A Halloween Story

By Jane Scoggins

We had had a good night out at the Travellers Joy pub in Rayleigh, me and the girls. Six of us, old friends. It had been ages since we had had a night out together, before the Covid pandemic struck, in fact. We had all had Covid at some point over the last 18 months or so. Jenny and I had been really poorly and Jenny still didn't feel 100%, but apart from a lingering cough for a month after, the other girls hadn't been too badly affected. Anyway, we were all glad to have survived intact. Both Ann and Clare had lost a loved one during the lockdowns. Ann, her Nan, and Clare her Granddad, who had been in a nursing home. Neither had been able to visit and say goodbye. A horrible time it had been. We were all triple vaxed up and ready to celebrate all the missed birthday celebrations and Christmas get-togethers. We all arranged to get a taxi home or have our partners pick us up by11pm. At11 pm I was the only one left to be picked up. My partner Tony had texted to say there had been a bit of a hold-up on the A127 but was on his way. The pub was ready to close so I was waiting outside on the little terraced balcony. We had had a scorching summer, and although it was the end of October, it was quite mild. There was virtually no traffic passing at that time of night and not a soul about. It was quite nice waiting in the quiet gloom. We had all had quite a lot to drink, me included, which was unusual, but I felt mellow rather than inebriated. After 10 minutes or so, I thought I would walk around the car park a bit to avoid starting to get cold. It was getting a bit misty and the Halloween pumpkins dotted about were looking a bit spooky with their funny cut-out eyes and mouths. One of the flats across the road had one lit up in the window which looked more cheerful than scary.

After a while I stood nearer the road to look out for Tony as the pub lights were now turned off. All was silent, and then I heard a muffled voice somewhere near, but no actual person to be seen. I thought it must be my imagination until I distinctly heard a young voice say

‘Miss, Miss’. I looked around, but there was no one. And then I saw a most extraordinary thing that so shocked me I was rooted to the spot. Looking down, I saw what looked like a hand appearing out of the ground. Impossible I thought. Then it moved and stretched its fingers. It looked like the hand of a young male. I looked closer; yes, I guessed, a young man’s weather-beaten hand. The air was beginning to feel cooler and a bit damp. Whatever I had drank that evening had definitely gone to my head. The voice came again. ‘Miss Miss’. The voice seemed to be coming from below the ground, and then, with a swirl of mist, it rose above the ground and was very close. I waited, still rooted to the spot. The voice came again, nearer to me.

‘Miss, my name is James. James Cook. I died a very long time ago.

‘How long ago?’ I heard myself ask. As if it mattered at all.

‘In 1829, Miss’, came the disembodied reply.

‘It was wrong, Miss, a miscarriage of justice Miss; I never done what they said I had. Mr Green the farmer I worked for said I set fire to his property Miss, and they believed him and took me off to prison. It broke my Mam’s heart it did. I had to go to court. There had been a few arsons about that time what with all the dissatisfaction with farm workers conditions. Everyone working on the land were frustrated. They had taken our contracts away and we only got what we worked for ,so during the winter if there was nothing much to do ‘cept feed the animal no one got paid until planting time in Spring.It was hard to survive, and some didnt. I was 15 at the time and although headstrong didn't have any evidence,so it was my word against Mr Green’s. He didn't like me one bit. He had a nasty temper and worked me to the bone. He beat me once too. He was a horrible man. His wife was scared of him. When his daughter Molly even dared look in my direction he would shout and ball at me and reduce my dinner ration. I would of left if I could but my Mum was a widow and couldn't really afford to keep me in food. In fact I used to scrump apples and plums for her and a handful of corn for her 3 chickens now and again to help her out. It was the only way. But I did hate him and he knew it. I don't know who did torch his barn, he was not liked by anyone, but it weren't me. But he was determined to punish me for anything he could and apart from being asleep in another barn, I had no alibi. He was an influential man was farmer Green. I stood no chance. I'm sure my Ma believed me but what good was that to her? I couldn't help her out any more. I never thought for me it would come to the gallows, but with all the unrest with farm workers and labourers and he arson attacks the judges were coming down hard to try and frighten folk and stop it happening.’

There was a pause while I digested this information as best as my fuddled brain could. He carried on with what sounded like a little sob in his voice.

I was shocked to hear the judge say

‘The sentence of the court upon you is that you be taken from this place to a lawful prison and thence to a place of execution, and that you be hanged by the neck until you are dead. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul’

‘Where you are standing now, Miss, is where the gallows stood, and where I was hanged. Walking up those steps with townsfolk standing watching was horrible. I dared look up at them standing there. I told my Mother not to come, and I was glad not to see her face. But I did see my brother. He was crying so pitifully I had to look away. I never knew who burnt down farmer green’s barn. It could have been anyone with a grudge, or it could have been an accident. But I was blamed and had my life ended cruelly and wrongly. I was barely 16 years of age. I can never settle. I am troubled and restless. Tonight is Halloween, when many spirits are abroad. Most living folk do not have the spiritual power to believe in the spirit world, and so do not hear or see us. You have heard me, though, and it has helped me that you have listened. Do you believe me?’

‘Yes, I do’, I hear myself say, almost in a whisper.

Just then I am alerted to Tony’s car lights as he swings into the pub car park.

He stops the car and leans over to open the passenger car door. Before I get in I look all around me in a slow 360-degree movement. Nothing to see or hear. Tony calls me to get in. Giving me a peck on the cheek as a welcome, he says, laughing,

‘Good Lord, love. Good night with the girls then? You look like you are three sheets to the wind, or have you just seen a ghost? Well, it is Halloween. Let’s get you home; you definitely don’t look quite right.

I am silent as we drive home. Was that real or just my imagination?.

Copyright, Jane Scoggins October 2026

Who is this Man? 03

 Peter Marchant

By Len Morgan

He is a quiet man, unassuming, keeping his own company. He’s the type of man who would pass unnoticed in a crowd.  Not one in a hundred could reliably describe him, or pick him out in a line-up.

That’s of course is by design, that is his intent! 

He’s a con man and a psychopath! He plies his trade with impunity the world owes him a living. He is highly intelligent, quick witted, and shows little empathy or remorse for his marks.  He gives shallow emotional responses, and displays a willingness to manipulate others without feeling any guilt. He is a technician who can work the emotions of the gullible, and even those with their wits about them.  His smile and charm can be turned on at the drop of the hat.  

“Hi Peter, So good to see you again after all these years…”

“I’m sorry, you are mistaken, my name is Gerald, and I don’t think we’ve ever met before?” 

“Then it’s my mistake Gerald.  It’s just that you bare a startling resemblance to my good friend Peter Marchant. I’m so sorry! I must apologise. You’re not a relation of his are you?” 

“No! My name is Gerald Moffat…”

“Then Gerald, allow me to buy you a drink.” 

“I don’t drink.”

“Then a meal sometime perhaps? Do you work close bye?”

“Yes, but I’ve just eaten. Now I realty must dash, I have a prior appointment to keep back at the office.” 

“Do you normally dine between 1 & 2?  I could meet you here tomorrow at 1pm, and we could dine at Wheelers; at my expense of course…”

The mark could decline and walk away, but be sure they would meet again in the near future anyway; at his design.

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 

MOGGIE POLITICIANS

 MOGGIE POLITICIANS

By Peter Woodgate

I have read, with great interest, on numerous occasions

The debate concerning dogs, their owners and more to the

Point, the mess they leave behind.

Being a dog owner and a responsible one at that, I agree

wholeheartedly with the disgust one has when being confronted by one of these abandoned faeces. 

Having picked up hundreds of my own, aptly named Shih Tzu’s packages, I have become somewhat of an expert on dog faeces and, in particular, what they tell me on the health of my dog. On viewing some of the many alien deposits encountered I am fearful that the perpetrators may not have long to live and, on occasions, simply could not believe the entire package was deposited by just one animal. 

All this being said I feel the poor dog and the owner get an

unfair and over-publicised slating concerning their misdemeanours. I, for one, would like to see more done Concerning cats. Don’t get me wrong I like cats but it does appear they, and their owners are allowed, literally, to get away with murder.

You know, it happens all the time; a sweet grey- haired old lady calls her pussykins in for dinner. He slinks in looking up at her, putting on his best “come and give me a stroke” look.

Gives his bowl a cursory sniff before jumping up on his favourite chair, which just happens to be next to the fire, and used by, yes you’ve guessed it, the grey haired old lady. She then puts him on her lap and pussykins squirms

backwards and forwards between her hands whilst

purring ecstatically. “And what’s up with you today?”

she asks as he looks longingly into her eyes. “not hungry?”

She is, of course, completely unaware that a mere 30 minutes previously dear pussykins had been dismembering a blackbird whose newly-hatched chicks would now be left to die. Shortly prior to that pussykins had dug up most of my newly planted pansies before choosing to deposit his faeces in an area not previously excavated. This is bad enough but it seems his games know no boundaries as sometimes he aggravates my dog to the point where he has a nervous breakdown. The cat can then return home where he is treated like a celebrity.

I live next door to three cats, an Abyssinian Blue, a Ginger Tom and a Tabby with a big red collar.

Unlike the Springer and Labrador who live the other side of me, these cats have never worked.

When they are not destroying wildlife and plants, they are either, crapping on everybody’s garden except there own or spitting and hissing at each other, mostly though, they just sleep.

I’ve Knick-named them

 

KEMI, ED AND ANDY

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

HALLOWEEN 01

 HALLOWEEN 

By Richard Banks 

Cold stirring in the ground below,

the yearly urge to rise and go,

 

to live again from dusk to dawn

and see the folk who once did mourn.

 

But little is that once there was.

Each change does add to sense of loss.

 

But in the churchyard all’s the same,

the ancient church, it’s weather vein,

 

the old yew tree, the heaped-up ground,

some markers stayed up, and some fell down.

 

But through the lychgate into town

the march of time is too oft’ found.

 

The shops in High Street once well known

are often gone or newly owned

 

by those who trade in strange new wares

or nail paint, tattoo, fashion hair.

 

Much has changed but people more.

The son who was is man by law.

 

And widowed wife is now new wed

and shares once more a double bed.

 

Brief holiday, this night is not

and anger flares in minds half rot.

 

To get back at the world that is

becomes their all consuming wish.

 

So haunting starts, the midnight game

of those despaired and racked by pain.

 

What good it does is none at all

for frightened folk or frenzied ghoul.

 

To make things worse black witches come

on broomstick steeds and far from dumb

 

recite foul spells that curse and blight

until the dawn when day brings light

 

and in the twilight off they go

as raised-up dead retreat in woe.

 

Back to churchyard there to spoil

to feed the worms beneath the soil.

 

Never again! they all do cry

will I return to life earth high.

 

But all do know that those once been

must always answer Halloween.

 

© Richard Banks  

Possey, my life together

 Possey, my life together

By Len Morgan

Ring Ring!

“Alexa said, “There’s somebody at the door!”

I didn’t answer her in my usual sardonic manner, because I knew what it would be, my weekly delivery of medication from the chemist in the high street. 

“Coming!” I yelled. Frequently he would drop it on the doorstep and let the rain dissolve the brown paper sack into paper mache. 

I opened the door…

It was a traditionally dressed middle aged woman with sun bleached skin dark hair and mesmerising green eyes.  She held a small basket filled with bunches of Lavender, posies tied up with string. 

She proffered one to me.  “For the one you love, pin it to her dress, and good luck will follow you and the wearer.” 

“I suppose you will expect payment for this?” 

“It is customary to accept a gypsies gift and give something in return.”

“Cross your palm with silver?  Well, I would need more than your luck, I need a miracle. So take it away…”

“You do not fear a Gypsy curse?" she said with vehemence, "I will pin it to your gate and send you a hex…”

“I don’t believe in Magic I said!”

A young waif no more than 13 had followed us in, dressed in a pale flimsy dress made for Summer wear not October winds. “Oh leave the poor man alone Gran your hex may be the blessing he seeks. Let me scan him and offer him a better future,” she said. She handed me the brown paper sack she’d retrieved from the doorstep, it was still dry. 

She placed a hand on my chest. Immediately I felt a shock of electricity coursing around my body, it felt hot exploring, invasive, seeking. I was rigid, couldn't move. After several minutes she removed her hand.  She took the medication sack from me and dumped it in the waste bin. 

“You won’t need that anymore,” She said. 

'Strangely I believed her.'

“The Cancer will leave you when next you defecate. When you take a run, your hardened arteries will improve and soon clear.”

I ran to the toilet, even as I ran I could feel my legs improving.  When I looked into the toilet bowl I could see a dark evil mass, I flushed it away, revolted by the sight. When I returned to the hall I found it empty. My visitors were gone but...

There on the mantel shelf beside my wife’s picture was a posy of lavender.

My wife died two years ago in late October. She told me she would visit through the aether, and protect me. I told her I didn’t believe in magic but thanked her anyway. I still don't believe in Magic but, Miracles are a whole other thing!

Copyright Len Morgan 

 

The Aether

The Aether

By Len Morgan

It seems cruel, that in the twilight of my years, I should be beset by so many great story ideas, that I’m unable to write down. Even if I could put down the basic plot, it would not be written the same way by another author.

However, the same ideas would still be out there, ready to be harvested by others more able than me.  

I could drop idea’s, down like bread crumbs, hoping that they would be taken up by another, but that’s not the way of things.

The thing about stories is that they are in the air all around us, waiting to be picked out by the receptive author. They exist in the ‘aether’ like living things all around us, but we have to be receptive to them.  It must be the same for songwriters, inventors, playwrights and other creatives. 

I honestly do believe in the existence of the aether.

People go to sleep & dream, then wake up with an idea fully formed in their mind.  The difference is; they are more receptive than others.

 On reading the qualities of Aether, do they not sound remarkably like Dark Matter?

The Aether:

A very rarefied and highly elastic substance formerly believed to permeate all space, including the interstices between the particles of matter, and to be the medium whose vibrations constituted light and all living things.

 

Copyright Len Morgan.

 

CLAIREX

 CLAIREX

By John Abbott

Briiing... Briiing, Briiing... Briiing, Briiing... Briiing,

“Damn !”  The phone downstairs was ringing. Briiing... Briiing. God knows what the time was.

Briiing... Briiing.

I rolled right and yawned as I dragged myself out of my slumber and rushed my body into action. The phone was ringing again. 

I rapidly descended the stairs in the dark; fortunately, I knew the house well enough. The landline was on the wall.

Briiing... Briiing. I slapped my right hand on the telephone and lifted the receiver. A voice spoke out from the other end.

"Hello. Is James there?"

The voice was soft and female.

" No, sorry. You must have the wrong number. " I responded.” My mouth was very, very dry.

" Are you sure ? It sounds like the right number to me” Her voice was pleasant.

" No, I'm afraid not. " I replied.

" Are you on your own ? " She asked.

" Er ... Yes. " I replied with a quick thought. " What a waste ... eh ? "

" Yeah, I suppose so. "

" What are you doing ? " she questioned. " Uh ? ... I was in bed. "

" Really ? "

" Yes. "

" Do you want to know what colour underwear I'm wearing ? " she asked. I was mildly shocked. I found the question a little perturbing, but I must admit that a tiny tingle of excitement ran through my body.

" Erm ... Yeah ... Whatever. " I replied, unconvincingly.

“ White. I'm wearing white. " she stated, unequivocally.

“ White ... why white ? " I queried.

" Because I'm pure. " she purred back.

I swallowed hard, feeling excited and intrigued, but still somehow subdued. She asked me another question.

" What have you got on ? "

" Nothing ... naked. " I answered.

" Really ? Hmmmmh ... That's nice, " purred the voice. I decided to find out what was going down here.

" So, how come you're ringing me up at this time of night ? " I said, realising almost immediately that it must have, in fact, been early morning.

" I was bored. " she answered. " Sorry... ?

" I was bored. " she repeated. " Bored ? "

" Yeah ... I was bored sitting here. "

" Do you often ring up strange men at odd times of night ? " I queried, again not registering that it was morning. Her soft response sounded honest, although repetitive. " Only when I'm bored. "

My dry throat attempted to splutter out the next sentence. " Strange habush ? " Uh ... " Hobit ... "

She interrupted, " Hobbit even. "

I laughed, " Yeah ... even Hobbit. " I continued, " Isn't it an expensive habit ? " " Hmmm ... " She murmured back.

It felt very eerie talking to someone I didn't know in the dark at this time of the morning. By now, I was really curious, so I asked her a more general question.

" Well ... Tell me something about yourself ? "

" What do you want to know ? " she answered, happily. " What's your name ?”

" Claire. "

" Nice ... My names John." I questioned her again. " How tall are you ? "

" Five-foot-five. "

" What colour hair have you got ? " " Blonde ... Short. "

" How short ? "

" Erm ... Down to my neck. " she said, as I imagined her face.

" Are you attractive, unattractive, or somewhere in-between ? “

" Well ... I think somewhere in-between, but I leave that to other people. "

" I can't quite believe this. "

" You mean you can't believe your luck ? "

" Ummm ... It could be a wind-up of some sort. "

" Well, it isn't. "

I decided to ask a few more questions.

" I know you're not supposed to ask women this question, but how old are you ? " " I'm twenty-nine. " she answered.

" And ... How old are you ? " 

" Guess. "

" You sound young ... "

" Yeah ... Thank you, " I retorted, " Well, guess then ? “ 

" I'd say you were ... Twenty-six. "

" Ha ! ... I wish ! "

She laughed. It sounded really sweet. " I'm thirty-three. "

She hesitated, then asked me a more personal question. " Are you slim ? "

" Yes ... very slim. " I checked my own answer, " I mean, not skinny, but still slim. "

"Are you muscly ? "

I quipped back quickly,

" Yeah ... I've been to the gym-every day this week. " As she quietly purred approvingly, I said,

" Well, I don't suppose you can believe your luck this time can you ? "

" Mmmmmh ... " came back her wonderful murmur.

She asked another question,

" Where do you live ? " I hesitated.

" C'mon ... Where do you live ? It must be nice, because you sound posh. "

" Posh ? ... Nah, not me. I think I'm relatively intelligent though. "

" C'mon ... We could meet ... Now. " She sounded like she wanted it to happen. I felt a mild shock of excitement zip up my spine, but I resisted.

I laughed and said, " No, I don't think so. "

" Wouldn't you like to meet me ? " she asked,

" We could go for a drink or something ? ... What do you think ? " She sounded genuine, but I avoided answering.

A brief pause, and I continued. " Where do you live ? "

" Plaistow. "

" That's close ! ... What street ? " 

" Balaam Street. "

" Christ ... That's just around the corner. "

" Are you sure you don't want to meet ? " she repeated.

I became a little cautious. I knew nothing about her, so I asked yet another question. " Are you married ? "

" Separated ... Almost divorced. "

"What about your husband ? "

" He's not around. He doesn't come around. "

" I'm divorced. " I stated.

" Yeah ... Well, I'm nearly divorced. I decided to wait for the ... er ... Two year bit. "

" Umm. " was my response.

I thought I heard a sound at her end. " Who are you whispering to ? "

" Uh ? "

I lowered my voice. " Who are you whispering to ? "

“ Whispering ? ... You, silly ! " she whispered back. I must have been wrong.

" Can I ring you again ... sometime ? " she asked.

" Yes. " I replied excitedly. " But you'll have to call me at a more reasonable hour. Not at this time of night. "

I made the mistake of mixing up night and morning again. " I'll ring you again then ... When ? ... What time ? "

" Erm ... Tomorrow ... Sometime tomorrow. "

" What time ? Are you in all day ? "

" Erm ... I dunno. Er ... Six O'clock. "

" What ? In the morning ? "

I laughed. " No ... Six O'clock in the evening. "

" Are you sure ? "

" Yeah ... I think so. "

" I'll ring you again tomorrow then. "

I thought on it for a few more seconds and decided that six wasn't actually convenient. " Nah, make it Nine O'clock. "

" What ? "

" Not in the evening. Nine O'clock in the morning. A.M. " 

" Alright ... I'll ring you again at Nine O'clock. "

" Good ... "

" I've got to go ... There's someone at the door. "

" Uh ? I muttered. " Someone at the door ... At this time ? "

" Yeah, I've got to go. It's been really nice talking to you. What's your name again ? "

" John. "

" Yeah ... I'll ring you again John. "

Click ... Burrrrrrrrr ... She hung up and I replaced the receiver. 

My heart was pumping hard and I felt elated, but I wasn't sure why. I slowly slinked back to my bed. I checked my digital clock; one-twenty-one, precisely. I didn't sleep much, I couldn't.

I continuously tossed and turned. Only one thing filled my mind. Claire ... I had a prolonged, delighted feeling.

By the time daylight arrived, I hadn't slept at all since I'd spoken to her. When I climbed out of my bed at around seven-thirty, I was still thinking about her. I hadn't even thought of taking her number ... Why not ?

I waited two days obsessively for her to ring. She didn't. I never thought to ask for her number nor did I have a method to identify this.

However, I was never to receive that call.

Copyright John Abbott