Mulled Vine

I began the story game: “I walked along the long, dusty road, barren fields on either side littered with dead sheep.”
My young daughter looked at me, thinking what happened to “Once upon a time?”, but going with the flow responded, “Suddenly, from behind a ridge a group of wild gnomes appeared and ran, shouting, towards the man.”
I smiled, and responded, “Luckily I had my trusty light sabre with me and was able to fend them off, killing every single one.”
She replied, “But then all their friends came, millions of them, from every direction.”
“Ah,” said I, “but I also had my transporter with me and was able to just in time teleport myself to the Pearly Gates where St Peter looked at me with some astonishment.
She looked bored, so I continued, “I told him my story, all about the road, the barren wasteland, the sheep and the gnomish hordes, but he looked at me with saintly scorn and said that he had heard many tales before but never one so ridiculous, and didn’t let me in.”

“What a cool house, Joe!” cried Tom.

I smiled, not really knowing what to say. I’d lived in the old manor house for so long that I guess I took its size and lavish gardens for granted. My father is the warden of Farley Manor and I am his only son. I don’t know my mother – she died when I was very little, my father says of cancer. I have a picture of her: a beautiful, slender young woman with sad eyes and I imagine those eyes knowing that she wouldn’t see me grow up and being sad because of it, but that’s silly, I know. My father is an earnest man of few words, and has been as long as I can remember. He is tall, lean, with cold grey eyes that leave one with no doubt as to who is in charge. I suppose I love my father, but it is a strange sort of love; kind of a mixture between awe, respect and fear. He never hugs me and I sometimes feel he thinks I’m a nuisance, a left over part of my mother.

Tom is my only friend from school, Pembury Grammar School for boys – a “serious establishment” our headmaster always tells us – and his being here at my house is a rare treat indeed because father is not keen on people visiting. He says its because he has to look after the place and doesn’t want any of my hooligan friends damaging anything – it took me weeks of nagging to get permission.

I like Tom. He is serious like me, but like me has a wickedly fun streak and the two of us get along famously. Father had allowed use to roam around the whole gardens, so we were engaged in a very splendid game of hide and seek, too young for our teenage years, but who cares? I had just found him hiding in the maze and we were sitting resting on the edge of the fountain, looking back at the house.

“Really cool, Joe. You are so lucky.”
“I suppose, Tom, but it gets a bit lonely sometimes without anyone to hang out with.”
“You have me.”
“Yes, but that’s hardly ever. I wish father would let you visit more.”
Tom nodded, staring vacantly into the distance.

“Hey, what’s that?” he shouted suddenly, pointing towards the house.
I looked to see what he was pointing at. “What?”
“There! The attic window. A face!”
I looked but couldn’t see anything. “There’s nobody up there.”
“I tell you, there was someone, a girl with black hair. Very pale.”
“Woooooo… a ghooost…” I teased.
“Stop it!” he said, getting annoyed, “I saw someone!”
“Sorry.” I replied. “We do actually have a ghost, you know?”
“No way!”
“Yes. Father says it is a young woman who was murdered here long ago. She was locked up in the attic by her father and left to die.”
“Ugh. That’s horrible.”
“Definitely. Do you believe in ghosts?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“So shall we go have a look then?”
“What? No!”
“Oh come one. Be a sport!”
“I would but my father doesn’t allow me to go up there.”
“Why not?”
“He says there are precious vases up there and I’m not to go there.”
“Oh, OK…”

I could sense the disappointment and really did want to be a good sport. “Listen … well … my father is doing his rounds of the estate so we could take a quick look.”
Tom’s face brightened immediately. “Cool let’s go” and ran off towards the house with me in hot pursuit.

We reached the house at the same time and stopped, listening. Its weird how something can be a home one minute and a source of thrilling terror the next. I did actually believe in ghosts, despite what I’d told Tom. From earliest childhood the house had been full of creaks and distant noises, and sometimes when I lay in my bed trying to fall asleep I imagined I heard crying coming from the attic two floors above me. I’d asked my father about it and that is when he told me about the ghost, the girl called Isabelle who didn’t listen to her father and was horribly punished for it. It was a cruel story to tell a little boy, but he was like that, my father: very tough, and he expected the same from me I guess.

We climbed the flights of stairs quietly, listening both to the house and for my father, who I knew would skin me alive if he caught us. We soon reached the top floor and crossed the landing towards the final set of stairs that led up to the attic. I looked over towards Tom and could see that he was not looking as brave as he’d done before. “You OK?” I asked. He looked at me and nodded grimly. This was serious business.

We were about to start our ascent when I remembered that we would need a key to get into the attic. I once before had “explored” this area and found the way into the attic barred by a very solid, locked door. My courage had left me then and I had not returned, at least not until today. I did however look for the key and found it finally in a box at the back of my father’s cupboard. I told Tom to wait for me while I retrieved it and returned within a few minutes.

We paused before the final leg of our adventure, listening for the ghost, and for my father. I’m not sure who I was more terrified of, but I lead the way, quickly climbing the stairs. We stood at the door, ears pressed to its ancient panels, listening. Nothing. Just the wind sighing sadly as it drew its breath through the cracks.

I put the key into the keyhole and turned it slowly. I was surprised to find that it actually turned very easily. I thought nobody, including my father, ever went into the attic. My heart pounded in my throat as the door creaked open slowly, revealing a vast dimly lit space littered with clutter from yesteryear. Cobwebs hung everywhere between the clouds of ancient dust. In the middle of the attic was an old four poster bed bedecked with a thick veil. Tom nudged me and nodded towards the bed. I’d seen it too: the outline of a person, sleeping or perhaps worse, dead. It took all my courage to take a step forward rather than run for my life. Here at last was the answer to the question that had been burning in my subconscious for most of my life, the source of that presence I had always sensed and sometimes heard.

We reached the bed and with trembling hands slowly drew the veil back.

Before us lay, not a child, not a ghost, but a dead woman dressed in a long, faded red dress. She must have been dead a long time because the skin hung tautly on gaunt bones and her fingernails extended grotesquely beyond their usual boundaries.

“Ugh!” hissed Tom. “Who do you think she is?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, “but she’s got something in her hand.”

We leaned forward, expecting her to leap at any minute, and inspected the item in her hand, a gold locket. I reached and took it from the wizened fingers, then opened it to find two pictures, one of a woman, the other of a little child. The child was I, and the eyes of the woman were sadly familiar; this was my mother.

I stood staring at the photographs, unable to move, struggling to comprehend the awful horror of what lay before me. Tom hissed impatiently “What is it?”

Suddenly behind us the floorboards creaked and we turned to find my father standing, cold fury in his eyes. “So you found her.”
We looked at him fearfully.
“I told you not to come up her, Joseph. You should have listened to me.”
“Sorry Father” I mumbled.
“Yes, very, very sorry Mr Brands,” offered Tom hopefully.
“Sorry, doesn’t cut it. Joseph I’ve told you so many times what happens to the disobedient, haven’t I?”
I nodded mutely.
He lunged forward angrily. “Give me that key!”
I managed to step to one side, causing my father to fall forward on his face. Tom shouted, “Let’s get out of here!”

We ran for our lives, fleeing from the attic, pausing a moment to lock the attic door, sprinting down the flights of stairs out into the glorious sunshine and freedom from the nightmare. We kept on running, even though I knew my father would not be in pursuit – the attic was used to confining its occupants.

We reached the front gate and I turned to look at the house one final time, and saw my father at the barred attic window, shouting noiselessly, pointlessly, while behind him I saw the sad familiar eyes fade into oblivion with a gentle smile.

Two guys, Cameron and Nyiko are sitting at their favourite bar, drinking
beer.

Cameron turns to Nyiko and says, “You know, I’m tired of going through
life without an education. Tomorrow I think I’ll go to the community
college and sign up for some classes.” Nyiko agrees that it’s a good
idea.

The next day, Cameron goes down to the college and meets the Dean of
Admissions, who signs him up for four basic classes: Math, English,
History, and Logic.

“Logic?” Cameron asks, “what’s that?”

The dean says, “I’ll show you. Do you own a lawnmower?”

“Yeah.”

“Then logically speaking, because you own a lawnmower, I think that you
would have a yard.”

“That’s true, I do have a yard.”

“I’m not done,” the dean says. “Because you have a yard, I think
logically that you would have a house.”

“Yes, I do have a house!”

“And because you have a house, I think that you might logically have a
family.”

“I have a family.”

“I’m not done yet. Because you have a family, then logically you must
have a wife.”

“Yes, I do have a wife.”

“And because you have a wife, then logic tells me you must be
heterosexual.”

“I am heterosexual. That’s amazing, you were able to find out all of
that because I have a lawnmower.”

Excited to take the class now, Cameron shakes the Dean’s hand and leaves
to go meet Nyiko at the bar. He tells Nyiko about his classes, how he
has signed up for Math, English, History and Logic.

“Logic?” Nyiko says, “What’s that?”

“I’ll show you,” says Cameron. “Do you have a lawnmower?”

“No.”

“Then you’re gay…..”

Have you ever wondered what people are really like, what they think, what they do when no one is looking? I did, that fateful morning, and it was my undoing.

It was an ordinary Sunday, much like any other. Spring was in the air and I could sense a corporate reluctance from my flock. I had prepared a fairly decent sermon on Grace, intended to instruct and to encourage, but not many were paying attention. Even the normally attentive Harold Withington had dozed off in his usual seat, much to his wife Arma’s annoyance – she was very concerned about appearances. So I was glad to reach the end and announce the closing hymn.

The congregation rose with a collective sigh, and as it was preparing itself during the organ prelude it struck me: they were all fakes!

Mrs Andrews in the front pew, singing with arrogant shrills above the rest, excessively proud of having studied music at London Royal College of Music. Her husband James, whom I knew was having a torrid affair with young Maisie two rows back (obviously not during the sermon). Why even Harold, old saint that he was, had a gambling problem that I’d had to rescue him from repeatedly.

Yet despite this, they paraded like perfect little Christians, with impeccable, fine smiles, secretly looking down on each other, forgetting deliberately the great heights from which we all have fallen, and the immense price paid to get them back there.

So after the hymn I announced that no one was to leave their seats. It was time for detention Bible style. They sat stunned, looking at their old pastor, not quite sure what to expect.

I then started to pray, oh how I started to pray! I prayed that the Lord would deliver my flock from their sins, that they would mend their wicked ways, that they would learn to love each other, that they would care for the poor and so on. I sensed the congregation getting restless, but nobody moved because we were in the presence of the Almighty.

Then I stopped and we waited. We waited for the Spirit of God to move among us. Nobody moved. Nobody talked. At least until suddenly Harold started from his slumber and leapt up shouting, “Don’t Panic Mr Mainwaring, don’t panic!”

The congregation collapsed with laughter at the old Dad’s Army quote, and that was it, the moment had passed: God had spoken, or perhaps not. Who knew?

I hung up my collar and frock in disgust and walked out never to return.

They were All fakes.

It had been troubling me all day but I said nothing. Henry and I had been hiking in the Scottish Munroes for three days, camping overnight next to charming little brooks and living off frugal but delicious rations. We’d only been married just under a year and things had not been going very well, as often happens with newly weds I guess, so we decided to get away for a week and do what first brought us together: hiking. Henry had “rescued” me so to speak when I twisted my ankle during an organised hike by offering to carry my pack. We lagged behind the main group and got to talking, soon discovering much in common. We were married 4 months later.

There it was again, that nagging sense that we were not alone.

“Henry?” I called.
“What?”
“Stop a minute, please.”
He stopped. “You ok?”
“Yes, well, no, not really. Do you feel anything?”
Henry frowned. “No. Like what?”
“I don’t think we’re alone. It’s like we’re being watched.”
Henry smirked. “Out here? You’re kidding, right?”
I must admit it felt irrational. It was late autumn and the hills were devoid of the usual tourist hikers. Even the bed and breakfast we stayed in on the night before we started was going to be closing within a few days.
“I suppose you are right, Hen. Just being silly, I guess. This place does give me the creeps a little.”
He smiled and resumed his walking ahead of me. The thing is, I just knew we were being watched. Don’t ask me how. I just knew.

We camped that night at the foot of Schiehallion. It was our third night and we were half way. Henry went off to look for some wood while I started preparations for supper. We had reserved a bottle of red wine and some brie and crackers for that evening because it was our first anniversary. It was good to sit down after the long hike and I loved the heathery stillness of the glens. The gas stove hissed contentedly, gently warming a couple of cans of spaghetti and sausages. Not exactly haute cuisine but when you were hungry and cold then it was the perfect thing. The meal began to bubble and I was just beginning to wonder where Henry was when he returned, whistling to himself. He dropped an armful of tinder next to me, obviously pleased with his foraging efforts. “Its all dry too,” he said, “I found it in a cave, so we should have a decent fire tonight for a change.”

I smiled. A fire would be nice. I still hadn’t shaken the creepy feeling I’d had all day and got goose bumps on my arms thinking about it.

We polished off the meal and then sat next to the fire with our cheese and wine.
“It’s beautiful out here, isn’t it” Henry mused.
“Yes.”
“You know I love you, don’t you?”
I nodded.
“It’s been a tough old year but I think we’re through the worst of it.”
I reached over and took his hand.
“Definitely. I love you too.”
We kissed tenderly.

Suddenly I started. “What was that?”
“What?”
“A noise, like a cry.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”

Henry was visibly annoyed. I think he was expecting to get laid. “What’s up with you? You’re jumpier than a jack in the box!”

I leaned forward and nestled into him. “Sorry. I just can’t shake this feeling.”
He smiled and put his big arm around me.
“Don’t worry. Even if there is someone or something out there, I will protect you.”
I punched him playfully. “Always my knight in shining white armour.”
“Ow!” he replied, “that hurt. I’m not wearing my armour at the moment!”
We sat huddled together until the day was well and truly gone and the star washed sky overhead shone black as velvet. It was very romantic and I felt my fears slowly dissipate as sleep approached.

I woke the next morning with a start. The sleeping bag next to me was empty.
“Henry!!” I called out, but there was no reply.
I thought perhaps he’d gone to the toilet, so got up and got breakfast ready. Half an hour passed and I began to worry.

My wife sat down on the couch next to me as I was flipping channels.

She asked, ‘What’s on TV?’
I said, ‘Dust.’

And then the fight started…

******************************************

My wife and I are watching “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire” while we were in bed.

I turned to her and said, “Do you want to have sex?”
“No,” she answered.
I then said, “Is that your final answer?”
She didn’t even look at me this time, simply saying, “Yes.”
So I said, “Then I’d like to phone a friend.”

And then the fight started….

******************************************

Saturday morning I got up early, quietly dressed, made my lunch, grabbed the dog, and slipped quietly into the garage. I hooked up the boat up to the truck, and proceeded to back out into a torrential downpour. The wind was blowing 50 mph, so I pulled back into the garage, turned on the radio, and discovered that the weather would be bad all day.

I went back into the house, quietly undressed, and slipped back into bed. I cuddled up to my wife’s back, now with a different anticipation, and whispered, “The weather out there is terrible.”

My loving wife of 10 years replied, “Can you believe my stupid husband is out fishing in that?”

And that’s how the fight started…

******************************************

I rear-ended a car this morning. So, there we were alongside the road and slowly the other driver got out of his car. You know how sometimes you just get soooo stressed and little things just seem funny? Yeah, well I couldn’t believe it…. He was a DWARF!!!
He stormed over to my car, looked up at me, and shouted, “I AM NOT HAPPY !!!”
So, I looked down at him and said, “Well, then which one are you?”

And then the fight started…..

*****************************************

My wife was hinting about what she wanted for our upcoming anniversary.
She said, ‘I want something shiny that goes from 0 to 150 in about 3 seconds.’
I bought her some bathroom scales.

And then the fight started…

******************************************

When I got home last night, my wife demanded that I take her someplace expensive… so, I took her to a gas station.

And then the fight started…

******************************************

After retiring, I went to the Social Security office to apply for Social Security. The woman behind the counter asked me for my driver’s license to verify my age. I looked in my pockets and realized I had left my wallet at home. I told the woman that I was very sorry, but I would have to go home and come back later.

The woman said, ‘Unbutton your shirt’. So I opened my shirt revealing my curly silver hair. She said, ‘That silver hair on your chest is proof enough for me’ and she processed my Social Security application. When I got home, I excitedly told my wife about my experience at the Social Security office.

She said, ‘You should have dropped your pants. You might have gotten disability, too.’

And then the fight started….

******************************************

My wife and I were sitting at a table at my high school reunion, and I kept staring at a drunken lady swigging her drink as she sat alone at a nearby table.

My wife asked, ‘Do you know her?’

‘Yes,’ I sighed, ‘She’s my old girlfriend. I understand she took to drinking right after we split up those many years ago, and I hear she hasn’t been sober since.’

‘My God!’ says my wife, ‘who would think a person could go on celebrating that long?’

And then the fight started…

******************************************

I took my wife to a restaurant. The waiter, for some reason, took my order first.

“I’ll have the strip steak, medium rare, please.”
He said, “Aren’t you worried about the mad cow?””
Nah, she can order for herself.”

And then the fight started…

******************************************

A woman is standing nude, looking in the bedroom mirror. She is not happy with what she sees and says to her husband, ‘I feel horrible; I look old, fat and ugly.

I really need you to pay me a compliment.’

The husband replies, ‘Your eyesight’s damn near perfect.’

And then the fight started…..

“Come on girls, we’re late already.”

“Coming Dad,” they replied in sarcastic unison. I smiled, remembering when they used to think the world of me, before teenage years arrived and ended all of that. This was the way of the world and there was no use bemoaning it – I was an awful teenager myself and still cringe at the memories.

We reached the front door of the apartment and pressed the door bell. Inside the inappropriate sound of Big Ben chimed, followed by the footsteps of presumably my mother since my dad was such a lazy sod. The door opened and indeed it was her, wearing a happy beam at the arrival of her family. The smile however soon turned to concern, “Where’s Amanda?”

“Er, she’s not feeling well, so begged to be excused,” I lied. Amanda hated my parents and since neither of us could face another tense family reunion we agreed to this mutually acceptable way forward.

“I hope its not serious?” my mother enquired.

“Oh, no, just a migraine. You know she gets those a lot.”

“Yes, I’m sooo sorry, but do come in. It’s sooo nice to see you.”

She hugged the girls who squirmed reluctantly under her embrace. They seemed to be too old for anything these days but I had warned them on pain of death to me nice to their grand mother … and bribed them with a tenner each, just in case longevity wasn’t enough of an incentive.

I kissed her on the cheek as a dutiful son, hoping it wasn’t cottage pie again.

It occurred to me, not the first the first time, as I bent over to pick up the soap from the shower floor that perhaps they needed to rethink the segregation policy in changing rooms. The man stood scarcely 2 meters away, staring unashamedly at my buttocks and sporting the biggest erection I have ever seen. It gave me some insight into how women must feel when they are ogled by blokes- I felt absolutely violated and would have clobbered him had he not been 2ft taller than me. I complained to the authorities but they just looked at me as if I were some nasty little homophobe, which is just not true. Each to their own and all that, but when I’m picking up the soap in the shower then I’d prefer to be admired by a buxom female beauty than a big hairy fellow with a big hairy fellow.

In my search for the funniest things on earth for this blog I often peruse “best of” or “world’s funniest” websites, and find to my surprise that I am generally disappointed but what I find there. Whatever “best” means to the creators of these sites, it certainly does not coincide with my view. Then I wonder if humour is like colour, that is one has favourites, but no favourite is better than another. I mean, you wouldn’t fight over whether red was more beautiful than green would you? So perhaps “best” means what most people think, in other words most popular? For some reason my inner being rebels at this thought. Democracy is all very well for non essentials like government, but where funny is concerned, there is an absolute standard and all these websites are just plain wrong and you’re in the funniest place on earth.

“What a cool house, Joe!” cried Tom.

I smiled, not really knowing what to say. I’d lived in the old manor house for so long that I guess I took its size and lavish gardens for granted. My father is the warden of Farley Manor and I am his only son. I don’t know my mother – she died when I was very little, my father says of cancer. I have a picture of her: a beautiful, slender young woman with sad eyes and I imagine those eyes knowing that she wouldn’t see me grow up and being sad because of it, but that’s silly, I know. My father is an earnest man of few words, and has been as long as I can remember. He is tall, lean, with cold grey eyes that leave one with no doubt as to who is in charge. I suppose I love my father, but it is a strange sort of love; kind of a mixture between awe, respect and fear. He never hugs me and I sometimes feel he thinks I’m a nuisance, a left over part of my mother.

Tom is my only friend from school, Pembury Grammar School for boys – a “serious establishment” our headmaster always tells us – and his being here at my house is a rare treat indeed because father is not keen on people visiting. He says its because he has to look after the place and doesn’t want any of my hooligan friends damaging anything – it took me weeks of nagging to get permission.

I like Tom. He is serious like me, but like me has a wickedly fun streak and the two of us get along famously. Father had allowed use to roam around the whole gardens, so we were engaged in a very splendid game of hide and seek, too young for our teenage years, but who cares? I had just found him hiding in the maze and we were sitting resting on the edge of the fountain, looking back at the house.

“Really cool, Joe. You are so lucky.”
“I suppose, Tom, but it gets a bit lonely sometimes without anyone to hang out with.”
“You have me.”
“Yes, but that’s hardly ever. I wish father would let you visit more.”
Tom nodded, staring vacantly into the distance.

“Hey, what’s that?” he shouted suddenly, pointing towards the house.
I looked to see what he was pointing at. “What?”
“There! The attic window. A face!”
I looked but couldn’t see anything. “There’s nobody up there.”
“I tell you, there was someone, a girl with black hair. Very pale.”
“Woooooo… a ghooost…” I teased.
“Stop it!” he said, getting annoyed, “I saw someone!”
“Sorry.” I replied. “We do actually have a ghost, you know?”
“No way!”
“Yes. Father says it is a young woman who was murdered here long ago. She was locked up in the attic by her father and left to die.”
“Ugh. That’s horrible.”
“Definitely. Do you believe in ghosts?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“So shall we go have a look then?”
“What? No!”
“Oh come one. Be a sport!”
“I would but my father doesn’t allow me to go up there.”
“Why not?”
“He says there are precious vases up there and I’m not to go there.”
“Oh, OK…”

I could sense the disappointment and really did want to be a good sport. “Listen … well … my father is doing his rounds of the estate so we could take a quick look.”
Tom’s face brightened immediately. “Cool let’s go” and ran off towards the house with me in hot pursuit.

We reached the house at the same time and stopped, listening. Its weird how something can be a home one minute and a source of thrilling terror the next. I did actually believe in ghosts, despite what I’d told Tom. From earliest childhood the house had been full of creaks and distant noises, and sometimes when I lay in my bed trying to fall asleep I imagined I heard crying coming from the attic two floors above me. I’d asked my father about it and that is when he told me about the ghost, the girl called Isabelle who didn’t listen to her father and was horribly punished for it. It was a cruel story to tell a little boy, but he was like that, my father: very tough, and he expected the same from me I guess.

We climbed the flights of stairs quietly, listening both to the house and for my father, who I knew would skin me alive if he caught us. We soon reached the top floor and crossed the landing towards the final set of stairs that led up to the attic. I looked over towards Tom and could see that he was not looking as brave as he’d done before. “You OK?” I asked. He looked at me and nodded grimly. This was serious business.

We were about to start our ascent when I remembered that we would need a key to get into the attic. I once before had “explored” this area and found the way into the attic barred by a very solid, locked door. My courage had left me then and I had not returned, at least not until today. I did however look for the key and found it finally in a box at the back of my father’s cupboard. I told Tom to wait for me while I retrieved it and returned within a few minutes.

We paused before the final leg of our adventure, listening for the ghost, and for my father. I’m not sure who I was more terrified of, but I lead the way, quickly climbing the stairs. We stood at the door, ears pressed to its ancient panels, listening. Nothing. Just the wind sighing sadly as it drew its breath through the cracks.

I put the key into the keyhole and turned it slowly. I was surprised to find that it actually turned very easily. I thought nobody, including my father, ever went into the attic. My heart pounded in my throat as the door creaked open slowly, revealing a vast dimly lit space littered with clutter from yesteryear. Cobwebs hung everywhere between the clouds of ancient dust. In the middle of the attic was an old four poster bed bedecked with a thick veil. Tom nudged me and nodded towards the bed. I’d seen it too: the outline of a person, sleeping or perhaps worse, dead. It took all my courage to take a step forward rather than run for my life. Here at last was the answer to the question that had been burning in my subconscious for most of my life, the source of that presence I had always sensed and sometimes heard.

We reached the bed and with trembling hands slowly drew the veil back.

Before us lay, not a child, not a ghost, but a dead woman dressed in a long, faded red dress. She must have been dead a long time because the skin hung tautly on gaunt bones and her fingernails extended grotesquely beyond their usual boundaries.

“Ugh!” hissed Tom. “Who do you think she is?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, “but she’s got something in her hand.”

We leaned forward, expecting her to leap at any minute, and inspected the item in her hand, a gold locket. I reached and took it from the wizened fingers, then opened it to find two pictures, one of a woman, the other of a little child. The child was I, and the eyes of the woman were sadly familiar; this was my mother.

I stood staring at the photographs, unable to move, struggling to comprehend the awful horror of what lay before me. Tom hissed impatiently “What is it?”

Suddenly behind us the floorboards creaked and we turned to find my father standing, cold fury in his eyes. “So you found her.”
We looked at him fearfully.
“I told you not to come up her, Joseph. You should have listened to me.”
“Sorry Father” I mumbled.
“Yes, very, very sorry Mr Brands,” offered Tom hopefully.
“Sorry, doesn’t cut it. Joseph I’ve told you so many times what happens to the disobedient, haven’t I?”
I nodded mutely.
He lunged forward angrily. “Give me that key!”
I managed to step to one side, causing my father to fall forward on his face. Tom shouted, “Let’s get out of here!”

We ran for our lives, fleeing from the attic, pausing a moment to lock the attic door, sprinting down the flights of stairs out into the glorious sunshine and freedom from the nightmare. We kept on running, even though I knew my father would not be in pursuit – the attic was used to confining its occupants.

We reached the front gate and I turned to look at the house one final time, and saw my father at the barred attic window, shouting noiselessly, pointlessly, while behind him I saw the sad familiar eyes fade into oblivion with a gentle smile.