Dear Diary

I’ve saved my spookiest story for All Hallow’s Eve. This was the first story I wrote last year when I went along to the Random Scribblers writing group with it clutched in my shaking hand.

Dear Diary

I am fearful to recount a terrifying episode but hope that putting pen to paper will allay my fears.  I am travelling from Plymouth to London and yesterday one of the wheels of the carriage broke with a great crash and the wheelwright is unable to repair it for at least two days.  The other passengers and I had no choice but to lodge at a small coaching inn on the outskirts of the village of Rockbeare.  The inn looks as if it grew from the ground many centuries ago and is covered in a vigorous climbing plant that smothers the building. After a supper of mutton stew, I retired early as the journey had greatly exhausted me.  The room is small and spartan, with a floor that slopes towards the window.

Once abed I fell quickly asleep but was woken by such a feeling of dread that I was frozen in place and dared not move. My eyes searched the darkness for some sign of what might have woken me but the room was black as pitch.  I then heard a noise as if a chair was scraping across the floor. Suddenly I was aware of a presence next to me and an icy chill on my cheek. Overcoming my fear, I lunged forward but no-one was there. I lit the candle with shaking hands, slowly got out of bed and checked the room carefully. The chair had indeed moved away from the desk and was now facing the bed but otherwise there was no sign of the intruder. After a time, my heart finally slowed to a normal rhythm and I was able to think more clearly. If someone had broken into my room, the door would be thrown wide but it was still locked. I returned to bed and, despite my ordeal, eventually fell back to sleep.

I was woken again some time later by a tremendous pressure on my chest. I could not breathe and started to flail my arms. The candle had not gone out so I could see there was nothing pressing down on me but still I could not draw breath. As suddenly as it started the pressure ceased and for some while I gasped like a landed fish. Once I had regained my composure I decided to fetch help but upon trying the locked door discovered the key nowhere to be found. I rattled the doorknob and called out for several minutes but, if anyone heard me, they did not come to my assistance.

I sit on the edge of the bed becoming ever more fearful of being alone in the room. The candle is guttering, casting unnerving shadows and the room grows colder.  One thing I know is that there is something malevolent in the room with me. Whether spirit or demon, I am sure that it is intent on harming me. I am writing this several hours away from sunrise and know not whether I shall see another day break.

Can’t See the Wood for the Trees

As we approach Halloween, I thought I’d share this spooky tale with you. It was inspired by a conversation I had with a colleague at work.

Can’t See the Wood for the Trees

The filigreed gates creaked loudly as Caroline Fleming pushed them open. She cautiously inched the car along the pitted driveway for some distance until she rounded a bend and finally saw her destination. Marwood Hall was a dilapidated, rambling manor house cloaked in ivy which she had been instructed to value prior to it being sold at auction.

She parked outside the large, oak doors, got out of the car and glanced around. It was an overcast afternoon in October but the atmosphere was crepuscular as the trees, mostly evergreens, pressed in on all sides encouraging feelings of claustrophobia.

Caroline unlocked the door with an old-fashioned, ornately detailed key and stepped into the double height entrance hall. There was a lot of post on the welcome mat which she gathered up and placed on a table next to a wilting aspidistra. The house was a warren of corridors and wings so she had been furnished with a plan which she now consulted. She set off with a determined step up the elaborate staircase towards the East Wing.

Once Caroline reached the master bedroom, she fished her laser measuring device from her bag and started her task. She was engrossed in her work when she heard a metronomic tapping noise behind her. The sound seemed to emanate from the window so she strode over to it and peered out. The trees were huddled even closer to the house on this side and a branch was beating a tattoo on the glass. “Whoever buys this place will get to know their tree surgeon very well,” Caroline said to herself.

She moved efficiently from room to room and was surprised to find that several of the guest rooms at the back of the house were in stygian blackness because the trees had grown so close to the rear wall.

Having finished the East and West Wings, Caroline made her way back to the main part of Marwood Hall. The ballroom faced the front of the house so she was puzzled as to why it was so gloomy. Flicking the light switch illuminated the dazzling chandeliers and dispelled the darkness. With some trepidation, Caroline walked to the window and looked out. Nothing but foliage met her gaze and branchlets were forcing their way through a crack in one of the panes.

Caroline hurried along the murky corridor, ran across the main hall and flung open the heavy door. A wall of tree trunks blocked her exit. Quickly shutting the door, she leaned against it. She reached into her bag for her phone. No signal. She rang 999. Engaged tone.

A thought poked insistently at her mind. Reaching into her bag she found the folder with details of the house. There were two aerial photographs of Marwood Hall. One showed extensive lawns around the house and in the other you could barely see the roof. She checked the dates. The photographs were taken only ten months apart. Studying the later photograph closely, she noticed a few pixels of red in a tiny gap in front of the house. Caroline’s blood ran cold as realisation dawned on her. The postman had visited but never left.