The Beast

Tradition, comes in many forms, and they exist for many reasons, ‘The Ritual of The Light’ simply existed to protect. For those who do not know of this tradition, fear not, not many do, but Jonathan and his family knew it well. It took place December 31st, from sundown to midnight. The tradition was simple really, before sundown a certain lantern in the house was to be blessed by the eldest male of the family this blessing being to assure the light of the lantern is strong enough to ward off the beast. A creature of evil and torment, a creature that hounded children, drank blood like wine and drove men mad. The light was to remain on all night, to ward off the beast, and one was ever to be out of the lanterns light for more than two minutes for if one was, they would surely be doomed.

Jonathan lit a match as the sun dipped low into the horizon, disappearing behind the sky, and as darkness was enveloping the world around his home he lowered the match to a lantern’s wick, which had been blessed hours earlier by his Great Uncle Joe. Catching fire the lantern quickly did its job and provided quite an illumination for the living room from its spot on the small coffee table.

“Ah, quite a fine light wouldn’t you say, boy?” Said an old voice that crackled like a dying fire, which belonged to Jonathans seventy-five-year-old Great Aunt Gretel.

Jonathan looked at his Great Aunt who sat illuminated by the light of the lantern, wrapped in a green sweater with a pair of thick pants and boots, rocking back and forth rhythmically on a rather large sofa while she knit a scarf, beside her resided Jonathan’s Great Uncle Joe, who was not much older than Gretel. He was dressed in a sweater, with coveralls, and had also wrapped himself in a rather large blanket whilst also wearing boots, the heavy clothing the both of them wore shielded them from the winter cold, which permeated throughout the room.

“Yes, yes indeed, a good light, I think it should last us through the night.” Said Jonathan, who quickly went to one side of the room, lighting another match to set the logs in the fireplace alight, providing little but much-needed protection against the cold, after all the Beast was not the only danger of winter. After doing this, Jonathan resigned himself to an armchair adjacent to his family, the lantern as well as the coffee table it sat on acting as a median between them. The air was cold but thankfully Jonathan found himself protected from it by his thick jacket, pants, and boots. The one thing he was not protected from was the solemn air stemming from the seriousness of the tradition, which lay over them all.

Jonathan turned his attention to the familiar surroundings of the living room of the old house, the gaudy pink and green wallpaper, the many decorative vases that sat scattered amongst various tables, casting peculiar shadows on the room, the paintings of ships which hung on every wall powerful behemoths, plowing forward through the vast ocean and off into the great unknown, Jonathan longed to see the ocean really, he wanted to get out of this house one day. One day he did. He wished to see the unknown, the unexplorable, however, he feared he would never, he feared he was trapped. His Great Aunt was always rambling about the Beast, a creature of which he was unsure even was real.

Jonathan sighed and all was silent and quaint as Jonathan stewed in thought...and it seemed like just another December 31st.
When suddenly, a scream was a heard, one that could only belong to a child, a girl, a small girl.
The scream shot through the air like a gunshot. Piercing the air like a bullet pierces the skin and utterly shredding the peace.

A scream? Thought Jonathan, How? Where? Jonathan’s house was not only in the middle of nowhere but surrounded by a thick wood, the only town was thirty miles away, and only his Great Aunt and Uncle ever went there. They were also to remote and isolated to be near any main roads In the whole of his life which totaled sixteen years Jonathan had never heard a scream in this neck of the woods.

The screams got louder, screams of anguish, of pain, the screams turned to wails, and the wails themselves turned into cries for help.

“Help me! Help me please!”

For the moment no one reacted, everyone was too stunned, it was as if they had been struck by lightning, no one seemed to breathe, never before had such a thing happened, and on December 31st no less.
Finally finding the will to overcome his paralysis Jonathan shot to his feet, his entire family looked to him, and he looked back.

“We have to help,” Jonathan stated simply, his voice unwavering, commanding almost.

“No.” Said his Great Aunt looking into his eyes, her body still, her eyes boring into him, she spoke only one syllable but she had communicated so much, “sit down.”

“No,” Jonathan responded.

Tension filled the air, it was as if the very paintings in the room had come alive and the waves of water had crashed into the living room, filling it to the brim. Jonathan further waded in defiance as he continued on. Feeling he could not stand idly by as an innocent child screamed for help.

“We are going to help her. Let’s go together, all of us with the lantern!”

“We can’t!” Jonathan’s Great Uncle Joe cried rasping, “we are too old...to slow...and you can’t go out their alone.”

“If you can’t go out there to help, then I will. Alone.”

Jonathan’s Great Aunt’s eyes turned to fire and her nostrils flared for a moment and then they grew sad, filling with tears, which slowly flowed down her cheeks, “then you will surely end up like your father and mother…”

Jonathan froze stiff, his mind pulled under by memories like a body in a riptide, he remembered that night, three years ago, he tried to shut it out but sometimes the walls of his mind failed and he was dragged back down in the memories, Jonathan shook his head, grabbing onto the present and holding it with a tight mental grip, he would not allow himself to be consumed by such thoughts at this moment.

Jonathan looked into his Great Aunt’s eyes with conviction, “I am going out there with or without you.”

The tension had broken, it had frozen, shattered and dissipated. And all that remained was a cold air, and the sound of the girl’s constant, somewhat distant scream. The storm was over but the mission had only just begun.

“Take this.” said Jonathan's Great Uncle, reaching beneath his blanket and pulling out a knife, holding it out to Jonathan, “for protection.”

Jonathan nodded in thanks and retrieved the knife from Great Uncle's hands.

“I don’t like this one bit,” interjected his Great Aunt, “but take this boy,” she said holding out a piece of string originating from a large ball of yarn at her feet, “wrap it around the knife, once you reach a minute, we’ll tug on the string, signaling for you to come back, so you won't be in danger of the beast.”
Jonathan nodded again and grabbing the string quickly tying it around the knife handle and looking to his family, uncertainty, and fear shaded their faces.

“I will return…” Jonathan said firmly, keeping his voice as calm as possible whilst turning to the door and throwing it open, the full chill of the winter night filled the room, hitting his face full force, stunning him for a moment, he shivered, the cold air already worming its way through his pants and jacket to his skin. Jonathan looked to the woods, the light of the lantern and fireplace shining through the doorway and windows, allowing a small amount of light in the winter night. And the uncertainty of his mission filled him for a moment, would he find the girl? Could he navigate his way through such a massive wood? In the dark no less? As the wails persisted, Jonathan did his best to cast aside any doubt. He must do this...he must. He was the only one who even would or could he reminded himself. Taking a deep breath the frigid air tickled his lungs and he took a step forward, sinking almost up to his knee in the snow, he almost lost his footing but he quickly put one foot in front of the other, “come on Jonathan! You can do this!” he hissed to himself, trudging forward towards the woods edge.
Until there he was, facing frost covered trees and an endless darkness before him, yes he had gazed upon this wood and even explored them during the day but at night, it was as if they had been transformed. It was as terrifying as it was mysterious. Could it be, there was a creature, a beast in there watching him right now? Was the Beast even real?
It was contemplating this that Jonathan left the light of the lantern and the house behind and trudged into the wood.
Jonathan felt blind, his eyes having nothing to grasp in the inky blackness, there was no light, no shadow, only darkness.
He knew he needed to find the girl and fast, looking this way and that he tried getting his eyes to adjust as much as they could to the forest while walking forward slowly, but before he could even begin his search he felt a tug on his knife. The string. Quickly he turned and trudged as fast as he could out of the wood, following the string which turned out to be a useful tool. He emerged facing the house, where he saw his Great Uncle Standing outside the doorway, watching him. He waved and Jonathan waved back before turning and making his way back into the wood.

Jonathan knew he couldn’t wait for his eyes to adjust, the cold was catching up to him and his pant legs and shoes were beginning to feel wet, not only that but the girl’s cries were growing fainter, Jonathan knew she must have been getting more tired, she could have been on the verge of death at that very moment.
Hoping for the best, Jonathan put his hands in front of him to make sure he didn't run into a tree and trudged fast and headlong into the wood, moving his head left and right, relying more on his sense of hearing than sight, trying to pinpoint the girls shouts for . Until, yes, he got it! A general direction, “don’t worry!” he shouted. “I’m coming!”

Whether the girl heard this or not Jonathan did not know as there came no response but the continued cries for help. As he continued his search, Jonathan felt a feeling of unease make its way into his being, wrapping around his soul like a snake. Choking his bravery, was there something legitimately wrong? Or had the story of the Beast been ingrained him so much, he couldn’t help but be scared of the idea of it?

There came another tug on the knife in Jonathan's hand, “Dammit!” Jonathan screamed in anger, he turned and trudged back, holding the string as a guide and trying not to bash his own brains out as he hurried back. Reaching the edge of the wood Jonathan stumbled out of the wood and into something rather large.
Crying out he hopped backward holding up his knife defensively in fear, only to relax once he realized it was his Great Uncle.

“I’m sorry,” Jonathan said gasping for breath, feeling quite drained from his strenuous activities.

“Boy,” his Great Uncle began, shivering, “the search is hopeless…”

“No!” Jonathan shouted.

“The girl will be dead soon.”

“I almost got her!”

“No, you don’t! Don’t you get it? If she isn’t dead there’s no way you’ll even make it back in time and there the b-”

“Have you ever seen the beast?” Jonathan said cutting him off.

His Great Uncle was quiet, “has Aunt Gretel?!” Jonathan shouted.

“N-no…” his Great Uncle stuttered.

“Then how do we know it’s even real!” He shouted. Suddenly angry. The Beast? Who would even believe in such a stupid fairy tale, he had never seen it, and neither had his family apparently and even if it was real, who would allow it to stop them from saving an innocent life.

His Great Uncle was silent as the cries of the girl continued to grow fainter, Jonathan dropped the knife into the snow.

“I don’t need this…”

“Jonathan…”

“Go back to your light…”

“The Beast took your mother!”

“My mom always had sleepwalking problems, she walked out into that blizzard while everyone was sleeping, and dad tried to find her and he died, end of story.”

“The lantern was off when she went missing!”

“What does that prove? Did Gretel see the beast?”

“No b-”

Before Jonathan’s Great Uncle could even finish he had already turned around and plunged back into the wood.
“Jonathan!” His Great Uncle screamed as he trudged as quickly as he could through the snow once more, following the sounds of the girl’s cries, Jonathan pushed himself to go faster, neglecting his sight like before he was instead completely relying on his hearing, trying to discern if he was getting farther away or closer and if he was even going in the right direction. He was completely devoid of caution now, not even using his hands to feel anymore, Jonathan was moving dangerously fast now as he ran, constantly clipping trees and almost falling over as he simply focused on getting to the girl as fast as he could.
Jonathan knew could do it, he could find this girl and save her, he could even prove that the Beast was a myth. Time was of the essence, he needed to find this child. He could hear her cries, they were louder now. He was close, he was close.
Then Jonathan’s world went downwards.
His foot fell into oblivion, looking down Jonathan saw a massive drop beneath him...and with a cry, he fell.

Jonathan felt an intense pressure in his legs for a brief moment, then heard what sounded to be a snapping sound followed by an intense burning pain. Jonathan gritted his teeth as his thoughts, his emotions, his very being was filled with one thing. Pain. His vision blurred and darkened for a second but Jonathan remained conscience. He lay still for a few minutes before gathering himself even as an intense heavy throb pounded his legs, fighting through the torment he propped himself up on his elbows to get a better look at his legs. It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust but when they did he screamed...his legs were twisted, like two twigs snapped by a child during playtime, pointing in directions they shouldn’t, a bone poked out of one pant leg, the opening allowing blood to flow freely from his body.

Jonathan grunted and fell back, his hand brushing against something to his side, it was cold and hard, a metal? Propping himself up again he turned his head and noticed a double-barreled shotgun.

“The hell?”

Reaching out he grabbed it and pulled it close to examine it in the dark, he immediately recognized it, it was his father's shotgun. The one he had brought with him all those years ago when he went to look for his mom in the blizzard. Jonathan broke it open looking inside the breach he saw two shotgun shells. One of them fired. What had happened? Why had he shot? Had he found mom?

It was in this moment, Jonathan realized, he could no longer hear the cries of the little girl. His eyes wide, he began looking in every direction for the body of a child.

“Oh no, oh no!” Am I too late?”

Was she dead? Had she fallen down this steep hill and been mangled as well. Was she somewhere else entirely?

“Hello!?” Jonathan shouted, “little girl?!”

Jonathan looked left, and right, he could barely see five feet in front of him even with his now well-adjusted eyes, he saw a steep cliff face to his left and more endless woods to his right. The silence was eerie, deafening even, he could hear his own heartbeat.
Jonathan shifted his legs, forgetting they were injured for a moment and crying out as a sharp pain ran up his leg.

Then he heard it, footsteps, light steps coming from the woods. Jonathan looked up, was it the girl? They seemed to be getting closer.

“Little girl!” He shouted once more, “is that you?!”

WIthin his field of his vision from amongst the wood emerged a large creature of grotesque proportions, Jonathan felt the air leave his lungs as he froze, the many eyes that covered the creatures upper head focused in on him, a thick, long tongue covered in teeth unfurled from the mouth of the creature, as it glided forward with remarkable, unbelievable grace, its thin spindly legs barely making a sound, its large hands never leaving its side.
The creature stopped before Jonathan, hovering over him, it cocked its head to one side and chuckled, then, it spoke.

“You will find no little girl here...boy…only me.”

Side note: This story was done by another Twitter friend who you can follow here @KindOfaTrollLOL. Fantastic story writer and you can check out more of their work from their Twitter page.  Thanks for letting me use this story on my blog. 

Old London Town

 I’ve lived and worked in London for the best part of 30 years, and I thought I had a sound knowledge of its culture and history. I’ve heard the gruesome stories of its past, who hasn’t growing up here? But tonight I saw the darkest side of London that I’ve ever seen.

I’m a fire fighter so you can understand when I say that. We don’t just put out fires; we also see suicides, car crashes, and other traumatic situations. Sometimes they can be explained by simple human behaviour, but sometimes even that falls short. The ones that leave me shivering in bed are the acts of violence on other people. Sure I know most of us are friendly, but once in awhile, you find that one person that is beyond all help. Beyond all saving.

As a lad, I grew up with a few friends that have stayed that way even with life pulling us in different directions. Throughout school, we were a close-knit group and even when it was time for some of us to go to college, we still kept in touch. Naturally, as we’ve grown older and had families of our own, we try to meet up any time possible.

A few years ago Paul moved to Australia, (the names have been changed to protect identity). Paul and his wife and kids come back to visit their family one every year, and a roundup of the guys is always on the cards. Tonight was one such occasion.

I had finished working a rota of four-night shifts and was looking forward to 4 days off. My wife already knew that I was meeting up with the boys, these things were planned months in advance, so I had packed some nice clothes to get ready at the station. Lucky for me I work at ______road Station right in the centre of London. After a quick session in the gym and a spruce up, I walked out the building feeling a million dollars and headed to the pub where we were all to meet.

David and Phil were already sitting at a table by the window when I entered All Bar One at The Old Bailey, so I used the universal hand signal for “want a drink?” and they both raised a Peroni glass in the air. After being served by a flirtatious waitress with a nose piercing, I was sat at the table catching up on old time when Dean walked through the door.

I hadn’t seen Dean in some years as he had missed several of our previous meetups, so you can understand that expectations for the night were now high. This had just turned into the one night when all five us were back together, and I planned to make it epic. It must have been an hour, three pints and six shots later before Paul walked into the bar.

There is a saying: Friends come and go, like the waves of the ocean, but the real ones stay around like an octopus on your face. I’ve always like that quote. Essentially, it means friends can go years without talking and then pick up where they’re left off. That was us right then.

The beer was flowing, and we just fitted back together like a Mechno set. At some point, a group of girls had joined us and the night seemed to go from zero to hero. We are all around our 30th, but most of us are still in pretty good shape. My jobs probably has me in the best condition of my life, and David has always been able to speak to the girls. While Phil is packing what most men could only wish they had, so they both do pretty well. Dean, well Deans was always the quiet one. Now just to set the record straight I love my wife and children and would never dream of cheating on her for another woman, it’s nice to flirt but that as far as it goes. For the other guys, well, I’m not their keeper.

At some point I noticed a black taxi pull up outside our window, some of the lads at work subdivide their career with driving a cab as it pays wells and also allows them the freedom to work they own hours. But the reason I noticed this particular taxi was that it was in exceptional condition. It could have been in a car show hosted by Jeremy Clarkson or even been a chauffeur for the wealthy or famous.

As it sat idly by the side of our window, the orange street light flicked off the blue pearlescent paint and flashed in my face; I watched to see if the dark tinted window would reveal the occupant that it hid. But as time went on, no one emerged from the cab, and the black windows hid the driver from view. I did see quite a few people try and hail the driver, but the driver didn’t lower the window and the orange taxi light on top of the cab was off. A while later I had forgotten about the mysterious taxi as a chatty redhead swung her red wine around wildly, and I tried to dodge the droplets that escaped like embers spat from a fire.

Before I knew it, the last bell had been rung, and we all got a last beer before talk turned to where we should go next. I had a day out planned with the missus and kids, so I for one wasn’t going any further. The train station was calling my name, and I was beginning to feel the tiredness setting in. Dean echoed my decision, and the other lads scoffed and tried in vain to lure us to a club, the girls on their arms wasn’t enough for both Dean and me, so we turned our attention to securing a ride to London Bridge Station.

Maybe it was luck or pure coincidence, but as we stepped out the door the taxi I saw earlier fired up his engine and turned on his hire light. The pub was emptying pretty fast, and a guy with a super drunk friend tucked under his arm beat us to the cab. I saw him try the handle, but the taxi pulled off, leaving him cursing and picking his friend off the floor. I thought it was going to past us, but it didn’t, it stopped with precision next to Dean. Dean grabbed to handle and the door open, we both jumped into the gloomy interior, and I told the driver the destination.

I was pretty pissed by this stage, but I do remember finding it quite weird that the glass partition that separated the driver from us was blacked out with limo glass. Black taxi in London don’t have this feature, and I nudged Dean in the ribs and giggled something about being movie stars. Comfortable that we were in safe hands I closed my eyes for what would be a ten-minute journey.

As we approached London Bridge Station, the driver sailed through a green light and under the railway arches. The bump jolted me awake, and I saw Dean staring head with a face as white as snow. I didn’t think the ride had been particularly bad but by his hands clamped to the seats I must have been wrong.

Drunkenly I asked what was wrong and Dean murmured something I couldn’t hear. I asked again as the driver slowed and pulled over in a dark patch under the railway arches.

“The voice.”

It was then that my drunken self-awareness triggered and I sat bolt upright looking around. We still had another 40 meters to the forecourt and didn’t know why the driver had pulled over early.

“The voice.”

The fog in my brain lessen, and the blood in my veins went cold. Have you ever heard something on the edge of your hearing, like when you turn the radio down so low that you can barely hear it but you know it’s playing a song? Well, that what I thought I was hearing. It wasn’t until the engine stopped that I could listen to what was making the noise. Something was speaking at such a low level that I had to strain to hear it but what it was saying will haunt me for the rest of life.

The voice crackled and sounded hollow like it was being spoken from a deep well. As I listen, a mist like substance oozed through the payment window and congealed on the floor by Dean.

“You hurt her, didn’t you? You killed her, didn’t you? We know you did. She calls to us, they all do. All the little girls and boys that you hurt. Yes, we know what you have been doing, and we know what you were thinking tonight. Poor little Sarah, you were going to give her something tonight wasn’t you? Something no little girls or boy should have. Wasn’t you?”

Dean had succumbed to a blubbering mess as the mist rolled and boiled. I shrank as far from the thing as possible as the icy chill emanating from it cause goosebumps to run up my arms. The mist solidified into a grotesque decrypted old figure with no eyes and gaping wounds that littered its body. I couldn’t tell if it was man or women, the skin looked like sandpaper and its breath smelt like rotten flesh. I have seen some horrors as a firefighter especially mangled corpse from train suicides. It was like this body had been put back together from pieces that didn’t match.

Dean was nodding a whimpering as the demon asked him again about what he wanted to do to little Sarah. The beast reached out a hand to clamp Deans face as its chin dropped and stretched to a horrific proportion.

The demon wailed like a storm. Like a million bees swarming from a nest. Like a thousand voices screaming at once from one mouth. Dean screamed too as white vapor poured from his throat into the demon’s mouth. I started to pull the door handle and banged on the window, but no one was around to help or even hear us.

Deans face shrank and wrinkled like a deflated balloon until his bones protruded from his leather skin. I jumped back as his eyes popped and goo splatted the creatures face, but still, it drank his soul. Deans limp carcass crumbled in the seat and the demon closed its mouth and turned to me with gaping fleshy eyes. I begged, pleaded with the thing not eat me and it set the corners of its papery mouth up at the side, before wafting back to vapor and pouring again through the payment hole. Terrified I pinned myself to the seat as the engine fired to life and the taxi moved on.

I didn’t know what Dean had been up to and it mortified me to know what he had been doing. But he was always secretive and often didn’t come to the regular meet ups. Seeing his crumpled remains though. I shuddered again, both for what had happened to him and the justice for his victims.

I have never been so grateful to step out of a taxi then right then. As I fell onto the forecourt and the door slammed shut, I looked about as if in a dream. The cold paving felt fresh and solid, and I turned to see the taxi still at the curb. I somehow could hear a singsong voice from within as it pulled off and drove into the night.

“London Bridge is falling down, falling down.”

Side Note; This is a story from a very good author that I know named Grant Hinton. You can follow him on Twitter @GrantHinton3 where the link to his website will be that contain others stories similar to this one, Thanks again Grant.

My Daughter Saw The Easter Bunny

I hadn’t been sleeping well for more than a month and after a concerned talk from my husband, William, I made a doctor’s appointment. Nightmares had never been a problem for me, but during that month of struggles, I was getting them a lot; creatures, wholly inhuman, plagued my dreams and I felt a deep separation from everything and everyone I loved. I felt that a minor lack of sleep wasn’t a good reason to see the doctor, but deep down, I knew it would help to put our minds at ease.

Sleep threatened to take me while I sat in the uncomfortable office chair, waiting for the doctor to decode my test results. He pulled no punches when delivering to me his diagnosis and the words struck my entire being like an abomination. It took less than a second for me to respond.

“Menopause?!” I blurted out, wanting to lunge across the desk, straight for his throat. He only nodded, silently referring to my medical file.

“It’s not uncommon for a woman your age” he stated.

“My age?” I gritted. “I don’t understand. Wasn’t my last checkup fine?” I desperately hoped that I was the rube in some cruel joke or that I had inadvertently nodded off and was dreaming.

“It was fine and I do not understand it completely, either” he said in a calculated manner, but honestly trying to calm me down. “Is it rare? Yes, but not unheard of.”

“Maybe it’s stress?” I said, praying for a more temporary diagnosis. My insides burned like they knew he was talking about them.

“Your estrogen levels are appropriate, Rebecca, but your oocyte count is basically null.” he said, closing my file and effectively ending any hopes I had to change his mind.

I wasn’t familiar with the term ‘oocyte’, but context defined it for me. “So” I began, feeling almost silly about it, “I have no eggs left?”

He nodded with smile they must only teach you in med school, then went on to lecture me about the female body. My thoughts went instantly to my five year old daughter, Amelia, and the eventual conversation we would have to have about why she would never get to be a big sister.

“It’s not the best news, but try to have a good Easter, Rebecca” he said as I walked out of his office. His sentiment was sincere, but it stung nonetheless.  

I pulled out of the parking lot and my tears were free to fall at will; I wanted to get them out of my system as much as possible before returning home.

‘How am I going to tell William?’ I asked myself a dozen times during my drive. And every time, it brought on another fall of tears, so I took the long way home. I trudged through the varying levels of grief at record pace and by the time I reached my driveway, I had convinced myself that everything was going to be all right. I had a diagnosis, but no cause. I had a million more questions, but they all ended up with the same answer. It tore at my womanhood and my sense of purpose, but I had convinced myself that we would make the best of it.

“Hi, honey” William said before I was fully through the door. Amelia greeted me with a wave from the couch next to him.

“Hi, guys” I smiled. As bad as things seemed to be, everything I was thankful for was sitting not twenty feet away.

“How was your checkup?” William asked, ignorant of the results.

“Fine” I shrugged, hoping to buy a little more time before I had to relay the news to them.

“Well, Ames here was just telling me an interesting story” he said, holding back a chuckle.

“Is that right?” I said, thankful for the distraction and taking my spot on the loveseat.

“That’s right” he said and gave Amelia a playful nudge. “Go Ahead. Tell mommy.”

“I saw the Easter Bunny!” Amelia shouted, nearly bouncing off the couch.

“That’s good, honey” I replied, trying to hide the fact that my mind was far away. She was too excited to notice.

“Yeah! In your room the other night” she finished.

“Okay” I said with a forced smile that caused hers to drop. I guess my response wasn’t exuberant enough for her liking.

I wanted to disappear into something mindless, so I turned on Hulu, and clicked the first thing in our Keep Watching list. It was obvious that William had been at the helm of the TV because, right away, it started playing some pedantic documentary about alien abductions and government conspiracies.

”Theories abound as to why these beings abduct mainly females” the narrator spoke, but I tuned him out. “… our physiology… reproductive systems… alien hybrids” he continued.

“Why was he here so early, Ames?” William, the eternal enabling father, humored her. “Easter is a still few weeks away.”

Amelia started to answer, but stopped and pointed at the television. “That’s him!” she belted out.

William and I looked at the television to see an artist’s rendition of the supposed ‘Gray Aliens’. It had the stereotypical bulbous head, almond-shaped, black eyes, and scrawny frame. We fell literally speechless, waiting for Amelia to laugh at what was obviously a joke.

 “He told me something, but I forgot” Amelia muttered. “He said he was looking for something.”

“Who did, Ames?” William asked. “The Easter Bunny?”

”To begin their hybridization program,” the narrator continued, “they start by harvesting eggs of the abductees.”

“Why do you think it was the Easter Bunny, Amelia?” I asked, more concerned than curious by that point.

Her eyes lit up with realization and she shouted, “Eggs! That’s what he said he needed!”

Side Note; This story was written by a talented Twitter writer friend of mind. Give him a follow - @BradDracV and thanks again for your submission.

It's what we do

‘Hey hun’, he greets, ‘hey babe’ she responds as she hops in the car and leans in for a kiss on the cheek, faking a smile.  ‘’How was the big presentation?’ he follows up, not remembering, nor particularly caring what it was about. ‘Ah it was fine, was worrying about nothing last night’. Another lie, it’s what we do.

‘You see that article on Mr. Pumpkin this morning’? He asks curiously, as their daily commute home from their 20 year one-company careers hits another traffic jam. He started on the factory floor, winning promotion 5 years later, due another next year; he now has an office where he can show off his employee of the month awards framed on the wall. He is running out of space. She works as a receptionist at a local Non-profit helping the unemployed get back to work.  It’s what we do.

Continuing the conversation he pulls out the paper, the headline read; ‘Pumpkin enterprise profits soar!’ with a picture of the boss and his son, the general manager, arms around each other, smiling, stomach bursting through his shirt, buttons popping and hair receding. His son just bought his third car; he’s only 24 years old and next in line for the big boss job. It’s what we do.

She looks at the paper and reads the article as the car slowly rolls down the road assembly line, before hastily braking as the lights turn red, her head bumping the ceiling, but it’s okay she doesn’t really mind. ‘You know I don’t know why they always look to put people down in their articles. Mr Pumpkin is a good family man; he treats his workers with respect and he’s in church every week like the rest of us.  If you asked me he’s earned everything he’s got! His grandfather built that company from the ground up!’ She doesn’t really like Mr. Pumpkin and she knows he doesn’t either, but he’s up for promotion next year, so they don’t really mind. She smiles and agrees with her husband, just like he thought she would; another good deed for the day. It’s what we do.

They pull up outside the school and their daughter gets in the car slamming the door. ‘What’s up honey?’ they ask. She sits with her arms folded, face in a crown. ‘I told you Mr. Elkins always leaves us out early on a Tuesday’. ‘Oh I’m sorry honey but the traffic was really busy today; there was no way around it…and look what I have’, the father says, eyes beaming as he hands over a small box  wrapped in pink paper, her  favourite colour. ‘What is it?’ she asks, forgetting all about siting alone for 20 minutes, after all it’s a safe neighbourhood she didn’t really mind. ‘Open it and see’, the mother excited shaking the box. She ripped it open and her jaw dropped, glued to her chest. She couldn’t believe it, almost jumping with excitement; the new phone was here or at least the new model. It came early, before the rest of her friends. The parents smiled; they couldn’t afford it but she was happy, how could they not? It’s what we do.

The girl buried her head in her phone, where they were going didn’t matter; her friends were in the screen, strangers outside. ‘Imagine in only 20 years we’ll finally have enough for our dream house, out by the lake…maybe you could finally finish that novel’, the husband says. She looks at him and grabs his spare hand and smiles once more, this time for real, before sighing. She thought about many things; mainly the future and the present. Cursing how they couldn’t afford their dream life sooner while planning their 2 week holiday abroad, always the first two weeks of August each year. Her boss knew her schedule; she didn’t even need to book it off in advance. ‘I don’t feel like fixing up anything, do you?’ she asks her husband, who nods in agreement.  ‘The usual?’ He asks, not even waiting for an answer before pulling in to make the order. Handed out by Joe with a smile, it was Tuesday after all, half price. It’s what we do.

The long drive home continued through red and green, daughter quiet in the back, dreams thought unseen.  The sun hid behind the clouds and the wind howled, winter clicking up a gear. It changed quickly, dark and starry skied. Headlights on, better safe than sorry, then off, hearts fluttered with panic.  Cars passed beeping, they couldn’t understand.  Happy to be home holding up the world no longer, their ease all too fleeting.  They parked in the same spot, just outside the door, but when off went the lights, they realised it was open. Flush faced with shaky hands they could not hide, but the daughter, in another world ran inside. In they went as the door slammed behind, pushed by 

a force from outside. On went the lights but the home was empty, furniture gone, comfort a distant memory. From the stairs down came a shadow, what they saw was neither friend, nor foe, not even fiction. It was a mirror the shape of a tall man, everything seen was only reflected, their own selves mirrored stood before them; three bangs rang loud. Another three thuds one by one hit the ground; killed by their own reflection. Shuttling forward slowly like death, footsteps reaching down to the ground, off with the phone, hardly a fret. It’s what they do.

There was an alarm ringing and a dog barking, it came from the mansion down the street; it belonged to Mr. Pumpkin. He walked down the road and saw a figure staring straight at him, slowly turning, but it too was merely a reflection; a walking image of all that lays before it. As the mirrored man walked down the road the streetlights above flashed and burst, neighbours peeked out their windows, they hardly flickered. Mr. Pumpkin waked into the house, everything gone, pictures of the family smashed. Nothing but bodies lying still, their blood painting the carpet, he rang the emergency services and stayed until outside they flashed. No one else had seen what Mr.Pumpkin had, but then only Mr.Pumpkin could see his own reflection. He saw a therapist for a week, stayed home from work but was soon bored. He hired a new replacement, promoted from within, his longest serving employee gone.  No severance, no bonus to be paid, Mr. Pumpkin saved more money, forgot their names. It’s what they do.

Side Note ;  This story was written by my brother Michael, who is working on something writing related himself at the moment, which I will inform you of when the time is right ;)

You look like you've seen a ghost

By Gerard Gilroy

Oliver and Arthur met in primary school and became best friends in the summer of 2000 when they were seven years old. Oliver was a chubby baby-faced kid. Arthur was stringy, had crooked front teeth and was almost as tall as Oliver. But seeing the two side by side accentuated the size discrepancy. The friends quickly set a routine for themselves. On most weekends, the boys would have sleepovers and followed this pattern;

They got things going at 8pm by watching The Jungle Nation; their favourite film and waited for Harney's Hot Hot pizza to be delivered. Then they played the Switch-A-Roo card game for at least an hour while finishing off the pizza and then another film, usually one from the Old Watering Hole series or the He's on Patrol! Trilogy which finished around midnight. Then they climbed into their sleeping bags and looked at each other from either side of the living room excitedly and chatted for a while. Their conversation got less energetic as the night grew darker and later. They eventually nodded off to sleep, anticipating the arrival of their old friend Phil.

The first sleepover took place when the boys were about to go back to school that same summer. It was August and Arthur didn't talk to Oliver for at least a week afterwards, which is a long time for best friends. Oliver thought they could patch things up once the school term came around. But Arthur avoided him in the playground and in the corridors and wouldn't come to the phone when he called. Although they would talk again and everything would go back to normal, Arthur didn't stay in his house until Oliver’s birthday in December. Oliver convinced his apprehensive friend that Phil was a friendly ghost. He had been waking Oliver up for years and never once haunted him, rather they hung out together.

So, the years went by and Oliver and Arthur would fall asleep around 1 or 2 and later be greeted by Phil; a forty-something-year-old man with a speckled beard, brown, thick-rimmed glasses and a long coat with enough pockets to hold plenty of sweets and chocolate for the boys. He looked just like the living. It took Arthur at least five or six sleepovers to not feel on edge anymore. It helped that Oliver adored the mysterious man who claimed he was “a friendly ghost from the other side”. Phil explained that the ghosts from the TV and comic books were nothing like real ghosts who were cool and fun to be around.

By the time they were eleven, the boys were maturing and the started to watch different films like Ghoul Wars, Finney’s Adventures, Murder Afoot and M.A.2: The Moonscar Killers. They also found Phil to be a little boring and a bit childish. Arthur suggested to Oliver that they tell Phil to bring another ghost with him who was "cooler" as he put it. Oliver defended Phil at the time but after further discussion he came around to the idea. Phil arrived one foggy Saturday night in January 2003 and after they ate his Mercury Bars and packets of Zombie Crunch Arthur gave the reluctant friend a nudge to the arm. Oliver didn't want to hurt Phil 's feelings, but he went ahead and said,

"Phil, we think you're great, but…", Oliver stumbles through the sentence, eyes at his feet, "If you have other ghost friends, you should ask them over. Maybe someone...-" "-cooler, our age", Arthur finishes.

"Sure. Of course." Phil is almost speechless and stands up from the sofa.

Arthur; "You're cool, but we are older now Phil." Oliver finds the courage and adds; "We want someone like us."

Very little is said after that. Phil shrugs his shoulders and gives the boys a hug each. He hesitates to release Oliver when he lets go, but finally does. The ghost gives them a wave and smile and then leaves the house. It was nearly 4am and Oliver's sadness filled the living room, so without saying a word the boys went back to sleep. Before they did, Arthur could hear Oliver sobbing through his sleeping bag that he had cocooned himself in.

                                                              ---

The next morning the boys made their way into the hall on the way to the kitchen. Oliver turned to the front door as its lock began to rattle violently. The door swung open. Phil the ghost stormed into the hallway.

"Oliver! I love you with all of my heart!", he shouted out.

Oliver backed up towards the kitchen as his mother Leanne rushed into the room. She halted in her steps at the sight of her ex-husband. Before the shock let her get a word out of her mouth, Phil the ghost said, “Leanne, just let me hold him!"

"Paul...You can't come around here. Not in your state." She gestures Oliver and Arthur to back away.

"Oliver loves me!"

"He doesn't know you Paul...You're scaring the children... I have to call the police." She picks up the receiver in the hallway.

"Just give me a minute with him. He's our only baby." Paul falls to his knees and squeezes Oliver like it’s the last time.

Leanne drops the receiver and drags their stunned son away. "Oliver! Get yourself and Arthur up to your room now and lock it! How long have you had a key Paul?

"I love you both so dearly," Paul stays on his knees, weeping. "Can't you see that?"

"Paul you're like a ghost! Your eyes are hanging out of your head!"

"I can come back and we can be a family again."

"You're on that shit again aren't you. You'll never change!"

"That was Paul. I'm Phil now. Phil can change"

Oliver sits behind the railing at the bottom of the stairs with Arthur behind him.

"Get up them stairs! Go!

Oliver feels Arthur’s arm tugging at his jumper, they say nothing and walk up to his bedroom, overhearing the ongoing argument, "Leave us alone Paul--" "take me back Leanne, please!" Arthur locks it shut and Oliver lies in his bed facing the wall. The argument continues downstairs but is muffled behind the bedroom door now.

"Oliver..." Arthur doesn't know how to comfort his best friend. Oliver turns over to face him. They exchange a little, awkward glance before Arthur blurts out, "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Side Note ; As mentioned above this story was written by "that guy" Gerard Gilroy. If you enjoy it I will take all the credit, if you don't its his fault :)

The Treatment

"Positive. Absolutely positive. That little green man will be gone in no time."

"And his pitchfork? Will it scratch my mind ever again?"

"You'll be your old self within days. You'll be bagging potatoes. No scratch that. Forget about bagging vegetables, you'll be running Cung Brothers Merchants in no time Larry!"

"Enough of the sweet talk. You need to work your magic before he returns."

"In the presence of a witch, no elf would dare to show his face I'll have you know." The five-foot eleven apprentice-witch combed the fingers of his left hand through his messy hair and fondled through a dusty drawer of potions with his right until, "Qwah Dep!" He exclaimed in Old Scorchish, "Here we go."

Larry Cung, the easily led middle son of Krzysztof Cung a local business man clenched his bony hands into fists. His wiry body was strapped onto a long wooden table as he awaited the cure. He stared up at the basement ceiling. Candles created eerie shadows around the room. The tension was building and he began breathing heavily.

"If half the town were witches, I'd like to think you'd be coming to me anyway Larry"

"Sure, of course." Larry began to realise that Bert was in complete control and quieted down.

"Brace yourself! This is gonna be a bumpy ride my friend!" Bert raised a vile of red cloudy liquid into the air with exuberance, lowering it to sneeze over his shoulder and turning back to watch his patient who grew anxious as the time for treatment came closer.

"Ok open wide Larry and think of happy thoughts. Think of your family, your future, your girlfriend-" "-she left me last year Bert!"

"Oh, well then don't think about her so."

The liquid spilled from the vile into the mouth of the patient as Bert chanted, "bwee chang ung...com zang nong...ba oi!…ba day."

The candles in the basement all flickered as a swirling gale picked up in the room, though all windows were sealed. Larry's eyes remained open, but had a glossed over look to them and his narrow body convulsed repeatedly as if being electrocuted. The dust of his old suit was sucked into the wind and his shoes clapped together with each convulsion.

Bert paced around the table three times, keeping his eye on the patient. He began to feel light-headed and fell across Larry's chest, the two bodies creating an ‘X’. The room fell silent. No wind, no chanting, no convulsing. Silence.

"Uhhh-heeeeh". Larry spluttered back to life.

"Bert are you okay?" The apprentice-witch lay slumped over his patient. "Bert? Say something old friend."

Helplessly trying to free himself, Larry began to question why he came down here.

Just before panic set in, "Oh, yeah. Grand. All that spell-casting really takes it out of you.” Larry hopped onto his feet. “At least it's Friday. I've only got Mrs Winkercheif in the morning and then I can relax 'til Monday."A smile came across Larry's face. Bert was back to himself.

"So, I'll leave you sleep in the spare bed and we'll do some measurements and tests in the morning."

"Bert-" "No need to thank me, I was born like this." The apprentice-witch turned towards the stairs.

"Bert!" He shouted. Larry looked back at the strapped-in patient. "Untie me."

"Oh right. Of course. You're wouldn't have been the first one to spend the night down here strapped in. Have I told you about the time I left Councillor Krinkle in here overnight? She came in because of some visions she had about giving those giraffe- necked gogglebiddies the vote.”

"You hadn't told me."

“Well you don't know, okay?”

Larry was set free from the table and with each step he felt the soaring effects of what took place. He followed the chatty Bert up to the ground floor where they toasted to a successful treatment over a few glasses of gecko wine. The basement sat in darkness waiting for a new patient to enter its confines. The howling winds that had rushed through the room had dispersed.

 But they would return.

Side Note ; This story was written by the returning Gerard Gilroy who was off travelling for a while. I hope to have more from him soon while he is back in Ireland

The Dearg-doo

The Dearg-doo: the Waterford Vampire

My love is colder than black marble by the sea.

My heart is older than the cold oak tree.

I am the flash of silver in the sun.

When you see me coming you had better

Run...run...run...

-          Dearg Doom, Horslips

     The two greatest tales of the Vampire have been written by Irish authors, Sheridan Le Fanu, a Dubliner who was central to the development of the ghost story genre in the Victorian era, and Bram Stoker from Clontarf, whose Gothic novel Dracula has inspired numerous films and television series. Their inspiration lay in the stories and legends of their homeland. Montague Summers, an English clergyman noted for his quirky studies on vampires and werewolves (as well as being the translator of the Malleus Maleficarum, a 15^th-century witch hunter’s manual) outlined that ‘In ancient Ireland the Vampire was generally known as Dearg-dul, “red blood sucker,” and his ravages were universally feared.’

     Numerous corruptions of this Gaelic phrase have led to a variety of attempts at Anglicisation, the most common of which appears to be the Dearg-doo or Dearg-due. On the website Vampires A thru Z entry for the ‘Dearg-due’ records:

Area from/nationality: Ireland. A dreaded creature, whose name means “Red Blood Sucker.” An ancient vampire that dates back to Celtic times, it is still feared. The only way to curb its predations is to pile stones upon any grave suspected of housing such a beast. The most famous tale of the Dearg-due is the story of a beautiful woman supposedly buried in Waterford, in a small churchyard near Strongbow’s Tree. Several times a year she rises from her grave, using her stunning appearance to lure men to their doom.

     The core facets of this story are noted by Dublin’s Evening Herald from 1975 that in ‘Waterford: A vampire is supposed to be buried in the tiny graveyard by the ruined church.’ The Ghost Club, founded in London in 1862 has been the leading organisation in investigating ghosts and hauntings since its establishment. In 1960, the parapsychologist (an investigator of paranormal activity), Peter Underwood became the President of the group (a position he held till 1993 subsequently forming the Ghost Club Society in 1994). In an interview with the Evening Herald in 1977 he stated:

 In Ireland there is a persistent legend that a vampire lies buried near Strongbow’s Tree in Waterford. Some say the vampire is Strongbow himself, Richard de Clare, second Earl of Pembroke, who occupied Waterford in 1171; others say it is his wife, Aoife, the daughter of the King of Leinster whom Strongbow succeeded. Aoife is said to have cut her own son in two for showing cowardice: as evidenced the truncated effigy in Christ Church Cathedral Dublin.

Strongbow or Richard de Clare, lead the Norman invasion of Ireland and helped the deposed King of Leinster, Diarmait Mac Murchada (Dermot MacMurrough) reclaim his kingdom. In return for re-taking the kingdom of Leinster, Strongbow was offered the hand of Mac Murchada’s daughter Aoife in marriage. We know that upon his death in 1176, de Clare was first interned in Christ Church Cathedral Dublin, while there are various beliefs that his remains may be at Christ Church Cathedral in Waterford and the Dominican Abbey in Kilkenny. Nevertheless, in relation to the legend, Underwood continues:

The haunted graveyard at Waterford is small and overgrown, a ruined church adds to the macabre atmosphere and for centuries it has been claimed that even after the awful creature had been laid in the customary fashion for vampires, this one still lured young men and girls to the sinister spot on dark nights and many stories can be traced, even today, of curious experiences in the vicinity of Strongbow’s Tree.

The rather vague reference to a graveyard in Waterford, and the consultation of burial records is complicated, as the website of Waterford City and County Council highlights that there are ‘many burial grounds for which no burial registers survive, many burial grounds that are closed, or some that are not in the ownership of the local parish.’ Yet we once again have the reference to Strongbow and “Strongbow’s Tree”.

     Another respected source in this field is Anthony Masters’ the Natural History of the Vampire which:

states that in ancient Ireland there was a vampire known as the dearg dubh which was kept in subjection by having a cairn of stones built over its grave. A female vampire he adds, lurks around Strongbow's tree near Waterford, under a ruined church, "and it is to this sinister place that she lures, by her fatal beauty, men with good red blood running in their veins.

Perhaps the idea of a female vampire being that of Aoife, as eluded to by Underwood, comes from the tale of her death. As a young woman upon the death of her husband, Aoife had a fortress constructed at Cappamore to protect her territory and raise her children while feuding with the Quinns. However, she was shot through the throat by the Quinns one day and was interred in the crypt of Kilkenny Castle.

     It is Montague Summers who elaborates the most on the tale of the Waterford Vampire in his study The Vampire in Lore and Legend. However, he refers to a “Strongbow’s Tower” rather than a ‘tree’. He writes:

It has been stated: “At Waterford, in Ireland, there is a little graveyard under a ruined church near Strongbow’s Tower. Legend has it that underneath the ground at this spot there lies a beautiful female vampire still ready to kill those she can lure thither by her beauty.”

     And it is Summers who gives the most reasonable explanation for the whole tale, will trying to explain the reference to “Strongbow’s Tree”:

No authority is given for this, which is perhaps hardly surprising when one knows that there is not nor ever was such a tower at Waterford as “Strongbow’s Tower.” Probably there is some confused reference to “Reginald’s Tower,” which Strongbow (de Clare, Earl of Pembroke) used as a fortress in 1170, and where King John established a mint, whence it was called Dundory. The great Irish authority, the late Chevalier W.H. Gratton-Flood informed me that there is no legend of a Vampire connected with Reginald’s Tower, and probably the following tale has been confused which is related in regard to the capture of Waterford by the Anglo-Normans by Giraldus Cambrensis in his Topographia Hibernica. A frog was found in the grassy meadows near Waterford, and was brought alive to Cork before Robert le Poer, the warden of the city (who lived in Reginald’s Tower). All were astonished at the sight of the frog, this being the first frog discovered in Ireland. It is said that the frog was solemnly interred in Reginald’s Tower. Cambrensis notes that the frog must have been brought over by Strongbow among the baggage of the force he led from England.

Giraldus Cambrensis also known as Gerald of Wales was a Cambro-Norman archdeacon of Breton and historian, whose account of his journey to Ireland, who was related to some of the Norman invaders of the island. The Topography displays many prejudices particularly towards the native Irish, portraying them as barbaric savages.

      The lack of answers or explanations for the legend doesn’t lessen the tale itself. This may be why Bram Stoker wanted people to ‘believe in things you cannot’. Legends like the Dearg-doo allow us to recognise that there is always to sides to the world. Again, to evoke Stoker, ‘The world seems full of good men – even if there are monsters in it.’ To paint the world as good or evil, black or white, dead or undead goes someway to exploring morality and humanity and goes someway to explaining the complexity of man.

     Often though, just like trying to understand the tale of the Dearg-doo and searching for the grain in truth in it, one is left with more questions than answers. A metaphor for life itself! As Sheridan Le Fanu wrote, ‘Nevertheless, life and death are mysterious states, and we know little of the resources of either.’ 

Side Note ; This historical story was done by a friend of mine Cian Manning, I appreciate it a lot and is very well written. Hopefully I will have further contributions by him in the future.

The Raven

Rustling tree's
surrounded by silence,
the sun sets in the sky.
Darkness is falling,
sky's turning to black,
as something catches my eye

Squak says the raven,
as it sets down nearby,
it's eyes stare into my soul,
it's beak snaps shut
with wing span so vast
leaving me feeling so cold.

with a shuffle it moves,
as it sits next to me,
moving its head to glare.
My heart sinks and thuds,
from the images shown,
leaving me full of dread and despair.

Side Note; This was again done by Donna Gladman @F4ll3n4ng3l81, Thanks as always.

Stranger

Through fog and shadows,
beneath the street light,
amidst the noise and haste
There travel's a man,
with a large black hat,
yet no one has seen his face.

He carries a bag with him,
wherever he goes,
and a cane to help him walk.
Both hand's gloved,
coat trailing behind him,
and no one has heard him talk.

There is one more thing,
I didn't explain,
and I've heard this is quite true.
Don't look him in the eye,
as he passes you by,
or one day he will come for you.

Side Note; This amazing poem was sent to me by the amazing Donna Gladman who you can find on twitter @F4LL3n4ng3l81, give her an idea and she brings it to life.

Replay

Seven-year-old Toby raced his replica cars on the mat by the fireplace in the living room as his parents, Jason and Jacinta, watched the T.V. one Thursday night. One car was blue and one was red. Their house was long and had an open plan. The living room followed directly through to the kitchen, followed by a narrow square hall that led to the bathroom. If the doors of each from were left open you could see from one end of the house to the other.
On this night, the doors were all open and the only lights on were in the living. Toby's parents were nodding off in the sofa as a documentary about the Galapagos Islands reached its second ad break. As Toby raced the two cars around the circuit he imagined on the purple border of the carpet he found himself facing the line of open doors which led his eye line to the bathroom.
The kitchen was poorly lit by the living room lamps, while the hall and bathroom were almost black. Toby looked on as a 6ft middle-aged man looked at bathroom mirror, shaving his face. The seven-year-old looked up to the sofa to alert his parents of the spooky presence, but they were asleep. When he looked back he now faced eye to eye with the intruder. He had stopped shaving and bend his body forward towards Toby, gesturing him to come closer. Toby screamed out to his sleeping parents, but as he did the floor acted like a conveyor belt, sending him to the spooky man.
Toby tried to claw his way back to safety but he didn't have a chance. The man waited for his prey to arrive and in excitement began to draw blood from his own arms, stomach and forehead with the razor he had been shaving with. The blood served to grease the bathroom floor tiles so Toby couldn’t escape easily.
As a last resort Toby shut his eyes. The man shaded in black disappeared as quickly as he entered the world, as did the whole scenario. Toby awoke from his nightmare in his second-floor bedroom. Tired, yet relieved. He was used to experiencing bad dreams from time to time but this one was so clear, so vivid that it made Toby check to see if his parents were well and good.
He popped his head into the master bedroom and saw his mother sleeping. "Dad must be downstairs already", he thought to himself. Toby wasn't going to be content until he saw everyone safe with his own eyes and so rushed down the stairs. As he turned the corner to make a start on the long house in search his father, he saw a middle-aged intruder slashing a knife across Jason's head, arms and stomach as they struggled to gain the upper hand in a scuffle in the bathroom. Just as his father dropped to the bathroom floor with the blood already spilled across the tiles, Toby's eyes locked on with the same middle-aged man from his nightmare. He turned to run, but slipped on the carpet where the toy cars sat parked, tired from racing the night before.
The spooky man stood still as Toby regained his footing and made for the staircase to save his mother. As he did so, a second intruder just as real as the first, grabbed Toby and walked him to the bathroom. The pair proceeded to lock the father and son inside before eagerly grabbing whatever valuables they could. Toby was left in the bathroom with his dad who took the heavy breaths of a sprinter, while lying otherwise motionless on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. His son lay in his arms and clenched his eyes shut, trying to replay last night’s horror, which felt like a dream to him now.

Side note; Replay is Gerard’s latest tail

Forgery in Finchley Town

The first bank to open its doors in the town of Finchley was Brook’s Savings and loans bank in 1799. Established by Reece Brooks owned a merchant business, the business thrived in the economic uptake seen in the early 19th century. A few years later BS&LB founded two branches in Watershed and a forth branch all the way over in Shannon on the site of St. Canice's Cathedral.

In the aftermath of the Napoleonic Wars in however the modest fortune amassed by BS&LB was no match for the nationwide collapse of the delicate economy. The BS&LB branch in Shannon was forced to closed its doors on May 19th of that year and the other branches were on the brink of collapse. Back in Finchley, Reese Brooks was battling tuberculosis throughout the month. His condition worsening in parallel with the economy. A doctor by the name of Tim Wallace was sent out to conduct a weekly check-up. The Brooks household was on the outskirts of Finchley and took at least an hour to get to from the BS&LB on horseback. After one of the weekly check-ups, Dr. Wallace is said to have arrived at the bank in under 40 minutes. Perhaps a jockey in a past life. He handed in a note with a signature that read "Reece Brooks". The note read that Brooks wanted Wallace to withdraw a large sum of money from his account on his behalf. The tellers trusted the well-respected doctor and never once doubted Wallace' intentions. As he parted the cash with the bank he informed a teller that Reese Brooks had been pronounced dead within the last hour. The bank spun into chaos as Dr. Wallace briskly made it out to his horse. The medical report stated that Mr. Brooks had died due to complications relating to tuberculosis.

With the passing of BS&LB's founder, its headquarters closed down, promptly followed by its remaining branches in Watershed. Dr Wallace had made out with his money and while his riding skills were top notch, speculation was quick to catch up with the doctor. He stopped practising medicine in the autumn and by December was put on trial for the murder of Reese Brooks. The court heard from another Finchley Doctor by the name of Bill Weir, that he had visited the deceased's wake that May and noticed some irregularities about the corpse. There seemed to be some marks around his neck.

Curiosity led to suspicion which led to him conferring with a Doctor from St. Mary's Hospital who humoured Dr. Weir by examining the body two days later at the funeral. With as much respect as one could show, he inspected the neck of Reese Brooks as he lay in his open casket. The doctor confirmed with his fellow practitioner that the deceased had suffered from strangulation and not from complications relating to his illness as Wallace had stated.

The two doctors gave evidence to the court that December and Tim Wallace, now stripped of his medical license was sentenced to death by hanging for the murder of Reese Brooks. He would likely have been exiled to Australia for the lesser crime of forgery. Tim Wallace died of a heart attack in prison at the age of 69 in 1847, awaiting execution.

Brook’s Savings & Loans Bank remained buried with its founder. Tim Wallace was survived by his only son Albert, who disappeared with his father’s savings shortly after the sentence was handed down. Nothing is known of Albert Wallace in the history books. He likely changed his name once he skipped town.

Side Note; This is another piece written by Gerard Gilroy aka Gilly Ghouly who will be joining Twitter shortly.

The Old Prison

Every night since he moved into his new apartment he was awoken at about 4am by a quick series of heavy footsteps from the stairwell that lead to the exit. They seemed to start from the floor above and finish at the ground floor. Leo Frissel had recently graduated from Dr. Harby Flight School. And while he already had begun working for Zanussi Airlines, like a lot of recent graduates, he was just beginning to chip away at his student loans. Although Leo had always wanted to become a pilot, his occupation didn’t go well with the touch of claustrophobia he suffered from. Even though the pay was good, being in debt meant he had to find the cheapest apartment in the vicinity of the airport he was stationed at. His search led him to The Old Prison apartments. A former prison from the 60s that had fallen into disrepair. A miserly developer bought it in the 80s and saved money by salvaging the existing building while converting the interior into apartments. Leo was sure his room had a past life as a solitary confinement cell. He could stand with his arms outstretched and touch the walls on two sides of the room. Whatever its function and size, it was cheap and within walking distance of McGarry Airport, cutting time and money off his commute.

While at cursing altitude and surrounded by blue skies, Leo would ponder over the cause of these midnight footsteps. Being the novice co-pilot he was, he dared not to appear odd his fellow co-pilot, so he would reveal his thoughts and theories to the flight attendants prior to take-off and while embarking and disembarking from the plane. Everyone shot down his long winded, complex explanations that had gotten into his head which made him consider keeping his imaginative ideas to himself. That was until his plane landed in Holloway shortly before Christmas, when Leo was two months in the job.

A passenger disembarking the plane overheard a long-winded story Leo was forcing upon a flight attendant, Sherry. The disinterested flight attendant had been on the same flight crew with Leo 14 times by now and had heard 14 new chapters to what had now become a very plain, repetitive mystery novel. The passenger, an elderly gaunt man from McGarry was smiling to the flight attendants as he walked to the stairs to exit the plane when he halted abruptly. His left hand dropped his walking stick and his other hand grabbed the railing at the foot of the steps. He turned his head clockwise and shot a gaze with his owl-eyes at the chatty pilot who had seen the passengers stick falling and dropped his voice. Leo was about to finish his sentence to the inattentive flight attendant when he was muted by the old man’s stare.

The old man pushed passed the other disembarking passengers and waded his way across the plane to a now frozen Leo. "Repeat that". Leo would have remained frozen had Sherry not laughed out of confusion over this bizarre situation. As she did Leo reverted to generic smiling pilot, "Thank you, have a nice..." The man with the beams for eyes kept his stare locked on Leo and said, "Who told you about the prison?"

"I live there" a puzzled, yet thawed out Leo replied. Sherry waved her hand between the two once all other customers had disembarked. "Sir, would you like me to fetch your walking stick for you?"

"I lived there too young fella", the old man replied.

Sherry waited for a response. The old man seemed less intimidating now and his almost hypnotic stare weakened.

"Sherry,” Leo said, “This is a friend of mine. We’re ok here.”

Sherry is confused by equally disinterested in the situation. She goes ahead with her duties.
"My name is Leo."
"Stewart Walker-Pierce."
"Sir, I have a lot of questions for you but you've already answered one... So, you were in The Old Prison…Do you have another flight to catch?

“Yes.”

“How long is your layover?”

“Long enough to tell you about the footsteps.”

A look of fear washed over Leo. It was as if this man was inside his mind. He felt like the victim of a professional burglary. The alarm disarmed. Nothing out of place. The family sleeping. Valuables stolen and the victim is only aware long after the act. Once Leo had composed himself, the two agreed to discuss the footsteps. They found Stewart's boarding gate and sat in a corner overlooking the runway.

“Before we go into this… who else have you told?”

“Just some of the flight attendants. I’ve been meaning to tell some friends but it sounds crazy. “

“And did they all respond like that woman?”
“Sherry? Yeah. I’m not a very good story teller.”

“Good. look there’s something about the prison that I need to tell you.” Stewart took a deep breath. “What’s your room like? Is it cramped, near a stairwell?” — “Final boarding call for flight ZA119”, was announced over the Tannoy system. Stewart finally revealed some emotion on his face. It was either a look of anger or fear.

“I told them this would happen…I told them”
“Whats wrong? What’s going on? how do you know? Am I in danger?”

“You’re already in danger young man. Me and some of the other officers and inmates warned the developers of this. We tried to fight the renovation at every turn. They ignored us and ploughed on during the boom times and now people are in danger.”

“Thank you for warning me but this is very confusing. Are there criminals hiding out in the vacant room or is the structure unsafe? Have inmates returned there to live? Who is keeping me up at night Stewart?” Leo felling frantic, forgot to breath and choked a little and looked stunned.

“She cursed us but we didn’t listen, we didn’t care. But as some inmates were sent to solitary confinement. That’s when she had her revenge. Now it’s your turn.” --- “Last and final call for flight ZA119. Could Stewart Walker-Pierce please come to boarding gate 23 for flight ZA119 to Blackchester.” The announcement over the Tannoy woke Stewart from the trance he had slipped into. Leo remained stunned.

“I have a flight to catch Leo. All I have to say is get out now son. Maybe it’s too late, but you might still have a chance to escape the suffering those men endured at the hands of her ghost. I’m sorry.”

Stewart rose to his feet gingerly and shook Leo’s hand like you do at a funeral. The old man picked up his walking stick and hobbled briskly towards the departure gate and onto the plane. Leo had so many answers and so many questions that he sat in the terminal stone silent among the hectic airport announcements and rushing travellers. It was only as he stood up that he realised Stewart had handed him a clipping from a newspaper, small enough to fit into a wallet. It read, “Teen singer murdered in prison”. Much of the article was too worn to make out. When he turned it over, “Officer S.W. Pierce” was written beside a partially legible quote, “I… let her out of…sight”. Leos blood ran cold. On autopilot, he staggered through the crowded airport, bumping into suitcases and travellers until finding a seat in the pilot’s lounge that faced a wall. His mind in the clouds and a storm was coming.
Once Leo made his return flight to McGarry he slowly walked to The Old Prison apartments on a dreary autumn afternoon, the former prison somehow looked even more forlorn than the sky above. At the foot of the stairs that seemed to be the origin of his worries, he stopped momentarily, running over Stewarts warning. He weighed up his options; He was over a hundred kilometres from home, in debt, had no friends at Zanussi he felt comfortable enough with yet, that could offer him a bed for the night and had a shift in a few days. In his mind, he had no choice but to climb those stairs and he did so for the last time that night.

Leo Frissell lay in bed for an hour. The fear kept him awake, yet all the worry made him tired and he drifted off to sleep until 2am. His body was found hanging from the single lighting fixture in front of the lone window in his room. His death was ruled as suicide. His co-workers revealed to the police that he had been complaining of night terrors attributed to depression likely brought on by work related stress. His parents admitted that he had become distant since moving to McGarry and although they
asked him to visit at their expense, he never took up their offer.

What the coroner’s and police's report failed to mention was that a series of unfortunate events brought Leo to an early grave. In the years prior to its use as an apartment block, The Old Prison
hosted an annual party on the 21^st of October, the first day of winter, to liven up the spirits of its inmates and to curb the rate of suicide between its walls. The party consisted of music and dancing and tasty food. The main course of the event would be short performances from some local musicians who volunteered their time. 1960 saw the final year of the party and the opening act was a brave young girl of 17 named Scarlett Goulding. Scarlett stood up in front of the lively, and at this point, sober audience. She strummed her guitar, sung a few country ballads and stepped down from the stage after three songs. At the behest of the warden it was suggested that she leave immediately following the performance, but she decided to stick around for the remaining singers. Although under the protection of an armed guard, a small fight broke out between two inmates at the interval and his attention was drawn to the scuffle. Scarlett’s eyes were drawn to the fight too.

A hand reached for her mouth to cover her screams and two more hands grabbed a hold of Scarlett’s body. She was rushed into a dark stairwell by two sober, cunning, cruel inmates. She managed to slip from their control momentarily, racing down the stairs for fourteen steps before the men caught up with her. The overzealous inmates demanded she stop screaming. When she failed to obey their orders, they twisted her neck. The two inmates responsible evaded detection and made it back to the party just as the prison guards found Scarlett’s lifeless corpse lying on the stairwell. She was rushed to the local infirmary, but was pronounced dead upon arrival.

The town of McGarry was appalled at these crimes. Following failed attempts at finding the inmates responsible for Scarlett Goulding’s rape and murder, the prison who felt the eyes of the town on them, sent a series of prisoners into solitary confinement to use as scapegoats to quell the fury of the public. Those responsible for her death remain unknown to all but the perpetrators and the victim, and may never have been sent to solitary confinement themselves. On the one-year anniversary of Scarlett’s death the three inmates held in each of the cells used for solitary confinement all committed suicide. This occurred every year until The Old Prison closed down in 1965 and against the warning of the former occupants was renovated into apartments in 1991. Leo Frissell was pronounced dead on 21st October 2007. The Old Prison apartments are still standing in the town of McGarry today.

Side Note; This was a short story sent to me by Gerard Gilroy, a friend of mine who is also a fan of telling sinister tales. Hopefully he will add further contributions in the future.