Sometimes it's way too short for a novel, but far too long for a short story. That's what you'll find here! Usually stories of around 4000+ words - so if you feel like a longer read, get yourself a cuppa, get comfy, and get stuck in!
1. Silent Night.
2. Absorption.
I wanted to have a go at a good old fashioned ghost story!
Silent Night
The wind jangled the blank sign endlessly on its’ wrought iron post. The picture and wording had long since worn away and the wood within the iron frame was rotting, soft flakes of it crumbling to the frosted ground, even as Sean burrowed deeper under the covers in an effort to find sleep. He knew, from recent experience, that sleep would be impossible now.
As if to confirm this, the sign gave a sudden and prolonged rattling, as though in furious, helpless defence against the elements, like a prisoner in chains. Sean gave up; he sat upright, mindless of the chill on his bare shoulders, and searched for the time. It was there, glowing neon and smug in the gloom, waiting for him; 12:52.
12:52 on Christmas Eve, Sean mused, and then realised that it was not in fact Christmas Eve any longer; it was Christmas day. No kids, and yet he was about to get up and go downstairs.
There was no justice. His business partner, brother and father to his two small nephews, Mike, was doubtless sound asleep on the next floor up, curled up close to Jane; and all of them oblivious to the time and the gale outside, although, Sean realised, it was much quieter now.
He shrugged on his dressing gown and stepped into his tatty old slippers, unwilling to tread the cold wooden stairs barefoot.
The pub was still in the early stages of redecoration. It had taken Sean and Mike the best part of eleven months and more money than Sean cared to calculate to modernize the pub and make it fit for public use again.
That had been part of the appeal. He and Mike had been all the more keen to buy the place when they learned that it had always been the site of a pub or an inn, probably further back even than the seventeenth century they had been able to trace it to. There were even rumours that it had started ‘life,’ long ago, as a grand hall, though there had never been anything found to prove it.
So they had endeavoured to make it as authentic as possible, retaining where they could the older features of the building, recreating history as far as the builders and the bank account would allow.
The re-carpeting hadn’t yet been completed, and bare flagstone and wooden floorboards made up most of the flooring on the ground and middle floors. Sean flicked the brass light switch, expecting the flame effect, sconced lighting to give off their soft, welcoming glow and light his way down the stairs.
Nothing.
He frowned in irritation and flicked the switch a few more times. Dead. Yet another ‘minor’ flaw in Jefferson’s Electrics supposedly reliable services. There had been a lot of little hiccups, he thought. Builders arguing about tools ‘gone missing’; kitchen fitters complaining about redrawn plans. Jefferson himself had even suggested the whole place needed rewiring, so erratic were the connections. Unbelievable bunch of cowboys, Sean thought, not feeling much in the way of Christmas cheer yet. Anything to squeeze out another penny.
He picked his way carefully down the stairs, using a faint slant of light from the window high in the wall to help him. Jane had wondered how they would ever manage to clean that window, as high up as it was. What on earth use was it there? She had asked, and Mike had joked that they would never need to clean it; it was so out of the way, no one would notice the dirt.
He reached the door at the bottom of the stairs, with the tinted glass window that bore the legend ‘Private Access Only.’ Sean knew that screwed into the wooden panels below it was a second notice that read, in bold black lettering, ‘Beware Of The Dog.’ They hadn’t yet bought a dog, unable to agree on the breed, but Mike insisted that the sign was deterrent enough to any would be burglars.
Sean had cause to doubt that for a fleeting moment. A shadow, tinted brown through the glass, flitted across the left of his vision. His hand, cold on the door handle, hesitated in turning it.
He considered retreating and alerting Mike, but decided against it. It was early on Christmas morning; still night-time really, and Mike would be up soon enough as it was, if the boys had anything to do with it. He would check first, see if he couldn’t handle this himself. Maybe he was seeing things. Too much coffee and too little sleep will do that to you.
Gingerly he opened the door, feeling an irrational, nervous fluttering in his stomach. He was in the passageway that bore doors leading into the main bar and the lounge, as well as the toilets, the fire escape and the kitchen. It was what, he now realised, he thought of as the hub of the house.
His foot scraped across the flagstone floor, making him jump, and he grinned at himself, partly out of amusement at his jitteriness, but also, he recognised, as a defensive action. His way of saying without saying, ‘I know there’s nothing to be afraid of.’
Feeling foolish, he let the door swing shut. The corridor loomed darkly ahead of him, suddenly seeming much longer and colder. He flicked another light switch. Again, no joy.
He clenched his fists in his dressing gown pockets, fixed his sights on the kitchen door midway down the corridor, and crossed the floor.
The lights crackled electrically and blossomed into life when Sean was about two paces from the kitchen. He froze, aware that the light should have reassured him; equally aware that his heart was pounding in his throat. “Bloody Jefferson!” He swore, “This wiring’s messed up completely.”
Speaking defiantly aloud.
He pushed the door open, and a blast of cold air left him breathless. Maybe a freezer had been left open?
The lights in here were faulty too, but he had a solution to that.
Ignoring the fridges and freezers, all shut, that hulked in dark corners like humming monoliths, he went to the cooker, fumbled in his dressing gown pocket for his lighter, and lit all six of the range’s hobs. The sight and warmth of the flame made him feel a little better, ‘God, we are all so primeval,’ He laughed to himself, resisting the impulse to light a cigarette, mentally denying that he was afraid his hands were shaking too much to do so anyway.
He enjoyed the heat for a while longer, debating whether to have a glass of warm milk like a good boy, to help him sleep, or a brandy. ‘To hell with it,’ he decided, ‘I’ll have a brandy. It’s Christmas after all.’
He turned around, preparing to push through the swing doors into the lounge bar, and saw through the pane that the large tree that they had decorated earlier in the week, twinkled with softly pretty fairy lights.
Sean went cold, the voice in him frozen and unable to assert to the darkness that it was due to the electricians’ incompetence again. How can the tree lights be on? They’re not even plugged in. I checked. I always check.
He sensed, rather than felt, jerky movement beside him. The flames on the hob burned blue; coldness descended on him like a shroud. And then, shimmering into existence at first, blurring and fading in and out, oblivious of him, appeared the figure of a man.
He was dressed in a shabby array of garish clothing, his feet clad in ridiculous, pointed shoes; so pointed that the toes were attached to the ankles by string, curling back over the foot. An equally ridiculous hat adorned his head, flopping down over his dark eyes in three drooping triangles, each one topped with a small bell. He held a staff, the end of which also supported three bells that jingled gaily, as he gestured, smilingly, to some audience that Sean could not see. He appeared to be standing on solid ground, shuffling and hopping as he did, but that could not be so.
There was no floor beneath his feet. He was in mid-air.
The smile on the figure’s face was the most chilling smile Sean had ever seen; a wide, grinning rictus.
Sean stood rooted to the spot and watched as the nebulous figure pranced and bowed, the rigid grin on its’ mouth belying the hard look in its eyes. An overwhelming feeling of humiliation and resentment stole into Sean’s conscience and he wanted nothing more than to tell him to stop, to cease his foolishness. He felt, absurdly, almost embarrassed for him. Almost pitying.
Then the flames on the hob reared high and yellow again, Sean felt warmth creeping back into his hands, and the apparition was gone, just as silently and suddenly as it had appeared.
Overcome with relief, Sean sagged to the hard floor, sobbing and gasping, alternately giving thanks for his safe deliverance, and begging God not to let it come back. He would never have believed he was a religious man.
He had just enough presence of mind to turn off the gas. Then he abandoned the brandy and the now dark tree, and crept slowly back to the stairs, dreading the reoccurrence of the vision each time he turned a corner; expecting the jingle of bells from behind him, jumping at shadows. The lights were still on in the corridor, the switch still in the ‘off’ position. Sean stifled a sob and raced back up the stairs, wanting only the security of his room and his bed.
He was a full grown man, in his prime, yet he wanted nothing more than to hide his head under his bedclothes and urge the morning on, like an over-imaginative child.
The awful thought that his room might not be safe assailed him even as he entered it. But it was empty. No one awaited him there; there was no bone-jarring coldness, just his empty room, exactly as he had left it. Except now the clock glowed 1: 36, as confident as ever.
Sean flew to his bed, not even bothering to take off his dressing gown; needing the feel of another layer between him and whatever lay beyond, should he dare to look.
His mind raced; already keen to deny to his confused brain the evidence of his own eyes. He hadn’t seen it! How could he? It was absurd! A floating man! He could just imagine Mike’s face if he was ever stupid enough to tell him.
His pulse rate slowed gradually, his breathing righted itself. Even as he accepted that sleep was truly lost to him tonight, his eyes grew heavy and closed. What had he wished? That he would cease his foolishness? That didn’t even sound like his own thoughts.
And that part of his mind that was not all his own was murmuring to him, ‘Not just any man Sean. He’s not just any man …’
He slept. The sign beyond his window rattled more violently still. If Sean had still been awake this would have worried him still further.
The wind had stopped howling hours ago.
*
For a moment Sean felt he’d woken to just another day, bright, cold and crisp. Then the strains of his nephew’s excitement from downstairs reminded him it was Christmas day.
And then he remembered.
He sat up sharply, braver in the daylight but nonetheless keen to get downstairs and into the presence of his family, warm and real. He dressed hurriedly and raced down the stairs.
They all turned, welcoming and pleased expressions on their faces, when he burst into the living room. The children rushed him, showing him this toy and that game, clamouring for his attention. He let them engulf him, grateful for their boisterousness and the excuse to stop thinking.
*
The evening was drawing in again, and Sean was becoming restless. There was something on his mind, nagging at him, that was not just the unease with which he faced the night. He needed to speak to his brother.
He waited until Jane ushered the boys up to bed, each of them insisting that they were not tired even as they rubbed their red eyes and yawned unrestrainedly. Sean watched as Mike kissed them both affectionately goodnight. He waited until they were on their noisy way upstairs before he spoke.Mike was doodling on the back of a Christmas card envelope.
“Fancy a quiet one?” Sean asked, waving a can in his brother’s face.
Mike grinned and took it, “God bless ‘em! It’s not Christmas without the kids,” He asserted, and for a minute Sean thought he felt a lecture coming on. By his age, now that he was set up… but it didn’t come. Mike seemed content to sip his beer and share his company, doodling idly in a preoccupied fashion as he did so.
And suddenly Sean knew exactly what to say. He had been toying with the idea of telling Mike what he’d seen, even confessing his fear it would happen again, and the words had been hard to find. But now, suddenly, he knew just what to say and he wasted no time in saying it.
“Mike, I’ve been thinking about the sign,” He began. Mike stopped doodling.
“Yeah?” He asked, his voice loaded with anticipation.
“Well. It’s just, you know, I’ve gone along with most of the things you and Jane have wanted to do here. To be honest I haven’t really got a problem with any of it. But there is one thing that I want to insist on Mike, and I really mean this. It’s important to me. I know it’s Christmas day, and I don’t want to argue or anything, but I’ve made my mind up on this one.”
“Go on,” Mike encouraged, both hands still now; uncharacteristically not even attempting an argument.
“Okay,” Sean took a breath, “I know what we should call the pub.”
Mike said nothing but glanced down at his sketch.
“The Jester,” Sean said, and the minute he spoke the words he knew he’d done right. An inexplicable feeling of satisfaction and happiness, no, more than that, joy, came over him, all trace of fear and confusion, that lingering humiliation, gone.
“I don’t believe it!” Mike breathed, clutching his can so tight that he was crushing it, sending froth bubbling out of the mouthpiece. His face was white.
“What?” Sean asked, concerned but unable to shake off the contented feeling.
Mike shook his head, words seemingly beyond him. He stared down at the envelope he held in his trembling hand, then leaned forward, proffering it to his brother, “I don’t believe it,” he repeated.
Mystified, Sean took the paper. “My God!” He murmured when he saw what it bore.
Mike had not been doodling idly. On the white envelope he had sketched a sign. Even from this rough drawing it was obviously made of wrought iron with a wooden face. Sean recognised it instantly; it was the same sign that had kept him awake almost every night since they had moved in after the rebuilding six weeks ago. It was their sign.
But there was more than that. On the wooden face, in fine detail, complete with floppy hat and tri-belled staff was a figure of a man.
A jester.
Sean looked up at his brother. He had lost his white pallor and there was a reassuring look of excited interest on his face.
“The Jester, you say?” He repeated, a sparkle in his eye.
*
They had had a few more drinks after that, but it hadn’t made a difference it seemed; Sean had trouble sleeping again. He thought he had done the right thing in naming the pub ‘The Jester’ He thought it had in some way been an appeasement. So why now could he not sleep?
It took him a long time to work it out.
The wind blew round the house, stirring up the trees and whistling through even the smallest of gaps, making the night sound colder than it actually was.
But the sign?
There was no heavy, metallic jangling; no rusty, protesting creaks. No scraping. No battering. The sign rocked gently and quietly back and forth on its beam, like a baby in a crib.
Sean smiled, and drifted into sleep.
*
Downstairs, in the hub of the house, a faint tingling of bells frosted the air, the wall lights blossomed gently into life, the switch still in the ‘off’ position, and the jester, with his wide grin and eyes full of pain, bowed to his audience.
Copyright S. P Oldham.
Something a bit different!
Silence hangs like a storm-cloud over the sleeping occupants of Oakwood Close, watched over by the very tree that gave the cul-de-sac its name.
There should be sound here; small creatures that chirrup, snuffle and rustle, busy about their nocturnal business, engaged in the blood-hungry drama of eat or be eaten, that ensures life’s continuance.
Look closer.
See the hedgehog on the lawn? It won’t pause, but passes through as quickly as its stump legs will allow. Watch the fox, warily approaching the bins; his senses tell him something is wrong here. The carcass of a chicken in an open bin is not temptation enough; he turns and runs, unnerved.
Close your eyes and look deeper; use your inner eye. Watch the spiders; they never stray from their webs. See the woodlice in their armoured shells; the slugs, defenceless. Spy the beetles, shiny beneath the shelter of the wooden shed.
Go deeper still; let your vision sink into the damp soil. What do we have here? Earthworms, industrious and ignorant; perhaps a mole, labouring in blind panic against the darkness.
There is something else here.
An ancient, heavy stench fills your nostrils, older than the soil itself. You sense something, some force, seeking, searching, for the very centre of the world it seems. It is inexorable; unstoppable. You know this.
You follow, deeper still; beyond the foundations of the houses; steel and concrete roots. It is close now; you can feel the dull, slow thump of some life force. Terrified, you want both to see it and to turn away.
Mud and clay begin to fill your ears, block your nostrils. You try to scream, and the taste of earth, organic, metallic, clogs your throat. Soil grits your eyes and leaves them sore and grainy. You cough and choke; the weight of the earth is unbearable, breaking your back, crushing your lungs …
Come back. Come up again, to the world.
You went too close.
*
The oak sways gently; a shiver shimmers its way from the roots to the very tip. A branch creaks as if in resistance.
A small, fresh leaf strains to curl into life, shows promise for an instant, then withers and dies. A sigh, just beyond human hearing, vibrates the night.
All else is still.
Number 8, Oakwood Close.
Ryan opened his eyes; he had hardly closed them all night anyway. The settee was too small for a grown man to sleep on comfortably. He sat up gingerly, rubbing his aching neck, and yawned. Maybe Claire would be calmer now. Maybe he could talk her round.
Again.
His jeans were lying in a crumpled heap on the floor; he pulled them on and cast around for his T-shirt. That’s when he saw the cases. They were standing in the doorway, looking ominously heavy. When had Claire put them there?
He must have slept, after all.
He hesitated, unsure of his next move. She’d never packed his bags before; threatened to many times, but never actually done it.
He would go up to her; find her warm and soft and sleepy in bed. A few well-chosen words, gentle hands, tender kisses …
The bedroom door was locked. Ryan knocked tentatively; no response. He tried again, and then called her name, expecting to hear her half awake murmur in reply.
“Your bags are packed; get out.”
Claire sounded wide-awake and like she meant every word; her tone was final and flat. Ryan had never known her like this before.
“Claire, babe, let me in. We need to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. I’ve heard all your lies before and I’ve got nothing to say to you. Get out.”
“Claire. Babe. Please, just open the door.”
“It’s better for you if I don’t Ryan, believe me. Just go.”
“Better for me? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Ryan, you’re trying my patience.”
Flummoxed, Ryan gave up for a moment. He sat on the top stair, head in hands. It felt like he had a hangover, but he hadn’t touched a drop last night. His head was spinning; a moment of sudden irrational anger flooded through him.
He stood again, slamming his fists against the bedroom door, “To hell with this Claire! Open the door before I break it down!”
He heard her swearing under her breath, then pad across to the door. The key turned in the lock. He waited; nothing.
He turned the handle; Claire was sitting on the edge of the bed. Like him, she was still wearing the clothes she had on the night before, and like him, she too was barefoot. She looked tired and worn; Ryan felt a rush of concern and affection for her. She looked small and fragile, sitting there.
He went to her, intending to cradle her; to kiss her tired, swollen eyes, stroke her hair. He bent to lift her chin …
… and was caught by the shock and the sting of her hand, small and hard against his cheek.
His surprise rendered him defenceless against her next blow. She struck from the other side this time; long nails dragging down his face, his neck, rings leaving scratches and cuts, tearing his lips, her blows frenzied and wild. Ryan caught her wrists and held her back, slamming her up against the wall, screaming at her to stop. She gasped and fell limp.
Ryan looked down into Claire’s deep brown eyes; searching for any sign of emotion there. Regret maybe; love hopefully. His own eyes were filling with tears.
She spat in his face.
Disgusted, Ryan stepped back, releasing his grip.
“I told you not to come in here Ryan,” her tone was sneering.
Ryan could think of nothing to say; too choked anyway to speak, he simply left the room, letting the door click quietly shut behind him.
Downstairs, he finished dressing quickly. The suitcases were heavy as he loaded them into the car. He knew without doubt that there was nothing to stay for now; maybe they could have got over his sleeping around. Maybe they could even have got over the way Claire had attacked him.
But Ryan knew he would never overcome what he had seen when he had searched Claire’s eyes; he had looked for hope, redemption even. What he found had chilled him to the bone. Something so akin to madness, he had been almost glad to go.
Upstairs, an enquiring branch brushed against Claire’s window-pane. She turned to it and smiled, licking Ryan’s blood from her fingers.
*
In the depths, below the house, an ancient, gnarled root stretched and moaned as if in pleasure, unheard by all but the Earth itself. The sap in the old tree rose in release. Above, a new acorn, small and perfect, burst into creation, in defiance of the natural order; whole and ready, full of promise.
*
Number 11, Oakwood Close.
Nancy was ready for them this time.
She shifted in her seat, dislodging a large tom-cat, who stood in protest, threw her a withering look, and jumped from her lap onto the newspaper strewn floor. Other cats littered about the room deigned to pause their ablutions or naps for a moment and observe goings-on, before losing interest and skulking away to hide behind boxes or mounds of black bin-bags.
Some of these bags had been torn open by curious felines; their entrails spilled upon the dirty floor. Rubbish pooled around them like blood around a wound.
What remained visible of the walls showed a grey, sickly colour; the curtains were matted and filthy, hanging limply from the rails.
Nancy sat, huge and sweating, in the room’s only seat, a ripped and tatty leather armchair, the foam showing through in patches like soft bones. Her clothes, the same ones every day, were stained and repulsive. Her pale, sallow skin hung in folds around her chin, her arms, her ankles. Her eyes were dead blue pools; illuminating only at the thought of her precious cats.
Cats; all Nancy cared about, all she lived for. Her house stood, rotten and rotting, food and carpets mouldering, stinking and unwashed. Her cats were the exception. In the morass that was her kitchen one space lay clear and, by Nancy’s standards, clean. It was laid with fresh paper daily, for the litter tray, and bowls for food and water. Nancy was careful to keep these clean, regularly emptying the litter tray into an open box which usually stood next to the greasy cooker. It didn’t matter to Nancy; why should anyone else care? She never had visitors anyway.
But she was expecting some today.
“Fourteen days to clean this place up, Nancy,” they’d said, “Fourteen days. That’s your last warning. And you’ll have to get rid of some of these cats, too, if you want to stay here. You’ve got far too many, Nancy. If you clean up your act, maybe we’ll let you keep three or four, but the rest have to go.”
Nancy’s vacant features didn’t stir, but she felt the anger welling up inside her. The cats had to go, they said; and that was when they had begun to disappear.
She hadn’t laid eyes on Lulu or Rocky for days now. She knew they were dead; knew it in her bones. She knew who had killed them, too; ‘Too many Nancy. They have to go.’
And Silas hadn’t come back this morning, either. He was such a stickler for his routine, usually. She could expect to hear his demanding mewls at around seven-thirty each morning, hungry after his night’s adventures.
It was nearly 11.45 now. No sign of him.
Nancy wondered again how they were killing her cats. Cars probably, she decided; their nice, new, distant cars. Keeping their hands clean.
She grunted, and wished they would hurry up and come. Her hand dropped to the box at the side of the chair, newly placed there just last night; the litter box, brimming with foul-smelling cat excrement and urine soaked sand, a faded mug sitting atop it. Perhaps she should move it now?
With some effort and much wheezing, Nancy pulled herself out of the chair. It had taken a lot of effort to move the box this far last night; she knew it would mean more effort now, to move it to the front door.
Breathing hard, Nancy pushed and shoved the box with her foot, ruching the scattered newspapers, spilling some of the contents when she hit the door-frame.
One last, great effort was required of her now, and then she would be ready. Sweating profusely for her efforts, red-faced, her stomach threatening to split like one of her black bags, Nancy heaved the box up onto an old telephone table, especially cleared for the occasion, its previous occupants swept to the floor beneath it.
Gasping, Nancy took the mug and filled it, dipping it into the putrid mess inside the box, and waited. It was nearly time.
*
Silas lay stretched along a branch of the oak, his glassy eyes watching, unseeing.
Cramped beneath him, a stubborn, supple green branch was trying to force its way up towards the light; unable to do so, it had instead begun to bore a small, insistent hole into him, seeing the cat’s lifeless body as no more than another organic layer off which to feed.
Below, a car pulled up outside number eleven, disgorging two men dressed in suits, and a smartly dressed woman holding a clip-board. The trio conferred for a moment on the pavement, then approached the front door, the woman knocking peremptorily.
It opened.
Nancy gripped the cup; she was ready for them this time.
Number 13, Oakwood Close.
The sun was high in the sky. Lucy wasn’t quite big enough yet to reach the lock on the front door; more than anything, she wanted to go out into the sunshine and feel the air on her face. She wanted it more even than she wanted something to eat.
The house was dim, all its curtains drawn. Lucy had managed to pull the blinds open a little way in the dining room, but there was nothing to see out there. There was no-one to talk to; no-one to complain to of her hunger and her loneliness. As young as she was, Lucy herself didn’t know and couldn’t name the ache that seemed always to be part of her.
The fridge, standing open, was largely empty now. Lucy had eaten what she liked at first, leaving the less appealing things until she was really desperate. She had discovered that eggs straight from the shell didn’t taste nice, and that some of the food that went all fuzzy and blue didn’t taste too good, either.
There were tins in the cupboard, but Lucy couldn’t open them; she had cut herself trying, and the wound was still sore. An angry red, it had started to become tinged with green, and the throbbing had kept her awake, most of last night. She never slept well anyway, curled up under her bed; her favoured hiding place when she was afraid that Mummy might come looking again.
Mummy frightened Lucy when she was all crazy. She had seen people on television like that sometimes; their voices got strange and they couldn’t stand up. Sometimes, just like them, Mummy got angry, for nothing; she would shout and throw things and smack Lucy, hard, and tell her everything was all her fault. She would say she hated her, and that she should have called her Lucifer, not Lucy.
Lucy had fallen asleep many nights, wondering about that.
And then Mummy would drink some more, and Lucy would hide somewhere small and dark, and wait for her to fall asleep.
The next day was always the best; Mummy would be tired and a little bit cross at first, but then later, she’d invite Lucy to cuddle up in bed with her. She would kiss her and hold her tight and tell her she was sorry; that she didn’t mean the things she said. That everything would be all right. Maybe they would fall asleep for a while, together, all warm and close. Sometimes Mummy would go downstairs and fetch something for Lucy to eat; a packet of crisps maybe, or some biscuits; and once, an apple.
But those moments never lasted long; Mummy would get her headaches again, and Lucy knew the only thing to help her get better was one of those cold cans from the top of the fridge.
Lucy hoped that today was the day the man from the shop would come in his van and bring some shopping. It was usually cans, but sometimes there would be other things in the crate too. Maybe there would be something to eat.
Lucy looked forward to the man in the van coming to the house; she was always hopeful of him bringing something nice. She saw the way he gave her funny looks, like he was worried about her or something, but he never said anything to her. He never spoke much at all; Lucy thought he always seemed in a big hurry.
Maybe Mummy would wake up and open the door, if he came. Otherwise, how would he get in?
Lucy’s childish mind thought instantly of climbing; she could climb to open the door. But how? Her eyes came to rest on the chairs around the table. They looked heavy, but maybe she could drag one to the door. Perhaps she could open it then.
Hampered by her dirty nightdress catching on her small, cold feet, Lucy had trouble enough just dragging the chair away from the table; but, with a combination of desperation and excited anticipation, she managed to wrestle the chair across the room and into the front hallway. She pushed it up against the door, hitched up her nightdress, and clambered up.
The lock was tricky, and then Lucy had to struggle with the chain, but eventually, she got it open. There!
She climbed down feeling very excited and pleased with herself. One last effort to pull the chair out of the way, and she pulled the door open.
The sun fell on her upturned face and warmed her through. The breeze blew in her unkempt hair, and Lucy felt something so great, she had no words for it and nothing to compare it with; a moment of pure happiness. She squealed in delight and ran inside to tell Mummy. If she would just come downstairs, if she would just come and feel the sun!
She scampered up the stairs and into the gloomy bedroom. Lucy had become accustomed to the smell; it was old and stale, the smell Lucy always associated with Mummy.
The floor was littered with empty cans. An empty bottle lay next to the bed, its neck shattered; Lucy was careful to go around the other side and avoid the broken glass.
Mummy was still asleep; her mouth had turned blue at the edges; ‘Perhaps she’s cold,’ Lucy thought fleetingly, and she touched her hand to her mother’s cheek. It was icy cold. She retracted her hand, puzzled, and looked down at her Mummy more closely. There was no sign of movement; perhaps Lucy could bring the sunshine in here, instead. That would warm Mummy up; just as it had warmed Lucy. That would make her better.
She looked around the room, wondering what she could use to bring the sunshine in; an empty perfume bottle lay on its side on the dresser, thrown carelessly down with the combs and lipstick and creams. Lucy couldn’t remember seeing Mummy using any of those things.
She scooped up the bottle and flew down the stairs’ small and light on her feet. Innocently heedless of whoever might be watching, she skipped down the path and across the grass. The top of the bottle was stiff and presented a problem to her fingers; but it came open when she tried with her teeth.
Lucy smiled and held the bottle up, as high above her head as she could possibly reach; stretched up to the sun. The glass sparkled and glowed, and she held it there until her arms ached and she could stand it no longer. Then, quickly, so as not to let out any of the sun she had caught, she screwed the lid back on, and raced back inside.
It took a while for her eyes to re-adjust to the interior of the house, causing her to climb the stairs more slowly this time. The bedroom was exactly as she left it.
Full of hope, Lucy climbed up on to the bed, and showed her mother’s closed eyes the bottle. Nothing. Perhaps she should open it; yes, that was it, she should open it and let the sunshine out, into the room.
She carefully unscrewed the lid and held the bottle up high again, to allow it to spread as far as it might. Nothing again. No bright light, no warmth; nothing. Mummy’s eyes didn’t even flicker.
Disappointed, Lucy sat back on her heels, feeling her chilly feet against the warmth of her bare thighs under her nightdress. Now what?
A car was approaching. Lucy ran to the window and climbed up onto the dresser as she had many times before. The van! The man with the shopping van! He was coming down the street!
Recklessly, Lucy raced downstairs; the man would help her! The man would come and wake Mummy up!
She was out on the lawn now, terribly afraid that he wouldn’t stop; that he would go past, miss her somehow. She had to go closer, on to the pavement, onto the road even; anything to make him stop. She ignored the gritty concrete, grinding into her skin; ignored the grazing on her knees when she stumbled and fell. She had to get him to stop. She had to.
It was more important to Lucy than even she realised.
*
Cain wasn’t concentrating on the road; he didn’t see the strange little kid until it was too late. He had been flicking through the tracks on his C.D, looking for one of his favourites, to put on repeat. The roads around here were usually dead; especially at this time of day. Yet, when he looked up, there she was; kneeling in the middle of the road like the scrawny ghost of a scruffy little beggar.
She was looking up, straight at him, and she’d had a sad kind of smile on her face; that was the one thing that stayed with him forever after, the thing that haunted his dreams.
When he explained to the police for what felt like the thousandth time; when the paper and the T.V. people pressed him for details, blood-thirsty vultures that they were, it was that image that rushed to mind. Not the memory of the sickening thud as the van slammed into her tiny frame. Not the deep lurch in his stomach when he felt the impact too. Not even his utter repulsion and physical sickness when he saw what was left of Lucy.
That was her name; he hadn’t even been aware he knew it, but he must have heard it somewhere, sometime when he’d delivered here before, maybe. He’d dredged it up out of his memory in that cold, frozen moment when the horror of what had happened, finally hit home.
Just that smile.
That sad smile; too old and heavy a smile for such a skinny little kid.
*
The tree shook as a delicious vibration travelled its length. Its luxurious leaves rustled in murmured approval.
To the observant onlooker, it would have appeared for a moment to have stretched, strong arms reaching triumphantly to a clear blue sky; or to have swelled somehow, its girth thickening, just as a strong man might puff out his chest in arrogant self-appreciation.
And that same observer would most likely have dismissed it as a trick of the light, or of the eye; or both.
But stretch and swell the old oak did.
As if it was immensely proud of something.
*
Once again the night throws its blanket over Oakwood Close. Its occupants begin to wrap up in their own, personal cocoons, imagining themselves untouchable.
The oak tree stands in dominion over the houses, content to allow these transient mortals their veneer of safety. It is too old, too wise and too elemental to show them otherwise; it is anyway beyond its abilities. There is only one way in which the tree can touch their fleeting lives; only one way the tree knows, only one way it needs.
Succour; to draw from their fears and desires like moisture from the earth.
It has stood many ages of man, ignored, revered, tolerated, patronised; yet here it still stands. Mighty now, with the strength of sapped souls; vitalised by energies that were never meant to be released; grasping the Earth with greedy searching fingers that can never be prised free.
*
In the depths of the night, an acorn tumbles, almost playfully, from a bough. It taps, branch to branch, as if calling on neighbours to bid them goodbye, as it falls. The boughs wave in return, bidding their young farewell.
The night is soft and perfect. The acorn strokes the lowest branch and falls to the ground, rolling and bouncing; travelling still.
A squirrel streaks across the grass, disobeying the most primitive of instincts which order it to turn away. It scoops up the acorn and scampers away; away and away. Streets and woods away, fields away, before the acorn releases it and it turns on its bushy tail and melts, terrified, into the shelter of the dark woods.
The fruit borne of the oak rocks gently in the cradle of soil into which it has rolled. There is nothing here yet, just a field; an open space on the edge of the town. In time, man will come here. He will build his makeshift houses and imagine he is master.
But no matter.
The oak will be here.
Waiting.
Copyright S. P Oldham.