Stormy Night = A Full Cast (A Short Christmas Story)

STORMY NIGHT- A FULL CAST

                                      

Joshua King had been a farmer for twenty years and in all that time he had never experienced a stormier Christmas Eve. The east wind had blown all day and the snow had begun falling just as it got dark. Now the snowdrifts were starting to build up against the wall of the old barn.

“What a night,” said Joshua, to himself. “Pity help any poor traveller out on the road in this weather.”

The weather forecast on the television last night had been full of grim warnings of gales and blizzards. In fact, it had been so bad that Joshua had led his six cows into the old barn for shelter. The two horses, an old Shire called Jed and his daughter’s Shetland pony, Frisky would be glad of the company.

The farmer pulled the curtains closed and once again, checked the front door was locked. He could hear the wind buffeting against the outside of the house and wondered how deep the snow would be in the morning.

Quietly he walked into the lounge where his wife Annie was carefully wrapping up presents in shiny multicoloured paper. Each of the children’s stockings hung at the back of a chair. They were each full to the brim with sweets, fruit and comic books.

Joshua and Annie had three children; John, who was twelve, was the oldest child. Pam, their daughter, was ten going on thirty. A lively little girl with her own ideas.

Patrick was the baby of the three, at eight he was taller than his sister, but knew better than to cross her.

“Almost ready for bed, love?” Joshua whispered, not wanting to wake the youngsters. It had taken long enough to get them all into their beds, let alone persuading them to sleep. Patrick had been told that Santa couldn’t deliver his gifts if he was awake. Hopefully they wouldn’t get up till eight, thought Joshua, mentally crossing his fingers.

As Joshua and Annie lay in bed awaiting sleep, they whispered to one another.

“Are you sure you bolted the stable door Josh? Annie murmured.

“Yes, I’m sure” her husband replied. He felt warm and cosy under the blankets and quilt. He could hardly keep his eyes open.

All through the night the storm raged, but the family slept soundly and dreamt of a wonderful Christmas Day together.

It seemed to Joshua that he had only been asleep for a couple minutes when he heard an insistent ringing. He was so sure he was dreaming the sound that he tried to ignore it and go back to sleep.

“Josh!” grunted Annie. “It’s your mobile!”

Complaining, the farmer struggled out from underneath the blankets and located the noisy mobile, lying on the dresser top.

“Yes?” he said angrily into the phone. “Who is it?”

Joshua could hear someone’s voice as if it was coming from far away. The howl of the wind threatened to drown out any words.

“You‘ll have to speak up!” the farmer replied, as loudly as he dared.

The voice returned and Joshua could make out most of it.

“Me and John ……all night out on the moor……….two sheep. Found them….We’re near your farm.  Can we rest up……… couple of hours?” came the thin voice.

Joshua turned to Annie.

“It’s David and John, Annie!”

He put the phone back to his ear and shouted.

“You come right in. Annie and I’ll have something hot waiting for you!”

Looking at the watch on his wrist he made out the luminous figures.

“Lord, Annie! It’s five o’clock. I thought I’d only slept a few minutes!”

As Annie filled the kettle and started looking out bread, butter and homemade marmalade, Joshua struggled to put his coats and wellies on.

Suddenly there was a bump from the yard.

“I asked you if you had secured the barn door.” Annie said grumpily.

“But I did!” retorted Josh.

Hand in hand, Josh and Annie made their way slowly through the drifts towards the stable. The door had been blown slightly ajar.

The wind had dropped a bit, but it was still snowing and bitterly cold.

“You wait here love. I want to make sure its safe.” whispered Josh.

Slowly he pulled the door opened and stepped into the stable. The light from the half opened door lit up the shadows.

“Is there any one there?” shouted the farmer.

A shadow detached itself from the gloom and stepped forwards, stopping in the reflected light. A young man, clad in warm, but well used clothes.

“Who are you?” asked Josh warily.

“We were on the road.” the stranger said.” The storm was too strong for us. We had to take shelter.”
“Who else is with you?” demanded Josh.

Out of the darkness a second figure rose and came into the light. She looked starved and exhausted. A frail figure wearing a coat two sizes too big for her.

“I’m Mint and my boyfriend’s name is Daniel. Please let us rest here for a little while.”

Suddenly one of the cows lowed and a frightened crying began from a pile of hay at the back of the stable.

“You have a baby?” said Annie moving quickly towards the squealing bundle. Quickly she picked the infant up and wrapped it in her coat.

“The baby was born early this morning. That was why we had to get somewhere warm! the boy said angrily. “Mint wouldn’t have survived if she had been outside.”

The girl stepped forward to Annie and gently took the little baby from her.

“We will go.” she said wearily. “We won’t cause any more trouble.”

“You are going nowhere until you have all eaten some food and your baby has been fed.” said Annie. “And then you will go up to our spare bedroom and get some proper rest!”

Then Daniel stepped up to his partner and child.

“We will accept your hospitality.” he said. “But we are of the road, so will remain here. Thank you”

Daniel and Mint sat down in the hay and looked down at their child. Annie had got Josh’s coat off him and used it to keep the mite warmer. Then she had gone off to the kitchen to prepare some food for the young couple and child. Annie was sure the baby would take milk if she heated it.

Joshua stood watching the baby gurgle and struggle. He was so engrossed that he got quite a fright when a voice sounded out.

“Hello Josh. Can we bring these sheep into the stable?”

In the doorway stood two tall, well built men hanging onto two bedraggled sheep.

“Of course you can.” said Josh as he swung open the gate to an empty stall.” Put them in here. Annie will be back soon with something hot for you both.”

As the three men stood looking first at the weary sheep and then at the little family, Josh told the shepherds about how Mint, Daniel and the baby had arrived there. Both David and John agreed that they would never have survived in the open.

As Joshua took in the scene he realised that something magical had happened and was still happening. The stable, the animals, the little family, the shepherds and especially the baby, born on this extra special day.

The stable door creaked open and Annie and the two boys came in. Patrick carried a pile of toast spread with butter and golden marmalade, John carried a tray which bore cups and a flask of sweet smelling coffee and Annie carried a sterilised rubber glove full of warm milk for the baby. The three kings bearing gifts.

Patrick leant over the baby and smiled at the tot.

“What is the baby’s name?”

Mint looked at Daniel and smiled.

“We decided to call her Eve as she was born on Christmas Eve and also Eve was the name of the first woman created in the Bible”

I think it is a perfectly lovely name.” said Annie watching as the baby sucked the milk.

A lovely name for a beautiful baby born on a wonderful day, thought Joshua. I wonder if it can get anymore awesome.

As if by magic the sound of music and voices singing ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sang’

resounded in the farmyard. It got louder and louder until Pam suddenly burst into the stable.

“ Look Mum and Dad, Santa brought me a radio!”

The Caretaker (a short Ghost story)

The Caretaker

‘Hello, anyone there?’

Steven didn’t shout too loud; it was just a precaution; he didn’t expect anyone - not yet. He could take a look around on his own. He resisted looking through the letterbox; instead his gaze fell on the window – was there a movement through the gap in the curtains? Or was it a trick of the light?

The door opened with a creak and candle light flickered to reveal a tall thin figure.

‘Sorry - I’m a bit early’ Steven said defensively.

‘You’re on time’ He didn’t sound like an estate agent- but he was how Steven had imagined; matching his name: Mr. Grey; tall and gaunt, dressed in a grey suit; rather like a butler.

On time? Steven resisted checking his watch.

‘Mr. Grey?’ Maybe he was the caretaker?

Mr Grey turned to lead the way; mumbled something with his back to Steven; it could have been ‘come in’ but Steven couldn’t be sure. His eyes were adjusting to the darkened interior as the candle light was shielded by the retreating figure; Steven followed; he had to - unless he wanted to be left in the dark.

They stopped in a small undistinguished room; it was unfurnished with just a few remnant furnishings covered in dustsheets. The place had obviously been unoccupied for a long time; it had an air of abandonment.

Steven knew what to look for: in the flicker of candle light he noted the damp patches, the grime and dust – and the smell of decay…fungal? He didn’t need to see any more - but none the less, he followed Mr Grey to the next room; he could hardly rush off at this stage, could he?

The room was much the same as the last one; only bigger and if anything gloomier. Mr Grey mumbled something; it could have been ‘dining room’. Of course there was nothing to distinguish the room as such; certainly no dining furniture – just a ghostly covered high back chair. Maybe Mr Grey could see the room in its past tense; in its former glory. However, he didn’t articulate, or rather mumble, further; he continued to the next room.

This was unmistakably the kitchen; it wasn’t particularly impressive and the pervasive smell was strongest here – rank!  What’s died, Steven thought - and then he saw a rat scurying behind the ancient wood burning stove; but he didn’t bother to say anything; he just wanted to get the hell out of there.   

Steven’s rising anxiety peaked when he spotted the stain; it was hard to tell in the flickering light but somehow he knew: it was blood! He knew it with a chilling certainty. To hell with this; time for a quick exit – and on that thought he was plunged into darkness! The candle had died.

‘Mr Grey, Hello, are you there?’

Silence; empty silence - this was madness, he had to be there – he couldn’t just vanished, could he? Gone up in a puff of smoke, like the candle?

In the darkness Steven strained his ears and eyes; his vision was adjusting; vague forms were emerging from the shadowy darkness – and he could discern odd background noises. Sure enough, he was on his own; Mr Grey was gone.

As he strained he heard a distant sound coming from the front of the house; a rattle, a creak – was that the door? Then:

‘Hello, anyone there?’

Steven froze - then shouted out:

‘Hello, Mr Grey!’

Even as he shouted he realized that it couldn’t be Mr Grey. The voice was too clear, even at this distance.

‘Yes, is that you Mr Layton?’

Could he have been mistaken? Or had Mr Grey miraculously learned to annunciate?

He could hear footsteps approaching. Abruptly lights flickered on; so there were electric lights! He was momentarily blinded.

‘Hello, Hello!’ he called out.

‘Mr Layton…sorry I’m late’

Late? Steven stood blinking at the small, stout man in front of him, who proffered his hand. Mr Grey!?

They shook hands and exchanged glances; Mr Grey’s round pleasant face questioning.

‘What were you doing in the dark?’

Steven hesitated to explain; he looked embarrassed.

‘Well, I was early… the caretaker let me in, at least I assumed that’s who he was’

Mr Grey’s expression changed; he gave Steven a queer look. ‘What caretaker? The buildings been empty ever since-‘ He caught himself midsentence: ‘ever since…didn’t you hear about it?’ Mr Grey scrutinised him.

Steven was expressionless; shook his head. A shiver ran up his spine.

Somehow he knew what Mr Grey was going to say. ‘Ever since…the MURDER!’

 

The Toby Jug (A short ghost story)

THE TOBY JUG

The Toby jug sat on my grandmother’s shelf next to the picture of my grandfather in his military uniform. He had been a sergeant major during the First World War and had fallen on the war torn pastures of the Somme. He had been awarded many medals throughout his service career; including the Military Medal which was awarded posthumously.

As far back as when I was toddling, my mother said that I would start screaming if upon entering my grandmother’s lounge my eyes fell upon the Toby jug. No entreaties or scolding would curtail my cries until the offending object was removed.

Later as I grew up I would feel the jug’s ubiquitous eyes follow me round the room. A cold shiver would run down my spine if I turned and caught these little black buttons watching me. I often tried to outstare them but the creature always won.

When I was studying Psychology at university the quotation from Friedrich Nietsche “If you stare into the Abyss long enough the Abyss stares back at you” reminded me of the Toby jug’s dark eyes.

My grandmother died while I was out in India on a backpacking holiday. I cried myself to sleep for the next week, but Mum had explained later, that it was better that I had been away. Gran had been in terrible agony towards the end and had required large doses of morphine to control the pain.

In my heart of hearts I knew that it had been the presence of that scheming Toby jug that had finished her at the end.

As soon as I returned to Britain I had gone across to the cemetery where Gran lay alone. Sadly, grandpa’s body had never been found. The heavy German guns had spread his mortal remains far and wide.

The birds sang and a light wind blew through the elms that grew round the area.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t with you at the end Gran,” I whispered to the broad granite headstone. “I hope you have met up with Gramps.”

Mum had rung me earlier regarding helping her to empty Gran’s house in preparation of us moving in. We had been leasing a property on the other side of town but Mum being an only child had been left Gran’s house in her will.

I arrived as the town clock chimed the hour. Mum was already inside so I opened the front door and walked in

“Hi Mum!” I shouted. “Where are you?”

A muffled cry came from the kitchen which was off the lounge.

“Through here, Jane. I’ve made a cup of coffee.”

As soon as I set foot in the lounge I felt its penetrating gaze fall on me and a shiver ran through me. I swear the temperature dropped several degrees.

It was the Toby jug, but instead of the shiny, smooth exterior that I expected to see, the surface of the jug was a crazy paving of cracks. But for its ruinous state the coal black eyes still glared and the little rosebud lips still sneered contemptuously.

“Mum?” I asked as I entered the kitchen. “What happened to the Toby jug? It’s covered with cracks.”

Mum’s face took on a worried look.

“Erm, it was an accident someone dropped it,” she replied. “But….. I did mange to glue it together again.”

“Why didn’t you just dump it?” I asked. “The thing gives me the creeps, it always has!”

Mum put a finger to her lips and closed the door that led to the lounge.

“Sshhhh Jane! It might hear you.” She looked scared and this worried me.

The furniture removal lorry arrived and the men began upstairs taking the bedroom items out. It surprised me how quickly the van was filled. Gran’s house was not big but she had possessed quite a few ‘bits and pieces’.

The van left to take their load down to the saleroom. The men had confirmed that they would return in an hour and hopefully empty the downstairs’ rooms. This gave Mum and me a chance to talk and she made another cup of coffee for us both.

“Okay Mum,” I began, sitting down at the table. “It’s time you came clean with me over that jug.”

Once again Mum went over and shut the partition door before she sat down.

“It’s a long story,” she said. “Before your grandmother married your grandfather she was being courted by a man called Dryman. They had a tempestuous time together, always arguing due to his jealousy, but the final outcome was, your Gran ended their courtship.”

“What happened then?” I asked, caught up in the story. “Was Dryman very angry?”

“He was so angry that he suffered a nervous breakdown and was committed to an asylum for the insane,” Mum said nervously. “About a year later Gran met Gramps and after a respectable period, they decided to marry.”

“What about Mr. Dryman?” I asked. “Did he ever get out of the asylum?”

“When Dryman heard of your grandmother’s engagement he went berserk, swearing and cursing. In fact he was so violent they had to strap him in a strait jacket and sedate him.” Mum took a sip of her coffee and gazed into space.

“Look you don’t need to go on if this is upsetting you…….” I started to say, but Mum cut me off with a shake of her head.

“You have to know the whole story,” she said. “For it affects you directly.”

She lifted her cup and drank the last of her coffee. I could see from her demeanour that she had made her mind up about something.

“On their wedding day Gran and Gramps received a present from Dryman,” Mum started. “How or where he had got it from is a mystery as he was confined to his room due to his violent outbursts, but the gift arrived and what a gift it turned out to be! It was a Toby jug; yes Jane, the one in the lounge. Well Gramps was annoyed at Dryman sending such an ugly gift. Its expression was one of contempt and no one felt comfortable in its presence.”

“But why didn’t they just get rid of it?” I asked in an exasperated tone.

“Your grandfather did. He wrapped the thing in newspaper and stuck it in the attic in an old chest.” Mum replied. “But that was when things started to happen.”

The front door bell rang and Mum got up to answer it. It was one of the removal men

announcing their return for another load. Mum let them in and leaving the front door open, came back through to the kitchen. “It makes me really sad to see all your Gran’s stuff going away. It seems to make her death real to me,” she said sitting down again.

“So Mum, what strange things started to happen?” I asked. I knew that all had not been well in Gran’s house.

“Mostly loud noises, groaning, bangs and loud creaking. The local paper did a story on it calling it Britain’s most haunted house!” Mum laughed humourlessly.

“The final straw came when loud footsteps were heard up in the attic late at night and during the early morning. Granpa couldn’t sleep and in desperation, thinking it may be Dryman’s gift that was responsible, he brought the Toby jug downstairs and placed it on the bureau. Peace ensued and the house fell silent. Gran and Granpa thought that it was over.”

“So what happened then?” I asked breathlessly. “Did the noises start all over again?”

“Well no……” she started. “ An atmosphere developed around the jug which made everyone who came into the house feel very uncomfortable. You must remember screaming your head off every time we visited Gran’s?”

I nodded my head. “Yes, but it was the Toby jug that frightened me!”

“Grampa decided to join the Army, but he was worried leaving Gran in the house on her own. One day he came home with a dog to keep her company. Well from day one the dog, they called him Caesar, was never at ease. He paced around and would growl softly at the Toby jug. You could tell he hated it.

Grampa left a week later and began his training. He managed to come home every month and he and Gran would take Caesar for long walks which he loved, it was only when they got back home that he started to be ill at ease. Once in the house he began his pacing and growling.

After a couple of years Grandpa rose to the dizzy heights of sergeant major and was allowed more time at home. The First World War had started and the troops were being shipped over to France. One weekend Grandpa came home for a few days before he shipped out to the trenches. He and Gran had just returned home from a long walk with Caesar when they spotted movement inside their lounge. Grandpa opened the front door and ordered Caesar in first. The dog raced into the lounge growling, but suddenly there was a flash of light and Caesar began shrieking. By the time we got into the room the poor dog was lying in a pool of blood that was pouring out of a ghastly wound in his side. As Gran sat with Caesar, he died.

We searched the room from top to bottom but found nothing that could account for the flash of light or that could have caused the injuries sustained by Caesar.”

“Oh God Mum, that’s terrible,” I said shaking my head. “Poor Gran, what a thing to happen to her.”

“Yes it was and Grandpa blamed everything on the Toby jug. He said it had to go and had Gran not stopped him he would have smashed the blasted thing.

“Granpa went back to the trenches a week later and was killed while attacking a machine gun post,” Mum said with tears in her eyes.

“And she has been living with this constant reminder since,” I said angrily. “If you remove it you are plagued with noises, if you live with it its presence poisons the air and if you destroy it, it could……..”

There was a discrete knock at the kitchen door. It opened to reveal the removal men. They had emptied the upstairs rooms and had begun to bring in our bedroom furniture.

“We’ll start in the lounge when we come back. Can we take everything?” asked one of the men.

Mum went through and carefully lifted the Toby jug and Grandpa’s photograph off the bureau.

“Yes,” she said. “Everything else can go.”

Mum laid the jug and the photograph side by side on the kitchen table. I could feel cold air emanating from the jug. Its evil smile chilled me.

“It really is an ugly thing isn’t it?” I said, without thinking.

“Sshhhhhh!” Mum hushed me. “You don’t know how powerful it is!”

Later we stood in the garden and had a cup of tea. The sun was setting and the clouds were turning gold.

“Mum?” I asked. “Did Gran try and destroy the jug?”

Mum turned to me, her face was white and I could see she was scared.

“What gave you that idea?”

“Well someone has glued it together,” I said. “Did it fall?”

Mum looked towards the kitchen window and when she turned back to me there were tears running down her cheeks.

“Gran had been getting steadily weaker last year and I know she blamed Dryman’s gift,” she began. “One day I found she had crawled from her bed, down the stairs and into the lounge. She then had grabbed the jug and then thrown it into the fireplace. After I had helped her back to bed I asked her why she had done it and she said she wanted the evil to stop with her, even if it lead to her death.”

“But why did you repair it?” I asked incredulously. “Gran was willing to make the sacrifice, why didn’t you let her?”

Mum turned and looked me in the eyes and asked, “Would you let me die?”

That night I lay in bed listening to the wind howl round the house. The little jug had us checkmated; we could do nothing to alleviate the position. It was a ridiculous situation but one which we were powerless to do anything about.

Two weeks later Mum came home from work early. She had felt sick and dizzy. I put her to bed and made her a hot drink, but by the time I gave her the drink she was unconscious and I had to call for an ambulance.

The paramedics took her right to hospital and she was placed in the Intensive Care Unit. She was by this time in a coma and the doctors were baffled. The symptoms did not match anything that they had seen before.

I sat at her bedside holding her hand as the machine that were keeping her alive bleeped and tapped.

“Oh Mum,” I whispered. “Please get better. Don’t leave me alone.”

I arrived home at midnight. A night wind blew amongst the trees and swept bits of paper down the road. The house was in darkness as I stepped up to the front door and unlocked it. The door squeaked open and I closed it after me with a bang.

I switched the hall light on and its rays illuminated part of the lounge. The Toby jug sat watching me looking very pleased with itself.

“You bastard!” I shouted pointing at the jug. “You made Mum ill, didn’t you?” I paused as if I expected an answer. The Toby jug just continued to smile. Pure evil and untouchable.

I went over and picked it up. I felt it squirming in my grasp, but I was sure it was my imagination.

I placed the jug next to my bed and after switching the light off, undressed and got into bed.

I lay and wondered if this curse would ever be ended. Once Mum and I had been killed off would it move onto cousins, nephews, nieces……..? I lifted the jug off the top of my bedside table and held it front of my face. I could not see it in the darkness but I could feel the waves of hate emanating from it.

The telephone rang. I put the jug carefully back by the bed and switching the light back on lifted the telephone receiver.

“Hello, this is the ICU. I am afraid your mother has developed complications,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “The doctors have advised that you come right away.”

I put the phone down slowly. Mum was going to die and all because of a stupid looking Toby jug. I picked it up once again and decided that I would destroy it. Mum was probably going to die followed I suppose by myself, but the curse would go no further. This was the end, the full stop, no more.

The wall at the end of my bedroom was bare of any pictures and I decided that it would be the anvil that I would destroy this little monstrosity on. So raising my arm I aimed at the wall and let the evil little jug fly. It sailed through the air and its destruction seemed imminent when, the end wall vanished and was replaced by a scene that I can only describe was hell. The sky glowed a lurid red and flames were visible on the horizon. I could hear shells flying through the air and explosions when they fell. The ground was strewn with bodies and jagged rubble stood about them. This was a battle field, but where? I wondered.

Suddenly a tall figure appeared silhouetted against the burning landscape. He was dressed as a soldier and as his face was lit up with an explosion, I knew who he was.

“Grandpa!” I shouted half in surprise and half in shock at seeing someone I knew to be dead.

My grandfather waved and held up the fateful Toby jug in his other hand.

“This is where it stops,” he said and turning marched into the tumult and fighting.

As he vanished into the fray I heard a shell shriek through the air and knew in my heart of hearts that it ‘had his name on it’. As in confirmation the ground suddenly lifted and fragmented as the shell exploded.

I must have fainted for I came to about half an hour later facing – a plain white wall.

I wondered if I had dreamt the whole thing, but after telephoning the hospital was told the wonderful news that Mum was conscious and eating some soup. She had recovered.

After the Toby jug was removed from our family everything settled down and Mum and I became an average family with equal good and bad fortune.

I married and made Mum a grandmother with a grandson and granddaughter who in turn married and made us very happy grandparents.

……………………………………..+……………………………………………….

The Waif (A short ghost story)

THE WAIF

It had been a bed and breakfast in an area of Chivester that was rather seedy. Unfortunately a lack of funds had forced my hand and as I had been sent by my firm to enquire as to whether two of the engineering companies that had factories in the town were interested in buying nickel plated nuts and bolts from us, I had been forced to book a room there.

The weather for this time of year was atrocious with high winds and cold, sleety rain. By the time I had humped my case from the railway station to the nondescript house in a row of other equally nondescript houses – I was soaked.

I pushed the door bell and listened to the ‘Trumpet Voluntary’ echo through the house as I waited with water dripping on my head from a faulty rone on the roof.

Mrs. Briarly my landlady was a large lady of the motherly type who shepherded me into the hall.

“Oh dear, Mr Sexton, what an awful night!” she wittered as she handed me a towel. “Dry your hair with this and when you are settled in your room, I’ll take your clothes and dry them in front of the fire.”

The bedroom was at the top of a set of stairs and was a contrast to the blandness of the outside of the house.

A double bed covered with a patchwork quilt and pink cushions which sat at the head of the bed dominated the room.

Someone, possibly Mrs. Briarly had attempted to offset the colour of the walls – yellow, with pictures which hung on the walls. The scenes, mostly pastoral or rural added an air of incongruity to the overall effect.

The kind woman prepared a very appetising meal for me and allowed me to eat it in my room.

“I normally like my guests to eat in the dining room, but as it is late…..” She left the sentence in midair, turning quickly and gazing at me with a worried look.

“You’re not a …. nervous man are you … Mr Sexton?” she asked haltingly.

I looked up at her from where I sat, the plate of sausage, egg, bacon and chips giving off an appetising aroma.

“Nervous? Mrs Briarly,” I answered puzzled.

“Well, it is just that some of my lodgers who have slept in this room have reported hearing…..strange noises…in the night.” she paused, uncertain of how to continue.

“What sort of strange noises?” I asked popping a bit of sausage into my mouth.

“Oh…..nothing scarey, just sometimes ….a child crying,” she replied warily.

As I put the light out that night and lay listening to the wind shriek round the house and the rain spatter the windows I wondered how a child like Ellen came to be haunting a house in this awful district.

Mrs. Brierly had ‘come clean’ over the ‘noises’ in the night. It was reported that about a hundred years before, her house had been a foster home for a little girl of eight. The foster parents had made her life a misery, making her get up early in the morning and work before she went to school. As soon as she got home and had eaten a meagre meal Ellen was expected to do all the family’s washing before she went to bed.

The situation had continued for a year until one night the house had caught fire and before the fire brigade could get the blaze under control the family and little Ellen had died.

Being in a strange bed has always affected me. I can’t sleep for any length of time and find myself awake in the early morning.

It was during one of those situations that I woke to see a small shadowy figure standing over by the window. The false dawn had begun lightening the sky and her silhouette stood out clearly. I caught my breath and for a few minutes I lay shaking under the covers. Then common sense prevailed and I half whispered:

“Ellen. Is that you?”

The small shadow gave a little moan and I heard a returned whisper:

“Yes, it is Ellen, Ellen Frances.”

I leant over and was about to put the light on when Ellen whispered:

“No, no don’t do that!”

The little figure moved over to the bed and I could see her in the semi-darkness, almost if she was glowing slightly. The feeling of fear had passed from me and all I felt was sympathy for this sad, frightened wraith.

“Are you a ghost?” I asked stupidly.

“Yes,” she whispered and I could feel a cool breeze about my face.

Her clothes were mismatched and her hair was long and tousled. On her feet she seemed to have slippers with holes in them. If ever a person looked like an orphan, it was Ellen.

“You were badly treated when you were alive,” I said sadly. “I’m so sorry.”

Ellen leant forward and I saw that she had a lovely face. It needed a good wash, but a natural beauty shone through the grime.

“Why are you sorry?” she asked. “It was not you that was unkind.”

“No,” I replied. “But it was grown ups like me who made your life a misery.”

Ellen and I talked on into the little hours. She told me of the orphanage that she had lived in when she was very young. An abandoned baby, she had been left on the orphanage steps by her mother or someone unknown. A kind nurse had called her Ellen, for as a youngster she looked after the children younger than her and would take the babies out in their prams. A gentle child.

The dawn sky strengthened and I could see that the spirit of Ellen was growing very tenuous.

“Must you leave me/” I asked. “I have a lot to ask you.”

Ellen placed her little hands into mine and I felt them as a breeze tickling my skin. She tilted her head and looked into my face, her eyes big and luminous.

“You have helped me,” she whispered. “Everyone else just got frightened, but you talked to me.”

“What caused the fire?” I had to ask before the morning light came and took her.

“It was a candle which fell over and set some rags on fire,” she replied. “The master had left it burning so I could see to do my duties. I watched it fall but I was so miserable I didn’t try to right it. I sat in a chair and watched as the room gradually burnt up.”

“So….. you could have stopped it,” I said quietly.

“Yes, you are right; I could have stopped the fire.” Ellen hung her head and looked sad.

I could hardly feel her hands anymore. The breezes had weakened and I felt she was going away.

“Ellen, you could make it right,” I whispered. “It’s not too late. Your life although tiring and menial then, could have improved once you grew up”

She moved slowly over to the window and then turned and looked back at me. Her mouth was turned up in a smile and her eyes twinkled with happiness.

“Thank you,” she said her voice full of emotion. “I hope we meet again….sometime.”

And she was gone, as sylph like as a piece of gossamer.

The outcome of my business proved successful and I won contracts from both companies.

The weather had improved and as I packed my bag to return home I thought about little Ellen. Had she made it right? Was Time in the spirit world a two way process allowing return to nodes of time when large decisions were made but could equally be unmade at a later time? 

Mrs Briarly knocked at my door and came in.

“I hope you enjoyed your stay with us Mr Sexton,” she said.

“Yes Mrs. Briarly it was a very successful trip and Ellen didn’t bother me at all.”

“Who is Ellen, Mr Sexton? And why should she have bothered you?” asked a plainly perplexed Mrs. Briarly.

“The ghost that you said haunted my room,” I said laughing. “Don’t you remember telling me?”

I said my goodbyes to a very puzzled Mrs. Briarly and began to walk down the street towards the railway station.

The wind blew gently and a blue sky covered the heavens. Birds sang and flew about in the sky.

I had just about reached the station when my attention was caught by a sign on the wall I was passing.

“Chivester Old Cemetery” it read.

I turned and began walking slowly down the path that led to an old lych gate. I made my way into the burying ground and began to check the gravestones. A large number of them were covered with moss and I had to rub the script clean before I could read them. Soon I had reached the centre of the cemetery and wondered which way I should go.

I checked my watch and saw that my train was due into the station in fifteen minutes. I turned and made my way back to the gate by one of the other paths.

I knew the stone as soon as my eyes fell on it. It glowed slightly as Ellen had. Its slight radiance visible in the shadow.

“Ellen Frances Davis born 1860  died 1930. Wife to William Prentis Davis born 1855  died 1925.  And their three children Louise, Sexton and Miriam (also buried here)”.

…………………………………….+…………………………………………….

Winter Solstice (or Vernon's tale) (Short Story)

Winter Solstice (or Vernon's tale)

My story begins on a December morning, 1991. It was on the approach to Christmas. Days were passing quickly, as they always do at that time of year. It was cold too, no colder than usual, just the same as I’d always remembered.

We led happy lives, happy but busy. I’d always thought too busy, weren’t we missing stuff, important stuff, family stuff, but that was the way of the world, even back then. It was the 90’s after all. We were a normal family just fitting in to society, just blending.

The place was New York, where else could such a tale be staged?

Our apartment was on Madison Avenue just off

5^th Avenue

next to Central Park. We’d lived there for 5 years now, 5 quick years. It was a fantastic home, situated in an old building at the side of The Carlyle Café. What a place to live, it fitted us and we fitted it.

I worked at a local fitness club on

East 78^th Street

and fitness was my world. Fitness and family.

Central Park was my godsend, a gift from almighty. It was my breathing space, my retreat and one block away from my doorstep.

I ran every morning at 6am and every evening at 10pm. My route took me around Turtle Pond, and down the south side of The Lake, passing Cherry Hill Fountain and then home again. It was around 3 miles and took me 20 minutes maximum on a bad day. I managed to fit it around my life, I was lucky.

I had friends there too…… well acquaintances. I’d met them day after day, in all weathers, they were there, jogging, roller skating, dog walking, even Tai Chi went on. And some diehards, whom I could have betted my apartment on being there….no matter what……

The old lady with the red coat and her Westie, the skating Rastafarian, the odd looking couple power walking and of course old Vernon the bench tramp. I think he had permanent residence there, always kicking around, feeding birds or up to something.

It was on that December morning my luck changed. I was struggling that particular morning, it was frosty, slippy and I wasn’t really up for it. But I set off as I usually did and soon got into the throws of things.

The snow was beginning to fall as I rounded the Turtle Pond, I could feel it crunching, freshly underfoot, or under my New Balance trainers. I took great pride to wear only the best sporting wear, one of my few needful habits.

15 minutes had gone and my daily routine was nearly completed when approaching Cherry Hill Fountain I glanced over to Vernon’s’ bench. I stopped in my tracks with dread. He was lying on the ground propped up against it, with a thin layer of snow blanketing him. He was dead, he had to be, he looked dead anyway. I looked around as I made my way towards him, the park was deserted, just me and Vernon.

I wiped the snow from his face and spoke softly to him,…… his eyes opened. He beckoned me close and whispered huskily…..”The Ramble”. Clutching my hand he gently offered something into it………..

As the snow continued to fall…….he sadly slipped away, right there in front of me, I was the only witness. Was I…..his last vision, his last sound, maybe his last thought?

“Dear old Vernon”, I thought as the snow stopped……..

                                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part 2

The ambulance pulled away with old Vernon’s mortal remains in it.

The two paramedics, who had looked a lot like Laurel and Hardy, had given him a cursive look before bundling him into a body bag.

“He’s all sweaty,” said the fat one.

“Like he’s been running,” confirmed Skinny.

I hoped that Vernon was now lying in the sun on a beach with a Tequila Sunrise in his hand.

“Cheers Vernon,” I whispered. “Enjoy…….”

I turned and looked across the park. I could see the impression of Vernon’s footprints as they were slowly covered by the falling snow.

I walked alongside the prints and tracked their way back towards the Lake.

He had been running, I could tell by the distance between the dints.

I crossed over Bow Bridge and entered the Ramble.

“Vernon had whispered something about the Ramble hadn’t he? “ I asked myself.

The trees grew thickly in this part of the park and I knew that members of the Gay Community liked to use the area for their clandestine assignations. I crept along in trepidation of coming upon a lover’s tryst; some of the partners were muscular giants!

Eventually I followed the trail to the edge of the Lake. The water lay grey and sullen and I imagined it was pretty cold in its murky depths.

A large set of caterpillar tracks were filling quickly with snow as the blizzard increased in its severity. The tracks led from the water’s edge up towards the

East Drive

and I wondered what Central Park vehicle had made them. I looked down into the water and tried to see if anything had been deposited there, but it was opaque due to the muddy nature of the lake bed.

Then I remembered that Vernon had slipped something into my hand. I quickly checked the coin that lay in my palm. It looked gold in colour and had a pattern forged on both its sides. It looked expensive and I wondered where a ‘man of the streets’ like Vernon could have got it from.

The wind was beginning to rise and spindrift was being blown about. It felt like getting ground glass hurled in my face. I leant forward and began to make my way back through the teeth of the gale.

Suddenly something blew up off the ground and I instinctively grabbed it out of the air. It was a flyer and I carefully unfolded it.

““Pirates Treasure”, a display of wealth in the Guggenheim Museum.” It read.

I shoved the paper in my pocket and

5^th Avenue

.

Once I got home I showered and put on my dressing gown. The apartment was warm and I stood by the window enjoying the heat as I watched my New York neighbours struggle with the heavy fall of snow. The buses had stopped and only a few motorists were able to make progress up Madison Avenue.

“Honey, I’m home!” called my wife Sylvia as she took off her coat and boots and shook snow out of her lovely brown hair. “What you been up to today?”

 I waited till she had made herself a coffee and then I told her of Vernon’s death.

“Poor old boy,” Sylvia said. “I hope he’s at peace now.”

“What do you think this is?” I asked her as I laid down the coin. My legacy from Vernon.

Sylvia picked it up and looked at both sides.

“It looks a gold doubloon. Where did you get it?”  

I told her about following the footprints into the Ramble and of my discovery of the tracks by the Lake. Then I spread out the flyer which I dried in the kitchen.

“Do you think there is a connection?” I asked as Sylvia’s eyes widened.

………………………………….+………………………………………….

Part 3

I hardly slept that night, tossing and turning thinking of poor old Vern, the doubloon and the exhibition in the Guggenheim.

`There must be a connection, I thought, no way, was this a coincidence`

Next morning after copious amounts of coffee and three lashings of Pancakes and Maple syrup, I set off for the museum.

It had been years since I had been there, my grandfather Serge frequented the place, and he would often take me along with him. Of course Lloyd Wright’s architectural masterpiece predominately displayed wonderful pieces of art, from Impressionist, Post Impressionist to contemporary. Every once in a while though the museum would host an impressive unconnected exhibition and clearly this pirate thing was one of them.

I grabbed my jacket and scarf, picked up Vernon’s doubloon shut the apartment door   and walked out into frozen Manhattan.

Interestingly on that particular day I actually noticed the building, I must have walked past the museum a million times without actually paying much attention to it but on that day for some unknown reason it stood out, like a giant sentinel watching over `The lung.`

I entered by the main entrance paid my fee and made my way toward the exhibition.

Pirate Treasure this way. I followed the sign.

The exhibition itself was small in nature but it contained some wonderful exhibits. Ancient chests, containing jewels, reputedly booty once owned by Captain Kidd, a telescope once held by Bluebeard and a large portion of a ships Keel claiming to be from the Black Pearl. Browsing, I was soon caught up in the romanticism the exhibition offered.

As I was peering into one of the display cabinets, I spotted it, my heart skipped a beat. It was a pile of doubloons and they looked the same as the one Vern had given me. Gingerly I fumbled in my pocket and took it out, it was, it was exactly the same.

The glass case held many little snippet’s of information and there were fragments of what were reported to be  treasure maps. One little piece of parchment caught my eye, a dried up piece of goat skin on what appeared to be markings. The map looked extremely familiar, I stared hard and long and then the epiphany hit, and it hit hard. It was a map of Central Park, it depicted various locations in the park but referred to them differently, I was however still able to pinpoint the locations the map was referring to. At the bottom, it had the stereotypical X marks the spot and beneath this was a signature.

Here be treasure, the finder will be richer than in his wildest dreams.

Captain Vernon Tab -lender. Of the good ship Venus.

Surely there was no way it could have been Vernon, old Vernon the Central Park tramp. I pulled my mobile from my pocket took a few shots of the map, stuffed the doubloon back in my pocket and made my way to the exit.

……………………………………………………………………………………

 

Part 4

The place indicated on the map was the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park.   I couldn’t put off going to the park to continue my treasure hunt, I was just too excited!  Although of course it was more than likely just a wild goose chase, old Vernon had a gold doubloon in his dying hand, that was more than enough to arouse my curiosity.

It was a cold, crisp December morning, so I stopped off in a little diner for a hot coffee before I continued my quest.  There was a little place I knew that did the best Joe in town and the waitress was a nice little dish too, an Estonian immigrant who didn’t speak much English but had lovely eyes. 

 The cold was a blessing in disguise! Usually Central Park was a magnet for cranks; the sacred haven of sexual deviants, flashers, cranks, psychos, flakes and nutters, but the cold would surely keep them away!  I could continue my quest with only the sub zero temperatures to worry about. 

When I got to the park it was about lunchtime, some of the office workers were milling about, there was a choir singing at the gate and a guy in a Santa Suit for the kids.  I laughed to myself; I knew a guy at work called Graeme who wouldn’t need that padded suit to make himself as jolly around the middle as that guy was!

Another guy, a resident crank stood with a sandwich board, usually it said ‘THE END IS NIGH’ in huge letters, today it said ‘HAPPY CHRISTMAS NOT HAPPY HOLIDAYS!’.  I tried my best to swerve this unhinged loon, he tried to engage passersby in conversation and the last thing I needed today was this distraction. 

I made my way to the fountain, I knew a little of its History.  ‘The angel of the waters’, it was designed by Emma Stebbins, the first famous female sculptor from the city, she lived in the 1800s.  It was an imposing structure and the place that the ‘X’ on the map seemed to indicate.  But what did that ‘X’ mean?  Would the prospective treasure be under the statue, in it, near it or in the water?  Or would there be another clue on the statue itself?  Or was it all just a wild goose chase, a hoax? 

And here I was, gazing up at the angel of the waters.  But the problem was, what would I do now?  I’d have to wade out to get a close look at it, but in this weather paddling in the icy waters would be crazy.  Nah.  I went home and went on the internet.  There were enough photos online of the sculpture from every conceivable angle that I could investigate in depth. 

Finally I found something interesting, a poorly taken photo on a tourists blog, but it showed something interesting! A few tiny letters carved into the base of the statue that didn’t seem to be connected with the date it was carved.  There were low down, just where the icy cold water of the fountain was lapping against the stone:

VTV thesaurus ex aquam veni XXIII

I searched online and couldn’t find much mention of this little piece of carved graffiti, that seemed promising!  I tried to translate this Latin phrase. 

VTV, that could stand for Vern Tab-lender Venus.  Or so I hoped!  ‘Thesaurus’ was Latin for treasure-trove.  Ex aquam veni meant ‘I came from the water’.   XXIII were Roman numerals- 23.   But 23 what?  23 paces from the fountain, 23 feet under it’s icy waters? 

 Maybe I could go back later, late at night when the park was empty and pace out 23 paces in the water.  I would wear a pair of waterproof boots.  Yea, that was it!

Part 5

I am nearing the end of my story now and not a moment too soon; it’s the 20^th of December – if I thought the days were passing quickly before, the last week since Vernon’s death has been a blur of activity.

In that week the preceding account has been delivered in one form or another to all concerned. I have written it up for the record – as Vernon suggested. Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself here, digressing. But by the time you read this you will know the gist of the story anyway; I’m just aiming to fill in the missing bits and of course give my version. We will all have our own versions now but the real story is Vernon’s version. 

  

So, to get back to my story, as you know I went back to the fountain that night; otherwise I wouldn’t be here to tell you about it. At first I couldn’t find anything; I almost gave up but then I had one last idea and eureka! I found what Vernon had hidden. It wasn’t what I had expected, what I had hoped for at the time.

My rising excitement soon gave way to plummeting disappointment; what I had discovered was a small metal box – the kind of box you might use to keep personal documents safe, which was pretty much what Vernon had done. There was no treasure, no gold doubloons.

Instead the box contained several envelopes; it didn’t look promising.

Back at my apartment I examined the contents of the box: there was an envelope addressed to the ‘finder!’ but more surprising was the envelope addressed to ‘the jogger who sports the New Balance trainers!’ You can imagine my surprise! I new that I wasn’t the only jogger in the park to wear New Balance trainers – but there were not that many others and somehow I knew that the envelope was addressed to me. It was a shock; we had never spoken in life and now Vernon was speaking to me from the grave…and it wasn’t just me; I recognised some of the other addressees: some of them took a bit of detective work - but ‘the generous lady with the red coat and small dog.’ I knew immediately. Vernon actually added Mrs White’s name. I think the descriptions were for my benefit or at least for the benefit of the ‘finder’.

Vernon explained everything in my ‘finder’ letter; it was not until I read my other letter, my New Balance trainers letter, that I had to deal with Vernon’s more personal comments and they were very personal- he pulled no punches; just gave it to me straight: the whole personal morals thing. Stuff I hadn’t really thought about much. I don’t mind admitting that it wasn’t easy to accept.

Later, when we compared notes everyone had a similar experience; how on earth did Vernon know, how did he know me so well? He seemed to know everyone’s stories. I, for one, was convinced that he must have employed a private detective! That’s how paranoid I was, then. Of course I know now that that was nonsense.

It’s so easy to underestimate the powers of observation and insight, which Vernon had in abundance and I suppose he must have been a good listener too; picking up on people’s stories and gossip. Considering that we never even spoke it’s amazing that he knew me so well; he had me down to a ‘T’: warts ‘n’ all, as they say.  It’s the warts that bothered me; if only I could have had more charity in my heart – like Mrs White, like everyone else on Vernon’s list; but I just didn’t think, I had no idea. I ran around the park morning and night in a haze of oblivion, which is a poetic way of saying that I was selfishly unaware of others. I saw everyone but I didn’t really see them – not like Vernon did.

Anyway, enough about me; at least Vernon has given me the chance to redeem myself and I still have some explaining to do -  so I’d better get on with it: you might be wondering about the gold doubloons and the treasure? Well there certainly had been a treasure. It’s still there in the Guggenheim Museum. Vernon almost lost it all to the authorities but thanks to some shrewd bargaining he managed to strike a deal, a concession. If you read his papers he explains it all – but the upshot was that he managed to claim a finder’s fee with the stipulation that the funds had to be used for a charity, a charity of his choice - which suited Vernon perfectly; though he never let on to the authorities at the museum.

This is where we come in; we are Vernon’s charity of choice. These final notes can double as the minutes for this meeting.

The main point on the agenda is how to manage Vernon’s trust. Vernon’s wish was that not only would we take on the role of custodians of the park but that we would also be custodians of those who used the park the most, which primarily seems to be us. That is clearly part of the reason why Vernon chose us in the first place. We have a vested interest.

There has also been some discussion about the trust name: Vernon’s Christmas Charity Club seems to be the favourite but I know some of you liked the shortened version: Vernon’s Club; I see that we are in agreement with that. VC has a good ring to it…and we must make a public tribute to Vernon, something to commemorate him.

The arrangements for the Christmas fundraiser are going well. It’s great to see everyone’s commitment and enthusiasm. Everyone knows their own roles so there’s no need to go into that here.

Oh yes, there was a question about Santa’s grotto: Vernon used to take on the job of Santa. Some of you might like to fill Vernon’s boots, so to speak. Any volunteers’? Ah, feels like everyone has taken a step backwards. Well if no one else fancies it…

Ok, well I could do it but I’ve just remembered…there’s a guy at my work who might fit the bill. I’ll check with Graeme, see if he’s game!

In the meantime and just to get into practice on behalf of Vernon: Merry Christmas one and all!

The Brotherhood (Short Story)

“What are you doing this weekend Bry?” asked Constable Tony Jones yawning. He and W.P.C. Bryony Williams had been on duty since nine o’clock in the morning. It was now four o’clock in the afternoon. Their job had been to check the speed of motorists on the B793 road and to either warn or issue a penalty ticket to offenders depending on the severity of their infringement.

“Got a barbecue this weekend, Tony,” replied the blonde policewoman. “Jimmy Forbes is holding it at his house. Didn’t you get an invite?”

“Yes, I did, but after Jimmy’s last barbecue I got a stomach bug. I’m sure one of his burgers was dodgy!” Tony groaned.

“Aw, Tony you are a real softy. You are always the one ………bloody hell!!”

Whatever Tony was or wasn’t, was left to speculation as Bryony’s concentration was suddenly switched to the car racing down the road towards the police car.

“Tony!” screamed Bryony, holding up the speed detector. “That bugger is doing seventy miles an hour!”

As the car, a Jaguar, raced by, Tony started the car and switched on the siren. He pulled swiftly out onto the road and was soon in pursuit of the offending vehicle.

It was a built up area and the speed limit should have been thirty miles per hour. The road was fairly empty of cars so it was not long before Tony had caught up with the Jaguar. He flashed his car lights in an effort to get the driver to pull over, but all it did was make him increase his speed.

Tyres shrieked as the two cars hurtled round corners, narrowly avoiding pedestrians and other cars. Houses flashed by and Bryony began to feel squeamish due to the rocking motion of the car. Tony had pulled up close behind the Jaguar and clung to his tail like a limpet.

“Zero one three to base!” Bryony shouted into the hand microphone. “In pursuit of a gold coloured Jaguar. Registration plate Zulu, Uniform, Six, One, Papa, Sierra, Yankee. We are proceeding down Farmouth high street, heading in a westerly direction!”

“Roger that Zero one three, two units are on their way!” came the reply from Base.

Two hundred yards ahead of the two cars, someone emerged from a side lane driving an Audi. The Jaguar raced towards the narrowing gap between the Audi and the opposite pavement and squeezed narrowly through. Tony had to stamp on his brakes and narrowly missed running into the side of the emerging car.

“Get out of the way!” both Tony and Bryony shouted in unison. The Audi driver hastily turned his car into the road and allowed the police car to speed past and continue the pursuit.

Mr Harman, the butcher, was having a very bad day. First he had slept in, his alarm clock had not woken him. Next of all he burnt his toast and had to make a fresh batch.

Then to cap it all, as he prepared to leave Farmouth in his mobile butcher’s van, to visit the village of Crossley, he had a blow out with his offside tyre. The van had slewed round sideways and blocked the road. Mr Harman tried to get the van moved but in his haste he stalled it. The next thing he remembers is a sporty car coming speeding round the corner, swerving to avoid his van and upon hitting a low wall at the side of the road, hurtling into the air and smashing into a grove of young trees.

Mr Harman was about to run over to give aid when a police car screeched to a halt. Tony and Bryony leapt out of the car and ran to the site of the crashed car. A thin plume of smoke was rising from the engine and Bryony turned and ran back to the police car to get a fire extinguisher.

The driver was lying outside the car having smashed through the windscreen. The glass had torn his clothes and as Tony knelt down by him he saw that in the areas where his skin was exposed his skin was heavily tattooed. The man was bald and had suffered a lot of cuts and bruising to his face and forehead.

Bryony used the fire extinguisher to put out the fire that was starting to burn in the engine.

After reporting the situation to Base, Tony had an ambulance and Scene of Crime Officers dispatched to the crash site. He and Bryony then began to marshal the few cars that had come on the scene, getting them to pass quickly and safely on their way.

Sergeant Belton arrived in one of the police cars that had been dispatched during the chase. He had about twenty years experience in policing and upon arrival of the S.O.C.O. team set up communications with Base.

One of the S.O.C.officers opened the boot of the Jaguar with a crowbar. The lid had been badly dented in the crash. He looked inside and immediately called Sergeant Belton across to see what he had discovered.

“Jones, Williams!” called out the sergeant. “Come across here!”

Both Tony and Bryony climbed over the wall and carefully made their way towards the crashed car. The S.O.C. officer and the sergeant had plastic gloves on and were examining items in the boot space.

A skull minus its jaw bone, a large knife whose blade was engraved with lettering and drawings and a large black robe, which upon being spread out, displayed the same lettering and drawings on it, as those on the knife.

………………………………………..  +…………………………………………….

Part 2

“Looks like a cult thing Sarge” quipped Bryony.

“I’ve seen this kind of stuff in a Bond movie, just a bloodied chicken to find.” kidded Tony.

“Ok you two, less of the wisecracks and back up that ambulance to the hospital, let’s get Kananga’s story when he comes round.” ordered Belton.

The driver had regained conciousness in the ambulance and was reasonably lucid by the time Tony and Bry had arrived.

“Is he up for interviewing doctor?” said Tony, after arriving at St James Hospital.

“Give us an hour or so, we’re patching him up” replied Doctor Samedi.

By now it was early evening and darkness was descending. It was late in the year and a miserable time to be doing traffic duties anyway, so Tony and Bry were making the most of this time indoors with nothing to do but wait. They sat in the staff café situated in a parallel corridor to the admittance ward where their perpetrator was being treated.

“Did you notice the docs arms and neck Bry?” queried Tony.

“Yeah, tattoo’s….it’s a common thing these days Tony” replied Bry, sipping away.

“Yeah I suppose…. but he was well decorated for a doctor, don’t you think?” mumbled Tony.

Just as Bry finished off her cappaccino, “BANG…..BANG..BANG”

“What the fk was that,…. can’t be gunshots” panicked Tony.

With that, the duo headed round to the ward…the area was pandemonium, staff and patients running everywhere, headless chickens came to mind.

“Where’s Doctor Samedi?” shouted Bry.

The desk was staffed by a nurse, mature and hostile looking, “Doctor who?, what’s the name?”

“Samedi, Doctor Samedi,” affirmed Tony.

“We have no Doctor Samedi,” replied Nurse Griffen.

“Ok, where’s the guy from the RTA this afternoon?” responded Tony.

“Err, Room 7, down there on the left” answered the nurse.

Meanwhile Bry had called in the disturbance and multiple units and firearms squads were enroute. Hospital security had arrived but were in the dark as much as anyone else and pandemonium continued……

“What’s going on here Wullie?” asked one of the security personnel to his collegue.

“No idea Peter, same old for us, the mushroom brigade, kept in the dark and fed on shit!” quipped Wullie.

“Yeah, seems to be the way of it,” muttered Peter.

Bry and Tony cautiously peered through the open door of Room7 to find what they’d expected. The driver, their detainee, their whole point of being here was lying dead across his bed. Head pulverised, it was difficult to make out the amount of gunshot wounds to his head initially.

At that, fellow police officers appeared from every corner, it appears the whole station had attended.

It transpired the driver had three gunshot wounds to his cranium, someone wanted him dead and made no mistake about it.

“Samedi was the main suspect, made his escape through the room window onto a walkway roof and down into the carpark” reckoned Belton at the briefing.

Tony thought, “ok, suspect and method seemed straight forward but motive was another thing entirely…… and what did the lettering and drawings scrawled on the mirror mean in Room number 7..?”

………………………………………..  +…………………………………………….

Part 3

That night Tony shared his thoughts with Bry. It was after work hours back at his place and out of uniform – in fact they were now out of their cloths entirely. Bry lit a B&H and inhaled deeply. She replaced the lighter on the bedside table.

‘I’m not so sure that this is such a straight forward case…’ said Bry as she exhaled a long plume of smoke. Tony knew better than to interrupt when Bry was running through a case and thinking out loud.

‘Take Doctor Samedi; how did he managed to arrive at the hospital so soon?’

Bry tapped her cigarette on the bedside table ashtray. Tony remained silent.

‘He must have followed the ambulance from the scene of the crash…which means he must have been following… must have been chasing the Jaguar’ There was a pause; Bry blew an even longer plume of smoke. Tony could not resist coming in: 

‘So the driver of the Jaguar was on the run!’

‘and’ continued Bry, ignoring Tony, ‘he was running for his life…because he knew something or had discovered something that was a threat to this cult, or whatever they  are…he was going to expose them, blow the whistle!’

They were both silent for a moment; contemplating the implications. This case could be big…but the truth is out there…somewhere…

Tony and Bry exchanged glances; Tony couldn’t keep a straight face:

‘This is a case for the X-Files!’

They both burst out laughing. Bry recovered first: ‘Another crazy case…the worlds going mad!’ There was something sobering in her expression; they had seen a lot of weird shit.

Bry had started keeping her own files on special cases and teased Tony by calling him ‘Mulder’ – only it was Tony who tended to be the sceptic; so their roles were sort of reversed, with Bry making the case for the weird and the so called supernatural. It was their own secret game; a private fantasy irresistibly played out.

‘You know, I think I have seen those tattoos somewhere before’ mused Tony.

‘Really?’ Bry arched a quizzical eye-brow.

‘No, really!... I’m sure of it…it’s on the tip of my tongue…’

‘You’ve seen someone else with similar tattoos?’

‘I’m not exactly sure…but yes that could be it…’ Tony had his thoughtful expression.

‘Remember how the murderer escaped from the hospital? That could be a clue!’

‘Come on spill it’ Bry was losing patience. ‘You‘ve thought of something…is it to do with the lettering and drawings scrawled on the mirror in Room number 7? ’

‘No, its not that, I’m wondering if that is something of ruse; to throw us of the track…but you’ve given me another idea…you thought the shots to the head were a bit excessive, as you delicately put it…considering it was a calculated and efficient hit…one shot would have been fatal, surely …so why risk more?’

‘Unless!’ exclaim Bry, catching on, ‘the driver’s face could be identified!’

‘Exactly!’

‘But what did you think of to lead you to that?’

‘Get dressed and I’ll show you, we’re going out’

It did not take them long to find what Tony was looking for; there were posters plastered everywhere; on bus stop shelters, on lamp posts,  on walls and even on public notice boards.

They stood staring at an A3 size poster: bold red lettering, with a drop shadow, proclaimed: THE NIIGHT CIRCUS IS IN TOWN!

Under the garish caption were typical circus performers: the ringmaster with his whip, a strong man with dumbbells and a midget on top, there were fire breathers and sword swallowers, an evil looking clown…but what caught the attention of Tony and Bry were the acrobats; there were four of them; dressed in black spandex leggings and their torsos and arms covered in tattoos!

‘What do you think?’ said Tony. Bry looked stunned.

‘I think we’re going to the circus!’

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<ß---------------------------à>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

PART 4

Neither Tony nor Bry had been to the circus since they were kids.   The experience took them back in many ways.   Sitting in a ringside seat, surrounded by screaming kids and their parents.

They sat through bubbles the clown, a sword swallower, Pearl the bearded-lady and an especially mad individual who stuck his head inside the mouths of two large lions and a Bengali Tiger. 

Even while watching this slightly corny show Tony and Bry felt like they were the ones being watched.  They felt hidden eyes watching them.  Savage unseen eyes like the eyes of a predator watching it’s prey.  It made Bry feel very uneasy. 

Then came the act they were waiting for………………………the acrobats.

BUT……………….instead came a brief apology from the ringmaster.  Due to illness there would be no acrobat show tonight by their star team, the tattooed guys.  Instead their slot was taken by the Midget Express, three midgets who did acrobatics on the back of a galloping Shetland pony.

Tony smiled for a moment, if he could get those three midgets into the interrogation room with a rubber house, he could surely get the little guys to confess to something! Anything!  Didn’t really matter what.  Looked good on the crime clear-up statistics.

Tony and Bry looked at each other.  ‘Let’s go’ Tony said

‘Where?’

‘Backstage.  Illness me arse.  Let’s discover the real reason those tattooed acrobats didn’t perform tonight!’

They left the main tent and started to ferret about in one of the little side tents.  They knew they shouldn’t really be prowling like this, but Tony’s curiosity got the better of him.  They were looking for those four tattooed acrobats.

But inside this dimly lit tent the stench was over-powering.  They heard a mechanical sort of noise from within the gloom, Tony called out warily ‘Hello?’, but there was no reply. 

After a moment or so their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom.  On the far side were a lot of odd looking little wagons, cages on wheels in other words!   Thankfully they seemed to be empty.

Tony and Bry walked through the tent, intending to slip out the other side and find the performer’s quarters.  However just ahead their path was barred, something was moving in the gloom.  It didn’t seem to be human because it seemed shorter than a human, waist height maybe, but it moved like a living creature.

All too soon they realised what this was.   The epiphany was cruel and brought a spasm of terror to both of them.

The brightly coloured object was a tiger, prowling slowly but steadily towards them! 

They both froze in terror, perhaps that mechanical sound they had first heard had been someone unbolting the cage that this ferocious demon was normally kept in. Could someone have deliberately set this beast loose on them? 

Tony pushed Bry back, standing between her and the tiger, he told her to run for it!  Bry staggered a few paces then looked back in horror to see a brightly coloured streak of lighting, then a scream from Tony as the tiger engulfed him!  It was a blur of fur, flailing arms and legs, teeth and claws! 

                                                     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part 5

The tiger’s incisors sank deep into Tony’s neck, flaying the throat in one massive movement. Crimson life spewed from the wound, the beast’s unforgiving, unrelenting attack continued, undaunted. In that instant of madness Bry knew that Tony’s life was over, no one could have survived such a furious assault. Bry released a piercing scream and ran.

As Bry fled she could hear the crunching of bone continuing behind her.

My god, what the fuck have we gotten ourselves into.

It suddenly occurred to Bry what the markings on the mirror back in the hospital were.

The mirror, those markings, they were representative of Tiger stripes. It must be some kind of veneration cult, thought Bry.

Bry knew she had to make it back to the apartment.

The keys, she thought. Tony had the damn car key.

She had to go back, she knew she had to face Tony’s death, in order to prevent hers.

Gingerly she retraced her steps. She could hear the crowd gasp and applaud as the circus entertainment continued above her.

Fuck! She thought. If only they knew there was a fucking Bengal Tiger on the loose they wouldn’t be so enthusiastic.

I’m sure this was the spot. Bry thought.

But there was nothing, no signs of a struggle and certainly no sign of the copious amounts of blood Tony was sure to have lost, nothing, just an empty cage.

A light, Bry could see a faint light omitting from the other side of the animal holding area.

As she approached, she could hear muffled voices. Not speech, chanting, ecclesiastical type chanting, low and morose.

She swung open the heavy door .

Inside dressed in hooded cloaks were 20 to 30 people chanting in unison, directed by what would appear to be a naked tattooed man, covering his face was a huge mask, a mask in the form of a Tiger.

As Bry entered the chanting ceased, a follower immediately made for the door, it slammed shut with a forceful bang.

The naked man slowly removed the mask.

 Samedi. Thought Bry.

`Welcome Bryony, we have been waiting for some time on your arrival. I, as I’m sure are all, are so pleased to see you.`

`You bastard, screamed Bry, you had Tony killed; ripped apart by a fucking Tiger.`

`Come come my dear, do you really think I would be so callous as to permit Tony to be killed in such an ill mannered fashion?`

With that one of the followers’ standing directly beneath the Ipsissimus's feet removed his hood.

Tony! Gasped Bry, you’re alive, but I thought you were dead, that Tiger, the blood, the sickening noise, she whispered; but you’re alive, how, how is it possible?`

You only witnessed a mirage, a hallucination Bry, induced by the laced soft drink I offered you when we were sitting in the big top.

What, you drugged me, why Tony, why would you do such a thing, Samedi, the murder, this cult thing, what in Hell’s name is going on?

Not in Hells name Bry but in his. Tony replied, his eyes burning with desire.

Bry listen to me, Hantu Belian, is with us, he is our escape from this ethereal world, this world of hate and fear. How many times in the past have you said you were depressed with the job, your personal life and the general monotony of living? This is our chance Bry, our chance to escape everything, all you need do is put your faith in Hantu Belian and I promise you life will change, nothing will ever bring you down again.

`You are joking right? You want me to worship some guy in a tiger suit on the pretext that everything following that we be OK? I may complain about life at times Tony but that’s human nature, we are supposed to moan about our lot. Don’t you see, that is what we are designed to do, not stand around in robes chanting shit to a naked guy in a tiger mask.`

`Bry you don’t understand Samedi is not Hantu Belian, Samedi is merely his representative here, in this world, in this physical place. Bry you have to believe me, put your faith in Hantu Belian and you will be saved.

`O Tony fuck off with the Hantu Belian can save us shit. This guy. She pointed toward the magician. This guy is a murderer and I’m taking him down the nick. Now are you coming Tony or what?`

`You don’t understand Bry this is not optional, this is your destiny, you have no choice in the matter, as you will clearly not participate of your own free will, we will have to show you the alternative by other means.`

`Enough of this puerile nonsense, shouted Samedi. SIEZE HER.`

Two of the hooded attendees immediately grabbed Bry.

`Remove her garments and prepare her, HE has waited long enough.`

Get you hands off me, Tony help, get off me, I’m a police officer you idiots.

Stop struggling Bry it’s futile. Only Hantu Belian can save you now.

One of Bry’s attackers held her arms while the other ripped off her clothing.

`Tony. Tony for god sake help me`.

`Resistance is futile Bryony, remarked Samedi, you were destined for this moment.`

From the birth of this world, man has abused and undermined his privilege. Hantu Belian has awaited relentlessly for an opportunity to channel his power through humanity, I have been chosen as that conduit. Now we will witness the true raison d’être of man. A new beginning. From this very day humanity will realize that the worship of the monotheistic faiths was pointless; A futile exercise where man indulged in false worship, fabled gods and immoral representations. I, Bernard Samedi will lead his will here on earth in glory and strength toward a new understanding toward a new principle toward a new kingdom, here on this ancient planet where all disillusionment and false tradition will be speedily removed.

Bry, standing naked and shivering, could not comprehend what was occurring around her.

Tony please, help me, please, I beg you.

`Everything will be ok Bryony trust me.`

Another member of the congregation brought a robe and handed it to Bryony’s assailants.

Put this on. One of them hissed, and any stupid actions and you will be swiftly dealt with.`

Bry took the garment and slipped it over her head

`At last. Samedi declared, we are ready.` 

Bry was led toward a strange inscribed altar, within the etchings she could see the face of a Tiger, but not just an ordinary representation, a horrific demonic representation. Horns protruded from its massive head and bolts of red fire shot ferociously from its twisted inhumane mouth. Sitting on top of the altar was a skull, a human skull minus the jaw bone. Protruding from where the scalp would have been rested a ceremonial dagger.

The items from the Jaguar, Bryony thought.

`Place her here.` Commanded Samedi, pointing to the wooden table which stood beside the unholy pulpit.

Bry’s captors forcibly lifted her and placed her directly onto the table. Two other members of the gathering brought steel manacles and bound her feet and hands, she was unable to move in any direction.

A solitary tear rolled down her cheek,

`Why? She silently mouthed toward Tony. Why is this happening?`

`It’s the right thing to do, Tony replied. It will all be over soon , you’ll see.`

`IT’S TIME!` Screamed Samedi, Commence the ritual.`

The gathering began to chant.

`Bagabi laca bachabe…Lamac lamec bachalyas.`

`Lamac cahi achababe…Cabahagy sabalos Barylos.`

`Lagoz atha cabyolas, Samahac et famvolas.`

Samedi entered into some form of hypnotic trance. Writhing with intense sexual gestures.

He hosted high above the dagger adorned with a tigers head.

`In the name of Satan, ruler of the earth, king of the world, the chief of the serfs, I command the forces of darkness to bestow their power upon us. Save us Lord Satan from the treacherous. Oh Satan spirit of the earth, god of liberty, open wide the gates of hell and send forth from the abyss, your disciple ...

`...Hantu Belian`

`Hantu Belian`

`Hantu Belian`

Lightning flashed and the room plunged into darkness.

Slowly, emerging from beneath the altar, a shape began to appear. Small at first, then growing ever larger.

 Peering through the darkness, Bryony could see the tremendous bulk rise before her, twisting and writhing in unison to the chants.

`Hantu Belian`

`Hantu Belian`

`Hantu Belian` The crowd screamed in ecstasy.

Bryony could see the forming shape, a gigantic Tiger, red not orange in colour. Massive ivory horns protruding from its forehead.  Blood red eyes filled with hate, a creature bestowed with immense demonic power.

`Hantu Belian` exclaimed Samedi you have heard our call`.

The demon raised its ungodly head and roared, releasing black flames from it mouth.

The demonic fire engulfed three of the congregation, instantly turning them to dust.

`Take them, cried Samedi, they are mere mortals, take them as you wish.`

`Look I have prepared another for you, swooping his hand across Bry’s body. Sup from her, feast of her, fulfil your desire, you will not be disappointed`.

The massive head loomed over Bry’s. Frozen in terror she felt a scream building up inside but could not find the strength to release it. She could smell the creature’s breath, rancid; see the massive teeth gleaming in the gloom, salivating, drooling at the thought of the kill.

It raised its head for the final time…

Bryony closed her eyes.

She prepared for the assault. She was ready to die.

In her petrified state Bryony could hear what sounded like a voice, chanting, not unlike what she had heard before but more solitary more individual.

`Oriel Seraphim. Eo Potesta, Eo Potesta , Zati, Zata, Zati, Zata, Galatim, Galatah Galatim, Galatah.`

Bry felt her entire body tremble. She opened her eyes, it was not her body which was trembling but the entire room. The massive head was still above her but its eyes were directed elsewhere. She looked; standing in the doorway was a man, arms folded, chanting over and over…

`Oriel Seraphim. Eo Potesta, Eo Potesta , Zati, Zata, Zati, Zata, Galatim, Galatah Galatim, Galatah`.

As Bryony’s eyes adjusted to the light which emitted from the doorway she realized who the man was.

Belton, Sergeant Belton.

A massive clap of thunder resonated throughout the room followed by a lightning bolt, splitting the altar in two.  

The beast roared toward Belton and prepared to leap.

Belton stood motionless, repeating over and over the words…

`...Oriel Seraphim. Eo Potesta, Eo Potesta , Zati, Zata, Zati, Zata, Galatim, Galatah Galatim, Galatah`.

The creature leaned back on its haunches and sprang. A second bolt of lightning flashed, illuminating the room, halting Hantu Belial’s attack. Bryony watched as the face of the demon vanished before her with a tremendous flash.

`No, screamed Samedi, you fool, you idiot, you will pay for this.

Arms waving manically, Samedi lunged toward Belton.

The moment between the gunshot and Samadi’s body hitting the floor, was infinitesimal, but to Bryony it appeared to last forever.

Belton’s bullet from his revolver had entered Samadi’s forehead, a solitary shot which removed him from his earthly plane.

`I’ve wanted to do that for years,` shouted Belton. And this was the perfect opportunity`.

`Bryony are you alright?` Shouted Belton as he rushed toward the sacrificial table.

Yes I’m fine, answered Bry. But, Tony, where’s Tony?

Tony’s Fine exclaimed Belton, I got him out just before I began the banishing ritual.

That chanting, those words you spoke, that god awful thing, what in hells name is going on?

`Your exactly right Bry, all this did happen in Hells name. But let’s forget that for the moment and get you home, I think later though I will have a lot of explaining to do.`