Seasonal Story Challenge Revisited
Monday, December 18th, 2006 12:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
caddymanNo-one, it seems, fancies writing a ghost or horror story for the Christmas season in 500 words or less and my challenge has faded off into the darkness and been quietly forgotten.
I decided, therefore, to have another go myself; The more I revisited it, the less pleased I was with my previous post. So here is my second story. Perhaps a little more seasonal than the last. Again, cross-posted to and from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
just_writing.
I remember the Red House as if it were yesterday.
It was a poor old house; the best Father could manage as a lowly farm worker. The only road passed a mile yonder, three fields and a copse away. And yet the land adjoining the Red House was clearly defined: the long garden path from the front door led past the cast iron water pump to a gate in the hedge, though there was but a cart track beyond. The garden out front was father’s vegetable plot and defined along the sides by the twin lines of ash trees that ran the length of the property front to back; making the whole seem like an unkempt avenue blocked by the building. Out back, the trees continued on before merging with five acre wood. Between was overgrown and waste. Unless old Ben, Father’s lame dog disappeared out there chasing rabbits, we rarely ventured into that forest of bramble, bindweed and yard-high grass.
It was the Christmas of 1926; I was eight years old. It had snowed hard during the night, followed by an exceptionally biting frost. I was investigating with Ben the deep, hard-crusted carpet of white that had accumulated. I remember finding the deer track that entered the garden from beyond the ash trees and excitedly following it down to the hedge; it must have jumped there, for the track continued unbroken the other side, past the wheel ruts in the frozen mud, where the wind had scoured the snow and piled it in drifts against the earth bank leading into the meadow.
I ran out, but Ben refused; something had gained his attention and he was barking ferociously at what I knew not. My attempts to quieten the old dog were interrupted by the arrival of Father, who had been down to the village on some errand. Normally a quiet, fair man, I was surprised to be clipped across the back of the head by him and dragged by my collar back to the house.
Sent to my room, my cold ear still stinging from the cuff, I overheard Father explaining that the vicar had died in the night, and that I should show more respect. How I was supposed to know, I never found out; children did not answer back in those days. I never forgot that uncharacteristic behaviour by my Father, though it was never spoken of again.
Last night I received a caller late, just before midnight. His news quite unsettled me: the old vicar had died; the eightieth anniversary of his grandfather’s death. I slept very little after that; I fancied that I could hear the branches of trees scuffing and scratching against the roof as they had all those years ago at the Red House.
This morning, on the way to pay my respects, I saw tracks in the snow and I realised finally why my Father had acted so strangely all those years ago.
Not deer tracks; not unless the deer walks upright.
I decided, therefore, to have another go myself; The more I revisited it, the less pleased I was with my previous post. So here is my second story. Perhaps a little more seasonal than the last. Again, cross-posted to and from
just_writing.I remember the Red House as if it were yesterday.
It was a poor old house; the best Father could manage as a lowly farm worker. The only road passed a mile yonder, three fields and a copse away. And yet the land adjoining the Red House was clearly defined: the long garden path from the front door led past the cast iron water pump to a gate in the hedge, though there was but a cart track beyond. The garden out front was father’s vegetable plot and defined along the sides by the twin lines of ash trees that ran the length of the property front to back; making the whole seem like an unkempt avenue blocked by the building. Out back, the trees continued on before merging with five acre wood. Between was overgrown and waste. Unless old Ben, Father’s lame dog disappeared out there chasing rabbits, we rarely ventured into that forest of bramble, bindweed and yard-high grass.
It was the Christmas of 1926; I was eight years old. It had snowed hard during the night, followed by an exceptionally biting frost. I was investigating with Ben the deep, hard-crusted carpet of white that had accumulated. I remember finding the deer track that entered the garden from beyond the ash trees and excitedly following it down to the hedge; it must have jumped there, for the track continued unbroken the other side, past the wheel ruts in the frozen mud, where the wind had scoured the snow and piled it in drifts against the earth bank leading into the meadow.
I ran out, but Ben refused; something had gained his attention and he was barking ferociously at what I knew not. My attempts to quieten the old dog were interrupted by the arrival of Father, who had been down to the village on some errand. Normally a quiet, fair man, I was surprised to be clipped across the back of the head by him and dragged by my collar back to the house.
Sent to my room, my cold ear still stinging from the cuff, I overheard Father explaining that the vicar had died in the night, and that I should show more respect. How I was supposed to know, I never found out; children did not answer back in those days. I never forgot that uncharacteristic behaviour by my Father, though it was never spoken of again.
Last night I received a caller late, just before midnight. His news quite unsettled me: the old vicar had died; the eightieth anniversary of his grandfather’s death. I slept very little after that; I fancied that I could hear the branches of trees scuffing and scratching against the roof as they had all those years ago at the Red House.
This morning, on the way to pay my respects, I saw tracks in the snow and I realised finally why my Father had acted so strangely all those years ago.
Not deer tracks; not unless the deer walks upright.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Story
Date: 2006-12-18 06:36 am (UTC)It was a grey, miserable day in December, the street lights reflecting their eerie sodium glow off the wet pavements. Gwen hurried along under her umbrella through the rain drops towards the bus stop. She stood underneath the perspex shelter waiting and waiting, the digital display said that the No 59 would be on time at 5.59pm.
Time dragged.
Gwen checked the display again: no change. although her watch said that it was 6.00pm. Suddenly a thick white swirling mist descended, she could not see anything other than the bus stop.
Gwen waited patiently still. The noises of the once busy street died away and there was a stillness that settled with the descent of the mist. She could make out the vague outline of a bus coming towards her, becoming more definite as it moved closer. She stepped forward and held her arm out to stop it. She boarded the bus and paid her fare. The bus moved off heading down the damp street. Suddenly the bus jolted and almost threw Gwen out of her seat with the force. She regained her composure. The bus had stopped in the middle of a dark road with no signs of human habitation.
The driver informed the passengers that there was a problem and he would contact the depot to get help. The woman opposite Gwen offered her mobile so that she could let her husband know what had happened and she would be late home that night but there was no signal. The driver turned the engine and it spluttered into life. The bus continued on its journey finally reaching Gwen's destination. She dismounted and walked towards the home she shared with her husband. The other passenger watched as the shadowy outline disappeared into the mist towards the stone engraved with the words:
Here lies Gwen Ford beloved wife of John Ford who also lies here fell asleep in the year of Our Lord AD 1909.
Re: Story
Date: 2006-12-18 02:11 pm (UTC)I like the idea of a ghost keeping up with modern trends etc. Who says nowt happens in the afterlife?
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-18 01:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-18 02:29 pm (UTC)Roses are red
Violets are blue
Stop doing this serious stuff
And write a Dimpler Towers ghost story, you.
Hell, it's the best I can do at 6:30 a.m.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-18 04:40 pm (UTC)http://davywavy.livejournal.com/287973.html
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-18 06:24 pm (UTC)Six-word stories; quite hard, really...
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-18 08:40 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-18 08:55 pm (UTC)Oh All Right Then...
Date: 2006-12-19 12:42 am (UTC)"Prudence, he won't come!"
"He has to, Victor. The stockings are an invitation he cannot refuse - It's part of who he is. Now hush!"
A faint chiming of bells, a gentle impact from the roof. Two young shapes melded into the shadows of an ordinary suburban room, shedding much of their youth and their humanity in the process
A rustle. A thump. A parcel landed in the fireplace.
"Is that all?" A taloned finger reached to cut the wrapping ribbon.
Suddenly the parcel flew open; a jack in the box! "Ho Ho Ho, Suckers!" the jack proclaimed, and then promptly exploded with clouds of stinging vapour.
"Garlic! He's mixed garlic with tear gas!"
A massive figure, masked and hooded, erupted from the fireplace, and violently silenced the warning. A second later a dull thud marked the fall of the second ambusher.
"No" said the big man said. "That is all".
This was the part of the job he hated. Oh, he loved the kids; loved to see the smiles on their faces. If he only had to visit good children... But it didn't work that way, The Naughty were also entitled to a visit, even if he only brought coal. And that left him vulnerable.
In the old days it didn't matter. Those wise enough to understand had more pressing concerns. But the information age spawned a new breed: prematurely sophisticated; disdainful of tradition.
The vamps were only the first. Mutants, aliens, lycanthropes, cultists... nothing gave him much trouble. The first time had been bad enough that he'd sworn "never again". So far he'd kept that oath.
Sighing, he looked to his list. Another naughty one; a psychopath. Less formidable than the supernatural monsters, but often unpredictable. Best to take care. He touched down feather light; listened; sent one of this special presents to spring any snares, maybe catch the unwary, and when nothing happened dropped, crouched, into the hearth.
The room was empty.
Instinct told him this wasn't right, but other instincts ruled. The Job was calling; an unfilled stocking could not be long ignored. He turned round, fumbling for coal - and then fell forward heavily as a shotgun roared.
A grinning young man shimmered into existence.
"Neat trick, huh? Military 'cloak of invisibility' research. Amazing what you can get if you ask people just right".
The young man stepped raised a glass to toast himself in the mirror - a mirror which showed an empty room. He spun in panic, and was struck by a white mitten seemingly filled with steel,
"I try not to kill", Claus told the dazed killer. "I much prefer the chance for redemption. But I am allowed refreshment, it is even expected of me. And this is thirsty work.
"But I killed you! I killed Santa!".
Claus reached forward, eyes glowing red, incisors lengthening, sharpening.
"It's not that easy. The monsters got me once. I promised myself - never again"
-- Nick Fortune, 2006
Re: Oh All Right Then...
Date: 2006-12-24 01:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-20 04:26 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-24 01:47 pm (UTC)Merry Christmas!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-23 01:21 pm (UTC)