Gordon And The Ghost Of Glasgow

In the heart of Glasgow, in a cobbled lane overshadowed by tall, ancient buildings, lived Gordon, an 18-year-old lad with fiery red hair and an adventurous spirit. He had recently moved into an old Victorian flat, its walls echoing tales from days gone by. Despite its age, Gordon loved the flat, as it gave him a sense of independence and freedom.

Every night after his job at the local bakery, Gordon would return to the warm embrace of his flat, often accompanied by his girlfriend, Clara, who lived a few blocks away. They’d often curl up together, sharing tales of their day and planning their future. Life was simple and sweet.

One cold October night, with rain pattering against the window panes and a brisk wind howling, Gordon had a most peculiar dream. He dreamt of an old man, dressed in a worn-out suit, standing at the foot of his bed. The old man’s eyes held a sadness, and he seemed to be trying to say something. But before any words could be formed, Gordon woke up, a strange feeling gripping him.

Rubbing his eyes, he peered down to the foot of his bed, half expecting to see the old man. But there was nothing. Taking a deep breath, Gordon chalked it up to his imagination and went back to sleep.

But it wasn’t long before a piercing scream jolted him awake. It was Clara. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with terror. She clung to Gordon, shaking uncontrollably.

“Gordon! There was an old man… right there!” she pointed to the end of the bed. “And… and there was this strong smell of pipe smoke!”

Gordon’s heart raced. He jumped out of bed, turning on the lights. But there was no sign of any intruder. He checked the entire flat – the kitchen, the bathroom, even the tiny broom closet. No one.

Clara, trying to regain her composure, described the old man. To Gordon’s horror, it matched the figure from his dream. The same worn-out suit, the same sad eyes. The only addition was the strong smell of pipe smoke, which lingered even after the apparition had vanished.

Over the next few days, Gordon tried to find more about the history of the flat. An old neighbor, Mrs. MacGregor, had lived in the lane for over 60 years. Upon hearing Gordon’s story, she recalled a tale from her youth.

“Ah, that’d be Old Man McTavish,” she said with a sigh. “He used to live in your flat many years ago. Was always seen with his pipe. Sadly, one cold night, he passed away in that very bedroom. It’s said his spirit still roams, trying to communicate with the living.”

Chills ran down Gordon’s spine. Every night, he’d go to bed, wondering if the spirit of Old Man McTavish would return. Weeks turned into months, but there was no sign. Maybe it was just a one-time occurrence?

But the atmosphere in the flat had changed. Doors would creak open by themselves, and there’d be cold spots in random places. And on some nights, the faint smell of pipe smoke would waft through, even though no one in the building smoked.

One evening, as Gordon sat reading a book, a soft voice whispered, “Help me.” Startled, he looked around. There, by the window, stood the figure of Old Man McTavish.

Gathering courage, Gordon spoke, “Why are you here? What do you want?”

The spirit seemed to gather himself, “I can’t move on. I left something unfinished. I need your help.”

Understanding that this spirit meant no harm and only sought release, Gordon asked, “What can I do?”

In a hushed tone, the spirit spoke of a letter, hidden within the flat, a letter he had written to his estranged son but never managed to send. The pain of leaving things unresolved kept his spirit tethered.

With the spirit guiding him, Gordon discovered a loose floorboard under which lay a dusty old envelope. Holding it carefully, he could feel the weight of the emotions it carried.

Gordon managed to track down McTavish’s son, now an old man himself, living in another part of Scotland. He delivered the letter, watching as tears streamed down the man’s face while reading his father’s words of love and apology.

Returning to the flat, Gordon felt a change. The heavy atmosphere had lifted, and the flat felt brighter, warmer. That night, as he lay in bed, a soft, grateful voice whispered, “Thank you.” And then, all was silent.

Years passed, and the tale of the phantom of pipe smoke became a popular story in the lane. But for Gordon, it wasn’t just a story. It was a reminder that even in the most unexpected moments, we could be bridges between the past and the present, helping souls find their peace.

As for Old Man McTavish, his spirit was never seen again. But on some cold October nights, if you walked past Gordon’s window, you might just catch the faint smell of pipe smoke, a gentle reminder of a spirit once lost, now at rest.