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The Seance

‘All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream’ Edgar Allen Poe

Madame Chokalinka was slender, a svelte figure with a willowy look about her. Arched eyebrows and a flawless complexion. Adjusting herself and smoothing her long velvet crimson dress proceeded to paint her nails to match her attire. Her long black hair typical of the Gothic look that she showed to her world of mystique.

She had a regular advertisement in the local tabloid. She was a professional tarot card reader and palmist. She also conversed with those who had passed over into the ethereal of the spirit world.

She prepared her parlour for this evening’s guests. She placed down her dark green, thick table cloth. Then, she placed her ornate box of blue and revealed her cards. She always did a three-card spread just before her guests would arrive to connect. This evening, there were four and she would commence the seance.

Most were vulnerable, those who had loved and lost and most hung on to her every word. Upon leaving, most would elaborate to friends or anyone who cared to listen. The morsels they received would be expanded like Chinese whispers. They would share what she had spoken about and the messages she relayed. It was good advertising and it kept the mourners knocking on the door.

The evening’s three card spread included The Tower. It also revealed the nine of swords and The Moon. Interesting she thought, quite deep. Excited to see how this evening would unfold.

The cemetery in autumn was dank but colourful. The leaves had shed from the trees. An elderly lady pottered around her husband’s grave, tidying up. Throwing away the dead flowers and filling up the empty urn from a tap near to his resting place. Fresh flowers placed at the side, a ritual that she came to do every now and again. She didn’t feel that his soul was in this sacred spot. Tonight, she would meet with Madame Chokalinka and connect with him.

Some had accused Madame Chokalinka of being a charlatan, but what did they know she thought to herself. This evening her clients wanted a seance to contact those they had known or loved in the afterworld. She tried to find out a little of their background. It always helped her when she morphed into character.

Cyril made his way first. He was a closed book. He did not reveal much about himself apart from the fact that he had been married with no children. Nonetheless, there was some answers he needed to find alongside contacting his wife.

Eleanor arrived secondly, quite a strange character Madame thought. She sheltered herself with a pillar box hat. A veil shrouded her view. It covered a burn on her cheek. She was dressed in black.

The lady who was pottering about her husbands grave wanted to contact her dead husband.

There was also a young woman in her late twenties. She wondered if her father would come through. He had died at such a young age.

Each of them trying their best. They aimed to be a little vague. This was to avoid giving too much away to Madame Chokalinka.

Seances had been very popular during the 1800’s. And had continued to be popular ever since. People wanting to reach out to the dead through a connection and through a medium. Many of those being charlatans.

As the dusk settled, they all ventured into Chokalinka’s house. She greeted them through her ornate dark oak paneled hallway. They moved around the banister and into the parlour. This room was adorned with heavy dark drapes. A table took the center of the room, covered with the thick green tablecloth. Candles were strategically placed and danced, creating shadows within the room.

Madame did not focus too much on the wherefores and whys of their presence. She knew they were all there because they had lost someone. So, she asked them what they wanted from this session. The answer as always was to contact the deceased. Her always being the conduit to the afterlife.

All around the table all held a secret that they had kept to themselves.

Eleanor from a prestigious family had set fire to the mansion house she lived in with her brother. A monster involved with the occult who was the devil himself, abusing her, alongside Bowler hat man his friend. Between them they had harmed many a young girl including herself, they had performed sacrifices that she had witnessed. she had tried to put him in to the flames of hell unsuccessfully only to burn herself in the process. Well now the whole damn mess was going to be exposed by her to the press.

Cyril without Eleanor knowing had been the hangman for Strangeways prison in Manchester. He was the one who had walked that monster to the gallows on the day he was due to be hung for his hideous crimes of killing and torturing those poor girls. Cyril could tell that he was a nasty piece of work, when the man smirked as he fixed that noose around his neck and that man laughed and refused the hood as the trap door smashed and clattered during the eight seconds that it took for him to drop to his death.

The lady from the cemetery had been a good loyal wife. It had been a shock when the police knocked on the door that fateful night. The next day, the papers reported that her husband was involved in an affair. The affair was with a young singer in his band. This affair caused the young girl’s demise after her husband paid a backstreet abortionist to get rid of the baby.

And finally, the young girl had lost her father early in life. She just wanted to know if he would come through.

Madame Chokalinka knew nothing of these stories. After an exchange of money, she asked them to be seated around her table. She placed her tarot deck alongside her scrying glass. Then, she asked them all to be seated and to join hands.

All four wanted guidance so Madame started with the young woman. A man had deafness in his right ear. He also had arthritis in his spine, which was quite debilitating. She told her the man said she had bought bedside tables for her house. He had also gifted his car to her brother. The young woman started to cry. Madame reassured her that he was ok. He was waiting with love on the other side.

Next was the elderly lady who had come looking for answers. Madame replied that he claimed to have wronged her. He asked for forgiveness. He wasn’t settled until she pardoned him.

Next was Eleanor and Cyril and that’s where everything in the room changed.

Through her scrying ball she was taken back and astounded as a hazy vision appeared of a man with a rope tied around his neck who was laughing and mocking as the candles flickered and faded as the man fell into the hangman’s noose.

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

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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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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

Living dreams and revelations

I’m looking at this year with awe! I leapt into 2020 on a very high note. I had finished my book, ‘To Dance with a Devil’, published it on Amazon, and was very, excited to take Divine, my business on to the next level.

Not for one minute, could I comprehend, that our industry, hospitality, salons, the arts and retail, were about to be thrown into a car crash. Worst still, people were losing their lives and hospital staff, were, and are, worked off their feet.

After being in business since 2000, the most important lesson for me, is, do not take anything for granted.

The best thing that happened to me, was to appreciate the calmer things in life. I realised, how little I actually need to make me happy.

My favourite moments, were, my birthday in May. My love of plants and nature. I received the gift of a greenhouse from my husband. This kept me happy, nurturing the seeds. My daughter, back from Italy, created a wonderful, cocktail and tapas afternoon.

My evaluation is, I love my job, it has been so good to me. I’m so thankful for my staff, friends, my family and our clients. We laugh, we share, All the support they have given to us, especially when we were allowed to reopen. Long may our friendships and businesses continue. 🙏

As 2020 is coming to an end, let’s bring on 2021, and hope it’s an awesome one for everyone.

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

https://www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/51068001

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 special gift

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In a world where everyone is sending messages by messenger, WhatsApp and email. How nice would it be to receive a handwritten letter or a card by someone you love.

There is something about letters that speaks so powerfully to us. A seductiveness. Letters have a way of revealing as much about the subject as the author.

A special gift from the person who took the time to sit down and write it to you.

The sender can send their thoughts, unique to you, in the way they speak. A handwritten letter is like giving the receiver a small piece of the writers thoughts.

Instead of picking up your phone to send that text, put pen to paper and send a note to a loved one.

Happiness is receiving a hand written letter

Julie Modla