All Hallows – Chapter 10

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on December 9, 2017
Posted in: books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Paranormal, passion, scary, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

 

 

The blast of warm air was welcoming on Lorraine’s chilled skin. She felt her body relax as she queued to give her details at the reception desk. It was flu season and the doctor’s surgery was filled to capacity. Her shopping was heavy and she looked around hoping a seat would be available once she’d checked in. She’d stopped off at the supermarket first, in case there was a long wait at the surgery and she was right. By the looks of things it’d be lunch time before she was out and for the first time she was glad. It meant not waiting around in the biting cold and the ready made sandwiches she’d purchased meant her children would’ve something to fill them.

. One bar glowed on the gas heater at the top of the room, but with the overcrowded conditions it was enough to ensure those who waited grew uncomfortable. It also increased the stench of the body odors and she tried not to breathe too deeply, especially when the man beside her started to cough as through his lungs would soon follow the whooping from his chest. All around her patients sniffed and sneezed and she fumbled in her coat pocket for a tissue and brought it to her face. If anyone noticed her actions they’d imagine she was patting her nose and not trying to ward off the swarming germs. The last thing she needed was the flu on top of everything else. Her ribs ached from the beating and the cut on her lip stung. Holding her purse tight against her body, she closed her eyes and tried to relax. The hum of conversation soothe her and her lids became heavy.

 

The crowd thinned out and the constant blast of cold air from the opening of the door gave some respite from the heat. It was noon and she’d been sitting there for over an hour and a half. If the doctor gave ten minutes to each of the remaining patients, she’d be out about quarter to one. This gave her plenty of time to walk to the school before the lunch break and while she didn’t relish the idea of Abbey’s accusing stares, it gave her comfort her children wouldn’t go without food. The piles of dog eared magazines meant to help pass the time looked dirty and uninviting so she settled back and closed her eyes.

She nodded off, because the next thing she felt was a hand on her arm.

“Is that you?” A man nodded towards the secretary who waited.

“Sorry,” Lorraine got up. “Did you call me?”

“Yes,” the woman scowled, before walking away.

For a moment Lorraine panicked when she realised her purse was missing. To her relief she found it under her chair. It fell while she slept and she picked it up along with her two shopping bags.

“Thank you,” she smiled at the men who woke her.

“No problem, love,” he said. “The heat makes you nod off.”

 

“Ah, my old friend,” Dr Miller smiled when he saw Lorraine then creased his brow as he looked down at the cut on her lip.

Depositing her load beside his desk, she sat and fumbled with the buttons on her coat.

“There’s no need to ask what the matter is,” he tilted her face towards him.

She didn’t answer and allowed him to examine her lip.

“Any more surprises for me? He asked.

“My ribs,” Lorraine mumbled.

“Pop up on the couch.”

Slipping off her coat and shoes she did as he asked.

“When did this happen? He felt along her stomach for any sign of damage.

“Last night, ouch,” she groaned, as his fingers traced a path along her ribs.

“Sorry,” he finished his exploring. “You can sit up.”

She was glad of the hand helping her up. The snap of latex gloves hung in the air as she made her way back to her seat.

“I’ll tape it up for you,” he nodded at her lip.

“Thanks,” she tried not to wince as he pulled the cut together and placed small strips across it.

“What am I going to do with you? He looked down into her eyes and she saw concern reflected in his.

“Please don’t be kind to me,” she was afraid she’d cry.

“How much more can you take?” He asked. “I can bandage your ribs, but one day he’ll do some lasting damage.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“Look, Lorraine,” he ran his hand through his hair exasperated. “There’s no point in us going over the same old thing. You won’t leave and I’ll keep patching you up until one day…”

He left the sentence hanging, but she knew he meant one day he’d be called to view her body.

“I need a prescription for the pill,” she said.

He added this to the painkillers he was prescribing. The next few minutes were spent wrapping her aching ribs in bandages. They made small talk about the cold and the dark nights. Lorraine dug her nails into the palms of her hands as this kind man touched her with a gentleness she’d forgotten.

“Come back in a week and I’ll make sure you’re healing ok,” he said.

“Thanks,” Lorraine shrugged on her coat and picked up the shopping bags.

 

Inside the surgery Dr Miller peeped through the window blinds and watched her go. He had hundreds of patients, but this young woman touched him more than any. He saw terrible suffering on a daily basis and there was something almost regal in the way Lorraine Ryan dealt with her pain.

All Hallows – Chapter 9

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on December 1, 2017
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Haunted Houses, honoring the dead, Paranormal, passion, scary, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

The midmorning break passed without too much incident and despite her need for the bathroom Sarah stayed at her desk and pretended to be mulling over a problem in her book. The ten minutes passed slowly as she envisioned the gossip and the revenge being planned. Somehow they blamed her for their lack of success and there’d be a heavy price to pay come lunch break. She heard the giggling and snorts of laughter as they returned and once again buried her head in her book. Not all the girls were like June and her clique, but even those too studious to be in her circle found her fascinating. It was hard not too in a time when their changing bodies and mindset made them uncomfortable within a skin that didn’t fit. June was blessed with clear skin and her confidence in her dealings with the boys from the school next door was awe inspiring.

 

The second class of the day was English and Sarah groaned when she saw the familiar folder under the teacher’s arm. Mrs Smith was her favourite teacher and embodied everything she imagined as the ideal of womanhood. Married with three young children, she managed to look groomed and relaxed despite her busy lifestyle. She was kind to Sarah and it wasn’t out of pity. She saw something special in the girl and encouraged her by lending her books she thought she’d enjoy. None of the other teachers were aware of Sarah’s home life, but the neglect was obvious in the way she dressed and the tattered appearance of the second-hand books she arrived with at the start of each year. Some were in such a state the pages were held in with tape and it was wondered aloud in the teachers’ lounge if she found them in the rubbish skips behind the school. Some of the students dumped their unwanted books there and careful watching gave them their answer. At the end of each term Sarah stayed behind after school and waited until she was sure no one was about before foraging. They now bought second-hand books on their chosen subject and placed them where they knew she couldn’t fail to find them. There wasn’t one within the teaching staff who didn’t like Sarah and while they did everything they could to make her time in the school happy, there were those who admitted they sometimes were made to feel uneasy by the girl with the sad, haunted look.

“Another success,” Mrs Smith smiled, as she handed her the test results.

Sarah mumbled her thanks and slipped the paper between the pages of her book. Then the sniffing started. Not too obvious at first, but increasing as more and more of the girls joined in. Soon Mrs Smith became aware of it and looked around the room.

“Have you all got colds?” She asked.

“No, Miss,” June answered. “It’s the smell.”

The teacher sniffed the air and appeared puzzled when she couldn’t detect any unfamiliar odour.

“I can’t smell anything,” she said.

“Yes, Miss, it’s like cat pee,” June said. “It’s really bad from back here.”

Mrs Smith walked between the rows of desks sniffing the air.

“Can you get it now, Miss?” June asked.

Sarah felt her cheeks flame as she waited for the answer.

“I’m not sure,” Mrs Smith said. “There’s definitely something unpleasant, but it’s not enough to have you all sniffing like that. Let’s get on with the lesson.”

There were more muted giggles and someone tugged at Sarah’s hair when the teacher’s back was turned. The words on the page blurred as she tried to concentrate and the shame she felt at her favourite teacher’s comment stung. The bullying was done indirectly and none of the teachers were aware of it. She didn’t dare complain as then she’d be known as a snitch as well as the other titles they’d given her.

When the bell sounded for the lunch break she was glad to be free of her prison and hurried to answer to cries of her painful bladder.

Inside the stall, she sat on the toilet and waited for the others to appear. They made the toilets their first port of call as they vied with one another for the mirrors above the sinks. The powdering of nose and slicking of lip gloss was a prelude to meeting the boys from the other school, but today there was no sign of them. The food in the canteen was never an option as they existed on a diet of apples and mineral water. Sarah opened the door and peeped out. Other than the odd straggler washing their hands, there was no sign of her tormentors. The cold water felt good on her skin and she took her time drying her hands on the white roller towel. They were allowed an hour for lunch and what seemed like no time at all to most, was an eternity for Sarah as each minute was filled with unspoken threat.

The corridor was deserted as she made her way back to the classroom and there was none of the teaching staff to question why she wasn’t going outside. The sandwich she’d so carefully packed was squashed and flattened by her books and she fished it out of her satchel not intending to eat it. Picking a piece of dough from the centre of the bread, she put it into her mouth. It felt dry and stuck in her throat when she tried to swallow it. It took some time before it went down into her empty stomach and she didn’t dare risk eating any more. She couldn’t afford bottled water and the water in the drinking fountain tasted of chemicals. At home the water was pumped in from a local well and always tasted cool and refreshing.

“Are you Sarah?” She jumped, when the voice sounded.

A little boy about her brother’s age stood panting in the doorway.

“Yes, why?” She asked.

“Your brother fell over by the skips and he’s cut his knees bad.”

She was out of her seat and running along the corridor leading to the yard. The skips were used by both schools and provided an invisible border. Sometimes there was broken glass and old tins dumped by the catering staff and visions of lockjaw and tetanus shots swam before her as she ran. During lunch break there were no teachers about despite the staffs assurance to parents there was always an adult presence in the yard. So no one saw her running to the end of the school and disappearing around the side. Her lungs ached from the cold air and she was panting when the skips came into sight. There was no sign of her brother, but the towering yellow bulk of the skips could hide him and she moved between them calling his name. There was shuffling from behind one of them as she drew closer and she hadn’t time to react as a hand reached out, grabbed her hair and dragged her behind the skip.

“I want a word with you, bitch” June wrapped her fingers in Sarah waist-length hair and bounced her against the wall.

The shock of her forehead hitting the cold bricks winded her.

“Let me go,” she tried to wrestle free and this made June pull harder on her hair and the pain as some was uprooted made her cry.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” June’s face was so close she could smell the perfume of her lip gloss.

She concentrated on its sparkly redness as she tried to find the words to answer, but no matter what she said she was in trouble.

“Just leave me alone, will you?” Was all she managed to say.

“I’ll leave you alone all right,” June smirked. “When you’re dead.”

This was considered the height of wit by the four other girls surrounding her and they joined in the laughter.

“I’ve done nothing to you,” Sarah winced as the fingers tore at her hair and her forehead stung from the small cuts left by the bricks.

“Fuckin teacher’s pet. Always showing us up and thinking you’re better than the rest of us, but you’re not.”

“Let me go,” Sarah reached up and grabbed the hand holding her hair.

Her efforts were rewarded with a punch in the stomach from one of the girls.

“Stop,” she sobbed, but the blows came thick and fast. One or two got her in the side of the head and the pain roared.

Tired of the game, June released her hold on the hair and Sarah huddled down beside the skip and tried to ward off the blows from the others.

“That’ll teach you to be so stuck up,” she heard June voice from somewhere above her. “Everyone here hates you. You stink up the classroom with your dirty clothes. If I were you I’d kill myself, I really would.”

There was a chorus of “yeah” from the other girls and some delivered a parting kick before walking away. The last thing she heard was June’s snort of disgust as she said.

“I have to wash my hands before meeting the boys. There’s no telling what sort of germs that bitch has, she probably has nits.”

Sarah stayed huddled between the skips until their laughter faded and she was able to stop crying.

 

There was no way she could go back to class as the teachers would ask too many questions. Although her ordeal seemed to go on forever, only ten minutes passed since she’d left the classroom. She had to retrieve her satchel, but first she’d have to go back to the bathroom. There were some pitying glances from the girls loitering outside the school, but she saw none of them as she kept her head down.

The mirror showed the full extent of her injuries and she bundled toilet paper into a ball and wiped the blood from her forehead. Small holes dotted her skin when the rough cement penetrated and a dark mark was already evident on one side of her face. Her stomach felt bruised and the pain made it difficult for her to breathe. With no brush or comb to ease out the knots in her hair, she raked her fingers through it as gently as she could. She felt at the sore spots where the hair was torn and to her dismay her fingers came away stained with blood. Dabbing her eyes, trying to reduce the puffiness made by her tears, she cleared her throat to dislodge the sobs caught there.

She was shaking from shock as she made her way back to the classroom. The abandoned sandwich mocked her as she loaded her books back in the satchel so she picked it up and dropped it in the bin at the front of the room. School didn’t let out until four-o-clock and she had to wait for Brian or she’d get in trouble with her mother. There was no one about to watch her as she slipped out through the main gates. With no money she couldn’t take refuge in some café to pass the time so instead walked to the park. With over three and a half hours to go, she sat on the frost covered bench and huddled deeper into the neck of her threadbare coat. The pain within her battered body roared again and she wondered how much more of this she could take.

 

 

 

All Hallows – Chapter 8

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on November 24, 2017
Posted in: books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, gloom, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, honoring the dead, horror, Paranormal, passion, scary, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

 

 

                                                 

 

Sarah knew she was delaying the inevitable as she dragged her feet along the pavement. The school gates loomed in the distance and she felt the familiar knot forming in the pit of her stomach. Brian ran on ahead and was swallowed up in the crowd as he joined his friends waiting in the schoolyard. Sarah didn’t have anyone to wait for her. In the three years since she’d entered secondary school she’d never managed to find one true friend. The reason was plain. She was the target for the bullies and anyone foolish enough to befriend her would find themselves in the same position. Image is all important when your fifteen and fitting in the most essential of requirements. The standard school uniform proved a great equaliser, but the simple trapping allowed as adornments singled out who the in girls were. Sarah didn’t have any jewellery and would never have the money for the gold initial chains they wore. Fashion decreed you wore your name around your neck and though Sarah wore her shirt buttoned up to her chin, they knew she was the odd one out. While she hadn’t put on any weight since her mother bought the uniform, she’d sprouted a good two inches. Twice she’d been forced to let down the hem on the skirt and despite careful pressing the faded white line of each seam was visible on the material. Unlike the other girls privileged enough to have new uniforms at the beginning of each year, Sarah’s would have to do her until it fell to pieces.

 

Today she felt worse than normal. She wasn’t sure if it was her meeting with Mrs Ryan that plunged her deeper into depression or the prospect of entering the classroom. Life was so unfair. Mrs Ryan didn’t deserve the beating she got at the hands of the man who was supposed to love her. Neither did she deserve the way her mother treated her. Not once had her mother been kind to her. Her very presence annoyed the woman and she always looked at her as though she hated her. She wasn’t like this with Brian and would hug and kiss him despite his protests. If she said something kind or smiled as though she meant it, it would’ve lightened her daughter’s load. There was little chance of this happening and Sarah was resigned to the fact she was an outcast.

The shrilling ringing of the school bell as she walked down the corridor to her classroom jarred at her frayed nerves. A cloud of expensive perfume met her when she entered the room and she tried to avoid the glares from the eyes watching her progress. Slipping into her seat, she took the necessary book from her satchel and made a great show of putting it in place, but there was no escaping what was coming. It was the same everyday and the bullies never tired of their tormenting.

“Is it me?” June Richmond asked. “Or can anyone smell cat piss?”

Sarah felt her cheeks flame at the giggles from the other girls and tears pricked the corner of her eyes. Usually she managed to control such feeling, but today was different and she dug her nails into the palms of her hands. For three years she’d endured this bullying and now felt she could no longer take it. It was pointless to retaliate as she’d no ammunition with which to fight. What they said was true. She did smell from the cats. It was impossible to escape their stench despite her best efforts and her clothes were old and scruffy. What defence did she have to offer?

June was the ringleader and the worst of the bullies. Her parents were both doctors and their joint income meant she’d all the latest in fashion and jewellery. Sarah envied the layers of makeup she wore each day and would love to own a lipstick or anything to brighten the pallor of her skin. She knew June needed the cosmetic help more than she did, but this did nothing to ease her envy.

“Quieten down, ladies,” Mr Stewart, their maths teacher swept into the room and gave the girls something else to concentrate on.

They had a crush on him and the giggles and whispers were transferred from Sarah.

“The results of the pres are in,” he announced.

These were set out as tests before the more important end of term exams. While the outcome wasn’t important, it gave some idea how the pupil would perform. Sarah was a straight A student as her only normality was in the classroom and were it not for the bullying she would’ve enjoyed school. As she watched the teacher open the folder to reveal the results her stomach went into spasm and she thought she’d be sick. The last thing she needed was any more attention drawn to her and she knew what lay within the pages on the desk. He read out the usual list of slackers and D minuses. June was among those singled out for a telling off and this didn’t improve her mood. Especially when he praised Sarah for her hard work and remarked the others would do well to imitate her example and study before the real exams. Each word meant to praise her was another nail in her coffin as it enraged those seated around her.

The class seemed endless and Sarah’s hand shook as she copied from the blackboard. There were no smart comments or flirty suggestions from the other girls and this was a rare. Mr Stewart was the target for their teasing and at times left the class looking red-faced. She knew the silence meant she was in for it.

All Hallows – Chapter 7

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on November 17, 2017
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, horror, Paranormal, scary, sleeplessness, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , . Leave a comment

Last night wasn’t too bad, she thought, as she helped David in to his coat. He’d been in a better mood and only someone in her position could understand what she meant by this. When he wasn’t too far gone, he used the back of his hand on her and she got the odd punch in the ribs, but there were darker times. Times when the drink brought an impotent rage surging to the surface and he used his fist. At such times, the floor as it rushed up to meet her felt softer than his knuckles. Yet no matter how hard he beat her she still clung to him, hoping one day…but that day would never come and she knew this, deep down. Any tenderness he felt for her was replaced with a simmering loathing. He blamed her for his inability to hold down a job, even through he’d managed to stay in his present one for the past six years. He saw the children as a weight around his neck, but his Catholic upbringing forbids her from using contraception. He was unaware of the packet of pills she’d hidden under the mattress. This kept her going, the fact she wouldn’t have any more children. Though she loved the ones she had, she knew bringing more into the world was a greater sin than taking the pill. No child should go without the most basic things, especially food. This reminded her there wasn’t anything for their lunch and the familiar gnawing pain in her gut started up.

“Ready?” She looked down at the children, who had clustered around the front door.

“Our lunch?” Abbey asked.

“I don’t know,” Lorraine felt tears prick the corners of her eyes. “I don’t have any money left and your father won’t be paid for another two days, I just…”She gasped and started to rummage in her bag. Pulling out a book, she flipped open the cover and stared at the coupon inside. “I almost forgot,” she laughed.

It was her children’s allowance book and the payment was due today.

“We’re rich,” she hugged the children to her, but Abbey pulled away.

“What are you talking about?” She thought her mother was mad.

“Look, see,” Lorraine pushed the book towards her. “I can go to town with you and cash this. I’ll wait around and drop off something for you at lunch time. We can meet outside the school gates.”

“Oh, o.k.,” Abbey grudgingly agreed.

They set off for the short walk to the bus stop in much better mood. Lorraine couldn’t help, but noticed how threadbare David’s coat was, but she needed the money from the allowance for other things. There was no coal for the fire and it’d need to be ordered. At least now she could buy enough food to last them till payday. Tom took most of her money for drink.  What little she did manage to hide from him, or steal from his pockets when he rolled home too drunk to fight, soon went on necessaries. She’d been undecided about visiting the doctor, but now she’d have too. It meant a four hour wait until the children’s lunch break and the warmth of the waiting room would be a haven if only for an hour of two. This was the one occasion when she hoped there’d be a queue and she’d be spared having to stand around in the cold.

The children from the surrounding houses joined them as they walked. The other mothers nodded to her as she passed.

“I don’t know what she has to smile about,” one of them said, loud enough for her to hear. “You should’ve heard the racket coming from that house last night. It’s a disgrace if you ask me.”

Lorraine ignored her, but Abbey looked back at her mother and the accusation in her eyes stung.

“It’s not my fault,” Lorraine whispered, but her daughter looked away in disgust.

“Did you hear me?” The woman who’d been loudly voicing her complaint caught up with Lorraine.

“I’m sure even the dead heard you, Mrs O Brien,” Lorraine had enough bullying to put up with at home without taking it from her neighbors as well.

Though she was terrified of any sort of confrontation, there was no way she was going to have a harridan like the O Brien woman shouting at her in the street.

“I’d a good mind to call the police,” she shouted, and all those walking along the road stopped to listen.

“Then why didn’t you?” Lorraine turned to face her.

“I’d have send Joe down to the phone box if it hadn’t been so cold,” she retorted. “I don’t see why my husband should catch his death for the likes of you.”

“The likes of me,” Lorraine asked. “And what exactly does that mean?”

“Well,” for a moment the woman seemed stuck for words, then. “You should be able to keep that man of your under control, that’s all I’m saying. We don’t want to know your business,” she looked around at those assembled for support. “It’s not nice having to listen to screaming and fighting night after night, you know.”

“Do you think I start him off for my own amusement,” Lorraine asked. “Do you for one minute think I enjoy being hurt?”

The woman had the good grace to blush, when Lorraine pointed to her split lip.

“You leave my Mummy alone,” David took her by the hand. “Come on, Mummy, never mind the nasty woman.”

There were no further remarks as they climbed the hill to the bus stop. Getting into place behind those already gathered, Lorraine smiled to see Sarah Jacobs and her brother were already there.

“How are you, Sarah,” she asked.

“Better than you, Mrs Ryan, I imagine” she nodded at the puffy lip.

“Yes,” Lorraine laughed. “That’s true.”

She was fond of Sarah, and she knew like her, her life was not an easy one.

“Was that Mrs O Brien doing all the shouting?” Sarah asked.

“Yes,” Lorraine leaned closer and whispered. “It seems the sound of Tom’s fist hitting my face is disturbing her.”

“Take no notice of her,” Sarah craned her head out to glare at the woman. “She’s a bitch.”

Yes, Lorraine had to agree, and so was life. Just one long round of bitchiness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All Hallows – Chapter 6

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on November 10, 2017
Posted in: books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, Paranormal, passion, scary, twlight, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

 

 

 

CHAPTER SIX

 

 

“Does it hurt much, Mummy?”

Lorraine tried to ignore the soft touch of the small hand on the top of her head and concentrated on tying the shoelace. She took pains making sure the bow was in place, anything to avoid looking up into the questioning eyes of her youngest child.

“It’s not so bad,” she stood, and tossed his curls. “Hardly anything to fuss about and it doesn’t hurt, really,” she assured him.

David was always the first one up in the morning. The minute he heard her moving about he was out of bed, anxious to begin the day. His sisters Abbey, nine and Chelsea six, were like their father and it took ages to rouse them. Setting out three bowls for the cereal, Lorraine took the last remaining carton of milk from the fridge and frowned. There wasn’t enough left and with no money to buy more, she walked to the sink and turned on the cold tap. By the time the girls took their place at the table, she’d mixed the diluted milk and poured it over their cereal.

“Yuk,” Abbey complained. “This milk tastes like water.”

“Its low fat,” her mother explained, hoping she’d accept this.

“No, its not,” she scowled and jutting out her lower lip, pushed the bowl away with more force than was necessary.

Some of the contents slopped over the side and she sneered at her mother’s look of reproach. Ignoring her, Lorraine took a cloth from beside the sink and mopped up the mess.

“It is a bit yucky,” Chelsea agreed with her sister.

“I like it,” David shovelled another spoonful into his mouth and beamed up at his mother.

Despite being just four-years-old, Lorraine felt he was her only ally in the battle constantly raging around her. The girls were little madams and tended to gang up on her at every opportunity. Neither of them remarked on her split lip or the noise their father made the night before. Sometimes, when the beating were particularly severe, she got the impression they felt she deserved it. This was nonsense of course. Like all little girls they felt the sun rose in their father’s eyes and it wasn’t a matter of taking sides. No, she decided they were too young to understand what was going on.

 

A noise from overhead made them look up at the ceiling. A drinking session in the pub last night meant their father was late as usual for work and he wouldn’t be in a good humour. Though his job with the county council wasn’t demanding, they expected to see evidence of his work on their weekly visit to the area. It involved nothing more than tree cutting and keeping the bushes and hedges in some sort of order. The house came with the job and this gave Lorraine reason to worry. If he lost his job, they’d be homeless, and there was little else available in such a remote area. Huddled among a group of six others and built over sixty years before, it stood out from the cottages around it by having a second storey, but the interior was much the same. The only heat came from the fire in the sitting room; the rest of the house was freezing.

The thundering on the stairs made them look down at their breakfasts. Even Chelsea pulled her bowl back in front of her and made pretence of eating the soggy cereal.

“Where’s my lunch,” their father looked around the kitchen.

“There’s no bread left, Tom,” his wife said. “I only had enough for the kids’ lunch.”

“I told you I was working over at Kelly’s today, didn’t I?”

Lorraine knew he’d be too far away to make it home to eat and anyway, there was nothing left. All their money went on his drink.

“I know, but what can I do,” She held her hands out in surrender. “The kids need something during the day.”

Storming past her, he picked up the three small parcels of food.

“They can fuckin starve for all I care,” he wafted by her in a haze of stale beer and cigarette smoke.

Not until they heard the slamming of the front door, did the children dare to speak.

“What will we do for lunch, Mummy?” Chelsea looked up at her wide eyed.

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” Lorraine bit down on her lip and moaned.

She’d forgotten in her worry about the cut and the touch of her teeth on the tender skin sent shockwaves of pain coursing through her body. Leaning on the table she closed her eyes and waited for the pain to subside.

“Are you all right, Mummy?” David got down from his chair and came over to her.

“Yes, I’m, fine,” her words were gasps as her body shook from the pain.

Her reaction frightened the girls, who watched her every move.

“We better get you ready for school,” she was shaking as she combed the children’s hair.

Her ribs felt sore and she wondered if another visit to the doctor was in order. She knew what his reaction would be to the bruising and cut lip, but at least he’d give her some painkillers. He was a gentle man, Dr Miller, good and kind; not in the condescending bedside manner way, but you saw it in his eyes. There was gentleness about the way he examined her various injuries and it pained her to see the horror and admonishment in his face when she refused to go to the police. Not even on the numerous occasions when Tom hospitalized her, had she resorted to calling in the law. With no family of her own, she’d nowhere to go. She wouldn’t subject her children to some hostel or home for battered wives. As long as Tom never raised his hand to the children, she’d remain at home.

All Hallows – Chapter 5

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on November 3, 2017
Posted in: Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, honoring the dead, horror, Paranormal, scary, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Chapter Five

 

Filling her mother’s mug to the brim, she added a drop of milk the way she liked it and six sugars.

“I know what you’re thinking,” her mother said to anyone who remarked on the amount of sugar she used. “I’m sweet enough, but my trouble is I have a very sweet tooth.”

Sweet enough, Sarah slapped a slice of bread and butter down onto a chipped plate, her mother didn’t have a sweet bone in her body. The larder was lined with tins of cat food, but there wasn’t anything for her children to eat. Most of their clothes came from charity shops or were donated by some of the neighbors. She knew from searching through her mother’s bag, her father sent enough money to keep them well looked after. His letters were hidden from her, but on the odd occasion she managed to retrieve one before it was burnt, she drank in the words on the page, especially when the asked about her and Brian. If only Daddy stayed, she felt her eyes grow bright with tears; things would’ve been different.

A fog of cigarette smoke made her cough, and she moved cagily in the direction of her mother’s bed.

“What took you so long?” Her mother glared at her through the smoke.

“The cats went to the toilet all over the kitchen,” she explained, as she laid the mug and plate onto the bedside table.

“You leave those cats alone,” a claw encircled her wrist, and she felt the filthy nails dig deep into her skin.

“I didn’t touch them,” she tried to pull away. “I opened the window to let them out.”

“They’re my friends,” her mother gritted her teeth and pulled Sarah closer, so she could smell the combination of early morning breath and the bitter reek of tobacco. “If I ever see you touching them, you’ll be sorry, do you hear?”

“Yes,” Sarah managed to get free, and rubbed at the lines of blood in her skin.

“Now, get to school,” her mother picked up the mug. “I don’t want you under my feet all day.” Then, as an afterthought, asked. “Is your brother up?”

“Yes, he’s eating his breakfast.”

“That’s strange,” her mother narrowed her eyes. “I haven’t heard him moving about.”

“No,” Sarah could feel the familiar knot of fear forming in her stomach. “I had to clean up the kitchen, so I let him eat it in bed.”

“What did I just tell you about leaving the cats alone,” her mother turned and picked up the thick slice of bread and butter.

Sarah knew what was about to happen and was already slipping out the bedroom door, when her mother threw it. She heard the soft thud as it struck the wood and then… nothing. The butter acted as a paste and she bit her lip and tried not to laugh as she imagined it stuck there. Mad bitch, she thought, as the sting from her wrist reminded her it needed attention.

 

Carrying the kettle into the bathroom, she placed the rubber stopper in the sink, and emptied the water in. The noise in the ancient pipes started up the moment she turned on the cold-water tap. Taking a bottle of antiseptic from its hiding place beneath the bath, Sarah poured a small amount into the sink. In the beginning, she’d been ashamed, when she’d to resort to stealing from her mother’s purse, but she’d no choice. Not a week went by when she didn’t break this commandment, and while Father Brown always gave her absolution and told her not to sin again, she felt he understood.

They were short the most basic thing. The small pair of panties lying across the top of the bath reminded her of this. She owned two pairs and needed to wash one every night before going to bed. The fact there were no radiators on which to hang them, meant she went to school most days in damp underwear. Her one bra had seen better days, and she could only wash this at the weekend. She could’ve gone without it as it didn’t have much to support, the bullies reminded her.

Plunging her sore wrist beneath the water, she held it there until the antiseptic did its work and the stinging subsided. The cloth she used to wash smelled musty, but it was difficult to get anything dry now winter was here. Picking up the clean panties, she brought them to her face and sniffed. They smelled clean, but were damp around the elastic in the waist and legs. She knew this would chafe and cause her discomfort during the day. Leaving the cloth soaking in the milky- white water, she hurried back to the bedroom to rouse her brother.

“There’s water in the sink,” she whispered. “Hurry now or we’ll be late.”

She dressed quickly, aware he’d be quick, and was straightening the beds when he came back.

“Why didn’t you eat this?” She held out an egg.

“I saved it for you,” he pushed her hand away. “Everyone says you’re getting very thin.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“Johnny’s mother,” he mumbled, as he adjusted the faded collar of his shirt.

“You haven’t been telling her anything about us, have you?” She asked.

“No, Sarah,” he turned around wild-eyed. “I promise. She saw you in town and said she thought you’d got very thin, that’s all.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said you were always like that,” his lower lip trembled.

“It’s o.k.,” she ruffled his hair. “There’s no harm done, and the next time she says anything, just tell her I’m on a diet.”

“I will,” he said, pulling his school bag out from under his bed.

“I’ll put this in with your lunch,” she opened the paper bag and dropped the egg in. “I don’t really like eggs, but thanks for thinking about me.”

It was an unwritten rule, they’d never tell anyone about the way they were forced to live. Sarah was too young to be allowed to care for her brother, and the prospect of being taken into care terrified them both. Once they remained together they could face most things. It was a crappy life, they knew, but it was their crappy life.

 

 

All Hallows – Chapter 4

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on October 27, 2017
Posted in: Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, gloom, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Haunted Houses, honoring the dead, horror, literary agents, Paranormal, passion, scary, the true meaning of Halloween, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER FOUR

 

It was the smell that woke Sarah. Its scent wafted through the cracks in the wall, as her mother lit her first cigarette of the day. There wasn’t any need for an alarm clock, as this event was her signal to rise. The stench of the tobacco was everywhere. Its willowy trails permeated her clothes, her books, even her skin and hair. Despite keeping the bedroom door shut, it managed to sneak its way in, but its odour was nothing compared to that of cats.

The pounding of her mother’s fist on the wall roused her, and she slipped from beneath the bedclothes. The room was freezing, and when she pulled back the thin curtains, the glass inside the window was transformed into a crystal spider’s web. Shivering, she touched the pattern and watched as the ice melted beneath her fingers.

“What is it, Sarah?”

The whisper from the bed made her draw back her hand.

“It’s ice, Brian,” she smiled at her little brother. “It’s going to be a chilly winter this year.”

“Oh, no,” he groaned, and pulled the covers back over his head.

Though ten-years-old, the memories of past winters were fresh in his mind, and the nights of bone-numbing cold couldn’t be erased. The cottage was a tumbledown affair, built in a time before insulation or central heating. It was tiny in comparison with modern standards. On one side of the building there was a kitchen, which also served as sitting room. A small hallway led to the two bedrooms and an ancient bathroom, where the plumbing was salvaged from another age. There was no boiler and consequently no hot water, other than to boil a kettle on the old stove in the kitchen. This was Sarah’s first task of the day, once she’d brought breakfast to her mother, to boil enough water to wash them both.

“Stay there,” she patted the humped shape under the covers. “I think there’s some eggs in the larder, I’ll call you when they’re ready.”

“Thanks, Sarah,” came the muffled reply.

Since the cottage was small, she had to share a room with her brother. Although he could be a bit of a pain at times, she didn’t mind. They were used to respecting one another’s privacy, when it came to dressing or undressing. With two small single beds, there wasn’t much room to move. An old tea chest, her mother found, served as their wardrobe. What little clothes they had were folded inside, and despite Sarah’s attempts to clean away any evidence of its cargo, the black grains of tea managed to get in their clothes and had to be shaken away like the husks of dead fleas.

Slipping her school jumper over her nightdress, she walked into the hallway. It seemed colder here, and she hurried towards the kitchen, hoping to find warmth in the fire’s dying embers. The smell felt like a smack in the face, when she opened the door, and she drew back in disgust. She waited for the shock from the acidic fumes to pass, before attempting to go in. Her mother, aware the night would be a cold one, allowed her menagerie of cats to sleep indoors. Most were feral strays, which the confines of the room terrified, and they’d shown their displeasure by the amount of faeces and pools of urine lining the stone floor. Tired from numerous attempts to escape, they’d settled down in front of the fire or on top of the table. Once Sarah appeared they arose en-mass, arching their backs and yawning. Some mewed piteously; others narrowed their eyes and hissed.

Holding her hand over her nose, Sarah tiptoed across the room, trying to avoid the puddles on the stones, but it was difficult in the half light. She felt the wetness on the toes of her worn slippers. Flinging back the curtains, she threw open the window and picked up a broom.

“Out,” she ordered the last of the stragglers, who unlike their comrades refused to make a bolt for freedom. “Out, I said,” she swung the broom at the nearest group hitting a ginger tabby, who snarled at her before heading for the window.

Once they’d disappeared into the bone-chilling mist outside, she’d no choice, but to let the window to stay open. The fumes burned the lining in her nose, as she placed the kettle on the stove. As she waited for the water to boil, she started cleaning up the floor. Using an old newspaper, she managed to pick up most of the faeces, but the smell was too much on her delicate stomach, and she decided to leave the rest for her mother to deal with. The water from the lone tap in the sink stung her hands like needles of ice, as she washed away the dirt of the cats’ droppings.

Taking two eggs from the larder, she placed them in pot of water to boil. Brian would have to eat his breakfast in the bedroom, as there was no telling what germs were floating about in the kitchen. The kettle bubbled, so she placed some teabags in a pot and filled it. While she waited for it to brew, she took the loaf of bread out of the larder and tried to cut it on a small board on her lap. There was no way she’d use the kitchen table, not until it was scrubbed clean, and this would have to wait until after school. It was difficult to cut the loaf, and she wondered for the millionth time, why her mother insisted on buying the uncut bread. Sarah’s life would be so much easier if she’d buy sliced bread. The old rusty fridge yielded nothing more than some sliced ham, and this was curled and dry around the edges. The packet said it was still in date, and it she used to make sandwiches for her brother’s lunch. Sarah never took anything other than a slice of bread and butter. She rarely felt hungry, and if she did, she could eat it quickly before anyone saw the huge chunk. An assortment of paper bags was crushed into a dresser drawer, and she chose the cleanest two to wrap their lunches. God forbid, they should have cling wrap like civilised people.

The eggs were bubbling when she finished, and she’d forgotten the cold streaming through the open window, as she scooped them out of the pot. Making two small cone shapes from old newspaper, she placed an egg in each. Picking up a spoon and a slice of bread, she carried them back into her bedroom.

“Here you go, lazy bones,” she tapped her foot on the side of the bed.

Her brother emerged from beneath the covers.

“Don’t think I’ll be doing this every day,” she warned. “The bloody cats were in all night and the kitchen stinks to high heaven. Can you manage?” She asked, as he tried to balance to eggs.

“Yeah, no problem,” he tapped on the top of the egg.

“O.K., don’t get shell everywhere, or you won’t be able to sleep tonight if it gets into the sheets.”

“Hey, Sarah,” he called, and she turned back. Waving the egg-filled spoon at her, he smiled. “Look at me, I’m like a King.”

“Well, hurry up, King Brian,” she laughed, “You’ll need to have a wash before school.”

A harsh, racking cough from the room next door signaled her mother’s discontent at being kept waiting for her breakfast.

“Excuse me, my lord,” Sarah whispered, bowing to her brother, before hurrying away.

All Hallows – Chapter 3

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on October 20, 2017
Posted in: Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, gloom, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, honoring the dead, horror, Paranormal, scary, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

 

Chapter Three

 

“I swear before God,” her hand closed on the crucifix hanging around her neck. “Nothing you say to me will leave this room, and I do want to help, in any way I can.”

He knew she was sincere in her offer, and not one to go about spreading idle gossip. Like him, she was lonely, and the lines on her face told their own story. Life wasn’t easy for her.

“It’s nothing concrete, you understand,” he decided to trust her. “And I can’t betray what I heard in the confessional.”

“I understand that, Father,” she nodded. “I wouldn’t dream of asking you, but if telling me a little of what bothers you eases the burden, I’d like to help.”

“You know about the two sudden deaths last October?” He asked.

“Yes, the suicide and the murder.”

“You think one of the deaths was murder?” Her answer amazed him, and gave him comfort he wasn’t alone in his suspicions.

“The whole place knows it was, but as the coroner said, there was no proof, and the murderer got away with it.”

He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment, relieved the wickedness in his own thoughts was echoed by others.

“I heard their last confessions,” he roused himself and went back to his tale. “Only hours before they died, and I did nothing to help.”

“How could you, Father?” Norah asked. “As you said the confessional is sacrosanct.”

“The knowledge gives me little comfort, I’m afraid, but you’re right. I couldn’t break the seal of confession, and it haunts me. That, and the promised each of them made to me,” his eyes grew troubled. “It’s exactly a year ago tonight, you know?”

“No, I didn’t know,” Norah pulled her coat around her shoulders. “I knew it happened around this time, but not the exact date.”

“I knew each of them well,” he said. “I christened little Sarah Jacobs. She was fifteen when she died, and I met Lorraine Ryan on the day she moved here,” he looked around the room. “I called offering to help with the move, but she’d little material possessions, and most of the furnisher was falling to pieces, but she was glad of the offer, and we became friends. You know in the old days,” he said. “I’m not talking about the last century or the one before, but going back maybe forty years ago, they buried suicides outside the walls of the graveyard, and not only suicides, but babies who were not baptised and unmarried mothers. They thought them unfit to lie in consecrated ground, God help us,” he put his head in his hands and his voice was muffled. “So much harm was done in the name of God.”

“They were superstitious times,” Norah said. “I remember reading how they buried suicides at crossroads with a stake through their hearts.”

He looked up at her.

“Well, we haven’t come far since then.”

“It’s this place, Father,” she said. “Folk have little to occupy their time, and the old superstitions die hard. It’s different in the cities with the drugs and people overdosing right, left and centre.”

“Ah, now, Norah,” he laughed, at the casualness of her words. “I don’t think they’re dying that fast.”

“Well, you know what I mean,” she sniffed and straightened her shoulders.

“I know,” he didn’t want to offend her. “It seems like it, if the news reports are to be believed.”

“The young one,” Norah asked. “Did you know her?”

“Sarah, yes,” he paused. “Better than I know most of the young ones. I’ve met them at communion and confession, but many have moved away from the church. Sarah sought me out during the last few weeks of her life, both did. That’s why I know so much about them, and there’s no harm in telling you what I know. What I do know of Sarah is her life wasn’t an easy one. Have you met her mother, she’s the one with all the cats?”

“I know who you’re talking about. You can smell the cottage before you see it. She strikes me as a bit odd in the head.”

“That’s her; the poor woman should’ve been hospitalized years ago, but her husband wouldn’t hear of it. You haven’t been here long enough to know any of their stories, have you?” He asked.

“No, I’ve just picked up bits and pieces of gossip from the locals,” she said.

“Would you like to hear the truth?”

“Yes, Father, indeed I would.”

He consulted the clock on the mantelpiece.

“We’ve a few hours before mass and their stories will take some time in telling, but if you’re willing I’ll tell you how each of them came to be lying prematurely in the grave. Then you can judge if they’re at rest; or if as I suspect, tonight will see the beginning of a nightmare.”

“I’d be glad to listen,” Norah croaked, her mouth was dry from the tension.

“It’s hard to believe I used to enjoy the solitude of my calling. My sleep was free of terrors and my days spent in restful study of my books. It seems so long ago now, and it was brought to an end by what I’m about to tell you.”

His voice, once he began was unstoppable. There was a gluttonous intent in his outpourings. Norah settled back in her chair and nestled deeper into the warmth of her coat. She tried to make her face remain impassive, and did nothing to interrupted as the sad panorama of the two lives unfolded.

Father Brown watched her, looking for signs of disbelief. He knew as he spoke, she thought he was exaggerating, or the events were clouded, as his mind grew feeble with age. Still, he couldn’t miss this opportunity to unburden himself, and if as he suspected, the night ahead was filled with horror, there’d be someone who knew the truth.

Tonight, he’d face his demons. Though this word was not one he’d use to describe the poor, restless souls in the churchyard. The trauma and turmoil each felt at the last moment wouldn’t have left them unaffected and this was what he dreaded most. It was the one thing he couldn’t divulge to Norah, the urgent, angry whispers he’d heard in the confessional, as each one vowed revenge on those who’d hurt them.

 

 

All Hallows – Chapter 2

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on October 13, 2017
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, honoring the dead, Paranormal, scary, the true meaning of Halloween, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

CHAPTER TWO

 

The air was colder than when she entered the church. Though it was still early in the afternoon, Norah saw the glitter of frost on the grass. Tying her headscarf under her chin, she hoisted the heavy shopping bag she carried into the crook of her arm, and set off the short distance to the priest’s house. Weaving her way along the path leading to the side gate, she couldn’t help, but notice how the style and size of the headstones changed over the years. The grander ones, carved into the form of angels in white granite from the local quarry, were outnumbered by the smaller, marble markers. Muttering a prayer for those lying beneath the earth in restless sleep, she crossed herself and tried to banish such thoughts. It’s the time of year, she decided, it sends the imagination wild, and it was any wonder. Everywhere you looked there were effigies of monsters or skeletons. It was enough to give somebody nightmares.

Flecks of old paint came away on her hands, as she pushed against the latch on the small gate. The hinges were rusted with age, and groaned protesting the intrusion, as she pushed it open. Tutting, she surveyed the grey flecks on her fingers, before running her hands down the front of her coat. It wouldn’t do to turn up for tea with dirty hands, and she was fussy about cleanliness. Like the gate, the front door was showing signs of wear, as she lifted the old-fashioned knocker and tapped twice.

“Come in, Norah, come in,” Father Brown opened the door and stood aside to let her pass.

Though stooped with age, he was much taller than her, and she felt dwarfed in his presence. The hallway was dark after the glare of the sun, so she stood for a moment to let her eyes adjust.

“This way,” he motioned, and she followed his dark silhouette. “I have the fire lighting in here,” he opened a door and led her into the sitting room. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he gestured to a chair. “You make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you, Father,” Norah allowed the shopping bag to slip from her arm and took off her coat and scarf.

She heard him rattling about in the kitchen preparing the tea, and this gave her time to look around. Despite the blazing fire the room was chilly, and she rubbed her hands down her arms, trying to bring life back to her cold skin. Like the hallway, this room was shrouded in shadow, and seemed to come from another time. She knew it wasn’t a phoney attempt by some designer trying to replicate the Victorian era, but the way the furnishings had been for over a hundred years. The stuffed armchairs were comfortable, though faded with time. The arms showed the most sign of wear, as the brocade was worn and stuffing protruded through the fabric. Yellowing antimacassars draped over the back of each chair. On the mantelpiece above the fire, a black, ornate carriage clock ticked loud enough to make its presence felt. An old china cabinet held an assortment of cups and plates, and on top sat a stuffed owl in a glass dome.

“Here we are,” Father Brown shuffled in and put a stop to any further probing. “It’s going to be a bitter night,” he placed a tray on the coffee table.

She saw how his hands shook, as he reached for the teapot.

“Here, Father,” she stood. “Let me do it.”

He relinquished this task, and moved away to sit in the chair opposite.

“There you go,” she placed a cup and saucer on an occasional table beside him and offered the sugar bowl. For a while neither of them spoke, and she watched, as he stared into the flames. His face showed signs of strain and his brow furrowed, as though he was trying to remember something. His eyes had the haunted look she’d noticed developing over the past weeks.

“Are you all right, Father?” She asked.

“I’m fine, Norah,” he turned and looked at her. “Feeling my age, that’s all.”

She concentrated on stirring her tea. The only sound came from the clanking of the spoon against the sides of the cup.

“Are the graves troubling you, Father,” she asked. “The ones that won’t settle?”

He nodded, and fumbled in the pocket of his threadbare cardigan for a handkerchief. She noticed, as he wiped his eyes, how the veins showed on hands shrunken with age. Despite his years, his dark hair lost none of its colour with just a scattering of grey at the temples. Rather than giving him a more youthful look, it served to emphasise the pallor of his skin.

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Father,” Norah didn’t know what to do. Should she stay sitting or make her excuses and leave?

“No, no,” he brushed aside her apology. “It’s nothing you said. I’m feeling a bit run down, and now with the worry…” he stopped and looked towards the window.

She knew he was picturing the graveyard.

“I heard some foolish talk,” Norah tried to brighten the mood. “You know how it is here, Father, with everyone caught up in everyone else’s business.”

“I’ve heard it too,” he turned back to her. “But what troubles me the most is how foolish is it?”

“Come now, Father,” she laughed. “Surely you don’t believe in those old wives’ tales?”

“I don’t” he paused. “At least I didn’t, until now.”

Norah shivered. Sensing her distress, he smiled.

“I’m not going to bother you with my nonsense,” he emptied his cup and held it out for a refill.

“I know it’s not nonsense, Father,” Norah picked up the teapot, glad of its warmth. “I’ve noticed how you’ve changed over the past few months. Perhaps, if you talked about it?”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” he sighed, and sipped at his tea.

The true meaning of Halloween.

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on October 10, 2017
Posted in: Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, fiction, Ghost, gloom, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, honoring the dead, horror, Paranormal, scary, the true meaning of Halloween, twlight, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

The shops are filled with garish costumes and the faces of ghouls, ghosts and witches line the aisles of most supermarkets as the children prepare the celebrate the season. It is a time for fire crackers, toffee apples and the breathless excitement that is Halloween. But there is another side, and one that will never change, and that is the sight of the candle in the window of most homes, as they light the way for their lost loved ones. As the flame cuts through the darkness, we want them to know that there is light even in the darkest place, and they are not forgotten. Names will be whispered about around roaring fires as we remember better times and better people. Many a tear will be shed, as on this night, when the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest, our loss is somehow more profound. There is nothing strange or sinister in these beliefs, as here in Ireland, we live happily side by side with all manner of creatures be they ghost, wraith or banshee. So, we wait, as the dark nights come creeping in to honor our dead and leave an extra log on the fire before going to bed—just in case.