The Lighthouse

 

Image created in Ai by Helen

 Tales of strange sightings of eidolons in the Watch Room window of the lighthouse, along with an aery voice that called to those who listened, were whispered to him by the locals in the pub. They said that once you heard the voice, you were unable to resist. That unexplained disappearances had happened since the late 1870’s and that the lighthouse had stood empty since the early 1900’s. No one, they said, was foolish enough to go near the old tower at dusk.
Willum swigged back a mouthful of the strong beer. He had never visited this part of the country before, and he wasn’t going to let some old wives tales stop him from visiting another lighthouse. He’d already seen two others on this trip along the coast. This one was one of the oldest still to be seen. He was only here for one day and he had to move on tomorrow. So if he wanted to see it, it was now or never.
Willum stood on the deserted beach, daylight almost gone, and looked at the empty tower that stood with the sound of algid water lapping around its white stones.
‘William, where are you?’ A voice drifted on the breeze.
He listened. It’s the wind playing tricks. 
Even as he thought it, he moved towards the lighthouse. Just for a moment he thought he saw a flicker of light from the lantern. He stopped and stared up, but all he could see was darkness.
‘William.’
There it is again. He frowned. It’s those stupid tales they’ve been telling me in the pub. Now my imagination is playing tricks. “After all I don’t believe in ghosts and all that rubbish.” He spoke the words as if to reassure himself. 
Dusk was creeping in fast but there was just enough light left for him to see the lighthouse in all its glory. He placed a hand on its cool stone.
‘Come, come in.’
It was as though the lighthouse was speaking to him. He didn’t understand what it was he felt, and yet, he could not turn away. The old door, with its paint faded over the decades, whined open. As dusk swallowed the last of the daylight, from the tower above, a light shone from the lantern room and reached out towards the intensely black sea.
“Hello.” Willum stumbled towards the open door. “Is anyone there?” 
 He stepped into the lower room. For a few seconds he could see nothing in front of him, until his eyes adjusted to the dimness. 
“Hello,” he called again.
As he moved further in, he heard the sound of footfalls on the stairs. 
There is somebody here. “Ghosts pfft!”
Willum started to climb, determined to catch up with whoever it was. He could still hear the footsteps as he  raced up. Out of breath, he stopped when he reached the Watch Room and listened. It was silent.
He bent over to catch his breath and saw each out breath billow in front of him like a misty cloud. The temperature had dropped and was getting colder by the second. The hair on the back of his neck bristled.
 Willum shivered. There was a faint whiff of pipe tobacco in the atmosphere. From behind him the clunk of machinery started up. He spun around and in the dull light saw the clockworks that kept the lens rotating, move.
 A blue haze started to form before him. His heart beat wildly as his mind tried to rationalise what it was seeing. His breath was now a thick fog that hung in the air. Every muscle in his body was tense. Frozen to the spot, eyes wide open, he watched as two apparitions materialised. The first an old man with a shaggy beard and pipe in his mouth, tending the clockworks that worked the lantern. The second was a woman. Her dress appeared soaked through. Her golden hair hung bedraggled. She pressed her hands and face against the window.
‘William, where are you?’
“It was you calling.” Willum uttered the words half to himself and half to her.
She turned and tilted her head. With arms open she rushed towards him. 
 ‘William I thought you drowned.’
Willum unable to move, gasped as he felt her pass through him. It was like a shard of ice had cut into his body and with it an explosion of emotion. All at once he felt her pain and her joy and then her anger.
‘You’re not William!’ Her voice echoed behind him.
He swung around to face her. Her soft features had changed. Her eyes were jet black and her mouth twisted into a grotesque distortion.
Willum fled down the stairs. 
She screamed after him.’ Even if you’re not William. I will still have you.’
He willed himself to go faster. He could hear her footsteps behind him. His heart now banged so loud that it filled his head. He reached the bottom and raced towards the open door. But stopped in his tracks. She barred his way. Her arms were flung wide. Her skirt and hair blew out behind her as the air around her seemed to swirl and twist.
‘You cannot leave me.’ Her laughter filled the room.
Willum took a deep breath. “Get out of my way bitch!”
He rushed forward and hurled himself at her. For several moments he was fighting to breathe. It was as if he was drowning in a sea of salt water. With every ounce of strength he could find he pushed himself through her and tumbled out the door and onto the sand below.
He looked back. She snarled at him and the door slammed shut. Shaken he picked himself up and began to walk away. He turned once more to glance at the lighthouse, now in total darkness. There was no sign of what had just happened, except for a voice carried in the breeze calling to those that would listen.
‘William, where are you?’

Tap Tap Tap

 

Raven created in Ai by Helen 

The bird first appeared as a dark shadow overhead, just far enough away for me not to see it clearly. It followed me on my walks; dark, ominous, moving silently above. I shielded my eyes against the sun’s bright light and squinted at it hovering above me. The more I looked, the more I could discern what it was. A raven, a large black bird with iridescent feathers and a wing span so broad it caught the up-draft and hung in the sky.

 Who had sent this? What did it mean? 

***

 Cr-r-ruck Cr-ruck. The noise woke me and I glanced at the clock. 5am. I slipped out of bed and walked over to the window. There resting on the branch of the big oak sat the raven. Its eyes glittered in the light as it tipped its head from side to side.  It had now been seven days since I first spotted it. It never left me when I ventured outside but this was the first time I had seen it close up. It balanced on the gnarled bark of the old tree and continued to call to me.  Cr-r-ruck Cr-r-ruck— a sound so sharp it touched every nerve in my body. I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help it. I threw open the window and  reached out to it, curling my fingers as I beckoned towards it. Its claws wrapped around my wrist and its jet black eyes stared deep into my own.  I ran a hand across its inky feathers and a chill ran down my spine. I knew this wasn’t a good idea, that there was something dangerous about this creature, yet I was caught in its spell as hopeless as a fly in a spider's web. No amount of struggling would set me free.   

The raven left my arm and glided to rest on the bed post. It turned its gazed towards me; those eyes, something was so familiar about those eyes. But how could that be?  I stared at the floor, almost afraid to look back at it. 

Tap, tap, tap.  What was it doing? I forced myself to look up.  Tap, tap tap. It had a picture caught between it claws. It looked at me, then with its beak, tap tap tap on the photograph.  I advanced towards it and with a shaking hand I reached out and clasped  the photo. Mark! My heart missed a beat.
“How did you get this? It was beneath my clothing in that drawer,” I whispered as I gestured towards the chest, waving the photo in its direction. 
Cr-r-runk, Cr-r-runk was its only reply.
 
  At Mark’s funeral I’d wept as the heart broken girlfriend. I looked again into the raven’s face. Those eyes, they’re his, but changed—darker, frightening.  For a moment I felt dizzy as the raven held my stare. Unable to tear my eyes away, I walked towards the bed and sat down next to the post where it rested. Lifting my arm, I held it out and the bird climbed on; the photograph fell to the floor. The bird and I were trapped in a moment of time, unable to break free of each other.  Just like it was with Mark, until I freed myself. 

I lifted my hand and ran my fingers down its silky feathers, then rested them  around its throat. Would I free myself from this bird or would it free itself from me? For now, we are joined. It knows my secret but the question is, can it keep it? Time will tell.

©2012 Helen A. Howell

Submitted and accepted to Lily Feardom’s showcase February Femmes Fatales 2012.

If you call I will come - A Christmas Ghost Story

 

Anton - Created in Leonardo Ai by Helen 

 

 “Ladies and Gentlemen, please take your seats in the library for the traditional telling of the Christmas Eve Ghost story.”

The steward led the way through the corridor. The six guests, drinks in hand, followed on behind. There was Dorrie and Lesley, both early twenties, one fair the other dark. A frizz of excitement hung in the air between them as they clutched their drinks and scurried behind. Following them were Geoff and Jan, a couple in their mid forties. Then came Roger, a young man with a shock of red hair and a good deal of skepticism about ghosts. He sipped on his whiskey as he ambled along. Next to him was Miss Dapple, an elderly lady, her silver hair piled high on her head and a glass of sherry held tightly between her fingers.
“I do love a good ghost story don’t you?” said Miss Dapple.
“Roger smiled and said, “Hmm.”
  
The Manor dated back to the 1800’s; it had seen many parties in its early years. Now it housed just half dozen guests for the Christmas weekend experience. The guests poured into the library where a roaring fire burned in the grate and the lights were set very low. In a leather winged chair by the fireside, sat an old man dressed in a velvet smoking jacket and cap. His gnarled hands held a pipe to his lips, on which he puffed away rhythmically.

The guests, seated in comfortable chairs, sipped their drinks while they waited for him to speak. He lowered his pipe, and just for a moment looked at them, then he began.
“This is a true story that dates back to 1860′s when this house was alive with people and music on Christmas Eve. It’s about two young people, Anton and Louise. Imagine the ballroom full of happy laughter…”

* * * 

“Louise come dance with me.”
Anton held out a hand. She smiled as she allowed him to lead her around the floor to the strains of a waltz. He loved her— tonight he would ask her to marry him. Her father had approved and he knew she would say yes. He looked into her blue eyes and his heart filled with desire.

The music stopped and Louise flicked open her fan and fluttered it back and forth.
“Would you like some punch?” he asked.
“Thank you. I’ll wait out on the balcony, in the cool air.” She picked up her skirts and walked towards the open doors.

Anton returned carrying two glasses. The balcony was crowded, everyone was feeling the heat of the ballroom. He pushed his way past to where Louise stood facing out over the stone edge.
“Louise here’s your drink,” he said stretching an arm out towards her. But just as she turned to take it, a great oaf of a man crashed into the back of Anton, forcing him forwards against Louise. The impact sending her flying over the edge to tumble to the ground. Her crumpled body lay on the cold earth….

***

“Oh my goodness,” said Miss Dapple. “How sad.”
“I thought this was a ghost story.” Roger took a  swig of his whisky.
“It is,” replied the narrator. “Anton was so grief ravaged that he took his own life later that night in the corridor outside this library, by slitting his throat with a knife. Every Christmas Eve strange noises have been heard around The Manor. Some say it’s Anton looking for Louise. His voice whispering through the air, asking her to call him.”
“Will we hear it?” asked Jan.

At that moment the lights flickered and the temperature dropped. Dorrie and Lesley gasped and clutched each others arms.
“It’s a trick,” said Roger taking another swig of his whisky.
“Is it?” replied the narrator. “They say Anton will keep searching this house until he finds her.”

A rapping on the window made them all jump.
“It’s getting colder,” whispered Dorrie. She shivered and rubbed her arms.
“Something touched me!” Lesley jumped up and looked around.
“Don’t be daft,” said Roger.  “There’s no such thing as ghosts. Can I get another whisky?” He held up his empty glass.
“Help yourself. The drinks are over there.” The narrator nodded in the direction of the back wall.

Roger walked towards the drinks table. Just as he reached it, the glasses started to shake, chink chink. The other’s turned around, mouths agape.
“Okay how are you doing that?” said Roger.
“I’m not,” said the narrator.
Roger grabbed the whisky bottle, poured himself a shot and came back and sat down. “Don’t be fooled by all of this.” He looked at the other guests. “It’s just an illusion.”

“Anton walks the corridors on this night searching for his lost love and they say if he finally finds her, he will be at peace.” The narrator took a long slow puff of his pipe, then leaned out across to his audience. “Be warned though, do not utter his name. Under no circumstance call to him or he will come and it is said if you are not his love, his anger is terrifying. Now drink up and Merry Christmas to one and all.” The narrator slipped back into his chair and continued smoking his pipe.

The group stood, wished him the same back and left the library. Miss Dapple, Geoff and Jan, headed off in one direction towards their rooms and Dorrie, Lesley and Roger in another. 

The corridors were dimly lit and the grandfather clock that stood in the entrance could be heard striking midnight.
“What a load of rubbish that was,” said Roger.
“I think it was fun,” said Dorrie.
“Something strange happened,” said Lesley, “I felt something touch me.”
“That was your imagination,” replied Roger. “All this nonsense about not calling his name. What a load of…”
“You do it then,” said Lesley jumping in before he finished his sentence. She nudged Dorrie and the two girls giggled.
“I’m not afraid to. It’s a load of old poppy cock.”
“Go on then.” Dorrie laughed.
“All right, I will. Then you’ll see how stupid it is—Anton, Anton, Anton.”
The three stood still and waited, but nothing happened.
“There see, I told you.” Roger grinned at both the girls.

They started to walk on and as they turned the corner an icy blast hit them and a murmuring drifted through the air.
Who’s calling me? Is that you Louise, I’m coming, coming….
“Did you hear that?” whispered Lesley as she moved closer to Dorrie. Her breath as she spoke came as a smoky cloud drifting in the atmosphere.
“It has to be a trick.” Roger’s face had now drained of its colour.

Their breath became thicker and  the air around them began to feel freezing. The three stood and stared as something hazy started to form further down the corridor. The apparition moved towards them, picking up more form the closer it got, until before them stood a young man dressed in evening tails. His eyes searched them as he reached out and ran a cold hand down the side of Lesley’s hair.
“You’re not her.” His eyes hardened and with a flick of his wrist he sent her tumbling to the ground.
Dorrie stood shaking, too frightened to move.
“Is that you Louise?”  He glanced over her, a finger stroked her straw coloured hair. Then he noticed Roger. “It’s you, you who pushed me, I remember that red hair.”
“Nnnoo, you’re mistaken,” stuttered Roger.
Anton’s face changed; wild eyes, gaping mouth, teeth capable of ripping out your soul. Roger screamed and crouched to the ground.
“Don’t,” yelled Dorrie reaching out a hand.
Anton turned to face her. Louise it is you?

Dorrie stared into his eyes and she could feel and see his pain. His breath moved the strands of her hair like a gentle breeze. “I’m not her,” she breathed, her breath a billowing cloud.
Anton looked more deeply into her face, then turned and floated off down the corridor, his voice lingering in the air—Louise where are you?, I’m coming my love….

Roger stood up, there was a wet streak running down his leg. Dorrie helped Lesley to her feet, then looking at Roger said,
“Still don’t believe in ghosts then?”

 

Merry Christmas to all my readers - new stories coming in the new year! 

Christmas Lights - a Ghost Story

 

Image created in Leonardo Ai

The old fir tree had stood alone in the woods for many years. It had been witness to something no one spoke of anymore, or perhaps they had just forgotten—but the tree had not.  

Each Yuletide the town was presented with a tree to decorate, but somehow, this year, they were forgotten.  The Mayor remember the old fir tree and ordered that it be cut down and brought back to the town centre. 
“‘Tis time that old fir was put to good use,” he said. The men, caps in hand, looked at the Mayor. “Get thee a move on or it’ll be Christmastide before ye get back.” The Mayor laughed as he ushered them out the door.

.......

“Come hither Mary and gaze upon this. The tree is beautious.” Lora stood amongst the crowd and beckoned Mary to her.
“Yay, it is indeed.” Mary looked up at the tree, dressed in its finery. “‘Tis more splendid than the year before.”
“The Mayor hath done the town proud.” said Lora. She pulled her shawl tighter around her. “‘Tis cold. We should be going home.”
“Ye go, I want to stay just a moment longer.” 
“All right my dear but ‘tis getting dark and the streets are not safe.”
Mary laughed and touched Lora’s hand. “I’ll take care. I’ll not be long.”
Lora raised a hand in farewell as she ambled off down the snow covered cobblestones.

As the Town Hall Clock rang out ten chimes into the chill night air, the crowd slowly dispersed.  Mary remained, her eyes unable to leave the tree. There was something sad about it, even in its beauty.  A voice, carried in the breeze, whispered to her.
“Alone, I’m so alone.”
 She shivered. Snowflakes stung her skin like sharp finger nails drifting down from the dark sky to scatter at her feet. She shivered again, pulling her shawl closer to her. 
“Alone, all alone.”
‘Tis’ the wind playing ticks on me. It must be.  Mary turned and started to walk away but something made her glance back. The candles were burning brighter as though the tree was calling her. Mary ran down the path that led home, her heels silent on the snow ladened ground. 

.......

“Whither goest thou Mary?” Lora seated by the fire watched as Mary threw her shawl about her and tied the ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin.
“To the tree. I want to see it again.”
“Ye saw it yesterday. ‘Tis Christmas eve. Wilt thou not sit and take some egg nog with me? ‘Tis fearful cold out there.”
“I’ll not be long.” Mary unlatched the door and stepped out into the icy atmosphere.  Something was pulling her towards the tree. She couldn’t explain it and neither could she resist it.

The square was silent and empty, it was just her and the tree in crisp night air. The aroma of the tree's branches reached her; a heady scent filled with the memories of Christmases past and those yet to come. Closing her eyes in an effort to savour the experience, she allowed the fragrance to envelope her. An icy finger ran down her cheek and she snapped open her eyes. All around her the air had become chilly, no more than that, freezing as a breeze moved the loose strands of her hair about her face.

“Alone, so alone,” breathed the voice.

Mary froze as unseen hands, cold as the earth beneath her feet, touched her shoulder. 

“Stay with me, please…” 

Tears rolled down Mary’s cheeks and she brushed them away with the back of her hand. The energy swirled around her and deep inside she felt the sorrow that came with it. Although afraid and sensing she shouldn’t stay, she couldn’t help her self. 

“I’m here. Tell me who you are.”

 The cold that encircled her, formed into a smoky cloud and drifted away to the side of the fir. She watched it transformed into a hazy figure of a young girl in a tattered dress, shoeless feet and a ragged shawl slung carelessly around her shoulders. The figure pointed to a lighted candle and beckoned Mary closer.

Mary took a few hesitant steps towards the tree and gazed at the candle light.The flame flared and within its red and orange hue a vision emerged. Mesmerised by the picture unfolding, she watched as a girl walked into a town—this town. The snow crunched beneath her bare feet. She looked tired, cold and hungry. Mary saw her knock on several doors, each turning her away and shutting her out from the warmth. 

The vision faded and the ghostly figure gestured towards another candle. Mary’s eyes followed and again focused on the flame. This time she saw the girl walk towards the woods, and come to rest at the base of the fir tree—the same tree that now stood in the town square. The girl huddled beneath its branches; the snow fell like a soft blanket.  The flame flickered and dimmed and the ghost pointed towards another candle.

Mary stared into the bright light. What she saw made her gasp. A skeleton, small, crumpled, rested against the trunk of the old tree. Mary brushed away another tear as the light faded.

 The ghost turned towards Mary.  “All alone,” she whispered.  “But not now.”

“Nay not anymore,” said Mary.  

She looked at the ghost and just for a second, thought she saw her smile before she faded. Then  all the candles on the tree burned brightly sending their light outwards into the night sky.

“‘Tis Christmas lights I’ll nary forget till the day I die.” Mary’s heart felt lighter as she turned away and headed home knowing that the girl although dead, was no longer forgotten.

 

©Helen A. Howell 

Pine Needles & Sherry - Christmas Ghost Story

Image by Bijou Bay at Creative Fabrica

The paint work was crumbling and the yard neglected but to me, it would always be the Old House. I watched as they busied themselves unpacking. No one seemed to notice me. It was Christmas Eve and soon a tree would be carried in and decorated; the smell of fresh pine needles would  fill the sitting room.
I rummaged through a box of bottles. Finding the one I wanted, I pulled it clear. Cream Sherry. I’d had plenty of practice over the years grabbing what I required. I took a glass from the next box, poured the golden liquid from the bottle into it, then replaced its cap. Leaning against the wall, I let the bottle slip from my fingers. It dropped to the floor. I held the glass up to my nose and sniffed; the memories of Christmases past flooded back. I wasn’t going to drink it. I just wanted to hold it, smell it and remember.
“Fetch those boxes for me Natalie.”
“Those in the corner?”
“Yes, I want to pack them into the sideboard. Then we can move the sofa over and make room for the tree. It should arrive soon.”
I stepped out of the way as Natalie approached. What was she? Sixteen, seventeen? She was in her first flush of womanhood. I looked at her shapely legs, her firm breasts; like two ripe peaches just waiting to be plucked. I inhaled the Sherry’s bouquet—yes, I remember how good it felt. Should I pick up the bottle for her? No, she wouldn’t expect me to help.
 Natalie picked up the stray bottle and placed it back in the box and carried it over to the sideboard. The two women sorted out its contents, stacking them into the cupboard. The door bell rang. I walked out into the hallway. Natalie brushed past me. I saw her hesitate and shiver. Was it cold in here? It felt okay to me. She flung the door open.
“The tree’s arrived,” she called over her shoulder. “Bring it in,” she said, stepping aside to allow the man access. I stepped aside too. She stared at me for a moment, her blue eyes penetrating into my soul. Did she see the real me? She followed the man into the sitting room. I followed her.
“It’s a fine tree,” said the man. “Where do you want it?”
“By the bay window would be perfect,” said her mother.
“Right you are ma’am.”
He set the tree up and I watched as they thanked him, gave him a tip and showed him out. I kept to the corner, blending into the shadows, not wanting to get in the way. No one spoke to me. They never did. I swirled the gold liquid around the glass. Should I smell it one more time just to remind myself? No, I remember well enough. This is such a special time of the year.
“Shall I fetch the tree decorations, mum?”
“Why not do it later tonight. Your father and I are going out. You’ll have the house to yourself.”
“Okay.”
Don’t forget I’ll be here. Why do they always forget I’ll be here.
Natalie shivered again. “Is there a draft coming from somewhere?” she said rubbing her arms.
“I don’t think so dear.”
I decided to leave them alone. I’d come back later this evening and help her decorate the tree. 

The night sky filled the bay windows as I watched Natalie draw the curtains to shut out the dark. I walked over to her, wondering if she could see me yet. I knew she sense me. I could see the goosebumps appear on her bare arms. I liked it when they sensed me. Somehow it made it all the more exciting. 
I circled around her and lifted a strand of her hair— she smelled so good. She raised her hand, brushed the side of her cheek and shivered again. I saw the tension in her face, and smiled. She’s trying to convince herself it’s nothing but her imagination. Should I toy with her or get straight to it? What fun would there be in rushing it? I decided to play with her—just like that girl played with me. Sherry. She always drank Sherry—that sweet, rich aroma on her breath. I remember that smell mixed with the perfume of pine needles from the tree, even as I placed the gun to my head. 
I watched Natalie place baubles and tinsel on the branches, humming a tune while she worked. Her voice cracked now and again as she nervously checked over her shoulder— for what, she wasn’t sure. I could tell she knew she wasn’t alone. I flickered the lights for a moment before I plunged the room into darkness. She screamed. I dropped the temperature around her by several degrees. It was all going to plan.
Who’s there?” 
I kissed her skin, caressing her slowly. Petrified, she froze. I brushed her lips with mine, the merest touch, icy, cold. 
“Leave me alone,” she cried.
I felt her fear. It shot through me like a bolt of electricity, so arousing—I’d waited such a long time for this new girl. I turned on the lights and stood by the tree, dressed in my old fashioned dinner suit. She could see me now, her eyes wide, staring. Small beads of sweat glistened on her forehead—jewels sparkling in the soft light. Tears wet my cheeks. I looked at her. She registered my pain in her face as she watched me raise the gun to my head. BANG— I doused the lights. In the darkness there was nothing but the steady thudding of her heart. 
I flickered the lights and watched her from the shadows. Her face was a deathly white. She stared dumbstruck at the vacant spot where I had stood, then looked at the sherry glass in her hand....
 Merry Christmas sweetheart.
© Helen A. Howell

Madam Ursula Femme-Hap

 

It was dusk when the Carnival arrived in town. A Carnival had never been here before, least not in the twenty-six years I’d been alive.  But then it’s just a small hick town. No one comes here very often. 
I stood on the side street and watched as the train of oddly shaped wagons pulled into the empty green at the far end of Main Street. A fizz of excitement coursed through my veins and I hurried home to tell my mother the news.
She said that her mother mentioned a Carnival that visited here many years ago, when she was a girl.  
“What did she say?” I asked.
She stopped stirring the stew and stood silent, as if she was recollecting her own mother’s voice. “She said that the bright lights were a thing to behold. That the music called to you and the sights to be seen were so amazing that it made your eyes pop out of your head.”
She had piqued my interest. I wanted to know more about this spectacle that had arrived. “What else did she say?”
“She spoke about a giant man with muscles like wine barrels and side stalls that were decked out with prizes. I remember the smile leaving her face as a frown creased her brow. How she pressed her lips together, as though she was scared to speak. She whispered to me, her voice barely audible, about a tent that stood apart from the main show with a sign that read: ‘Madam Úrsula Femme-Hap sees all.’”
“Did she go in?”
“No, she said it frightened her. She said it stood there alone in the darkness, like it was waiting for something or someone.” My mother shivered and rubbed her arms.
“Are you going to come to the Carnival?” I smiled trying to lighten the moment. I knew how she believed in, you know, ghosts, devils and the likes.
“No, I’m too old for that sort of thing.” She carried the stew to the table and dished it out. We ate in silence, but my mind raced with this new attraction that had appeared. 
The next evening the music drifted through the air to reach into every corner of the town. I hurried towards the entrance that was lit by coloured lights, a rainbow glittering in the dark sky. A man in top hat and tails welcomed the crowd as we swarmed through the gates. 
The place was alive with music, lights and jostling people as I walked on taking in the sights. The strong man my grandmother had spoken of was there, inviting the crowd to feel his muscles.  
I walked around drinking in the atmosphere, and then I saw it, the tent with the words: ‘Madam Úrsula Femme-Hap sees all.’ It was nestled in the corner all by itself, as though it wasn’t really part of the Carnival but somehow, still belonged.   
It can’t be the same person. I thought. She would be over a hundred years old. 
 My eyes remained fixed on that sign. But the urge to go inside was too hard to resist. It was like it was meant for me. I brushed aside the tent flap and entered. A wizened weather beaten old woman sat at a table where a single candle burned in its brass holder. She crooked a gnarled finger at me and beckoned me to sit down. I pulled the chair aside and slipped in. My eyes adjusted to the dimness and I could now see her face plainly. She never spoke a word. Her ink like eyes burned as bright as the candle flame and as I looked deeper into them, what I saw made my heart race. She took my hand into hers her skin was cold as death itself. I tugged my own hand free and stood up, knocking my chair to the floor with a thud. For a moment I froze as she continued to hold me with her piercing gaze, before I broke free and staggered out of the tent.
Beads of sweat had formed on my brow and my legs felt as though they would collapse beneath me. I forced myself to walk away, taking one last glance over my shoulder. The tent was no longer there. I swung around and retraced my steps. But there was no sign of it or that it had ever been there. How can this be?  At the entrance I asked the man in the top hat and tails about the tent and the woman. 
He looked at me and smiled. “There’s a tale attached to this Carnival about a woman named Úrsula Femme-Hap, who was part of the company when this group first came together over a hundred years ago. It was said that her predictions led to the death of those who consulted her and so people began to fear her, which eventually led to her own murder. I’ve heard tell that on occasion her tent can be seen on the outskirts of the fair. But I’m sure that’s just peoples’ imagination. How do you know about her?”
I thought about telling him I’d seen the tent, seen the woman, but knew he would think me crazy. So I just said that I’d heard some people mention her and was curious to know more. Then I left the Carnival and its lights behind me.
It’s been one year since that Carnival visited. What I had seen in that old woman’s eyes was my own death. She showed me how I would be murdered. What she didn’t show me was when and where it would happen or by whose hand. There was something dark, cold and spiteful about her, that left me in no doubt that what she showed me would come true. 
 Now, I live my life watching all those I come into contact with. I believe we make our own future and I plan to change mine, by killing the killer first.

©2014 Helen A. Howell

Digging Up the Past

 

Image created in Leonardo Ai 

The old house looked the same. In all the years that have flown by it hadn't changed, although it bared the scars of time. Built in early 1900's it bore the marks of a typical grander Edwardian style house. The red brickwork now faded and the tuckpointing was somewhat dulled, gave the facade a tired look. Its steeply pitched roof and high chimneys with their terracotta finials, stood out against the landscape. 

As I approached closer I could see the panes of the bay window covered in a layer dust. I fumbled in my pocket for the set of keys that would open the large panelled door, the stained glass, an intricate floral pattern in the upper section, was a work of art. 

This property had been hiding in my family for years. I didn't even know it existed until I got that letter from Balm & Beedle Solicitors. You can imagine my surprise when I learned that I had been left this by a Miss Lillian Strap - a very distant relative.

I asked around my family if anyone knew of her. The only one that did was my great grandmother, now 97 years old. She told me that the Staps were connected on my father's side, and that they only had one daughter. She said she once met Lillian when they were girls and she visited that house. After Lillian's parents had died, one after the other, Lillian by then was a grown woman, had made her own life elsewhere.The house had stood empty. Apparently, she was not interested in the property and left it to slowly decay. By the time she died, the house was still standing. Having no offspring herself, had decided to leave it to me. How she knew of me, I'll never know. 

Now as I turned the key in the lock and the door creaked open, light was thrown into what was once darkness and dust motes danced in the air around me.The house seemed to sigh as it awoke from its long sleep. I walked through the hallway, the musty smell of long forgotten carpets, drapes and furniture filled the air. 

I wandered into what I assumed was the front parlor and drew back the curtains, which started to fall apart in my hand. Light filled the room and slowly my eyes adjusted from the dimness to take in my surroundings. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs hung in the corners of the ceiling. Such a high ceiling with an ornate cornice decorating its edges.The room had various pieces of furniture scattered around it and to the far side stood a piano. On its top were several framed photographs and I moved closer to inspect them. I recognised none of them all wearing vintage clothing. 

But one photo I did recognise, or at least it seemed familiar. As I picked it up and took a closer look, I gasped, it was me, it was definitely me. It fell from my hand and for a moment I felt dazed. Picking it up again, my heart thumping in my chest, I took a deep breath and staring once more at the photograph, I gasped again, the photo had changed, it was now someone else. A laughter seemed to echo through the house, as though it was emanating from its walls. A cold feeling crept over me like icy fingers. Was this the reason Lillian ignored the house?

I dropped the photo and hurried back through the hall and out the door, locking it behind me. I too would be ignoring this house, no way would I be digging up the past.