singer

Vanessa

I have only just stopped laughing.

My turn:

Jolly well - this is an upper class term.
China plate - this is a commoners' term.
Although, if the 'average Joe' keeps making masses amount of money due to the housing market boom in London, then I am sure sooner or later they would eventually mix and your term may end up being correct.

Vanessa

Sorry correction:

China plate - this is not a commoners term, but an East End Term.

Also, the names have a connotation and think due to that, I will keep them.

Question (spelt correctly): I read that when you write you should be consistent with the names, places etc. That is why I have written the full names. Is this wrong?

sully474

I can't tell you whether it is right or wrong. I personally think it depends on the siz e of the book. If it is a long one, then I wouldn't use the full name every single time, only when introducing new characters to the plot, or when the particular part has a special meaning. If the book is shorter, then the full name thing works better in my opinion.

__________________
"Sure there have been injuries and deaths in boxing - but none of them serious." - Alan Minter, Boxer
"I get to go to lots of overseas places, like Canada." - Britney Spears, Pop Singer

Talia_Brie

Yes, it's sort of wrong. Be consistent, but only in the sense that the characters should keep the same name throughout the book.

All you need to be concerned about is can the reader follow the conversations/actions. Do they know who is doing what and who is syaing what? Don't let the book become over-encumbered with names - IMHO.

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eleutheromaniac

In Russian novels, they often use full names and it can be a little annoying after awhile, but it doesn't bother me because whenever I see 'Pyotr Kirilovich Bezukhov' I just read Pytor and move on. But those novels are often long and have many characters, so the writer may just be trying to emphasis which character this is happening to, so the reader doesn't get lost.

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Airborneguy

A little too Harry Potter'ish for me...

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A coward dies a thousand deaths, a brave man only once...

Vanessa

Thanks everyone for your advice.

...and you speak Russan!

Harry Potter?! I haven't read any of those books, so could you explain how is it Harry Potter'ish.

desired_destiny

I'm a huge fan of Harry Potter. Vanessa, it is not too much like Harry Potter. Airborneguy, must have meant that he is not into stories with ghosts and such. I quickly skimmed through your excerpt, and I must admit, it was quite an interesting read.

In my opinion, reading a bunch of questions like you wrote in the first paragraph, can sometimes be uninteresting and a tad bit revealing about the story. I suggest you change a few of those questions into statements.

penny

As much as I love exposition and I do. The hardest discipline is to allow the characters to tell the story and set the scenes in their dialogue. Let the story breath and lead the readers along.
The story concept/setting of this story knocks me out. How much fun can dead people have? Whats next?

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It took a disease, taking my mobility from me to see further and clearer than when I could take that trip and see nothing. My spirit grows beyond my body. I am new again in this discovery of my internal landscape and its meanings.