Revenge… part two

Finally…, I’ve had time to finish part two of my short story.
Hope you like it:


Thanks to Elin from Sweden for the moth! Check out her page here:

Part two…

Her eyes flickered open.
For a second, she was lost, a castaway of sleep swept away in a storm of confusion and drowsiness.
“Jesus,” she mumbled, sitting up, rubbing her eyes.
Fatigue had taken control of her body, paralysing her thoughts.
Blinking, she forced herself to focus on the room
As objects came into view, memories slowly shunted into place.
And with it, a steady pulsing.
The monitor was awake.
“What the hell?” Memories snapped into place.
“Oh God! The monitor…, Mademoiselle Sanson.”
On the bedside table, a soft red light blinked for her attention.
She squinted at the tiny readout.
“Temperature dropping. Movement… and… sound! Jesus!” Heart pumping, she jumped up, the tiny device gripped tightly in her hand.
Slipping on her shoes, she opened the door and stepped silently into the corridor. The small lamp close to the clock at the end of the hall was still on. Shedding a friendly amber glow, it revealed enough of the carpeted passageway for her to see.
Across from her, Mademoiselle Sanson’s door was closed.
That room was not her concern: the white panelled door further down marked the primary objective.
Halfway there, she stopped. A sound left her frozen to the spot. Listening, her heart thumped in her chest.
From just beyond the door came the distinctive shunt of a chair being pushed across a carpet and the subsequent wood-on-wood tapping as the chair met the table edge.
Cool air stroked the back of her neck.
This was followed by another recognisable sound: a crack, like that of glass being hit, pierced the soft shadows of the hallway.
She held her breath.
“Focus,” she whispered to herself. It was the only mantra she knew.
She listened for footsteps.
But there remained only the methodical ticking of the clock, its inner workings gently marking out time… clack, clack, clack….
Trepidation fought with confidence as she waited.
But determination won.
She moved to the door.
How often had she stood before such white panelled guardians? Guardians that always keep their secrets.
Too many times.
Too many times waiting, preparing to go in.
But it was those few seconds, those silent moments of unease; those few seconds where you had a chance to back away; those few seconds before facing the darkness, the unknown.
Hands sweating, she looked down at the device again.
All movement had stopped.
Silence bred apprehension.
Her mind raced.
She clutched at the straws of composure, trying to control her breathing, her thoughts.
What had she heard? “The sound of the glass. It wasn’t the window going in,” she whispered, her breathing slowing.
“No…, something else.”
Looking back to the white panelled door, she put out her hand. Caressing the surface, her skin prickled with cold. The device in her hand blinked: red digits, decreasing.
“Looks like someone left the fridge open?”
Her breath formed tiny clouds before her, dissipating against the door.
The cold enveloped her.
“Getting colder. Freezing, in fact.”
She breathed into her hands and gently moved her feet up and down, trying to get warm.
“Come on, girl, focus. It’s nothing new.”
Reaching for the brass doorknob, spidery fingers reflecting on the cracked convex surface, she cast apprehension away and opened it.
Her breathing stopped for those fleeting seconds as it swung open.
A cold draught washed over her cheeks, taking her breath.
The “V” of light extended across the carpet.
She tensed her body, eyes scanning, expecting to see movement, something scuttling for cover….
The light revealed nothing.
Wasting no time, she fumbled for the light switch, bathing the room in light.
She stood ready.
Everything, the furniture, curtains, book shelves, and corners, appeared unchanged.
“No…, wait. The table.”
She took two steps into the room.
“It’s moved.”
The round mahogany table, which had stood under a painting on the far wall, was now in the middle of the room. A brass candlestick had been placed upon a small embroidered place mat.
On the floor, close to the door, she saw her other recording device. Retrieving it, she placed it onto a nearby cabinet. Its tiny lights still recording activity in the room.
From behind, she heard soft footsteps approaching.
The gaunt figure of Mademoiselle Sanson, arms clutched around her nightgown, face as white as a mime artiste, appeared in the dim light.
“Mademoiselle Clements. It has happened again, has it not?” Her voice a shimmering whisper.
“From the looks of it, yes.”
“Oh, my…” The old woman put her hand to her mouth.
Shuffling along, she tentatively entered.
“Be careful, it’s very cold.
“It is always cold, here. I know.” Her was barely audible.
She inspected the room.
Her hand shaking, she pointed to the centre of the room.
“The table. It’s moved. Oh…, this has never happened before,” her voice was a croaking whisper; fearful of an intruder in their midst?
She looked back at the young woman, eyes full of foreboding in her ashen face, fear sending tiny tremors of fear through her body.
“What is…”
She looked to the curtains, eyes wide, mouth agape.
Clutching the lapels of her nightgown, she drew back. Her distress manifesting itself as a whine. Her eyes wide in frantic fear, she clutched at the other woman’s arm.
“I heard something,” her voice a fearful whisper. “Across there, by the curtains. We must get out. It’s an intruder!”
But Mademoiselle Clements didn’t move. Taking gentle hold of the old woman’s arm, she pointed across the room, to the visible gap below the curtains.
“There is no one there,” she whispered. “Wait here.”
The old woman reluctantly let go, and quickly sought safety at the study door, watching the young woman move to the curtains.
“Be careful.”
Fists clenched, the young woman approached the window. Cautiously negotiating the chairs, she looked for movement.
Had something soft brushed against the glass?
She stopped, listening.
With slow, decisive movements she gripped both sides of the curtains.
Holding her breath, she readied herself, her arms tense.
In one fluid movement, she drew them apart, curtain rings chinking like little bells.
There was nothing.
Just the curving alcove at her knees, the low window sill filled with ornaments, and above, the multiple dark panes of glass, painting her reflection.
A counter world spun in dim shadows, showing her the room and a thin figure over her shoulder, waiting expectedly.
But…, beyond…, only darkness.
A darkness so compelling, so deep, that she had to keep hold of the curtains: safety lines to reality.
“Come on. You’re tired. Concentrate.” She said to herself, confidence waning in full view of the abyss before her.
She blinked, bemused.
“But where’s the street gone?”
She leaned forward, looking right, down the street she’d followed.
“Where are the traffic lights? Has there been a power cut?”
She saw only darkness. No houses, no streetlights… what had taken the light?
She put her face closer to the glass, squinting into the black.
But it wasn’t really black.
It was different, it was… She put her finger to the cold glass.
As it touched the coolness, the darkness erupted.
Fearing the glass would crack, she pushed herself back.
Instinctively, she put her hands up to protect her face, shocked by the sudden mass of movement.
Stumbling back, hitting her back against the table, she turned and went down on her haunches.
She stared at the window.
No shards had flown across the room.
The window was intact.
Standing up, realisation put a nervous smile on her lips, and she let out an embarrassed laugh.
“It can’t be?”
Fluttering wings, thousands of them. A swarm of black moths all pushing together, a seething mass of speckled wings and antennae, all seeking the light.
“Moths!” she cried. “They’re only moths, Mademoiselle Sanson,” she said, grinning.
But the old woman didn’t answer.
“Only moths. Come and have a look.”
Turning around, she wanted to show the old woman they were but harmless insects. “They’re only…”
“Moths. Yes.”
Mademoiselle Clements smiled at the old woman.
But those sunken old eyes didn’t register her, they looked right past her, into the night.
“Moths,” came the old voice. “Living in darkness, you pray to the moon. Old masters of disguise. Always masters of disguise.”
“Yes. They are. But it’s a normal phenomenon. Happens quite often, especially with houses like this one.”
“Houses like this one?”
“Yes, old houses with histories.” She wanted to keep smiling, chase fear away. “Come and look. They can’t get in.”
Breaking her trance, Mademoiselle Sanson finally moved, going closer to the table, squinting at the window.
“But there are so many. What does it mean? Is it the light?”
“Partly. But there could be other reasons. Sometimes they follow special paths.”
“Paths? What kind of path?”
Mademoiselle Clements, her composure improved, moved away from the window, looking towards the shelves of books.
She’d have to tell her.
Couldn’t put it off.
She just hoped she wouldn’t know. The underlying truth.
“They are following a path here, because…, they were probably called here.”
She moved to the bookshelf. “I’ve seen it before with spiders, worms, and termites, that sort of thing. They’re sometimes drawn to places that are imbued with, shall we say, energy.”
“Part of this haunting, you mean? And they are the proof? But why?”
“Mademoiselle Sanson, as I was walking to the study I heard the sound of glass being hit. Not broken. Whatever made that noise also moved the chairs, the table, and the candle. It put out three chairs. There are only two of us in this house, Mademoiselle Sanson. So I think it had a reason for doing that. And the books, look at all these old books.”
She moved towards the shelves, her eyes scouring the shelves.
“I heard the sound of glass being hit. I thought it was the window, but…” she studied the first glass door. “Yes, here we are.”
She put her hand up to the glass.
“A crack.”
She let her hand spread over the fractures, following them up.
“They weave a strange lattice. Such glass shouldn’t crack in this way. Am I right, Mademoiselle Sanson?” she asked, looking around.
The old woman nodded.
The young woman continued her examination.
“A book has been pulled out,” she said, going up on tiptoes. “But…, I can’t quite read the title. Mademoiselle Sanson, could you help me?”
“It’s a book of deeds.”
Her answer was immediate, her tone unsettling in its confidence.
The young woman’s hand hovered over the glass, hesitant.
“Yes…, you’re right.”
Her mind contemplating that sudden tone.
The old woman broke her concentration.
Shuffling around the table, she put her hands on one of the chairs.
“Three chairs, you say. Why would it do that?”
Mademoiselle Clements fixed her stare on the books.
“Yes, why would it do that? A good question. I expect it wants to talk.”
She stared at the books.
So many.
So many books which shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t still exist.
Ancient spines spun by binders centuries ago.
Tales that were silenced, hidden, stolen, taken away from prying eyes. Trophies of a kind.
Mademoiselle Clements’ thoughts raced, digging up facts she’d heard an eternity ago.
A voice had told her about the burning of feudal title-deeds. Burning them for a reason.
She let her hand float over the glass, mesmerised. Would they tell her something?
But her thoughts were once again disturbed by the presence: a pervading pressure on her temples and the coolness in the air, as though it was thickening.
The cold spun a web of icy prickles across the back of her hand and a cool draught wafted across the back of her neck.
The temperature was dropping again.
She looked at the old woman.
To her astonishment, she saw that it wasn’t only her voice that had changed, even her face seemed… different…, more colour seeping through her veins.
Even her eyes, flitting over the antique ledgers, bore a sharpness she hadn’t noticed before. Her posture too, was more erect, the stoop hardly recognisable.
“It wants a séance. That’s what you wanted to tell me, isn’t it. A séance to find out.” Her voice had a sudden, unsettling air of confidence.
Cold air wrapped around her.
The moths buffeted the window.
The old woman turned to her visitor.
“It’s getting cold again.”
“If it is here to talk to us, if it has something to say, then I’ll need you to help me. I want you to tell the truth, especially if it wants to know specific things.”
“The truth!” the old woman spluttered, her head cocked to one side, her ashen complexion coming to life. “What do you mean?”
Her eyes, forming dark slits, studied the young woman. A slanting sneer revealed a brooding suspicion, an unease.
It appeared she’d let a mask slip away from her face, momentarily. In that moment did that face belong to another Mademoiselle Sanson?
The air was freezing now, suffocating.
A presence was amongst them.
Mademoiselle Clements tried her best not to show her sudden dismay at the woman’s outburst. Instead, she looked to the book shelf.
“The books could, for some reason, be attracting it? Memories locked into the paper. We should…”
She stopped.
The light dimmed, shimmered, brightened and returned to its normal radiance.
Cold air clawed at her throat, and her breath clouded into small plumes.
It was happening again.
A deep resonating knocking, an unsettling sound, rose up from deep below the house.
Like a mighty hammer it pounded the floor, shaking objects on the cabinet, rattling doors.
Another came and then another, great thunderous sounds that sent ornaments shifting along the sideboard.
As the intensity and frequency rose, the book of deeds moved.
In quick, shifting spasms, it twitched, trying to free itself, pushing against neighbouring books, bucking for space.
Whatever invisible force was at work soon lost patience, for, within seconds, the book started banging against the shelf. Its agitation growing as it hopped up and down.
The two woman, stunned by the sound, stared at the book, their faces frozen.
Mademoiselle Sanson, once more a fearful stooping creature, fretting and tearful, called across, he cries pitiful.
“What does it want…?”
But her cry was silenced, as the presence demanded their attention
An invisible hand pulled at the book, drawing it out, hammering it repeatedly against the glass.
As the sound shook the table from deep below the house, the book banged against the glass again and again.
Mademoiselle Clements could take it no more. She quickly moved away from the glass, across to the old woman and the apparent safety of the hallway.
Behind her, the cracks in the glass grew longer, spreading the length of the door.
As she pulled the old woman into the hallway, the sound beneath the room reached a terrifying crescendo.
“Cover your eyes it’s going to…”
But her words were lost as shards of glass flew out, pushed out by the powerful energy controlling the book.
The ledger itself was propelled from the shelf.
As it landed on the carpet, the booming sound ceased abruptly.
The two woman, faces white from the shock of what had transpired, stood in the hallway.
And, as the moths resumed their fruitless attempt to enter the house, Mademoiselle Clements felt a presence, an icy cold hand caressed her cheek. In her mind it called out
“It is here.”
Her body trembling, the old women looked up, her face terror stricken.
“What… what does it want?”
She looked at the three chairs.
“To talk.”
“About the house?”
Mademoiselle Clements looked down at the fallen book.
“I hope so…”

To be continued…


New bass track

Here is a Sunday afternoon groove.


Seeking inspiration?

The search for inspiration is a never ending struggle, especially for the “part-time” writer – yes, those of us who have to squeeze are favourite pastime into what little time is left over in the day.

Today, as I was caught between appointments, I just happened to have a small window where I could catch up on the news on BBC World online. As I glanced around the headlines I noticed a “HARDtalk” interview with Steven Berkoff. It was only a short exert from the main interview, but what I saw got me thinking (and reacting).

As he was speaking, I found the interview to have a certain potency, drawing me in.

But their was something familiar about what he was talking about; I then realised that what he was describing was reminiscent of the life of a character I’ve been developing. Quickly, I got out my notepad and started jotting down some of the key words he was saying: reconcile, approval, resent, mockery, arrogance, etc. Apart from sourcing key vocabulary for a possible dialogue, I was “shaping” more of my character.

I watched the short clip again. This time, as I listened, I wasn’t hearing the voice of the Steven Berkoff, but the character; he had suddenly taken on a more tangible existence.

In that particular moment, listening to someone talking about reasons for their quirks or character “faults” was, for me, a great help for putting more depth into the character. It definitely painted new colours on a dreary page.

Now, before my eyes, I had someone describing my character and his traits, a task that I would normally have struggled with: trying to define, describe, seek the right words, etc., which is very time consuming (for me).

After watching the clip, I knew that I could portray my fictional character’s past with a little more conviction. It’ll need some tweaking, but as far as content, this short interview had proved effective.

I suppose the extract gave me a little push in the right direction.

As writers do we often try to create such important situations from our own imagination? Could it be that all we have to do is take time out to let inspiration come to us?

Using my own imagination to make the  journey of creation is a very time consuming effort, but is often rewarding when it works out. However, the time to design/engineer/visualise/ research the scenes/situations is always tight, so finding such relief from such a task is helpful.

I often wonder how it is possible to describe that which I’ve never experienced, never physically experienced. Why do I always choose to create such events for stories from a string of words and not a string of experiences, when all around I can see and hear a reality: all I have to do is look and listen… and adapt it to the story.

The journey to learn this “art” is long but enjoyable.

Here’ the link. See what you think. It may even give someone inspiration for a story


Revenge – part 1 (the first draft)



Having followed the coast road for twenty minutes, Mademoiselle Clements finally drove into the outskirts of the small town.

It’d been a long drive: her eyes were getting heavy and concentration was failing her.

A small car park came into view. She pulled over.

Lifting the handbrake, she sat back with a sigh: the journey was nearly over.

Opening the window, she let in a fresh sea breeze.

“Just what the doctor ordered.” After three hours of air conditioning, it was invigorating to let the cool air wash over her.

Gazing out, the eve of night commenced its first act, bidding farewell to the soft memories of day.  A failing band of blue and orange to the west was all that remained. However, in the dying light, she could see undulating dunes, and, somewhere in the distance, she heard the rhythmic beat of waves. Here and there were the soft glow of fires, people enjoying the cool evening and grilling their suppers. On the wind came the sound of chattering, laughter and music.

She’d have loved to have joined them, but work called.

Her short break over, she had to get her bearings. Reaching into her jacket, she took out her phone and called up emails.

“What had Mademoiselle Sanson written?” Her finger brushed against the glowing screen. “OK, so she’s at 11 Rue Sebastien de Neufville.”

Scrolling down further, she read the mail:

Be careful when driving down the narrow streets. When you reach the coast road, look for the railway crossing. Turn right at the crossing. At the first zebra crossing, turn left into the yard. It’s a red house, you can’t miss it. You can park down the right hand alley. Take the steps up to the first floor, this is where I’ve got my kitchen. I’ll have something ready for you when you arrive.”

Putting the phone away, she started the engine. Before her the road was awash from lights shimmering from the hotel across the road. Some people came out, wandering across the road to the dunes. A taxi slowed to let them cross the road then accelerated away.

She watched its passage. Red brake lights flared.

Traffic lights shone a hazy red. Beyond them she could make out the railway crossing lights. “Right at the railway crossing. Bingo, it’s just around the corner.” She set off to meet Mademoiselle Sanson.

She found the place. Parking the car, her stomach suddenly felt cold, empty.

Not from hunger…, fear. This one was going to be a tough one. Father Cardaliaguet had already briefed her on what to expect. Poor woman.

Following Mademoiselle Sanson’s instructions, she went up the painted stairs and rapped on the door. Delicate linen hung inside the door, masking the interior. From within, she heard the noise of a chair being pushed back.

Someone coughed.

“I’ll be right there,” came a light voice.

A shadow suddenly masked the soft glow behind the linen. A key turned in the lock and the door rattled open.

An elderly lady, perhaps in her mid-70s, stood before her. She had a regal face, a pinched nose, grey hair, pony tail over one shoulder, and a white linen shawl drawn around her. Her face wrinkled up with a smile of welcome.

“Mademoiselle Clements, I presume?”


“Oh, how nice it is to meet you. I hope you didn’t have much trouble finding my humble abode by the sea.”

“No…, no problem at all.”

“Please, do come in,” she said, opening the door wider, her arm beckoning. “I hope you like fish. You get a fantastic mackerel here. Couldn’t help myself at the market this morning, they looked so good. The smell was awful, mind you,” she laughed. “But, served cold, they’re absolutely delicious on fresh bread.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”

“Nonsense. I insist. You’ve had a long journey, so it’s the least I could do.”

The kitchen was sparsely decorated. Simple, yet functional. Typical for the region. The light came from a standing lamp in the corner, its wide shade slightly askew as it huddled up to a tall fridge freezer. The walls were whitewashed, and here and there hung blue-framed watercolours of the surrounding area, she guessed.

The round wooden table was set for two.

“Please, take a seat,” she said, pulling out a chair for her guest.

Mademoiselle Clements sat down.

The old woman went to the ancient cooker and picked up a kettle, taking off the metal lid.

“Would you like something to drink? I prefer a white wine in the evening. But, I can make you a tea or coffee, if you like.”

“Water’s just fine. I like to keep my head clear.”

“Wise girl.” She put the old kettle down and took a bottle of water from the fridge. Pouring, she smiled apologetically. “I don’t want to sound rude, but how long have you been doing this job, Mademoiselle Clements?”

“Ten years next September.”

“Oh, that long,” she said, her brow raised. “A wise head on young shoulders as my Henri used to say. Do many women take to it?”

“I know a few.”

“Not an easy decision to make, I’d have thought? I couldn’t imagine doing it myself; always listening to the woes of others. I think it’d get me down. I’d end up taking my work home with me,” she passed her guest the glass of water. “No…, it’d be nothing for me.”

“It’s quite rewarding. I suppose I take after my father. He’s just retired.  Following in his footsteps seemed the right thing to do. He always told me about what he did. He believed.”

“Yes, I can imagine he did,” she said, adjusting her shawl. “But for a girl so young as yourself,” she said, her smile now becoming a thin line.

But it was the way she didn’t quite meet her eyes when she answered, and the subtle change in her tone that seemed suspicious.

Mademoiselle Clements brushed her fringe.

“I can show you my credentials, if you want?” she said, voice calm, polite, her hand reaching into her jacket pocket. However, the old woman’s waving index finder and raised eyebrows, implying nonsense at such an impolite thought, were enough.

“No. I trust you, Mademoiselle Clements. It’s a sixth sense I have. Had it all my life.” In that second a strangely wry smile crossed her face, her eyes wandering for a brief second. Anybody else would have taken it as a tic, a part of old age. However, Ms Clements noticed it: Was she being made too welcome? Was something bothering her? Time would tell. She has probably lived alone for too long, she thought to herself.

Mademoiselle Sanson finally sat down, letting out a slight groan of pain. She gently rubbed her side.

Regaining composure, she pointed to the food. “I bet you’re quite hungry? Come on now, help yourself.”

“Thank you.”

For a short while they ate in silence.

The room was chilly. It could have been a draught. Mademoiselle Clements looked at the windows. They were all closed. Only the kitchen door was slightly ajar.

A grandfather clock, chiming ominously in the hallway, behind a half open door, broke the ice.

Mademoiselle Clements smiled. “Haven’t heard one of those for a long time.”

“It’s a particular fine piece. Belonged to my father.” She looked towards the door. “Been in the family for generations. Keeps me company, especially on lonely winter nights.”

“How long have you lived here, in this village?”

“Oh, I moved here eight years ago. I felt magically drawn to the sea, the air. It’s good for the old bones. I saw a picture of this place and I knew I had to have it,” a smile lit up her face.

Mademoiselle Clements let her savour the memories. She took another mackerel and finished the salad before probing further.

“So you felt happy living here in the first few years?”

“Yes…, but…” Her pleasant face melted.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to…” she stopped, thinking how impolite her question was. But the old woman shook her head.

“No, I’ll have to talk about it at some time with you, so there’s no time like the present, we always say.”

Trying to control the memory, a tear formed in her eye.

She fumbled with her hands. Looking down, Mademoiselle Sanson struggled to find the words. Clearing her throat, she gently put a napkin to her mouth. Her lips twitched as she prepared to speak, looking for the words. Finally, her soft voice drifted across the table. It was if she were talking to a child, her words wavering from a secret she had to disclose.

“It was about a year ago when the problems started. I didn’t think anything of it. But, over the months, it’s worsened.”


“It was terrible. Terrible things happened here. Terrible voices.”

Mademoiselle Sanson looked up, her hands shaking. “I’m very superstitious, so I went to the priest. He told me about some people who could help me, you know…, look into the matter.”

“And he mentioned my name?”

“Yes. Actually, he told me of several people, but he said he’d worked with you before, a few years ago. Told me you were very thorough, discrete.”

A reassuring smile crossed Mademoiselle Clements’ face. “That’s part of my job.” Her voice softened: “We don’t want to cause a fuss. Best to keep things quiet, especially in such close knit communities. I’ve found the smaller the place, the worse it is for gossip and ridicule. I take it you haven’t mentioned this to anyone?”

“No. Only the priest. I thought about going to the doctor, but I was scared.”

“The priest was a good start. From what Father Cardaliaguet has already told me, this doesn’t sound like the ranting’s of someone going crazy,” she smiled. “You do know why he didn’t want to do this himself, don’t you?”

“I assumed he’d never done anything like this before?” she asked, her soft voice wavering again.

“Yes. That’s right. Not that he lacks the confidence, on the contrary.”

Mademoiselle Sanson put a napkin to her mouth. Her hand was shaking. A tear finally running down her cheek, old memories rising up. “I do hope you can help me,” she sobbed, her shoulders gently rocking, her voice became a whisper, despairing. Her body folded inwards. “Father Cardaliaguet has been such…, such a great support for me in recent months,” she said, stifling the tears.

Mademoiselle Clements reached across the table, taking the old woman’s hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll get this place sorted out.”

“I do hope so.”

Mademoiselle Clements took the bottle of wine and poured the old woman a glass. “Here, try this. It’ll help.

“Oh, thank you,” she whispered, taking a sip. Putting the glass down, she wiped her face and sat up straight. Taking a deep breath, her eyes wide, she looked at her visitor.

“Sorry. I don’t want to appear a snivelling old woman, it’s rude of me to put on such a display.”

“I understand. You’ve been through a lot. It takes it out of you. Do you think you’ll be able to go through with it? We can wait?”

“No. You’re here now, so I’ll have to do my best. After this,” she said, lifting up her glass, a smile passing her lips, “I’ll be OK.”

“Dutch courage always helps.”

Getting up,  Mademoiselle Clements looked around the room, noticing the paintings. “Do you like collecting?”

“Oh, yes,” she smiled, her mood improving. “The paintings are from a local artist. They remind me of the past.”

“The past?”

“When I was a girl…, where I grew up.”

“Yes…., mementoes from another time. Does he have a gallery?”

“He had a gallery. He died several months ago. Tragic.”

“I’m sorry. Did you know him well?”

“Only the casual business chit chat of two people sharing a love for art, nothing more. But, I suppose I’ll miss his particular way of viewing this place. Visiting his gallery gave me the opportunity to get out.”

“Yes, it’d do you good to get away from things. Especially in the light of what has been happening.”

The old woman got up. She joined the visitor by one particular painting.

“This was his last.” She pointed at the frame. “Look he sighed in on the twenty fourth. The next day he was dead.”

I hope you don’t mind me asking, but has it happened recently?”

She nodded. “Yesterday was bad.”

“Can you describe what happened? It will help me with my initial…, investigation, if that’s all right with you?”

“The quicker we get started the better,” her voice had gained confidence now. A good wine.

“OK. Could you describe it, the time, the duration? Can you remember if it was cold?”

Mademoiselle Sanson pointed to the kitchen door, and the dim hallway visible through the crack.

“I’ll do better than that. Follow me. I’ll show you were it always happens.”

Leaving the kitchen, she led her into a long carpeted hallway.

Over the old woman’s shoulder, she saw the tall grandfather clock at the end of the hall. It was illuminated by a small lamp sitting on a marble bistro table.

“I’ll take you into the study. It looks out onto the road. It always feels as though something is coming in from across the way. It taps on the window several times before starting its…, work.”

They entered the study.

Mademoiselle Sanson flicked a light switch. From above, a chandelier sparkled into life. The curtains were drawn.

The smell of old books permeated the room. Looking around, she was amazed at the book shelves laden with books. Each shelf was surrounded by special glass.

“You’re quite a reader.”

“I’m afraid this is the old baggage I’ve carried all my life. They have been handed down through my family. Ghosts from Utopia, my father once said.”

Mademoiselle Clements walked to the nearest shelf, head cocked to one side, perusing the flaking spines.

“Is there any particular reason he referred to them in such a way?”

“Book purging, he always told me, was one of man’s greatest weaknesses. Neutralise history was what the revolutionaries always wanted. Here are just a few that survived the black lists. I suppose they’re from another world.”

“My God, these are priceless.”

“I suppose they are. They are memories of what once was. Here is a library of what has happened in my life, and the generations before me. Their value is one of sentimentality. When I’m gone, they will bloom in some other world, but not mine. I keep them prisoners, prisoners of an old memory.”

Mademoiselle Clements moved away from the shelf, looking around the room.

“So here is the epicentre, you say. Is there any particular time the visitations happen, or is it random?”

“It can happen at any time.”

Mademoiselle Clements wondered about the books. Old books with old stories that are hard to forget.

“You said that you feel as if it comes in from outside, from that direction,” she asked, pointing to the thick, dark green curtains hanging the full length of the wall.

“Yes. During the day, I can see the trees sometimes shake in a flourish of wind. Then the noise, the tapping.”

“What about temperature. Does it get cooler?”

“Yes. On hot sunny days, it’s a cold spot here.”

“And are you always alone?”


“Would you say it happens after you’ve read any of the books?”

“No. I hardly ever touch them.”

“Do you feel any mood changes prior to the events?”

“No. I can’t think of anything that could cause it to happen. It just comes.”

Mademoiselle Clements looked around.

“Just before the events started, can you remember changing anything in the room, removing a picture, putting in something new, perhaps?”

“It’s been like this for the whole time I’ve lived here. The only changes were outside.”

“Oh? What kind of changes? Changes to the house?”

“No. They put in new telephone cables. The road had to be dug up.”

“And this was just before the events?”


“Do you think they found anything outside, where they were digging?”

“Yes. Oh, I’d nearly forgot. They dug up a lot of old wood,” she rubbed her chin, her face concentrated. “Some people from Caen came to examine it all. They were very excited about the find. I can’t remember what it was…, probably an old house? Do you think this has got anything to do with my problem?”

“Possibly. But it was a different property, you say, across the road?”


Mademoiselle Clements shook her head, staring at a painting of the local chapel.

Mademoiselle Sanson yawned.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon. It’s been a long day, and my nights have not been pleasant in the past few weeks. So, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll retire.”

“Yes, of course. I’m tired from the drive. Could you show me my room?”

“Of course. Follow me.”

Going back into the hallway, Mademoiselle Sanson took her to a door close to the kitchen.

“Here you are. It’s small but cosy.”

“Thank you,” she said, putting her travel bag on the bed. “It’s perfect.” She turned around to the old woman. Look…, if anything should happen this evening, do wake me. I’m a light sleeper, so I may hear something myself.”

“If you don’t mind?”

“No. This is why I’m here,” she said, looking around the room. “Oh, I nearly forgot.” She reached into her travel bag and took out a round object. “It’s a sensor. Quite high tech really. It will monitor the room for temperature, humidity and sounds etc. Anything out of the ordinary and it will send a signal to my monitoring equipment. I’ll just place it on the table in the study, if you don’t mind.”

“No, please go ahead.”

With the sensor in place, she returned to the room and bid the old lady goodnight.

Sitting on the bed, she took out the monitoring device and checked the measurements. Everything seemed fine. Would the old woman have thought it strange that she had brought such a device? She let the thought pass.

Propping it up on the bedside table, she lay her head on the pillow and closed her eyes. “Let’s see what the night has in store for us.”

In her dream, she was in a market square filled with people. She was in the middle of the throng, being pushed along in the flow. They chattered loudly, indecipherable, obviously excited about something. She couldn’t see where they were heading.

Making her way to the edge, she tried to get out of the mass, claustrophobia setting in. Reaching an old house, she stepped into the doorway.

The door opened and a cloaked figure grabbed her from behind. A strong, strangle grip on her throat pulled her into the dark interior.

The thing’s touch was cold, freezing her skin.

She struggled to pull away, panicking.

The cloaked head was next to her face. Its breath, slow and heavy, reeked of decay, death.

She tried to scream.

It spoke:


She was awake.

“Mademoiselle Clements. Is everything all right. You shouted out.”

The old woman tapped gently on the door.

“I’m… ok. It was just a bad dream. Nothing more.”

“Oh, thank the Lord. Good night.”

The old woman’s steps drifted away.

Propping herself up, she rubbed her face.

“Bad dreams. Well, that’s a first.”

Looking at the bedside table, she checked the monitor device. Nothing.

She grabbed her travel bag. Opening it, she pulled out a small notebook. She scribbled a few entries.

“Latent memories permeating the house. There must be a strong spiritual flow coming into the study. Will have to check church records for past events in the vicinity.”

to be continued…

Revenge… the next short story

Time for another short story.

This time the idea has been generated from one of my very own photos. It is one I took on the evening we arrived in Houlgate, on the Normandy coast, where we spent the first part of our vacation.

We’d just set up the tent and decided to go for an evening stroll down to the beach.

It was twilight, and as soon as I saw this place bathed in the street light, I knew there was a story.

As we walked passed, there was an eerie silence. The whole scene was quite spooky, especially as we found ourselves in a place we weren’t familiar with. We were glad to reach the main beach road where there was some “life”.

The working title is “Revenge” and will show a dark side to this beautiful French holiday village.

I’ll be uploading the first part at the weekend.


The dark side of Sherwood Forest

Deep in the Midlands, not a stone’s throw from the lush parkland of Clumber, is Sherwood Forest. Renowned for once being the hideout of Robin Hood and his Merry Men, today it is looked after by the Sherwood Forest Trust.

When we go to visit my parents, our children always beg us to go to the forest to see the Major Oak, which, as legend has it, is where Robin himself hid away.

The Major Oak

The Major Oak

In the summer holidays there is normally quite a lot of activity, and this year we were not to be let down. The trust had set up a medieval village with archery and much more.

However, I was interested in wandering around the oaks and getting some spooky shots.

As I went deep into the dark forest, it became quiet, still. I suddenly became aware of strange noises as the oaks loomed above me:


I could have sworn I heard a snigger as I passed this ugly brute. I thought of turning around, but dismissed the idea. I was soon to regret this…

Venturing further in the wood, I suddenly heard screaming.
As I turned, I saw that a young women had been caught up in the roots of ferns.
“Can I help you?” I shouted.
“Run. Run now, sir. The forest is alive!”
Above her I saw movement: an oak was turning around, its branches twisting and uncurling, reaching down to the poor woman. With a loud cracking, its bark opened, revealing a white, membranous maw. Two great branches plucked the screaming woman up and pushed her into the frothing mouth.
Around me I heard movement. Other oaks were coming to life, their reptilian-like hides pulsating, slimy roots rising up from the ferns. I had never seen such hideous forest dwellers. I stood, frozen by what I had witnessed.
However, the creatures had sensed my presence, and, with slow movements, were heaving their great bodies, moving in my direction. Their hulking torsos rose slowly from the ground, dragged along by gelatinous roots. I could stand it no more. As a soil encrusted root whipped over my head, I dashed into the woods, blinded by branches thrashing at my face. Behind me, I heard the groans of the Oaks as they joined the hunt.

I finally reached a clearing.

A voice called out to me. “Get down you fool!” A blazing arrow flashed over my head, thudding into the lumbering bulk of an oak close on my tail. The spirit of Robin Hood, in the guise of a bronze statue, had awoken to help me find a way out of this grim, evil wood. He led me to a track and pointed me to what appeared to be a small settlement.

As I turned to thank him, the bushes erupted and a multi-armed nightmare lunged down on the brave man. His screams will haunt my dreams. I ran on, the settlement in sight.


Upon reaching the small encampment, a squire, fresh from cutting fire wood, put down his axe and stared at me in astonishment as I told my story. “For safe passage from here,” he said, “I shall give you my bravest warrior. She shall lead you to yonder highway, and a way out of this cursed forest.” He led me to the armoury and a motley bunch of warriors.


He presented their greatest warrior.

“Fresh from the crusades, my lord. Helped the Knights Templar themselves, tis said. She is small, but I’ll wager 100 Groats that she’ll get you to safety. I bid you farewell.” With a grunt, the minuscule warrior led me away from this dark place.


Inspiring project work in the UK

Thought I’d just share a website I stumbled upon:

Very inspiring art and project work by Annabeth Orton.

I found this site mainly due to the fact that I’m devouring “The Folded Man” by Matt Hill at the moment. It is set in Manchester – I was just scanning for info about Manchester.















It’s an amazing read!

Check it out.