Category: Fiction

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The grave digger

‘Carpe diem, seize the day. gather ye rosebuds while ye may.’ John Keating.

Some bright spark had decided that Christmas at Gorton cemetery would be bright and cheery. They enhanced it by planting a tiny conifer with bells and baubles on their elderly relatives’ grave. This was next to a middle-aged man.

Well, if anyone knows anything about gardening is that small acorns grow into large oak trees.

That day Reg had his day planned out, just as any other really. It had been a particular busy time as burials were coming in thick and fast. You see winter took its toll on the old and Reg was never lost for work.

His attention had been drawn to this particular tree that had wrapped and wound itself around a relatively new grave. He loaded his chainsaw onto his trailer and he would see to it that the trunk would be sliced through. He liked to keep order in his cemetery as he was the proud keeper of those that had passed.

You see Reg’s vocation was looking after the dead.

Most would shun away from this job. but not Reg. He took pride in making sure the shells of the souls that had passed and moved on, were looked after.

Reg sometimes worked late as he took pride and enjoyed the peace and tranquility of this space.

He often spent time with those who came to grieve, those that claimed to be in touch with the afterlife. Reg had his own experiences. He knew that the gift was just slices of a time shift. It was like a dream where one would meet with a departed one. Real while it lasted but just a slip in time as the afterlife crossed.

He had always been a gravedigger. Not a term that was used these days. He was meant to be retired. Younger men with their digger trucks were now the norm for lifting the earth. Reg still had the stamina to dig with a spade.

Cemetery workers or burial custodians now, not for Reg, he classed himself as a gravedigger.

He pottered over to his wife. He had taken care of everything. every last detail he had executed. She would be buried in his cemetery that way he would take care of her on a daily basis.

Reg still had keys to the large iron gates. It did not disturb him in the slightest. As dusk set, Reg would unlock and walk the paths between the tombs.

Reg would take his place on the bench to meet with the deceased a flask of tea in hand. He reflected on the day of his wife’s final moments. Her casket bumped with the clay and the earth. The dank earthy scent married with the elements, be it rain, frost, or sun.

He drank a warm drink from his flask. He watched the dancer tiptoeing around the stones. The dancer seemed locked in time.

The soldier in a mass grave with others sat and lit his cigarette.

The child, a young girl, pirouetted whilst waiting for her mama to visit. Her mama was also interned. She could no longer physically adorn her daughter’s resting place with posies. The flowers would have come from her garden. Not realising her mama was only a few graves away, freshly dug.

He was awash with memories. He pulled his coat and scarf around him. His memories again the forefront of his mind, he made his way home. At that moment, four young children started playing a game of hide and seek amongst the tall and older stones.

He smiled to himself. He thought he would come back tomorrow. He planned to cut the tall grass they had all trampled through.

Julie Modla

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The Library

‘Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream.’ Edgar Allan Poe.

This ghostly tale was shared with me by an older lady that I met in a local coffee shop named Eva.

I was researching some haunting stories when she told me she had a tale to tell.

This is how the story goes:

It was a particularly cold and wet autumn late afternoon. Eva mulched her way through the ember red, orange and brown leaves as she made her way from school over the road opposite the church. She wiped her feet before entering this quiet space.

Musty smells of the books leaked into the air. She lifted the heavy wooden flap on the desk. Then she took her place to categorise and stamp the books.

On the far side, towards the window sat a man, dressed in his suit and tie of the day. The crackle of his tabloid broke the silence and the creaking of his chair added to the noise. The young lady nearby also broke the silence when she slapped her hard back cover shut.

It was a fairly quiet evening amongst those wishing to spend time within this space.

A whimpering wind yowled around this old building. The building was constructed around 1901. It broke the motto of ‘Hush, so as not to disturb the reader‘ written on a plaque taking pride of place above the desk.

Eva had a fascination for the written word. She always became lost within the books. When she inquired about an after school position and was accepted, she was delighted.

St James’s building was also known as Gorton Library. It was situated on Cambert Lane. This lane was formerly Church Lane as it led to the school and the church on the bend.

It was now the 1970’s. Many locals were dismayed. The city council had drawn up plans to redevelop and modernise the Gorton Cross Street area. A demolition order had been put in place. As many of the old terrace houses and the shops were in dire need of repair.

Eva stamped the date within the front cover of the book for an elderly gentleman. She then took out the ticket to file it away. This ensured prompt returns. Books were sometimes not returned on time. She and her colleague attempted to collect the penny fines from those who had forgotten. Not an easy task she thought. Borrowers from all ages and walks of life would push open the heavy oak doors to browse their favorite genres.

Just around 9.00pm the senior librarian ushered the last borrower out of the building. Then, she proceeded to make sure all was in order for the next day. Eva’s last job for the evening was to close and lock the large oak doors. She also needed to file away the small pile of books left on the desk.

As she filed the book that caught her eye, she noticed it was a leather-bound one with fancy gold writing. It was a music book. ‘The New Musical Educator, volume 4.’ To her right, she noticed someone was still in the aisle of the bookshelves. A girl no older than nine or ten was perusing a book an aisle down.

It was the girls attire that struck her. A navy blue sailors dress with white trimmings. A thick heavy hem that had been turned up so as to be lengthened as the girl grew taller. she wore black stockings, with buttoned up creased leather ankle boots. Ringlets of chestnut hair tumbled around her shoulders, graced by a flower clipping back her fringe.

The pale face of the girl turned towards Eva, a sad melancholy look gazed from the girls eyes.

Eva was taken back. This child, dressed as someone from her grandmother’s childhood, stood silently. Eva moved towards her. As just then the figure sublimely and otherworldly glided away and evaporated before her eyes.

As she, the girl just like an illusion disappeared. Eva unnerved, cautiously made her way to the spot where the girl had been standing. A book was slightly jutting out from the reference section upon the shelf. Inquisitively, she took the volume from the shelf and noticed the corner of a page was folded.

The book spoke of unsolved crimes within the Manchester area. The page read:

‘On the afternoon of October 26th 1905, roughly around 3.00pm. Brian Sullivan was walking his dog through St James’s Church within the Gorton area of Manchester. when his dog started to become disturbed, sniffing and pawing at a collapsed old grave. The grave had collapsed by around twenty or thirty inches that lead to the tomb.To his horror, he kneeled down and peered into the abyss below. As soon as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he slowly made out the form of a young girl. One of her leather boots was missing as were one of her stockings. The other stocking laddered and ripped, exposed her pale white skin.’

On calling the authorities, her body was transferred to the local mortuary. There, they discovered that the nail from her index finger on her right hand had been torn right off. This was conclusive that she had put up a fight of sorts. She was partially clothed with her other stocking stuffed into her mouth. The poor girl suffered prolific injuries to her head. She also had injuries to the lower parts of her body. Her dress was torn and disarranged and there had clearly been a sexual assault prior to her strangulation.

The person responsible for her murder was never found. However, the locals reignited rumours from 1888, known as ‘The autumn of fear.’ This was reminiscent of the ripper murders in London.

Nobody knows for sure. Lilly’s poor body was interred within St James cemetery, at peace with her grandparents.

An only child too. Her poor mother went weeping every day to her grave. She never got over her child being taken so violently and abruptly.

Poor Lilly was laid to rest.

Meanwhile, the council as they exhumed these graves disclosed their plan to build new social housing upon the newly dug hallowed ground.

Julie Modla Author of the series: A Fool’s Journey, To Dance with a Devil and The Temperance Tale.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dance-Devil-Fools-Journey/dp/B08FP1SVKF

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Murder Lane

‘The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is the fear of the unknown.’ H.P. Lovecraft

I always looked forward to my annual visit with my good friend James. Apart from his warmth and hospitality, he entertained his guests with an impeccable taste for fine foods and the very best of wines.

After dinner we would settle in the parlour with a large brandy and there, he had a superb way of spinning a yarn. Often leaving the listener in complete wonderment and with difficulty of comprehension as to whether the tales were true or not.

The one I found quite disturbing is the one I am about to relay to you. I will leave it up to you to decide…

It was a cut through, a path that the locals had named Murder lane. A winding footpath that led from Manby Road, Gorton. Gore brook, a shallow stream meandered to the left, while brambles and an extremley high wall of red brick towered to the right. A wall that had been constructed and built by a local firm many years earlier. It was a fair walk through this trail, which would lead you eventually to Pink Bank Lane, Longsight.

I will return to the why and wherefore the title Murder Lane had been given to this walkway.

It was on May 13th 1909 when a labourer Mark Shawcross was last seen stepping out and through this path with Emily Ramsbottom, of Ellesmere Street. This woman had been married previously and separated from her husband, she had started a relationship with Mark Shawcross, cohabiting with him for the last four years or so.

Early in the morning, a couple of young ladies were on their way to work. A local tarpaulin company off Pink Bank Lane. When they stumbled and came across Emily’s strangled and lifeless body somewhere along this path.

The police were called and Mark Shawcross was arrested. His story was that he had left her not far from there the night before. He and her estranged husband were the prime suspects, however, Mark Shawcross later wrote his confession and admitted to strangling Emily Ramsbottom with his neckerchief. He was later convicted and sentenced to his execution at Strangeways prison, Manchester on 3rd September 1909.

James Chisnall my good friend for many years had been a much younger man in those days, albeit this was a good few years after that event had taken place. He and three of his chums had been drinking and playing card games for most of the night. Tipsy and merry James left his friend’s house a little after midnight and a little worse for wear. He had decided to take a short cut home.

He needed to get to Stockport Road and had not ridden his bicycle that night, so this was going to be a bit of a treck back home. He had two choices; he could walk the long way round but this would take him a good hour to get to his destination or he could go along the track that would take him around fifteen minutes if he walked quickly. The later appealed to him more as he was drunk and just wanted to get himself home for the night. Plus, the brisk, cool air would do him good he thought.

Pulling his overcoat collar up around his scarf and pulling down his cap, he ventured into the cold, autumn evening. Someone had swept and brushed the brown wet leaves into piles around the entrance to the short cut. Ready for clearing tomorrow he thought.

There was no gate, nor a sign to warn anyone to ‘keep out’ just an entrance to the ginnel. The warmth of the brandy and the Dutch courage it gave him spurred James on to venture into the darkness and dense quiet silence of the black path.

Becoming accustomed to the gloom, his eyes strained towards the unlit high brick wall to the right of him. He could make out the brambles climbing randomly, spikily, and erratically to the top which must have been 15 feet high if not more.

As darkness beckoned, the sound of the brook rippled over the shallow stones. Water that during the day would help the allotment keepers to feed their plants. In the evening nocturnal animals would happily play there, with no humans to bother or to hurt them.

The lightless grey of the floor increased his feeling of unease as the warmth of the Cognac had quickly began to wear off. Reality started to kick in as now, halfway into the unknown blackness of the pathway, he now wondered if this was such a good idea after all. Unnerving as he wondered if he would meet anyone or anything as he dubiously carried on.

He was even more reluctant to look behind himself. Not wanting to see. A feeling of panic rose in his throat as he knew he was in limbo, nearly half way through no man’s land. How he wished he had brought a torch at least. Even more, how he wished he was tucked up warm and safe in his bed.

‘It’s the living you should be afraid of son, not the dead…’ His fathers voice boomed in his ear. That is exactly what he was afraid of he answered silently in his mind. Murder Lane. What a stupid idea to think this would be a good plan.

With immense strength and the thought of poor Emily’s body lying lifeless somewhere along here a good few years before. His feet started to feel like lead as he moved himself further along the path. No going back now.

His eyes carrying on, straining into the dark and his breathing becoming more rapid as he tried to reassure himself that these feelings were irrational. Soberness and fear had started to take over him.

Uneasy, his gut feeling was very strong that he was being watched remotely, this was not pleasant at all. Dread as he realised, he was quite helpless in this totally remote and deadly place.

Again, he pushed the thought of the labourer Shawcross, strangling the life from his poor lover Emily.

Eyes that were watching him made his hairs on his neck stand on end.

I ask you have you ever been in a situation where you felt that something terrible was about to happen? Have you ever walked home at night and wished you had not chosen that route? I am sure we all have at some point.

James knew he had to get out of this place rapidly. With a deep breath and a brave stance, flee he must. Who was hiding safe within the shelter of the darkness? As James did not have that luxury.

His fists clenched outside of his pockets, just in case he had to use them, not that he was a fighter but he would certainly have a good go if needs be. As his fist clenched even tighter and his boots crunched forward quickly on the gravelly path, just behind him, a twig snapped, not too far behind in the distance.

Faster he went, scarcely daring to breath, he called on his faith and prayed to the Almighty to please get him safely and quickly to the exit and away from this godforsaken place.

The watchers’ eyes, bored into the back of his head and on hearing another sharp snap, adrenaline kicked in and that is when he started to run.

Shallow panting and rapid breathing he urged forward, his pulse pounding in his head he could barely see six feet in front of himself. He stumbled and his hand reached out to steady himself as the sharp pain from the blackberry bushes shot through his hand and arm. The ground was damp as he climbed to his feet. His instinct, urging him forward with the fear that someone or something at any moment would put a hand on his shoulder, or much worse.

Finally with a gasp, he spotted the metal turnstile at the exit and towards the lane. He squeezed his way desperately through the gap, not once lingering nor looking for a second, for what he felt was pursuing him. Not before time. At least he was out in the open now.

The chill of the wind made his damp clothes even more icy on his back as James fists were still clenched, and his knuckles were pure white. James hurried on quickly up the deserted Pink Bank Lane. Past the high walls of the factories, all locked up and closed for the night. Safer but not yet out of the woods as there was not a soul in sight…apart from a torch flickering and casting a light beyond the heavy, large, locked, iron gates.

Safe to say James arrived home in one piece to tell the tale.

As if that was not disturbing enough, the eery adventure the narrator had experienced that night. Even more was the shock when James Chisnall, bought his local paper on his way to work a few weeks later. He was horrified to discover that the body of a young man named Gareth O’Neil aged 23. A local factory worker, who had been missing for a couple of weeks, had been found face down in the chilling water of Gore brook. The body must have been there in the very same place when James had cut through, that night on Murder Lane.

The autopsy report had stated his corpse had been in the brook for at least ten days. The cause of death was strangulation. The hunt was on for Gareth’s killer and anyone with any information should contact Lancashire Police.

Had the watcher gone back to the scene of the crime? Had James really had such a very lucky escape? Only the watcher could relay that part of the tale to you…

As James came to the end of his story and much to his audience’s dismay. He folded his hands together and looked at his timepiece.

A message to his guests that the evening had now come to an end. 

He bid each one of them farewell and urged them to take the utmost care on their journey back home.

Julie Modla

Ghost Light

It is said, that in every theatre there are ghosts and shadows from the past. Performers, dancers, musicians and entertainers. Happy times, where the lights go out and the curtain rises.

Eric Cartwright had served his time in the Royal Navy for his King and country as an engineer, a young man with dedication, who could turn his hand to anything.

For the last thirty years or so, he had taken employment as the caretaker and maintenance man, for a local Davenport Theatre.

He could certainly entertain many a young or old sceptic, with his tales of shadowy presences and his encounters, on a lonely shift at night.

When the dancers and actors had left through the heavy stone steps to meet their fans at the stage door. Eric’s job was to check the building, to make sure all was secure. He never quite got used to descending into the bowels of the dark dingy passageways into the nocturnal pit under the stage. The dank air chilled him to the bone every time, as the knocking old pipes clanked within the dusk.

He would methodically check, that everywhere was safe and secure. Without looking behind him, or casting a glance over his shoulder, he would make his way to the open theatre.

Rows and rows of empty seats, some within the light of the stage, the rest encased in the blackness. Never straining his eyes into the dark as he didn’t pursue what his eyes didn’t see.

He worked well on his own. Proud to be the one the production team and the theatre goers relied on. A very proud cog within the large clock. Oiling the mechanism, as the musicians, scriptwriters, opera singers and conductors could count on him for their premiers.

He neither acknowledged nor dismissed what his senses spoke to him, at times, as his skin would crawl and his hairs would stand on end. Especially when a door, would suddenly close shut unexpectedly.

Thoughts of those spirits around him never left his brain.

Whether you believe, or whether you do not, does not concern me. I’m just conveying to you his story. He would tell you that there is nothing more unsettling, than the chill, that rises up within your spine, when working in a place that should be so full of life.

Performers, playing out to an audience. Tragedies, actors, memorising and channelling the scripts of Shakespeare, Romans and the Greeks. Plays, over 2000 years old. Brought to life. A connection, a medium between the there, and the now.

Stills and skills of a bygone age, memories, like photographs, captured in time.

Glimpses of nocturnal shadows, hiding behind veils. Returning, while those who sleep, relive their glory, on the stage.

The tradition of the ghost light, steeped in its history, back to the time of gas lit venues. Dim lights were left on during the night, to relieve pressure on the gas valves.

Moving forward in time to Eric Cartwright’s employment there, the lights were still very important, but now a floor light, left on to shine on the stage, whilst the theatre slept, and the doors were closed until morning.

It is said that this was to enable the navigator of the stage, to search for the lighting control console, without the misfortune of stumbling over props, or worse still, falling into the orchestral pit.

Some spoke of the ghost lights as being left on for some nocturnal thespians. As dusk fell, ghostly beings would return to the stage, and re enact their final performances.

Balconies were permanently left open, for ghostly guests to view these nightly performances.

As a naval apprentice, the rule of thumb was never to whistle whilst on ship. The same applied to the stage, neither on, nor off. As this would bring bad luck. Eric respected this superstition and applied it. Never to upset those who were there, or not, performing their roles.

His heavy key ring jangled. His eyes lowered as he locked up for the night. Not one to look at the lamp, nor the surrounding areas of the stage. Not one to stare, his eyes not wanting to graze the empty chairs. Respect for the nocturnal visitors. They too, avoiding his gaze, a mutual admiration for the key holder.

No need. As usual the chill followed, as Eric’s ears detected the faint sound of a bow grazing the strings, as the haunting melody of a Cello akin to that of the human voice, moved sorrowfully and beautifully through the auditorium.

The door closed on these theatrics as Eric walked the grey, wet flags to his lonely empty house.

Proud to keep these souls safe, within his theatre of dreams.

Julie Modla

https://www.audible.co.uk/search?searchAuthor=Julie+Modla

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19445198.Julie_Modla

A Fool’s Journey

Hello and welcome to my corner in the readers world. I was super excited when I embarked upon this writers journey. I had been pondering on an idea for quite a while and hadn’t quite established how I would start. I then had a eureka moment and it all seemed to fall into place.

I had been looking for inspiration to write a book, and had come across a Victorian Romantic deck of cards. As I studied the Major arcana within the deck, I decided to see what would spring out and and I was so delighted as the characters within my book appeared. That is how it all began.

The first card was always going to be the protagonist. This was the fool. A young innocent boy starting as everyone does on life’s journey, with no idea of the problems he may need to solve, the challenges he would need to resolve and so I developed the plot around this youth.

I chose the antagonist to be female, a she Devil who was going to put temptation in the fool’s way and try to lead him off his chosen path. Someone to test his strengths.

The Magician his friend and his teacher. This character was magical with strange thought transference, skills he uses as part of the fools education. A good friend to the boy, who he doesn’t realise the old man is aging, dying and has had a spell released after successfully sharing his knowledge with the young man.

The High Priestess, I discovered to my interest she was a metaphor for the fool’s gut feeling. Every time she appeared on the page, the advice she was passing on to him was to go inside and listen for what felt was right.

The story developed. It talked to the reader about themselves. Everyone’s experience of life. It spoke of happiness, lies, temptations, battles and depression. I wanted to creatively weave it within a fantasy and fairy tale and lace it so that everyone could relate to it.

An audio version of the book was created, Howard Ellison is perfect. Ellisonhttps://www.youtube.com/c/HowardEllisonUKVoice. His voice is just wonderful, exactly who I was searching for, and he agreed to narrate the book. Howard during his career was BBC trained and had worked on adverts such as The Mask, Britain on Film, BBC America amongst many including https://www.mastercard.us

So that, my fellow readers, was how I got started with The Fool’s Journey.

​’Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life’s coming attractions.‘ Albert Einstein.

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Peak House

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Peak House Buxton Road

This Gothic Victorian house was built in 1891, just a few years before the construction of the Edwardian builds on Kennerley Road, formerly Kennerley Grave Road for some unexplained reason.

Anyway, Peak house was built beautiful proud and elevated overlooking the busy link between Manchester and Buxton with land at the rear which lent itself to an orchard.

At some point and presumably the initial purchaser of the house recorded in the 1911 census was a man named James C Arnold formerly of Hollingworth in the Peak district. A pharmaceutical chemist named his new purchase a fine property, Peak House.

Mary Elizabeth Arnold was his wife. He was so proud to have such a beauty and she loved him desperately and finally, after longing for a child for so long gave birth to a fine son. Harold Arnold, named as far as we know after his grandfather.

James was thriving in his business and had now expanded and taken lease of a pharmacy on Hillgate, Stockport, and so the story goes his apothecary became very popular within the town.

As his business expanded he became a pillar of society and he spent more time away from Peak house. As he was a member of a local masonic lodge and there, he was promoted to worshipful master. Some might say these secret societies were working with dark energies. We can’t say for sure.

As sure as his status as a fine chemist became known in the area, he was able to employ Edith Morris a maid for his wife, but even with all his knowledge, his wife’s health he could not seem to help. As her disposition was becoming weaker since the birth of her beautiful boy Harold.

Eager to keep her happy and with James’ affluence within the Davenport area, enabled him to employ a nurse to help his wife look after the child.

He suggested and medicated his wife with alcohol-based medicines to help her shattered nerves.

The nurse herself was childless and became devoted to the little boy, she cherished him and as her employers wife became more addicted to the medication her husband had recommended for her, the nurse became more protective over the boy and so the story was she had illusions of grandeur and treated Peak House as if it were her own.

So, the house wasn’t a particularly happy house for Mary. Her husband was a fine figure in the community and she was left feeling inadequate, her mental health deteriorating. One might say it may have been post-natal depression.

He was indifferent to her. A commodity, caring not if she was happy. He was pleased he could look after her and calm her nerves with the potions he had concocted. His son Harold lovingly looked after by the loyal nurse. His wife dependent upon his medication.

No one really knows what really happened and why the house stood empty from 1931 but there are rumours that Mary became mentally unstable and jealous of the nurse and tried to harm them both. I would be speculating if I claimed this to be the truth.

Peak house had fallen into serious disrepair as quite a few properties of this stature did after the second world war.

Ukrainians were brought over to the United Kingdom around the 1940’s and they formed their own community and Stockport became a hub for social activity and these families put their well earned savings into a pot and bought their very own club, the first being as far as I know at Turncroft lane, I imagine this would have been around the 1950’s.

It was 1968 the end of the swinging sixties and the Ukrainian community thought it would be a great idea to buy a bigger place, Peak House, a building that could be restored to its previous grandeur.

Ukrainians were from hard working backgrounds, money did not coming easy to them, smart and excellent barterers purchased Peak House. They were clever thinkers as many developed new trades. Plasterers, builders, electricians, painters and decorators, plumbers and roofers and so the hard work began.

Months later a decrepit Peak House was restored to its former glory and was put to good use as a social club.

A place the young men and women could gather, teach their young the language, the history, the traditions and the dancing, all helping them to keep the memories of their homeland alive.

Move forward to 2019, there had always been rumours that the top of the building the fourth floor was haunted. The builders and decorators had passed various stories down through the generations, it was said to be the nurse protecting the little boy but I wasn’t sure about all that kind of nonsense.

I organised a group meditation evening at the club, the members had been really accommodating and had suggested the room on the second floor, I call it the green room, a green carpet, a calm shade of green no other reason to call it by that adjective. I had rented this place for a reasonable price and I was delighted to start my new course there.

It was a late autumn evening; the sun had gone down and there was quite a chill in the air as I approached this grand Victorian building.

I arranged the chairs in a circle and switched on the small heater to keep the room warm for my guests.

The group arrived in dribs and drabs some later than others, through an entrance where traditional black and white tiles welcomed them in.

Climbing up the beautiful staircase there was a room to the left, now a youth area full of games wher the youngsters could gather. Up and around the banister to the second door on the left.

A room plush and filled with nostalgia, books, paintings and artefacts, a museum of Ukrainian ancestors. An atmosphere quite comfortable to that of the empty corridor.

Granted, when the club was filled with guests throwing parties or having Friday night drinks at the bar. Or concerts where the dancers could show off their talents or where singers filled the great hall with their voices, was an atmosphere quite pleasant and full of fun, However, in the quietness alone in the evening it was quite a different story.

I could not in my wildest dreams have foreseen the events that would unfold to me once the group had left.

I escorted my guests calm and spiritually enhanced down the large oak staircase back across the tiled floor and out through the heavy double doors.

I was to wait for the keyholder to arrive to secure the building and now quite alone I made my way to the warmth and comfort of the green room. The bar, the kitchen and the games room already locked up for the night.

This seemed a reasonable place to wait rather than sit on the stairway.

There was another level to this building as previously mentioned, the fourth floor. This was home to the beautiful vibrant costumes, bright red boots and elegant ribboned headdresses.

I sat back in the room and started going through my notes planning if there was anything I would change for next week’s group session.

I had no notion of what was about to unfold. A voice, female, barely a whisper sounded through the wall from the stairway. I could barely make it out. Now I know that the mind can sometimes play tricks on you, but it was female for sure, and I heard it again. Something quite chilling but I brushed it off with the thought that it was probably the cleaner as she also had a key.

With some trepidation I placed my ear against the door, I waited tensely for a few minutes to collect myself and with a sudden surge of courage, I dubiously opened the heavy door and cautiously ventured onto the landing.

I heard it again, this time louder now, a haunting voice, it was singing quietly, I could make out the words.

‘ …when she saw what she had done… this is a place with no one there.’

‘…no one there, no one there…this is a place with no one there…’

Repeating, haunting, singing in a flat monotone voice.

I should have turned and ran there and then. Strange how curiosity can get the better of you. Cautiously I made my way to the other stairwell, it had to be the cleaner, there was someone there for sure. Why I didn’t call out I can’t tell you. No one was visible from where the voice was coming from and despite a shiver shooting up my spine; as if in some kind of trance, I edged further on to the staircase and that’s when I saw it.

First, a dark shadow quickly moved from the top of the stairs, silence, the voice quiet now. To say it startled me is an understatement. My feet were glued to the spot, mesmerised and horrified as something resembling human form, hair draping around its face unnaturally crawled around on all fours and moved itself to sit on the top stair.

Such a look of despair and dread shrouded it. An intense fear took hold of me as that figure started kneeling, creeping and crouching around. A face thin and drawn an open mouth with a dark arid throat stared right back at me.

Death was looking me in the face and just as if the grim reaper himself was glaring down on my being. Spasms of fear ran through me.

A man’s voice bellowed from the ground floor. The key holder had arrived and as I glanced back, unpleasant to do so; a dark shadow quickly disappeared away from the top banister.

I hurried down the stairs with the fear of god in me, away from that unnatural and unnerving spectre.

A house with too many stories to tell. A house late at night, a house with no one there.

Julie Modla

https://www.audible.co.uk/search?searchAuthor=Julie+Modla

Fiction