Published in “Villa Diotati” 2024
When Mr Nakamoto dropped dead in the process of checking out Mrs Prichard’s groceries, the supermarket replaced him with a self-checkout machine. She had trusted Mr Nakamoto with her shopping for over 20 years, and Mrs Prichard was reluctant to experiment with another operator, so she was forced to grapple with the technology of computers, laser readers and QR codes. She had never owned a credit card, so she sought out the one terminal in the row marked “Cash only” and was gratified to see that the smiley face on its screen had distinctly oriental eyebrows. All the other terminals issued abrupt instructions in a bossy female voice, but “Cash Only” spoke politely with an unmistakeable Japanese accent.
“Konnichiwa Mrs Plichard, it will be my pressure to serve you.”
“Your English hasn’t improved, I see,” she said, and the smiley face winked at her.
She took to doing her weekly shopping in the final hour before the supermarket closed, so that she could chat with the spirit of the Japanese gentleman without attracting attention. She would pass on messages from her cat, Benjamin Disraeli, and Mr Nakamoto would alert her to forthcoming specials and pass on useful information, such as packets of “New Improved” Tim Tams only contained 10 biscuits while the “Original” TimTams held 12. Sometimes he even offered investment advice.
“Are you sure you are wise shopping so late, Mrs Plichard?” Mr Nakamoto asked, “This is a rough neighbourhood at night.”
“Don’t worry Satoshi,” she replied, “Thanks to your recommendation to invest in Bitcoin, I can afford to call an Uber. What’s more, I have a black belt in Aikido.”
“I am not confident Aikido would help.”
“How do you mean?” Mrs Prichard asked.
“Some particularly nasty wraiths haunt these aisles, and the bakery staff know to keep away from the bread ovens after dark. And there’s more…”
Indeed, there was. Miss Prichard recalled the mysterious disappearance of Mr Snotgrass, the use-by-date inspector; the delicatessen assistant Miss Pugh, found trussed and naked in the refrigerated display case with only price tickets hiding her shame; and the many security guards who never returned to work after a single night shift.
Well, this being a ghost story, the day inevitably has to come when Mrs Prichard forgets Mr Nakamoto’s advice…
“Are you sure Disraeli will enjoy Meow Kitty Chunks?” he asked as she passed the tins across the scanner.
“I thought he might enjoy a change,” she said.
“The Contents informs you it contains sheep and fish offal, three types of preservative and an artificial chunking agent. What’s more, 9 out of 10 vets recommend fresh meat over tinned for carnivorous pets.”
“Steak is so expensive.”
“This week the butchery has a special on cat mince in handy 200g freezer packs. $10 for 5. Both nutritious and economical.”
She shrugged, “I’m sure you’re right. I’ll just nip back to the meat counter.”
“Don’t be too long, Mrs Plichard!” Mr Nakamoto’s voice warned. “Remember daylight saving…”
On this night, clocks were due jump forward from 11pm to midnight. And sure enough, she was just half-way to the meat display, when the front doors slammed shut, the locks clicked and all the lights went out.
Mrs Prichard stood still, waiting for her eyes to accustom to the red safety lighting, when she felt a coldness on her neck and looked back. Behind her she saw the floating translucent figure of a very fat 10-year-old girl, chewing on a mouthful of salt and vinegar potato chips and weeping softly.
“Are you all right, dear?” Mrs Prichard asked.
“I can’t find my mummy and I’m sooo hungry,” the ghost cried.
“You look pale.”
“So would you if you’d died of malnutrition.”
“You must be Mandy Moonacre,” said Mrs Prichard, “They found you frozen in the salted caramel sorbet vat.”
“And I’m cold!’ the ghost wailed.
“Come with me. We’ll go via Home Goods and find you a blanket.”
But as they turned into the Tinned Fruit aisle, shots rang out, and a stack of pineapple rings clattered onto the floor.
“Stay here if you don’t want to be shot!” hissed a woman with a strangely familiar face. She was holding a curious rifle with the barrel at right angles to the stock so she could aim down the shelving without being seen.
“Aren’t you Angelina Jolie?” Mrs Prichard asked. “Weren’t you in that awful movie Wanted? How come you’re a ghost?”
“I’m a meme, not a ghost,” Angelina pouted, picked up the rifle and ran, crouching and firing off volleys, into the Pickles section.
“I hate her,” sniffed Molly. “She’s always giving orders. And I hate pineapple rings.”
As they crept along the shelves of biscuits, avoiding the pools of blood, Mandy’s constant whingeing began to irritate Mrs Prichard (who had no children of her own). She pulled down several packets of Tim Tams and passed one to the fat little ghost. “Try these. They are better for you than chips.”
“I don’t like chocolate,” Mandy moaned.
They turned the corner and were confronted by a huge man wearing a blood-stained apron and carrying a razor-sharp meat cleaver.
“You must be the butcher,” said Mrs Prichard. “I believe cat mince is on special. Five for $10.”
The butcher handed her a plastic bag containing something heavy that sloshed ominously. “Better than cat mince. Your moggy will love it.”
Mrs Prichard looked in the bag. The head of Mr Snotgrass looked back. The butcher raised his cleaver, “Heads are on special tonight.”
She was half-way back to the check-in, when zombies began appearing from behind shelves, under counters, out of barrels, lurching after her, their grasping hands clutching the air. No matter how many Aikido moves she used, they stood up again uninjured. By the time she made it back to Mr Nakamoto, she was trailing a dozen of the undead.
The smiley face on the screen frowned. “They look hungry.”
“Brains! Brains!” chanted the zombies as they closed in.
“Offer them the Tim Tams,” suggested Mr Nakamoto.
Mrs Prichard tore open the packet and the zombies eagerly grabbed and fought over the biscuits and stuffed them in their toothless gaping mouths. Then a remarkable thing happened — the zombies froze, began to gurgle, then emit ghastly screams. One by one, they collapsed to the floor and dissolved in clouds of malodorous, pungent steam.
“What happened?” Mrs Prichard asked.
“Scan the packet,” instructed Mr Nakamoto.
She passed the crumpled wrapping paper over the scanning plate. The screen flashed: “Danger! Items beyond use-by-date. Confiscate! Confiscate!”
“It’s been happening a lot since Mr Snotgrass disappeared,” said Satoshi Nakamoto.