Less than a week until Christmas and time, I think, for the traditional horror or ghost story. Last year, I posted up the challenge to almost universal apathy, other than from a select few, but it's always worth a try.

The challenge, as usual then, is a ghost story in 500 words or less to be posted on LJ in time for Christmas. I shall try and think something up before I go away for Christmas on Sunday.

Go on.

Have a go.

How hard can it be? Everyone likes a spooky story.

Cross posted to and from just_writing.

A challenge from pax_draconis; cross-posted to just_writing.

I’d forgotten how steep the stairs are, how quiet the house can be, and how the stairs creak. It’s been many, many years since I was here, and things have changed; my circumstances are, how shall I put this, somewhat reduced.

The last time I visited, we celebrated. A meagre celebration to be sure, but a celebration nonetheless; we were never ones for the grand gesture, but we knew our business and this time we had surpassed ourselves. We had got where we were by sheer hard work and a passion for the detail in a closely written contract.

And we did well, very well, our company was a legend in the City.

I remember that it was cold that night, as cold as it is tonight.

My, my, but these stairs are steep; were they always so? The effort of the climb is drawing my breath in gasps. The irony is not lost on me as I wind my way up, step after step to the grand bedroom.

The snow was fresh on the ground and I remember clearly the crump, crump, crump of my footsteps as I walked the silent streets, the brandy fortifying my every pace. I remember the cloud of condensation from my breath swirling into the still night, and the patterns it made as it passed the flickering gas lamps.

I paid little heed, but soon snow was falling so fast that I could not see. And as I walked I became aware of the profound silence around me, the desolate muffled stillness of the darkened city. I walked and walked: time itself seemed frozen, and the faint glow of the lamps, dimmed by the blizzard seemed ever more distant.

One more flight up: there are cobwebs and dust everywhere; the carpets threadbare and unwelcoming. Every step onward wearies to the very marrow, but I continue.

Ah, the doors: heavy and dark-stained oaken just as I remember. Unchanged.

I cannot think now, how long I walked that night, but by and by the snow stopped falling and a mist set with that foul sulphurous smell that betokens a thickening fog; one of London’s best. And still I walked, and as I did so my mood darkened – influenced no doubt by the numbing cold that weighed like chains upon my shoulders.

I cannot say how long it was before I realised that which should have been obvious.

Yes, the heavy oaken doors with their brass handle. I reach out with numb hands, my breath catching in my throat as the hinges creak and the doors swing open.

I remember now why I have returned, as the voice in the darkness, tremulous and afraid addresses me and I reply…

'I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?'