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Slumped back in the large well cushioned easy chair; Terry was sipping on a mug of tea when the phone rang. it was Nina.
“I would have rung earlier Dad, but figured you’d be resting after your journey.
We were delayed for over twenty minutes, on the runway at the airport terminus, the snow storm turned into a real blizzard. Still, I got there in the end!"
“I hope.” It was Marie. “Brother you are taking care of yourself! So what have you got for Christmas dinner, I bet its not turkey.“ She fell about laughing.
“You can shut it Sis! Its roast beef, all the trimmings! Including Yorkshire
pudding.“ There was a giggle from Nina. “We have goose AND it fits in the oven as well Dad!“ “Funny, very funny!“
“You’ve not had anything go missing, have you Dad?“ “No!“ Her question had roused his curiosity. "What a strange thing to say."
“When I stayed at Nans last time, some of my things went missing, but they were back in their place, a couple of days later. It was really bizarre.
So, how’s the weather!“ Ten minutes later he had replaced the phone, started to put the fire together.
Emptying the ash pan, he was more than aware of the ovenight snowfall, at the moment a respite but for how long? Any more snow and the road would almost certainly be impassable, somehow it seemed a good idea whilst he could, without having to fight his way through, to take a trip into the village!
Garlic chicken, scalloped potatoes and peas. A glass or two of white wine, followed by tinned cocktail fruits, topped with cold custard. Washing the dishes and putting the items away. The sound, of the wind picking up.
A sudden blast of wind as the front door rattled, reminded him he needed to renew the insulation strip on it. He remembered, from memories, as a child, having spent time, at his parents, near the sea.
The night of the storm, when the lightning, had destroyed two of the old birch
trees. The sound of them cracking, creaking, before crashing into the roof of the barn.
Some smoke, filtered out from the fire. Down draught where the wind, had swirled around the top of the chimney, to cause the smoke to drop back. Pressure differences? Nothing major.
A log on the fire, shifted slightly. Burnt coal displaced, allowing it, to drop, he prodded it with the poker, put a little more coal around it.
Turning on the old Pye valve radio, his father had had, for over thirty years, still working well, picking up the local radio stations loud and clear. A warmth to the sound. Unlike today's radios.
Nat King Cole. 'On the street where you live'. He was humming to the song, as he poured himself a brandy, sipped at it and proceeded to pick up the book, slumped back in the large cosy armchair.
Reading glasses? Couldn't manage without them, now where had he put them.
He could swear, he had left them on the table, next to his fathers chair.
Ah there they were. On the large leather sofa!
Few more sips of the brandy, retrieve the glasses along with the book, a few more sips, finish that and pour another. He sat down, started to read. Feeling a sense of calm?
It had been, a long time since he had been sat with a book. This one was on Classic motor cars. One from his fathers vast collection of books spanning decades.
Vintage cars from the 1930's to the 1950’s.
The log on the fire had shifted, slid from the fire towards the grate, over the top to land in the well of the surround. Placing the almost empty brandy glass onto the table he went to move to take hold of the fire tongs, his intention to see the log placed quickly back on the fire?
His fingers went to grip the tongs but not before the log had risen of its own
accord hovered mid air and slammed, back into the fire. Right before his eyes.
Catching his breath somewhat as one might surmise, stunned.
Sense dictates a logical answer to this ‘hallucination’.
Of course. The brandy! He had not drunk so much in months. Add to that what Nina had said about ghostly goings on, he grinned; she had spooked him.
Reaching for the book, now resting in his lap. He opened it to adjust his reading glasses, gaze at the page in front of him. Suddenly the pages flipped at some crazy speed, you could visualize the hand of the dealer, a cascade of cards at the blackjack tables in Vegas.
Taken off him, to land on the floor in front of him, closing with a thud. Quiet. Pouring another drink he sat there sipping at the brandy. More distractions?
The radio station was being retuned. A cacophony of sounds. Harsh, distorted, noisy and irritating. Ah that's better. A woman's voice. the 'Light program' Uhh? Radio 4 Long wave. What the.
A program on things that go bump in the night, a pre Christmas round of excerpts from some of the best writers of ghost stories. Not quite urban legends but quite eerie to listen to.
If his intention had been to stay awake, it did not work. The harder he tried the more tired his eyes became, until finally he was fast asleep, snoring his head off.
The brandy glass now empty; had slid from his fingers to tumble to the floor.
It did not reach the floor as it floated mid air to be placed onto the table.
“Your turn, he’s heavy. ” The voice was female in form. “You’re a ghost woman. You can’t feel anything, so how the heck do you know he’s heavy.“
“Well you can see by his girth.“ “Leave him, I say.“ “Thomas Lamb . I’ll not be hearing of such. If he’s sleeping, it’s the bed he’ll be wanting.”
“You were the same with me woman.“ “Wishful thinking on your part. Now get about your business and make sure he’s in the right bed.“
“You’re cracked, woman.“ “Wipe that smile off your face Thomas Lamb. You’ll not, be putting him, in my room. Though he’s a handsome fellow.“
“So where’s his wife. Last time they was ere, he had a girl with him.“ “His bairn.” “Well the two old uns, were his parents.“
“How observant of you.“ “Still don’t answer my question woman.“ “Taken, so I overhears the bairn say, by the good Lord.“ “Tell me again, how come this good Lord, took them, but left us?“ “Your sins. Until you show, that you are worthy of leaving here, you’re stuck here.“
“I’m being punished?” “Yes.“ “Come to think of it woman, you could be right about that. I’m stuck here with you.“
“Get about your business.“ Terry’s body rose from the chair glided towards the stairs. “I hate those stairs." The body drifted up the stairs and as the door opened he was placed onto the bed. Still snoring his head off.
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