The Writers in Stone writing group are meeting next Wednesday which is not long before All Hallows’ Eve, or Hallowe’en as it’s more commonly called. We’re usually stumped for a topic to write to so it was an obvious idea to write something which fitted with this spooky time of year. I’m going to resist wittering on about the commercialisation (Americanisation) of the date, and I won’t be harking back to Hallowe’en parties as described by Agatha Christie, For some reason I always think “Off With His Head” by Ngaio Marsh is set at Hallowe’en, but no – although the title tells you all you need to know about the contents, it’s a winter setting for its gory mystery.
I started writing my story last night, and although it is a complete fiction, it starts off with something I actually experienced my self in the 1970’s when the so-called ‘Yorkshire Ripper, the murderer Peter Sutcliffe was pursuing his evil path. I was quite pleased with what I wrote and the idea I had, and the words were flowing. The ideas bubbling – when I stopped. I wasn’t writing a spooky Hallowe’en story, I was writing a semi-horror story. Now although Hallowe’en tales can indeed be horrific, there has to be a spooky, ghostly, creepy aspect. I will finish my story, but I will have to rethink another tale with something other-worldly about it.
My story so far:
It didn’t usually bother me walking home at night, even on my own, even late on. It had been raining and the puddles along Beech Road glittered under the street lights. I’m not really sure what I was thinking about, I can’t remember now, probably about the evening I’d spent with friends. It was late, well past midnight, but I felt alert and awake – I am somewhat of a night owl, and even as I was thinking that I heard an actual owl warble. My friends were Salvation Army officers, so we’d drunk tea, no wine as I might have done with other chums, and I felt awake and alive to the sounds of the night in the city.
A fox screamed somewhere, I heard someone singing, no doubt they’d had a good night at the pub, and in the distance was the sound of a siren. The houses were in darkness, just the occasional soft glimmer of light in a bedroom, but I knew my way, had walked along here so often, so many times at every hour of day or night. I walked quickly though, I wasn’t scared of being out alone at night, but I didn’t want to dawdle.
Richard had asked me if I wanted him to walk me home, but no, I would be fine, and I was fine, and I thought to myself how kind of him to ask. I knew why – he didn’t usually, but since that poor woman had been found dead in Southern Cemetery, everyone was more aware of being out at night. But I’d be ok, it wasn’t far, it was a residential area, a safe area, and I’d lived here long enough…
I wish I hadn’t started thinking about that… the poor woman in Southern Cemetery, it was being linked to other poor women, murdered in Yorkshire…
I walked more quickly, trying to think of other things, the nice evening I’d had, and the little snifter I was looking forward to treating myself to when I got in. Maybe watch TV for a while before going to bed, I glanced over my shoulder automatically as I went to cross Neale Road, and spooked myself by thinking I saw someone behind me by the corner of Beaumont Road. Of course there was no-one there,
I will finish this, but meanwhile I need to write something else to fit the brief, something strange and spooky with a Hallowe’en twist!
