Things That Go Bump (Short Fiction)
27th January 2013
In: Short Stories
It was such a rare experience that I sat and listened to the silence. No sound at all - a total absence of noise. I found myself straining to hear something - anything - and it crossed my mind that I might have gone suddenly deaf so I tapped my pen on the desk top for reassurance. Three gentle raps sounding quiet as knuckles on an old wooden door. Then the silence again, soothing away the stresses of a busy week.
When Sandy had offered the use of her uncle's cottage for the weekend, I'd been eager to accept. Having heard me moan and grumble so often about being kept awake by noisy neighbours, I guess she thought we both deserved a break. Besides, she wanted me to finish the script on time and she's a very punctilious agent and one that won't accept excuses.
“Here,”she said. And handed me keys, a map and a fresh ream of paper.“Now, go to it.”
I took the hint and packed a few things, including a lap-top.
Rural Sussex wasn't quite what I expected. There was more space between everything. Green expanses that weren't public parks or football pitches. And I wasn't used to having things spread out quite so extravagantly. Large, detached houses with fields and paddocks around them. It came as a bit of a shock to a high-rise city girl who sometimes finds the suburbs slightly agoraphobic by comparison.
I followed the route down B roads that looked more like cart tracks and arrived at the village of Wishingfield around dusk. I spotted the church, took a sharp left and found the cottage easily. It stood alone - no neighbours, at least, none that were likely to make any noise. I smiled to myself. Sandy hadn't mentioned that it overlooked the graveyard.
Once inside the cottage, and looking out of the kitchen window, I could see the tops of several moss-covered tombstones peeping over the hedge. ‘In Sacred Memory’ I read, before the untrimmed privet cut off my view. I turned away and searched for a kettle. I'd have a cup of coffee before looking over the place.
It wasn't much more than a basic two up, two down affair with a bathroom and toilet added at a later date. The floors were polished wood with a few tasteful rugs scattered in the sitting room and bedrooms. The stairs squeeked like an army of mice and I found myself tiptoeing, trying to avoid the protesting treads. I drew all the curtains to shut out the growing darkness. And noticed how much blacker night seems in the country.
The sitting room was a little too austere to be called cosy. It was definitely a man's room. But it had a good solid desk and a captain's chair that, when wedged with cushions, was comfortable enough. I wondered about lighting the fire. The October day had been mild but had grown chilly towards evening and I hadn't brought any sweaters. Central heating can make one almost oblivious to seasonal changes in temperature. I examined the already laid grate but decided against it, although there were plenty of chopped logs stacked in a basket beside the chimney breast. Instead, I fetched my jacket, wrapped it round my shoulders and got down to some work. Or tried to. Because it was then I became aware of the intense, oppressive silence.
It should have been bliss, considering what I normally have to put up with of an evening: the hypnotic bass beat of nextdoor's stereo thumping through the wall, the dog in the ground floor flat howling because its master has gone out, babies crying, couples arguing, crockery smashing, doors banging - you name it. Our block's like the Tower of Babel sometimes. And always the low hum of traffic from the street below, despite double glazing. This dramatic contrast, this breathless weight of quietness, was beginning to make me feel strangely uncomfortable. So I tapped on the desk, just so that I could hear something break the spell.
I'd been trying to concentrate on the half-written script for some minutes, failed to be inspired, and so had let my mind wander. But I didn't fall asleep, and what happened next wasn't a dream. I distinctly heard a child's voice chanting, high and clear, the words of a skipping song:
“One for the parson, Two for the choir,
Three for the madman who burned in the fire.
Four for his funeral, Five for the bell,
Six for our prayers that he won't go to Hell.
Seven for the coffin, Eight for the wreathe,
Nine for his Spirit and Ten for belief
that he strangled his daughters and drownded his wife,
so skip through the graveyard - then run for your life!”
Then silence again. But a pregnant, watchful silence. Rigid in my chair, I let my eyes pan the room, apprehensive of what I might see. But the shadows stayed where they were.
Without a flicker of warning, the reading lamp bulb blew. Somewhere in the immediate darkness I heard a cry, or maybe it was a stifled sob, light footfalls and the rustle of skirts. Then a small hand touched my cheek. I felt the imprint of its cool palm. Instinctively, I reached out, fear overcome by impulse, but the real substance eluded me. She slipped through my fingers and was gone.
Cold and very shaken, I sat in that chair until it began to get
light. Then I packed.
*
My neighbours are still noisy but, nowadays, when I'm roused from sleep by their music or nocturnal squabbling, it's often a comfort. For the same dream returns to haunt me: I go back to read that half-glimpsed tombstone and it says:
In Sacred Memory of
Seth Underwood, aged 32 years
also of his wife
Ellen-May, aged 28 years
and their daughters
Rebecca, 10 years
Emma, 8 years
and Lucy, 6 years
who all perished by fire
15th October 1832
But not according to Lucy's song.
When Sandy had offered the use of her uncle's cottage for the weekend, I'd been eager to accept. Having heard me moan and grumble so often about being kept awake by noisy neighbours, I guess she thought we both deserved a break. Besides, she wanted me to finish the script on time and she's a very punctilious agent and one that won't accept excuses.
“Here,”she said. And handed me keys, a map and a fresh ream of paper.“Now, go to it.”
I took the hint and packed a few things, including a lap-top.
Rural Sussex wasn't quite what I expected. There was more space between everything. Green expanses that weren't public parks or football pitches. And I wasn't used to having things spread out quite so extravagantly. Large, detached houses with fields and paddocks around them. It came as a bit of a shock to a high-rise city girl who sometimes finds the suburbs slightly agoraphobic by comparison.
I followed the route down B roads that looked more like cart tracks and arrived at the village of Wishingfield around dusk. I spotted the church, took a sharp left and found the cottage easily. It stood alone - no neighbours, at least, none that were likely to make any noise. I smiled to myself. Sandy hadn't mentioned that it overlooked the graveyard.
Once inside the cottage, and looking out of the kitchen window, I could see the tops of several moss-covered tombstones peeping over the hedge. ‘In Sacred Memory’ I read, before the untrimmed privet cut off my view. I turned away and searched for a kettle. I'd have a cup of coffee before looking over the place.
It wasn't much more than a basic two up, two down affair with a bathroom and toilet added at a later date. The floors were polished wood with a few tasteful rugs scattered in the sitting room and bedrooms. The stairs squeeked like an army of mice and I found myself tiptoeing, trying to avoid the protesting treads. I drew all the curtains to shut out the growing darkness. And noticed how much blacker night seems in the country.
The sitting room was a little too austere to be called cosy. It was definitely a man's room. But it had a good solid desk and a captain's chair that, when wedged with cushions, was comfortable enough. I wondered about lighting the fire. The October day had been mild but had grown chilly towards evening and I hadn't brought any sweaters. Central heating can make one almost oblivious to seasonal changes in temperature. I examined the already laid grate but decided against it, although there were plenty of chopped logs stacked in a basket beside the chimney breast. Instead, I fetched my jacket, wrapped it round my shoulders and got down to some work. Or tried to. Because it was then I became aware of the intense, oppressive silence.
It should have been bliss, considering what I normally have to put up with of an evening: the hypnotic bass beat of nextdoor's stereo thumping through the wall, the dog in the ground floor flat howling because its master has gone out, babies crying, couples arguing, crockery smashing, doors banging - you name it. Our block's like the Tower of Babel sometimes. And always the low hum of traffic from the street below, despite double glazing. This dramatic contrast, this breathless weight of quietness, was beginning to make me feel strangely uncomfortable. So I tapped on the desk, just so that I could hear something break the spell.
I'd been trying to concentrate on the half-written script for some minutes, failed to be inspired, and so had let my mind wander. But I didn't fall asleep, and what happened next wasn't a dream. I distinctly heard a child's voice chanting, high and clear, the words of a skipping song:
“One for the parson, Two for the choir,
Three for the madman who burned in the fire.
Four for his funeral, Five for the bell,
Six for our prayers that he won't go to Hell.
Seven for the coffin, Eight for the wreathe,
Nine for his Spirit and Ten for belief
that he strangled his daughters and drownded his wife,
so skip through the graveyard - then run for your life!”
Then silence again. But a pregnant, watchful silence. Rigid in my chair, I let my eyes pan the room, apprehensive of what I might see. But the shadows stayed where they were.
Without a flicker of warning, the reading lamp bulb blew. Somewhere in the immediate darkness I heard a cry, or maybe it was a stifled sob, light footfalls and the rustle of skirts. Then a small hand touched my cheek. I felt the imprint of its cool palm. Instinctively, I reached out, fear overcome by impulse, but the real substance eluded me. She slipped through my fingers and was gone.
Cold and very shaken, I sat in that chair until it began to get
light. Then I packed.
*
My neighbours are still noisy but, nowadays, when I'm roused from sleep by their music or nocturnal squabbling, it's often a comfort. For the same dream returns to haunt me: I go back to read that half-glimpsed tombstone and it says:
In Sacred Memory of
Seth Underwood, aged 32 years
also of his wife
Ellen-May, aged 28 years
and their daughters
Rebecca, 10 years
Emma, 8 years
and Lucy, 6 years
who all perished by fire
15th October 1832
But not according to Lucy's song.