Image by sara graves from Pixabay 

I liked the look of the ring, it had diamonds around the edge and a large amethyst in the centre. Ten pounds, a bargain, I thought.

I decided to pay quickly and look closer when I got home.

The toothless smile from the vendor sent shivers down my back, the look in his eyes none too pleasant. As I hurried away from the stall, I had the feeling something was following me. I turned a few times, but nothing untoward could be seen. I would rather there have been; the unseen worries me more.

I always had a vivid imagination, my mother often said. I need a good imagination as a writer, so I didn’t knock it out. This feeling often brings on a new story.

I jumped on the 49 bus, half an hour, and I would be home. I sat opposite a very old woman wearing shabby clothes. She was staring at my hand.

I thought I heard her say, nice ring.

Again my mind skipped off on some speed dial imagination. It so often runs like water. Not all can be held in mind. It’s a case of catching what you can, writing it down or losing it.

I must have dropped the strange feeling on my doorstep, for I felt better once inside my cosy flat. Thomas, my ginger cat, welcomed me home. I scratched behind his ear and went to make coffee.  I checked my purchase to find that the ring had a nine-carat gold mark on the inside. I had found a treasure…

That night I placed it on my bedside table after writing down all I could remember about my day.

I hoped to sleep like a baby but awoke in a cold sweat. The old lady from the bus had stepped into my dream. She told me the ring belonged to her mother and wanted it back. It was the same voice I had heard on the bus. How could she have known the contents of my bag?

How could I give the ring back to her mother? I’m sure she must be dead, judging the old woman to be about eighty.

It was my day off from work. I would take the ring back to the vendor, hoping he could tell me more about it, but not looking forward to the toothless smile. I walked up and down but couldn’t find his stall. Maybe it was his day off too.

I asked around, but no one knew who I spoke about.

One chap said, ‘we have never had anyone like that working here, and I’ve been here for over ten years. I’m sure I would remember the person you describe.’

Now it seems I am stuck with the ring. Maybe I should throw it into the river, like some ancient votive gift to a God, hoping he or she could spare me from a ghostly visitor trying to retrieve her ring.

Maybe I shouldn’t worry. Ghosts can’t hurt you, can they?

It is gold, after all…

©AnitaDawes2020