THE NUN'S HABIT

The door to the vestry slammed open. Eleanor ran in. Her breath came in great lumps. Her eyes were bulging and seemed to be staring at some far distant point. The vicar had seen that look of horror on her face before. "Sit down," he said in his quietest and calmest voice. "I've got to get her to calm down," he thought, "especially after that last unfortunate incident."

"The ghost. That nun." She screeched. "I've just seen it again." With that, she gave a shudder and began to cry uncontrollably.

"That's the third time this week. Where was she today?"

"Why, she came in here! You must have seen her. You know, dressed in brown and all that," she pleaded, still sobbing.

"I'm sorry, my dear," said the vicar, whilst shaking his head. Not for the first time, he thought that they must put something in the water at theological college that attracts them. Why did all the cranks come to him? At least he would soon be rid of this one. She would not be around for much longer - not at this rate. Apparently, she spent most of her time in or around the church. This, she claimed, was why she had seen the nun so often when others had not. Wagging tongues put her visions down to the doe-eyes she made at the vicar and his understanding attitude towards her little problem.

Eleanor Jones was still upset. The first time she had seen the ghost coincided with the arrival of the handsome new vicar. There had been a little 'do' to which all the regulars of St. Peter's had been invited. Afterwards, the new vicar had been sitting in the small office, when he heard a moaning from somewhere outside. On investigation, this turned out to be Eleanor Jones. She was sitting on the bench in the cemetery with her head in her hands.

At first, he thought that she was ill. The colour had drained from her cheeks. Her mouth was opening and shutting. His concern must have been obvious. "I've seen a ghost," she wailed, and then the story began to pour out.

She had been tidying up and was the last one there, as usual, when a nun in a brown habit glided up to the church door and went in. Eleanor had run along to see if she could help, but the church was empty when she got there. Then she remembered that there were no convents around here, but there was the story the verger told of the ghostly nun and the village priest.

The vicar felt sympathetic and moved towards her to put a comforting hand on her arm. Just then, he caught sight of a part of the brown habit poking out from behind the door where he had quickly discarded it. Why was this woman so quick on her feet? He was no quick-change artist. She had nearly caught him this time. He would have to get out of this habit.

William Safire's Rules for Writers