Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Mr Bell

As a child, all that Beauregard had was his books. He’d run away from the orphanage several times a week, and the police would always find the boy in the town’s library, huddled over huge volumes, because he simply loved to read.

His name had come from a book. His mother could not read, but his father would read to her during pregnancy, and after coming across the name in a book, it was decided that the little child who kicked against his mother’s stomach every time it was read aloud would have the name.

He hadn’t much of anything, losing his mother before he’d even met her, and his father to grief and alcohol, but he had always had his books.

They weren’t his books, of course, for they belonged to the library, but he adored them like they were his own, and when he turned fourteen and was sent out into the world to fend for himself, the first place that he turned was the library.

Dartford had a beautiful library, right in the centre of town. It had been built by Charles Linden in the last days of the 1700’s, before the man went mad.

Once the most celebrated writers of his generation, Linden had become reclusive in his later years and all that was left of him was his words, and the walls that contained them. The people of the town would still talk in hushed tones about the old man being dragged from his library and carted off to the lunatic asylum. That was the last that Dartford ever saw of Charles Linden, but his library remained, towering over the town, filled with knowledge and wisdom. One last gift to the people that had turned their back on him.

Linden had always been an author that Beauregard admired, even after many had decided that his writing had crossed into the bizarre, so Linden’s library had always been his favourite place to be.

He would sleep in it’s shadow, staying warm inside during the day with the friends and familiar places that lived in the pages, and after a while, the kind eyed librarian, Mrs Waterson took pity on the boy, and allowed him to board in the attic of the library, in exchange for working there.

Beauregard didn’t have much at the library, beyond his books, a sink and a camp bed, but he felt like his life was finally changing for the better. He took such joy in recommending books to the visitors, reading fairy tales to the children and keeping all of his favourite books in the best condition.

He would return to the attic every evening with a bowl of soup from the kitchen, and page after page of entertainment. It was, to the boy who had nothing, the perfect life.

Beauregard never felt any less satisfaction from his simple existence. He never longed for money, fame or fortune, but sometimes, as he fell into a soft slumber in his small sanctuary, Beauregard longed for a friend to share his stories with.

He had begun writing stories after working at the library for a while. Mrs Waterson had decided to pay him a small wage, and he would spend almost all of it on paper and ink, forgoing food every few days, so that he could keep himself in writing supplies.

He couldn’t really say when he met Charles Linden, but after a while, it seemed that he couldn’t remember his life before him. Linden had been dead for decades, and yet, he appeared in the attic to the boy, every night as he took out his paper to write.

At first, the man did not speak. He would stand in the corner of the attic, barely visible in the weak candle light, and watch Beauregard writing. Beauregard couldn’t remember the first time he had been watched, and had never felt any shock or surprise at the intrusion, which made very little sense to him. Sometimes, he thought he was imagining it, but sometimes, as the man watched, he was certain that their time together was real.

As strange as it was, Beauregard had never feared the visits from the long dead man. He had often envied Ebenezar Scrooge for his ghostly company, rather than his money as he had read A Christmas Carol, and now, as quiet as he was, Beauregard had a ghost of his own.

Winter had wrapped its icy arms around the attic, and as Beauregard wrote late into the night, watched over by his spectre, Charles finally spoke.

“Would you like to borrow his quill Beauregard?” Beauregard looked up with curious eyes at the shadowy figure in the corner. The candle light crept across the man’s face, shining on every line and crevice as it passed, before the darkness swallowed up the man’s face again. “It’s how I wrote all my best stories.” Beauregard looked down at his fountain pen, wondering how a quill could be any better, but not sure that he could pass up the opportunity to hold the instrument of his idol, even if it was just a dream.

The boy nodded, watching the man lean down to meet him, placing a delicate, white quill into his shaking hands. Beauregard kept the man’s gaze a little longer, his eyes wandering across the red, wrinkled outline of the older man’s stare. He had only ever seen Linden in paintings, but up close, he was in awe of the man, and as he slowly moved the quill down towards the ink, he couldn’t take his eyes from his ghostly friend.

The spirit motioned to the paper without another word and Beauregard swallowed nervously, dipping the quill into his ink pot and holding it above the paper. The room was awash with winter’s chill as Beauregard began to write. He kept his eyes on the pale face of the old man, his hand moving across the page as he wrote.

That night, Beauregard wrote the most beautiful prose. His mind raced with ideas, and he was up all night, Linden watching quietly as the boy wrote. Somewhere close to sunrise, he fell asleep, the quill still clutched in his hands. Beauregard was tormented during a short and shallow sleep. Chased by shadows and spectres as the night dragged on.

The morning came, and the many pages Beauregard had written were scattered around him, the words crossed through and scribbled upon. Beauregard scratched his head, looking through the papers in confusion. The stories had changed. Once so beautiful, they were now chilling. Macabre, melancholy pages of madness. Page after page of insanity and incomprehensible violence. Beauregard turned away, not wanting to see the words that seemed to have come from his quill.

“It’s your madness now.” Came a whisper behind the boy. He jumped, turning to see the cold stare of Linden looming over him again. “You can’t escape Mr Bell, you know.” The man seemed to fade from view as he sighed. “Even now I’ve given him to you, he’ll still be with me.” The man’s voice vanished along with him, and Beauregard was alone in the attic, with nothing but his pages, his quill, and his madness.

He didn’t know the full extent of it, of course. None of Mr Bell’s favourite writers ever did. You see, it begins with a visit from the last, the handing over of the quill to the new, and then, the first piece of prose. It is always beautiful. It is always something that stuns them, shows them their true potential, makes them hungry for more, and then, they will dream as Mr Bell reads their stories.

Mr Bell will want more and more as the days go by. He has so many ideas, so inspired by the world around him, and all the things that his favourite writers can do with them.

They never get the chance to tell him “no”, of course. Who could? He is always their most generous patron. He provides the quill that brings out their best. He knows all sorts of people in publishing. He can take a poor boy from the attic of a library and make him a star.

You’ll always have ink, if Mr Bell enjoys your work. The ink may be red, rather than black, but it’s just as good. The library might be a little quieter, but that’s only because the visitors are experiencing stories in a whole new way. You see, Mr Bell likes to see things come to life from the pages. He was never the best at visualising, but the visitors of the library are only too happy to oblige.

Beauregard thought he’d be the last. He tasted success as a writer for Mr Bell, and he didn’t much like it. He fought, quite valiantly against the madness, but the madness just fought back. If Mr Bell was perhaps just a wealthy, pushy man, Beauregard might have succeeded, but as I’m sure you are coming to understand, Mr Bell was something far greater than that.

The library doesn’t get many visitors these days. Books have fallen out of favour, and this once beautiful building has fallen into disrepair, but every now and again, someone finds their way to our little library, and Beauregard is always waiting at the door.

He’ll read them a story, to try and scare them away, but he’s never quite quick enough to keep them away from me.

You see, I’m looking for a new writer that I might enjoy, and you never know who might pop into our rather unearthly little library. Take you, for example. I’ve got a lovely quill that is looking for a new home. I’ve grown tired of Beauregard and his stories… I think it might be time for him to be put out to pasture, but, you. I see so many stories in you…

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Forever Faithful

Those bastards drove right past me. It was dark, but I had a torch, waving it madly from the side of the road as they approached. It didn’t matter, because they drove right past me, and now, they’ll get what they deserve.

I just needed a ride into the village. It wouldn’t have been too far. They were going that way anyway, but the trouble with people today is that they’ve got no kindness in them.

If they’d pulled over and let me in from the rain, I would have told them about Luna.

We all know about her round here, but they were from the city. Probably here for the wedding, I imagine. We always get weddings here, because the church is pretty and makes for great photos. The local hotel loves it because they always host the reception, and it makes money for the rest of the local businesses too, so we can’t complain, but Luna doesn’t like it.

They say that she was due to get married. It was back in the 40’s, just after the war. Luna was the most beautiful girl in the village, and her family were loaded too. They owned the hotel, and she was the only child, so everything was destined to go to her one day. Her parents wanted her to marry a rich man, even a Lord, but Luna fell in love with a local shop boy, and as young people tend to do, she thought she knew better and wouldn’t marry, unless it was to him.

It was quite the scandal, but her parents relented eventually, and a date was set. The whole village turned out for it, with the exception of the groom, and one of the chambermaids from the hotel. As it all turns out, Luna’s love had already given his heart to somebody else, and after making off with as much of Luna’s fortune as he could carry, they ran away to the coast, leaving Luna in tears at the alter.

She ran from the wedding, humiliated and heartbroken, and she was never seen again… Not in the state she left the wedding, anyway. Some think she was hit by a car, or drowned in the lake, but the truth was so much worse.

A few weeks later, the shop boy and his maid mistress were found dead in the forest that surrounded the village. Their bodies were mangled, torn to pieces, and it took a while for the police to even identify them, but eventually, they realised it was them. Somebody, or something had lured them back to the forest and massacred them.

Nobody would say, but everyone got the feeling it was Luna, and assuming that she’d had her pound of flesh, they began to breathe a little easier.

The trouble was, Luna hadn’t quite had her fill. Something bad happened to her out in those woods, something horrible. Not by the hand of man, oh no. Luna was killed by nature. She was walking through the forest, blinded by tears and lost her way. She called out for help but in the thick forest, nobody could hear her. It gets so dark in there. Even in the daytime, you’d swear it was night.

Nobody came to rescue her, so she was lost to the elements. She almost made it, bless her heart, she crawled out, hungry and thirsty, covered in dirt and rainwater. She made it onto the side of the road, but all the cars just drove past. They didn’t see her. They just drove past.

That’s where she died, where you just picked me up. People say that if you listen, you can still hear her by the side of the road, crawling on the floor from the forest, pleading for somebody to drive her up to the hotel. Anyone who’s smart will stop, and take her home. She’s always grateful, gives them a sweet smile from her swollen, rotting face as she leaves the car and runs up the path to the hotel.

Those two weren’t smart though. See that car up ahead? They came down for the wedding, just got engaged themselves, but they’re not going to make it down the aisle.

You see, Luna doesn’t like people that don’t stop to give her a ride, and she dislikes couples even more. I suppose it’s a bit of a sore subject for her, with all she’s been through.

Slow down a second…

They’re about to swerve off the road, just watch.

Don’t get out and check on them! Luna doesn’t like that! Just keep driving. Luna will take care of them.

Aren’t you glad you picked me up, eh?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Spooky Season, Trick Or Trick, Writing

Trick Or Trick – Part Two

“Come on out Brent!” Brent burrowed his head under his pillow to avoid the voice of his next door neighbour Elizabeth. “You know they won’t go away until you do.” Brent shook his head, throwing his duvet across his body and shuddering beneath it, his body chilled by fear.

“We’re not doing this for another year Brent!” The neighbours began to bang on the door, their hurried screams setting Brent on edge. “Just let them in and it will be over.” Brent lifted the duvet, glancing around the room gingerly. “They’ve got our children.”

Brent felt guilt wash over him, his throat pinched by the memories he had made a great effort to forget. Truthfully, he did know why the Baxter family would visit, and why he was always top of the list for their torment, and now, it was time for him to make amends.

Brent was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of smashing glass filling his small flat. He sat up with a start, jumping from his bed and rushing towards his bedroom door. There was another crash, and as he poked his head round the door, he could see a crowd of his neighbours forcing their way through his broken living room window, the Baxter family stood behind them, in smiling silence.

“Okay!” He called out, throwing open the bedroom door and walking towards them. “I’ll let them in.” The crowd froze and Brent weaved through them, his heart heavier with each step as he advanced towards the front door.

“Where’s my daughter?” Mrs Baxter stepped forward as Brent opened the door, the lights of his flat showing the true horror of the matriarch, her flesh falling from her bones, and her eyes, nothing but empty sockets.

“I didn’t think anyone would mind, because it was so old and…” Brent began, but her bare stare made him fall silent. She pushed past him, barging into the flat, followed by the elder son, Samuel, his skin, sallow as his bones jutted through and shone in the moonlight. “I kept meaning to put it back, but…” The smallest of the Baxters, little William followed his older brother into the flat, staring up at Brent with empty eyes and a mouth full of worms and maggots.

“Her.” He whispered. Brent stared back at the small boy, shuddering as the child raised a skeletal finger, the last remains of skin hanging from the tip. “I want my sister back.”

Brent gulped, nodding as the family stepped closer.

“Okay, I’ll just go and get it.” The family glared at him, stepping ever closer and he smiled nervously. “I mean, her. I’ll go and get her.” He sprinted back towards his bedroom, diving under the bed, frantically searching until his hands came upon a small black box. He scrambled out from under the bed, lifting the lid and staring down at the small skull, all that remained of little Wendy Baxter.

“Bring her to me!” Her mother cried as Brent rushed back towards the living room, thrusting the box at her and stepping back out of her reach. Mrs Baxter sighed, cradling the skull in her arms, the box it had lay in discarded on the floor. “Now my baby can rest.” Tears fell from her empty eyes as a small girl, transparent and timid emerged behind her mother’s skirt, embraced in an instant by the twin who had missed her for an eternity.

“Wendy!” William exclaimed, clutching the sister that had been stolen from him. The two children shared a smile, before linking hands and motioning to the surrounding crowd who began to follow them to the front door.

“You take these nice people to their children, little ones.” Mrs Baxter said, waving at her youngest children as the crowd trailed after them into the dark night. “Mummy has something to take care off.” She rounded on Brent, Samuel crossing the room and slamming the front door with a wicked smile.

“Look, it was an accident, okay?” Brent whispered, stumbling back as the undead mother and son advanced on him with wrathful stares. “I just wanted something cool as a decoration, and it was just lying on the cemetery floor…” He tripped, clattering to the floor, helpless as they got closer.

“Liar!” Samuel snarled, pinning Brent to the floor. “You dug her up.” Brent tried to fight back, but he was powerless, watching in terror as Mrs Baxter knelt beside his body and wrapped her flayed hands around his neck.

“You’re coming with us.” She spat with a smirk as the world faded to darkness around Brent.

The people of Norman Court moved on, happy that October was now just another month, and the Baxter family rested happily in their graves, reunited once more.

As for Brent, he was never seen again. Nobody mentioned his name. His flat was let out again, and was taken on by a nice couple who had no idea of Norman Court’s reputation. It was as if he had never existed, except on Halloween.

Some say that when night falls on October 31st, you can see Brent Hutton wandering the halls and stairways of Norman Court, watching his neighbours from the balcony with a frenzied, seething stare, never able to forget how they helped the Baxter’s to take their revenge.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Spooky Season, Trick Or Trick, Writing

Trick Or Trick – Part One

Brent Hutton had lived in Norman Court for most of his life. It was a collection of grey tower blocks that cast a long shadow across the town, and was avoided by most of the surrounding townspeople.

Norman Court had a rough, and in Brent’s mind unearned reputation. There was crime on the council estate that he called home, but there was crime everywhere, and for every difficult incident, there was twice as much community spirit, so Brent had never considered himself unlucky to live in Norman Court, except, of course, during October.

October was a rough time for the residents of Norman Court, but nobody had it quite as bad as Brent, and as he counted down the days on the calendar, watching the worst month of the year creep closer, he couldn’t help but feel anxious.

The Baxter family were impossible to avoid for the residents of Norman Court, but they had a particular fascination with Brent, and he’d never been able to figure out why.

It always started with a knock at the door on the first of October. Brent had stopped answering, knowing that nothing would be there, except a reminder that the Baxter’s had returned for another year to torment him. They’d knock again and again and he’d cower behind the couch, watching the front door with frightened eyes, praying for the noise to stop for the night.

For the first nine days, all that they’d do is knock on the door, travelling up and down the rows of flats to pay each one a visit, but on the tenth day of October, they began to pay special attention to Brent.

On the tenth of October, it was little William Baxter’s birthday, and he’d always pay a visit to Brent’s flat to celebrate. The small boy would stand by the front window, his hands and face pressed up against the glass, glaring with glassy, dark eyes into the living room.

He wouldn’t move, or speak, he’d just stare from the moment the sun rose, until it set, and then he’d give Brent a little wave before turning, heading down the stairs and vanishing into the night.

He wouldn’t be gone long. As the night wore on, the boy called out Brent’s name, his cries creeping closer and closer as the hours ticked by.

On the eleventh of October, the whole family would begin to visit Brent, knocking on his windows and howling into the air as the hours slipped by.

They would visit him every day until sundown on October 30th, and as the sun fell on the day before Halloween, Brent would dread the dawn that approached the next day.

Today, we find Brent in his bedroom, staring at his alarm clock as Halloween creeps closer. In a few hours, the true terror of the Baxter family will be unleashed, and it will start with one more knock at the door.

All of Brent’s neighbours were gathered by his front door, the Baxter family leant against the bannisters of the stairway with the same sinister smile.

The minutes melted into hours and the clock echoed through his bedroom as little William Baxter raised a fist to the front door and knocked.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Spooky Season, Writing

Flashback – Stay Away

Jamie had never been a petty person, or so she told herself, and she had gone through life accepting what fate gave her, without being too concerned about clawing back something she felt she was owed. She was humble, not feeling entitled to anything, until of course, she, like many people do, day after day and mistake after mistake, she fell for someone she shouldn’t have.

She had never been petty, but she had always been shy, and as you can imagine, this can cause all kinds of problems for someone who is struggling to navigate through a busy college corridor. As Jamie was knocked to the ground, an almost daily occurrence that she had just about accepted, the group of students continued on, as if she hadn’t been there at all. She began to collect her books, and strewn glasses, when another pair of hands joined her own. It was a cliché, she knew that, and she cringed every time she recalled the moment, but for the first time, she felt welcoming to what fate had given her, instead of disgruntled indifference.

She didn’t say a word to him as he helped her gather her possessions, and she couldn’t even push a thank you from her throat as he walked her to her dorm room. It had been embarrassing to simply point and nod, as if playing a ridiculously timed game of charades, but she was sure that if she opened her mouth in the presence of those piercing blue eyes (again, the girl loves a good cliché), that she would say something worthy of a restraining order.

He told her his name was Bradley, and ever the mistress of her own bodily reactions, she sighed without meaning to, and almost slid down her own front door. Composing herself, she managed to tell him her own name, before he wished her well and sauntered down the staircase, and out of sight.

They talked more and more, or rather he talked and she smiled, and nodded, while fantasising their future conversations, before the present had even finished. In her reality, they were deeply in love. The kissing, the touching, the actual public proclamation of their love for each other, that was all a formality, because for Jamie, he said it (prepare for another cliché) with his eyes.

Unfortunately for Jamie, this was not the case at all. Bradley was a narcissist who enjoyed the sound of his own voice, and had finally found a quiet and appreciative audience for it. He didn’t view Jamie with any malice, of course, he was fond of her, even if it was just for the fact that she listened and responded positively to everything he said, which in Bradley’s eyes made her the very best a person could be, but he certainly wasn’t in love with her.

However, Jamie had been raised on romantic films and poorly thought out advice pages from magazines, that told her that the second a man opens up and talks to you without hesitation, you ought to buy your mother a new hat, because you’ll be taking a trip down the aisle very soon.

As previously mentioned, Bradley was not in love with Jamie, and Jamie had barely been able to talk in front of him, so had no way of telling him that she wished he was, and so Bradley thought nothing of confiding in his new friend about his girlfriend, and the dilemma of how he should proceed with valentine’s day.
At first, Jamie was distracted by Bradley’s eyes, and his lips, and all sorts of things she had decided made him worthy of the alarming amount of clichés she used to describe him in her diary, but after a few moments, the gravity of his words, and the knowledge that another had already stolen the heart she had earmarked as her own came crashing through her fantasy, and left her again on the floor, with her books all over the place, and her glasses not only strewn out of reach, but crushed by the size twelves of fate.

Self pity rose through her body and threatened to leak from her eyes any moment, and for the first time, she spoke without effort, quietly excusing herself, and running from his dorm room to hide in her own, with a tub of ice cream, and all of her regrettable diary entries.
She poured over them for hours, unsure of how she could have misread the signs so badly. If she was being honest, she hadn’t really listened to Bradley all that much, so it was pretty easy to ignore that he had a girlfriend, and if she was to be even more honest, she wasn’t sure that she liked Bradley for anything other than the fact he acknowledged her existence and had been raised with enough decorum to help someone pick up their possessions if they dropped them.

Politeness and general acknowledgement weren’t quite enough to build a marriage on, and if that had been everything, she would have happily settled the matter and learned from her mistake, but fate hadn’t quite finished with Jamie yet.

She slept for a few hours, to try and rid herself of the tear induced headache, and awoke to a phone call from Bradley. At first, she thought about ignoring it, but while she didn’t listen to Bradley all that much, she enjoyed giving the illusion that she did, as it gave her someone to spend time with.

They spoke, with her feeling free to for the first time, and when she was sure he was satisfied with the lie that she had left due to feeling unwell, as opposed to the truth, she agreed to meet with him ‪the next day and hung up the phone.

She tried to sleep again that night, but couldn’t. She knew, deep down that Bradley wasn’t in love with her, and yet, the fact that he had called, the fact that he had worried enough to check on her after she left set her mind racing, as she imagined a scenario in which he was in love with her. She tossed and turned for hours, her heart saying that he could be feeling the same torment, and her head telling her to shut up and go to sleep. While she listened to her head and gave into sleep, she couldn’t resist dreaming of Bradley all night.

When she awoke, she heard knocking at the door. Gathering herself together, and covering herself up as best she could, she approached the door of her dorm room and opened it slowly.

“Jamie!” Bradley looked handsome, and Jamie wished she didn’t think so. She silently stood aside, allowing him in, and watched with a heavier heart than she would have liked as he sighed and fell down onto her bed, throwing his bag on the floor. “Oh Jamie, I need your help.” It was Jamie’s turn to sigh. She had awoken sure that her feelings for Bradley meant nothing, and that she could continue life as his echo chamber in exchange for having seats saved at lunch and someone to be with on lonely nights, but seeing him made her remember the concern in his voice as he called the night before, and left her clinging desperately to the idea he might in fact have deeply buried feelings for her, despite his girlfriend sitting atop his heart, swinging what Jamie was sure were long, tanned, beautiful legs.

“My girlfriend is mad at me.” There it was. “She’s upset that we’ve been talking, and now she won’t speak to me.” Jamie tried to show concern, but an ugly part of her had surfaced, and enjoyed knowing that she could get at the ominous girlfriend, that she had grown to resent over the last twenty four hours.

Jamie wouldn’t normally sink to this level, and preferred to get her kicks from high test scores, cat memes and pound a pint nights, but love, or at least very strong lust with a hint of bitterness had given her a new edge, and nothing could thrill her like the sadness of a perceived enemy.

“I could talk to her, if you want.” Jamie said, her voice laced with sympathy as she sat on the bed next to Bradley, stroking his auburn curls. “I could tell her that she doesn’t need to worry.” Bradley beamed up at her.

“I knew I could count on you.” He whispered, taking one of her hands in his own and kissing it gently.

Jamie wished things could stay as they were, Bradley snuggled close to her, without a care in the world, however, life wasn’t always easy, and sometimes, it was just ridiculous. This was one of those ridiculous times.

Jamie could barely believe when Bradley excitedly pulled his bag onto the bed and threw a spirit board in her direction, or when he babbled on about his dead girlfriend. The whole thing felt like a prank, but just in case it wasn’t, Jamie decided to go along with it. She realised that she had a great opportunity. She could simply tell Bradley that his “ghost” girlfriend was breaking up with him for good, and she would have him all to herself. It was a flawless plan, as far as she was concerned, and she couldn’t wait to get started.

She had decided to take a nap first, but as she awoke, she wished she hadn’t. She had slept a lot longer than she intended, and was dripping in what she hoped was sweat. Her sleep was a mess of nightmares, all revolving around Bradley’s ominous girlfriend taking her revenge as Jamie took her man. She tried to convince herself that she didn’t believe what Bradley had told her, and that it was all just a game, but she felt compelled to apologise to the spirit, in the hopes of getting a good night’s sleep.

She knew that she shouldn’t be alone, but Jamie didn’t have anyone else she could have invited along. Attempting to contact spirits wasn’t the top of the to do list for her small circle of friends, and so she tucked her hair behind her ear, did her best to fight past her nerves and took a deep breath, before opening her eyes. Everything was as she had left it before. The unlit candle on her left, a note pad and pencil on her right, and the spirit board, looming in front of her.

She took another breath, looking around at the well lit room and trying to force herself to laugh at her own paranoia. She had yet to summon or approach anything, and even when she would later try, there was no promise that any of it would work. The panic must all be in her head, she decided, taking another breath, and shaking off another shudder that the room had taken against her will.

She lit the candle, exactly as she had seen in the YouTube tutorial (they make those for EVERYTHING these days), and took another breath.

“Is anyone here?” There was silence. Jamie kept her eyes focused on the spirit board, as the coolness of the room edged down her spine. With every second, she was convinced that the whole story had been a prank. Bradley seemed relatively well adjusted, so it was unlikely that he truly believed his ghost girlfriend was desperate for a heart to heart over candlelight.

After what felt like hours, but was only in fact a few moments, Jamie finally laughed to herself, and blew out the candle. She would mark it up to experience, and forget about Bradley, and his alleged ghost girlfriend. She packed the spirit board in it’s box, and left it outside of Bradley’s room before heading to bed, and hoping she would dream of something a little less strange.

She awoke early, when the darkness still lay outside, to see a single candle lit on her desk. She was positive that she had extinguished it before taking the board back to Bradley, but as she stood and examined the candle, she noticed the board was open on her desk.

She tore her eyes from the scene, her body submerged in icy fear, and saw her door was still locked, as she had left it, and as she turned to the board, she couldn’t understand how it had appeared, unless of course, Bradley had been telling the truth, and a pissed off ghost wanted a conversation with her.
She watched in silent horror as the board spelled out a single word.

SIT

She fell into the waiting chair, despite desperately wanting to run, but unable to move an inch. She thought about praying but she wouldn’t even know how to explain this situation, or what kind of help to ask for. Her eyes followed the planchette as it continued to move.

STAY AWAY

She nodded, unable to say a word, and hoped the spirit understood that she had won. No man was worth this, at all. As she tried to find the strength to speak, she could see the spirit continue, and after taking a few seconds to figure out the words she was spelling out, she wished that she hadn’t.

YOU WILL DIE

There was a knock at the door, but she didn’t dare move. The candle flickered as the planchette continued across the board, and while she recognised Bradley’s voice from the other side of the door, his words didn’t register in her mind, as it was too full of the spirit, and what she had to say.

HE WILL KILL YOU LIKE HE KILLED ME