No Shoes

Charles P. Osgood and Henry S. Pitts casually strolled across the manicured lawn, stopping occasionally to bend and sniff the newly placed flowers. Over the course of several years the pair had acquired quite a reputation for being seen on their nightly walks near Whitechapel Acres.

Recently, a third party, William M. Smith accompanied the duo on their rounds, but tonight he outpaced his friends and was approaching the iron gates in full stride.

Osgood called out, “I say … my good man … Mr. Smith ... we never walk beyond the gates you know.”

“And why not, Sir? I believe it’s a short walk to the pub and to partake in a bit of froth would be beneficial to the soul … do you agree, Sir?”

Pitts turned and found a stone to his liking and sat down. “Either you tell him or I will.”

“Indeed I will tell him, Mr. Pitts, after all, we do have our reputation to preserve.”

“Gentlemen … will you be joining me at the pub then?” Smith impatiently shouted as he reached the gates.

“We forbid you to go, and besides my good man, look down at your feet, you are not wearing shoes.”

“You forbid me, Mr. Osgood … how dare you, Sir, and where are my shoes?”

“You were buried without them, Smith, as we were,” explained Osgood.

“I was buried!” Smith gasped.

“You are dead, Mr. Smith … you are not a part of the living. We are ghosts.”

William M. Smith turned and ran screaming into the darkest part of the cemetery.

“Shall we continue, Mr. Pitts? I believe that's fresh daisies … there ... beyond the mausoleum?”