Seasonal Story Challenge Revisited

[caddyman]

No-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 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.

Comments

[sea-strands.livejournal.com]

Anything devils footprints hinted at always gives me shivers. Thank you I really enjoyed this in an uneasy kind of way :)

[caddyman.livejournal.com]

Muh hah haaaa....

Merry Christmas!