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Edmund is a totally literate, pipe smoking Emperor Penguin who resides in my loft. Well at least I think it is my loft. Since my death, countless years ago, I’m not entirely sure who owns it. No one lives here anymore, the dust is thick, the floorboards are cracked, the windows are smashed and the curtains are stained and tattered. This place has been suffering the injuries of time. I guess it is the various arachnids that live in the corners that have the largest claim on my old home. At least that’s what Edmund thinks. He believes that by being dead I forfeit all my worldly possessions, although he never explained whom too.
You may think it is terribly lonely being dead but it isn’t all that bad. Edmund would tell me the most fascinating stories, about explorers he has met, his vast family and his journeys across the world to keep me entertained. Yet he would not tell me how he ended up in an old loft in Kent, “I’ll save that story for a special occasion” he’d say, giving me a knowing look from beneath his bowler hat. Edmund may be little over a metre high but he is a knowledgeable penguin, he knew more than he would say, at least he is good at making you think that. I was not so knowledgeable, not in the entertaining way Edmund is anyway. But I do aspire, to one day, possess the wisdom of my charming companion. They say that penguins are like either really old men or really young children. In the case of Edmund, he is a bit of both.
Before I continue I should introduce myself. My name is Samuel; I forgot my surname centuries ago, which Edmund believes is a shame, he tells me that a surname says a lot about a character. He would entertain me with his words of wisdom like this from his small plain rocking chair in the loft, raising his right wing, the one with the scar on it, whenever he got excited. He tells me the scar was caused by a fight with an undiscovered type of shark whilst trying to protect his eggs. Which, naturally, he won. I could hear these stories and play in the loft all day, pawing through old photo albums containing the happiest of memories or reading ancient books filled with interesting facts. And Edmund would never move from his position so I knew exactly where to find him if I ever needed a friend to talk too.
I had better stop myself there because, although it was just the once, Edmund has moved. In that he disappeared. Without a trace.
Many years ago now I was stalking the untended grounds of the decaying house when I noticed a small blue glow emitting from the living room. Confidently I moved at some speed through the rear door (that, at the time, was still intact) and hovered just outside the living room. Normally I have no fear of visitors, mainly because they have more fear of me. It is good fun to knock things over and scare them but it is just as enjoyable to unnerve them by standing next to them. Something tells them that they are not alone and yet they cannot prove it. So they flee. And I laugh. Yet there was something different about this one. I could not hear any movement; the light did not seem to move and it simply did not feel right. So I cautiously crept into the room and sure enough everything wasn’t normal. For standing in the centre of the room was another Ghost. A small Indian girl in a lovely yet fragile patterned white dress. I moved in front of her but she did not react, she just remained motionless as if I was not there.
It was one of those exciting moments that were so rare I had to saviour every detail. The way her hair had been plaited, the blank look of indifference in her eyes, the unusual way that she bowed her head slightly and most significantly her perfect stillness. I had to tell Edmund, he’d know what to do, he always knew what to do. So I gradually edged away from our visitor and made my way towards the door. As I neared the door she quickly spun around. Her dress moved yet her arms remained by her side and her head was still slightly bowed in a peculiar way. If I had been alive this would have been the most terrifying moment in my life. Instead I slowly headed towards Edmund, every step I took she took also, as I picked up pace as did she. I made it up the two flights of steps keeping one eye on my stalker as I headed through the hard red door and into the loft to find Edmund sitting in the same rocking chair, in the same corner, in the same way he always did.
Edmund said she was lost, and more importantly I was to look after her and for days on end I would find new ways to entertain our guest. She never spoke, nor did she raise her head from her unusual position. Yet I felt she understood everything, simply by the way she’d raise a smile during entertaining stories I would tell of past inhabitants to the desolate home. I taught her how to scare effectively; all the clever little ways to unnerve unwelcome visitors. She continued to never say a word and as the days wore on she would start to wander off. It was not long before she disappeared entirely. And took Edmund with her.
I cannot explain exactly what happened. She was behind me whilst I was introducing her to Nami, the friendly cat who often visited and the next minute she was gone. I stood slightly confused for a while before heading upstairs to see if she had joined Edmund. As I entered the loft I knew something was wrong. It felt dark and cold and sure enough Edmund’s chair was bare. In its place was a complex spider web, as if he had never been there at all.
I was alone, my death-long friend had gone and I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again. The following weeks and months would go by extremely slowly. As loneliness consumed me I became a recluse. I rarely scared anyone anymore, and I often left Nami to screech outside rather than let her in. The poor feline didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of my depression and soon enough she never visited anymore.
I restlessly moved about the house and my sadness transformed into anger. The one remaining window was smashed by a group of teens and I bitterly watched as several boys and girls ran laughing down the street. Foolishly the group of six returned just a few days earlier.
The group had come up with the bright idea of spending a night in my abode. Drinking, laughing and being foolish in the infamous ‘haunted house’ of the area. I wasn’t going to disappoint. They had congregated in the living room and one of them was questioning his friends.
“Do you think it’s wise to light a fire?”
“Stop being such a wimp Mark, we’ll control the damn thing.”
“Yeah come on honey, just relax!”
At this point one of the shorter girls, with eyes drowning in mascara, slammed her bottle of beer on the floor, gasped and said “lets play spin the bottle”. As this was unfolding I slowly manoeuvred myself through the group and into the Dining room. No one noticed.
This is where all my fear training came into practice. At the end of this dirt ridden yet barren room was the side door to the house, and I opened it. It was a windy night and so the door slammed against the side of the house, again and again. Gusts of wind blew the worn crimson curtains high in the air and it all looked like a cliché scene from a horror movie. A perfect way to build suspense.
One of the girls shrieked and jumped to her feet to run, “What’s that James?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?”
“Sounds like a gate to me”
“Well go check it out then!”
“How about you check it out!”
“Wow guys, calm down, please. Why don’t we all check it out?”
I remained in the room; arms crossed patiently waiting for the panic to calm down. Only the one stayed in the living room whilst the others edged their way into the dining room, clinging onto eachother.
“The door’s been blown open, see nothing to worry about.”
Two of the lads went to close it; the rest sighed with relief, bar one of the taller girls whose eyes were transfixed on the billowing mass of fabric that sprinkled dust across the room. As one of the lads slammed the door shut I slammed the door of the one they walked through. They screamed. I was now in the living room looking at the girl who remained behind, I believe she was called Lucy. Startled by the door slamming and the following screams, Lucy began to make it to her feet. I used my cold presence to extinguish the small fire, which was enough to cause her to frantically run through the front door and down the street.
The rest of the group managed to make it back into the living room. Mark pleading for the girls to “calm down” as they tried to flee. At this point I picked up a half-finished bottle of beer and flung it towards the other side of the room. As it smashed against the fire place Mark seemed to have scrapped the calming down idea and shoved his friends to one side and hysterically ran through the front door. The others close behind. I normally enjoyed this but I felt empty, it was only really funny if I had someone else to share it with. Yet as I watched James stumble over towards the end of the street I heard a chuckle from upstairs. I scowled, had I missed someone? So I lazily headed upstairs where I heard the familiar chuckle more clearly, coming from the loft. As I rose up the stairs and pushed open the hard red door I saw Edmund, sitting in the same rocking chair, in the same corner, in the same way he always did.
I never asked where he had gone, whatever happened to the silent Indian girl and why he had taken so long. I felt he wouldn’t tell me if I did. It hardly mattered. I could not mask the delight that sprung from my eyes to see my wise old friend. And I just sat there, crossed legged in front of him discussing scares and reminiscing of the time teens used to visit the house looking for the ghost of an old schoolmaster who never really lived there. It was fun pretending to be that schoolmaster, whacking canes against the wall and sitting at the dusty invincible wooden desk that can be found in one of the bedrooms. As we talked Nami carefully made her way through the recently smashed window and curled up besides me. Everything seemed right again.
This conversation with my favourite penguin had been developing for hours before a muffled yet familiar voice from outside called an end to it. I picked myself off the dusty floor and dashed down the stairs, kicking over a clump of dirt as I made it to the bottom, where I heard it again, “Sam honey, Tea’s ready”. Mother was calling. I slammed through the back door, squeezed through the gap in the fence and went skipping down the road. There she was, her auburn hair stretching down to her shoulders, her sparkling green eyes beaming at me through her giant, thick framed, glasses and wearing her favourite bright red jumper overshadowed only by her smile.
I ran into the house and headed straight for the kitchen. My Dad raised his head from the local Newspaper. “Been playing in the old house again have we my boy?” I smiled my answer even though he could not see it through the black and white ink. Geoff, my elder brother, was already sitting at the table, cutting up a piece of corn beef.
“That’s just sad, have you ever thought about getting some friends?” he said cruelly.
“Leave him alone” replied my Mother who entered the kitchen with a jug of juice, “He’s just playing around”.
“Well you’ll have to grow up one day, you can’t live in your fantasy world all your life!” Geoff bitterly remarked.
“Don’t be mean Geoff, he’s only 8.” Said Dad, always the empathetic parent. “He’s just jealous son, don’t listen to him, have your fun.” He continued flashing me a brief smile before returning to his paper.
I didn’t join my parents in the living room; I’ve never been a fan of the TV. Instead I sat on the windowsill in my unlit room, a delicate old Indian doll of my mothers was sitting besides me, fitted with a small white dress that would probably disintegrate if I were to touch it and its head had been positioned at an unusual angle. I sat there for hours and just stared through the window at the deserted house where I have spent the majority of my summer. Geoff’s words continued to haunt my thoughts. As I grow it is likely I will be spending my summer in reality as opposed to my head and this fact darkened my mood. At this point Mother gracefully and silently entered my room and picked me up from the window. Tucking me inside my navy blue duvet she kissed my head, as she always did, whispered “Good night” and left the room; keeping the door slightly ajar. Comforting moments like this reminded me that perhaps reality isn’t all that bad.
Yet, no matter how old I maybe, just once in a while, I should try and visit my little world in my head. Even if it is just to remind myself that it is still there. Still a part of who I am.
At least… that’s what Edmund thinks.
You may think it is terribly lonely being dead but it isn’t all that bad. Edmund would tell me the most fascinating stories, about explorers he has met, his vast family and his journeys across the world to keep me entertained. Yet he would not tell me how he ended up in an old loft in Kent, “I’ll save that story for a special occasion” he’d say, giving me a knowing look from beneath his bowler hat. Edmund may be little over a metre high but he is a knowledgeable penguin, he knew more than he would say, at least he is good at making you think that. I was not so knowledgeable, not in the entertaining way Edmund is anyway. But I do aspire, to one day, possess the wisdom of my charming companion. They say that penguins are like either really old men or really young children. In the case of Edmund, he is a bit of both.
Before I continue I should introduce myself. My name is Samuel; I forgot my surname centuries ago, which Edmund believes is a shame, he tells me that a surname says a lot about a character. He would entertain me with his words of wisdom like this from his small plain rocking chair in the loft, raising his right wing, the one with the scar on it, whenever he got excited. He tells me the scar was caused by a fight with an undiscovered type of shark whilst trying to protect his eggs. Which, naturally, he won. I could hear these stories and play in the loft all day, pawing through old photo albums containing the happiest of memories or reading ancient books filled with interesting facts. And Edmund would never move from his position so I knew exactly where to find him if I ever needed a friend to talk too.
I had better stop myself there because, although it was just the once, Edmund has moved. In that he disappeared. Without a trace.
Many years ago now I was stalking the untended grounds of the decaying house when I noticed a small blue glow emitting from the living room. Confidently I moved at some speed through the rear door (that, at the time, was still intact) and hovered just outside the living room. Normally I have no fear of visitors, mainly because they have more fear of me. It is good fun to knock things over and scare them but it is just as enjoyable to unnerve them by standing next to them. Something tells them that they are not alone and yet they cannot prove it. So they flee. And I laugh. Yet there was something different about this one. I could not hear any movement; the light did not seem to move and it simply did not feel right. So I cautiously crept into the room and sure enough everything wasn’t normal. For standing in the centre of the room was another Ghost. A small Indian girl in a lovely yet fragile patterned white dress. I moved in front of her but she did not react, she just remained motionless as if I was not there.
It was one of those exciting moments that were so rare I had to saviour every detail. The way her hair had been plaited, the blank look of indifference in her eyes, the unusual way that she bowed her head slightly and most significantly her perfect stillness. I had to tell Edmund, he’d know what to do, he always knew what to do. So I gradually edged away from our visitor and made my way towards the door. As I neared the door she quickly spun around. Her dress moved yet her arms remained by her side and her head was still slightly bowed in a peculiar way. If I had been alive this would have been the most terrifying moment in my life. Instead I slowly headed towards Edmund, every step I took she took also, as I picked up pace as did she. I made it up the two flights of steps keeping one eye on my stalker as I headed through the hard red door and into the loft to find Edmund sitting in the same rocking chair, in the same corner, in the same way he always did.
Edmund said she was lost, and more importantly I was to look after her and for days on end I would find new ways to entertain our guest. She never spoke, nor did she raise her head from her unusual position. Yet I felt she understood everything, simply by the way she’d raise a smile during entertaining stories I would tell of past inhabitants to the desolate home. I taught her how to scare effectively; all the clever little ways to unnerve unwelcome visitors. She continued to never say a word and as the days wore on she would start to wander off. It was not long before she disappeared entirely. And took Edmund with her.
I cannot explain exactly what happened. She was behind me whilst I was introducing her to Nami, the friendly cat who often visited and the next minute she was gone. I stood slightly confused for a while before heading upstairs to see if she had joined Edmund. As I entered the loft I knew something was wrong. It felt dark and cold and sure enough Edmund’s chair was bare. In its place was a complex spider web, as if he had never been there at all.
I was alone, my death-long friend had gone and I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again. The following weeks and months would go by extremely slowly. As loneliness consumed me I became a recluse. I rarely scared anyone anymore, and I often left Nami to screech outside rather than let her in. The poor feline didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of my depression and soon enough she never visited anymore.
I restlessly moved about the house and my sadness transformed into anger. The one remaining window was smashed by a group of teens and I bitterly watched as several boys and girls ran laughing down the street. Foolishly the group of six returned just a few days earlier.
The group had come up with the bright idea of spending a night in my abode. Drinking, laughing and being foolish in the infamous ‘haunted house’ of the area. I wasn’t going to disappoint. They had congregated in the living room and one of them was questioning his friends.
“Do you think it’s wise to light a fire?”
“Stop being such a wimp Mark, we’ll control the damn thing.”
“Yeah come on honey, just relax!”
At this point one of the shorter girls, with eyes drowning in mascara, slammed her bottle of beer on the floor, gasped and said “lets play spin the bottle”. As this was unfolding I slowly manoeuvred myself through the group and into the Dining room. No one noticed.
This is where all my fear training came into practice. At the end of this dirt ridden yet barren room was the side door to the house, and I opened it. It was a windy night and so the door slammed against the side of the house, again and again. Gusts of wind blew the worn crimson curtains high in the air and it all looked like a cliché scene from a horror movie. A perfect way to build suspense.
One of the girls shrieked and jumped to her feet to run, “What’s that James?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?”
“Sounds like a gate to me”
“Well go check it out then!”
“How about you check it out!”
“Wow guys, calm down, please. Why don’t we all check it out?”
I remained in the room; arms crossed patiently waiting for the panic to calm down. Only the one stayed in the living room whilst the others edged their way into the dining room, clinging onto eachother.
“The door’s been blown open, see nothing to worry about.”
Two of the lads went to close it; the rest sighed with relief, bar one of the taller girls whose eyes were transfixed on the billowing mass of fabric that sprinkled dust across the room. As one of the lads slammed the door shut I slammed the door of the one they walked through. They screamed. I was now in the living room looking at the girl who remained behind, I believe she was called Lucy. Startled by the door slamming and the following screams, Lucy began to make it to her feet. I used my cold presence to extinguish the small fire, which was enough to cause her to frantically run through the front door and down the street.
The rest of the group managed to make it back into the living room. Mark pleading for the girls to “calm down” as they tried to flee. At this point I picked up a half-finished bottle of beer and flung it towards the other side of the room. As it smashed against the fire place Mark seemed to have scrapped the calming down idea and shoved his friends to one side and hysterically ran through the front door. The others close behind. I normally enjoyed this but I felt empty, it was only really funny if I had someone else to share it with. Yet as I watched James stumble over towards the end of the street I heard a chuckle from upstairs. I scowled, had I missed someone? So I lazily headed upstairs where I heard the familiar chuckle more clearly, coming from the loft. As I rose up the stairs and pushed open the hard red door I saw Edmund, sitting in the same rocking chair, in the same corner, in the same way he always did.
I never asked where he had gone, whatever happened to the silent Indian girl and why he had taken so long. I felt he wouldn’t tell me if I did. It hardly mattered. I could not mask the delight that sprung from my eyes to see my wise old friend. And I just sat there, crossed legged in front of him discussing scares and reminiscing of the time teens used to visit the house looking for the ghost of an old schoolmaster who never really lived there. It was fun pretending to be that schoolmaster, whacking canes against the wall and sitting at the dusty invincible wooden desk that can be found in one of the bedrooms. As we talked Nami carefully made her way through the recently smashed window and curled up besides me. Everything seemed right again.
This conversation with my favourite penguin had been developing for hours before a muffled yet familiar voice from outside called an end to it. I picked myself off the dusty floor and dashed down the stairs, kicking over a clump of dirt as I made it to the bottom, where I heard it again, “Sam honey, Tea’s ready”. Mother was calling. I slammed through the back door, squeezed through the gap in the fence and went skipping down the road. There she was, her auburn hair stretching down to her shoulders, her sparkling green eyes beaming at me through her giant, thick framed, glasses and wearing her favourite bright red jumper overshadowed only by her smile.
I ran into the house and headed straight for the kitchen. My Dad raised his head from the local Newspaper. “Been playing in the old house again have we my boy?” I smiled my answer even though he could not see it through the black and white ink. Geoff, my elder brother, was already sitting at the table, cutting up a piece of corn beef.
“That’s just sad, have you ever thought about getting some friends?” he said cruelly.
“Leave him alone” replied my Mother who entered the kitchen with a jug of juice, “He’s just playing around”.
“Well you’ll have to grow up one day, you can’t live in your fantasy world all your life!” Geoff bitterly remarked.
“Don’t be mean Geoff, he’s only 8.” Said Dad, always the empathetic parent. “He’s just jealous son, don’t listen to him, have your fun.” He continued flashing me a brief smile before returning to his paper.
I didn’t join my parents in the living room; I’ve never been a fan of the TV. Instead I sat on the windowsill in my unlit room, a delicate old Indian doll of my mothers was sitting besides me, fitted with a small white dress that would probably disintegrate if I were to touch it and its head had been positioned at an unusual angle. I sat there for hours and just stared through the window at the deserted house where I have spent the majority of my summer. Geoff’s words continued to haunt my thoughts. As I grow it is likely I will be spending my summer in reality as opposed to my head and this fact darkened my mood. At this point Mother gracefully and silently entered my room and picked me up from the window. Tucking me inside my navy blue duvet she kissed my head, as she always did, whispered “Good night” and left the room; keeping the door slightly ajar. Comforting moments like this reminded me that perhaps reality isn’t all that bad.
Yet, no matter how old I maybe, just once in a while, I should try and visit my little world in my head. Even if it is just to remind myself that it is still there. Still a part of who I am.
At least… that’s what Edmund thinks.
Well done Dringo, finally got round to reading it and I'm glad I did. Look forward to reading more of your work.
Wow, this is really good.
I've even printed it out and use it for bed-time reading, really.
It's great!
I've even printed it out and use it for bed-time reading, really.
It's great!
pb wrote:
> Wonderful.
>
> That was such a good story and a great ending too. I loved it.
Cheers for that, it means a lot :)
> Wonderful.
>
> That was such a good story and a great ending too. I loved it.
Cheers for that, it means a lot :)
Wonderful.
That was such a good story and a great ending too. I loved it.
That was such a good story and a great ending too. I loved it.
Edmund is a totally literate, pipe smoking Emperor Penguin who resides in my loft. Well at least I think it is my loft. Since my death, countless years ago, I’m not entirely sure who owns it. No one lives here anymore, the dust is thick, the floorboards are cracked, the windows are smashed and the curtains are stained and tattered. This place has been suffering the injuries of time. I guess it is the various arachnids that live in the corners that have the largest claim on my old home. At least that’s what Edmund thinks. He believes that by being dead I forfeit all my worldly possessions, although he never explained whom too.
You may think it is terribly lonely being dead but it isn’t all that bad. Edmund would tell me the most fascinating stories, about explorers he has met, his vast family and his journeys across the world to keep me entertained. Yet he would not tell me how he ended up in an old loft in Kent, “I’ll save that story for a special occasion” he’d say, giving me a knowing look from beneath his bowler hat. Edmund may be little over a metre high but he is a knowledgeable penguin, he knew more than he would say, at least he is good at making you think that. I was not so knowledgeable, not in the entertaining way Edmund is anyway. But I do aspire, to one day, possess the wisdom of my charming companion. They say that penguins are like either really old men or really young children. In the case of Edmund, he is a bit of both.
Before I continue I should introduce myself. My name is Samuel; I forgot my surname centuries ago, which Edmund believes is a shame, he tells me that a surname says a lot about a character. He would entertain me with his words of wisdom like this from his small plain rocking chair in the loft, raising his right wing, the one with the scar on it, whenever he got excited. He tells me the scar was caused by a fight with an undiscovered type of shark whilst trying to protect his eggs. Which, naturally, he won. I could hear these stories and play in the loft all day, pawing through old photo albums containing the happiest of memories or reading ancient books filled with interesting facts. And Edmund would never move from his position so I knew exactly where to find him if I ever needed a friend to talk too.
I had better stop myself there because, although it was just the once, Edmund has moved. In that he disappeared. Without a trace.
Many years ago now I was stalking the untended grounds of the decaying house when I noticed a small blue glow emitting from the living room. Confidently I moved at some speed through the rear door (that, at the time, was still intact) and hovered just outside the living room. Normally I have no fear of visitors, mainly because they have more fear of me. It is good fun to knock things over and scare them but it is just as enjoyable to unnerve them by standing next to them. Something tells them that they are not alone and yet they cannot prove it. So they flee. And I laugh. Yet there was something different about this one. I could not hear any movement; the light did not seem to move and it simply did not feel right. So I cautiously crept into the room and sure enough everything wasn’t normal. For standing in the centre of the room was another Ghost. A small Indian girl in a lovely yet fragile patterned white dress. I moved in front of her but she did not react, she just remained motionless as if I was not there.
It was one of those exciting moments that were so rare I had to saviour every detail. The way her hair had been plaited, the blank look of indifference in her eyes, the unusual way that she bowed her head slightly and most significantly her perfect stillness. I had to tell Edmund, he’d know what to do, he always knew what to do. So I gradually edged away from our visitor and made my way towards the door. As I neared the door she quickly spun around. Her dress moved yet her arms remained by her side and her head was still slightly bowed in a peculiar way. If I had been alive this would have been the most terrifying moment in my life. Instead I slowly headed towards Edmund, every step I took she took also, as I picked up pace as did she. I made it up the two flights of steps keeping one eye on my stalker as I headed through the hard red door and into the loft to find Edmund sitting in the same rocking chair, in the same corner, in the same way he always did.
Edmund said she was lost, and more importantly I was to look after her and for days on end I would find new ways to entertain our guest. She never spoke, nor did she raise her head from her unusual position. Yet I felt she understood everything, simply by the way she’d raise a smile during entertaining stories I would tell of past inhabitants to the desolate home. I taught her how to scare effectively; all the clever little ways to unnerve unwelcome visitors. She continued to never say a word and as the days wore on she would start to wander off. It was not long before she disappeared entirely. And took Edmund with her.
I cannot explain exactly what happened. She was behind me whilst I was introducing her to Nami, the friendly cat who often visited and the next minute she was gone. I stood slightly confused for a while before heading upstairs to see if she had joined Edmund. As I entered the loft I knew something was wrong. It felt dark and cold and sure enough Edmund’s chair was bare. In its place was a complex spider web, as if he had never been there at all.
I was alone, my death-long friend had gone and I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again. The following weeks and months would go by extremely slowly. As loneliness consumed me I became a recluse. I rarely scared anyone anymore, and I often left Nami to screech outside rather than let her in. The poor feline didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of my depression and soon enough she never visited anymore.
I restlessly moved about the house and my sadness transformed into anger. The one remaining window was smashed by a group of teens and I bitterly watched as several boys and girls ran laughing down the street. Foolishly the group of six returned just a few days earlier.
The group had come up with the bright idea of spending a night in my abode. Drinking, laughing and being foolish in the infamous ‘haunted house’ of the area. I wasn’t going to disappoint. They had congregated in the living room and one of them was questioning his friends.
“Do you think it’s wise to light a fire?”
“Stop being such a wimp Mark, we’ll control the damn thing.”
“Yeah come on honey, just relax!”
At this point one of the shorter girls, with eyes drowning in mascara, slammed her bottle of beer on the floor, gasped and said “lets play spin the bottle”. As this was unfolding I slowly manoeuvred myself through the group and into the Dining room. No one noticed.
This is where all my fear training came into practice. At the end of this dirt ridden yet barren room was the side door to the house, and I opened it. It was a windy night and so the door slammed against the side of the house, again and again. Gusts of wind blew the worn crimson curtains high in the air and it all looked like a cliché scene from a horror movie. A perfect way to build suspense.
One of the girls shrieked and jumped to her feet to run, “What’s that James?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?”
“Sounds like a gate to me”
“Well go check it out then!”
“How about you check it out!”
“Wow guys, calm down, please. Why don’t we all check it out?”
I remained in the room; arms crossed patiently waiting for the panic to calm down. Only the one stayed in the living room whilst the others edged their way into the dining room, clinging onto eachother.
“The door’s been blown open, see nothing to worry about.”
Two of the lads went to close it; the rest sighed with relief, bar one of the taller girls whose eyes were transfixed on the billowing mass of fabric that sprinkled dust across the room. As one of the lads slammed the door shut I slammed the door of the one they walked through. They screamed. I was now in the living room looking at the girl who remained behind, I believe she was called Lucy. Startled by the door slamming and the following screams, Lucy began to make it to her feet. I used my cold presence to extinguish the small fire, which was enough to cause her to frantically run through the front door and down the street.
The rest of the group managed to make it back into the living room. Mark pleading for the girls to “calm down” as they tried to flee. At this point I picked up a half-finished bottle of beer and flung it towards the other side of the room. As it smashed against the fire place Mark seemed to have scrapped the calming down idea and shoved his friends to one side and hysterically ran through the front door. The others close behind. I normally enjoyed this but I felt empty, it was only really funny if I had someone else to share it with. Yet as I watched James stumble over towards the end of the street I heard a chuckle from upstairs. I scowled, had I missed someone? So I lazily headed upstairs where I heard the familiar chuckle more clearly, coming from the loft. As I rose up the stairs and pushed open the hard red door I saw Edmund, sitting in the same rocking chair, in the same corner, in the same way he always did.
I never asked where he had gone, whatever happened to the silent Indian girl and why he had taken so long. I felt he wouldn’t tell me if I did. It hardly mattered. I could not mask the delight that sprung from my eyes to see my wise old friend. And I just sat there, crossed legged in front of him discussing scares and reminiscing of the time teens used to visit the house looking for the ghost of an old schoolmaster who never really lived there. It was fun pretending to be that schoolmaster, whacking canes against the wall and sitting at the dusty invincible wooden desk that can be found in one of the bedrooms. As we talked Nami carefully made her way through the recently smashed window and curled up besides me. Everything seemed right again.
This conversation with my favourite penguin had been developing for hours before a muffled yet familiar voice from outside called an end to it. I picked myself off the dusty floor and dashed down the stairs, kicking over a clump of dirt as I made it to the bottom, where I heard it again, “Sam honey, Tea’s ready”. Mother was calling. I slammed through the back door, squeezed through the gap in the fence and went skipping down the road. There she was, her auburn hair stretching down to her shoulders, her sparkling green eyes beaming at me through her giant, thick framed, glasses and wearing her favourite bright red jumper overshadowed only by her smile.
I ran into the house and headed straight for the kitchen. My Dad raised his head from the local Newspaper. “Been playing in the old house again have we my boy?” I smiled my answer even though he could not see it through the black and white ink. Geoff, my elder brother, was already sitting at the table, cutting up a piece of corn beef.
“That’s just sad, have you ever thought about getting some friends?” he said cruelly.
“Leave him alone” replied my Mother who entered the kitchen with a jug of juice, “He’s just playing around”.
“Well you’ll have to grow up one day, you can’t live in your fantasy world all your life!” Geoff bitterly remarked.
“Don’t be mean Geoff, he’s only 8.” Said Dad, always the empathetic parent. “He’s just jealous son, don’t listen to him, have your fun.” He continued flashing me a brief smile before returning to his paper.
I didn’t join my parents in the living room; I’ve never been a fan of the TV. Instead I sat on the windowsill in my unlit room, a delicate old Indian doll of my mothers was sitting besides me, fitted with a small white dress that would probably disintegrate if I were to touch it and its head had been positioned at an unusual angle. I sat there for hours and just stared through the window at the deserted house where I have spent the majority of my summer. Geoff’s words continued to haunt my thoughts. As I grow it is likely I will be spending my summer in reality as opposed to my head and this fact darkened my mood. At this point Mother gracefully and silently entered my room and picked me up from the window. Tucking me inside my navy blue duvet she kissed my head, as she always did, whispered “Good night” and left the room; keeping the door slightly ajar. Comforting moments like this reminded me that perhaps reality isn’t all that bad.
Yet, no matter how old I maybe, just once in a while, I should try and visit my little world in my head. Even if it is just to remind myself that it is still there. Still a part of who I am.
At least… that’s what Edmund thinks.
You may think it is terribly lonely being dead but it isn’t all that bad. Edmund would tell me the most fascinating stories, about explorers he has met, his vast family and his journeys across the world to keep me entertained. Yet he would not tell me how he ended up in an old loft in Kent, “I’ll save that story for a special occasion” he’d say, giving me a knowing look from beneath his bowler hat. Edmund may be little over a metre high but he is a knowledgeable penguin, he knew more than he would say, at least he is good at making you think that. I was not so knowledgeable, not in the entertaining way Edmund is anyway. But I do aspire, to one day, possess the wisdom of my charming companion. They say that penguins are like either really old men or really young children. In the case of Edmund, he is a bit of both.
Before I continue I should introduce myself. My name is Samuel; I forgot my surname centuries ago, which Edmund believes is a shame, he tells me that a surname says a lot about a character. He would entertain me with his words of wisdom like this from his small plain rocking chair in the loft, raising his right wing, the one with the scar on it, whenever he got excited. He tells me the scar was caused by a fight with an undiscovered type of shark whilst trying to protect his eggs. Which, naturally, he won. I could hear these stories and play in the loft all day, pawing through old photo albums containing the happiest of memories or reading ancient books filled with interesting facts. And Edmund would never move from his position so I knew exactly where to find him if I ever needed a friend to talk too.
I had better stop myself there because, although it was just the once, Edmund has moved. In that he disappeared. Without a trace.
Many years ago now I was stalking the untended grounds of the decaying house when I noticed a small blue glow emitting from the living room. Confidently I moved at some speed through the rear door (that, at the time, was still intact) and hovered just outside the living room. Normally I have no fear of visitors, mainly because they have more fear of me. It is good fun to knock things over and scare them but it is just as enjoyable to unnerve them by standing next to them. Something tells them that they are not alone and yet they cannot prove it. So they flee. And I laugh. Yet there was something different about this one. I could not hear any movement; the light did not seem to move and it simply did not feel right. So I cautiously crept into the room and sure enough everything wasn’t normal. For standing in the centre of the room was another Ghost. A small Indian girl in a lovely yet fragile patterned white dress. I moved in front of her but she did not react, she just remained motionless as if I was not there.
It was one of those exciting moments that were so rare I had to saviour every detail. The way her hair had been plaited, the blank look of indifference in her eyes, the unusual way that she bowed her head slightly and most significantly her perfect stillness. I had to tell Edmund, he’d know what to do, he always knew what to do. So I gradually edged away from our visitor and made my way towards the door. As I neared the door she quickly spun around. Her dress moved yet her arms remained by her side and her head was still slightly bowed in a peculiar way. If I had been alive this would have been the most terrifying moment in my life. Instead I slowly headed towards Edmund, every step I took she took also, as I picked up pace as did she. I made it up the two flights of steps keeping one eye on my stalker as I headed through the hard red door and into the loft to find Edmund sitting in the same rocking chair, in the same corner, in the same way he always did.
Edmund said she was lost, and more importantly I was to look after her and for days on end I would find new ways to entertain our guest. She never spoke, nor did she raise her head from her unusual position. Yet I felt she understood everything, simply by the way she’d raise a smile during entertaining stories I would tell of past inhabitants to the desolate home. I taught her how to scare effectively; all the clever little ways to unnerve unwelcome visitors. She continued to never say a word and as the days wore on she would start to wander off. It was not long before she disappeared entirely. And took Edmund with her.
I cannot explain exactly what happened. She was behind me whilst I was introducing her to Nami, the friendly cat who often visited and the next minute she was gone. I stood slightly confused for a while before heading upstairs to see if she had joined Edmund. As I entered the loft I knew something was wrong. It felt dark and cold and sure enough Edmund’s chair was bare. In its place was a complex spider web, as if he had never been there at all.
I was alone, my death-long friend had gone and I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again. The following weeks and months would go by extremely slowly. As loneliness consumed me I became a recluse. I rarely scared anyone anymore, and I often left Nami to screech outside rather than let her in. The poor feline didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of my depression and soon enough she never visited anymore.
I restlessly moved about the house and my sadness transformed into anger. The one remaining window was smashed by a group of teens and I bitterly watched as several boys and girls ran laughing down the street. Foolishly the group of six returned just a few days earlier.
The group had come up with the bright idea of spending a night in my abode. Drinking, laughing and being foolish in the infamous ‘haunted house’ of the area. I wasn’t going to disappoint. They had congregated in the living room and one of them was questioning his friends.
“Do you think it’s wise to light a fire?”
“Stop being such a wimp Mark, we’ll control the damn thing.”
“Yeah come on honey, just relax!”
At this point one of the shorter girls, with eyes drowning in mascara, slammed her bottle of beer on the floor, gasped and said “lets play spin the bottle”. As this was unfolding I slowly manoeuvred myself through the group and into the Dining room. No one noticed.
This is where all my fear training came into practice. At the end of this dirt ridden yet barren room was the side door to the house, and I opened it. It was a windy night and so the door slammed against the side of the house, again and again. Gusts of wind blew the worn crimson curtains high in the air and it all looked like a cliché scene from a horror movie. A perfect way to build suspense.
One of the girls shrieked and jumped to her feet to run, “What’s that James?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?”
“Sounds like a gate to me”
“Well go check it out then!”
“How about you check it out!”
“Wow guys, calm down, please. Why don’t we all check it out?”
I remained in the room; arms crossed patiently waiting for the panic to calm down. Only the one stayed in the living room whilst the others edged their way into the dining room, clinging onto eachother.
“The door’s been blown open, see nothing to worry about.”
Two of the lads went to close it; the rest sighed with relief, bar one of the taller girls whose eyes were transfixed on the billowing mass of fabric that sprinkled dust across the room. As one of the lads slammed the door shut I slammed the door of the one they walked through. They screamed. I was now in the living room looking at the girl who remained behind, I believe she was called Lucy. Startled by the door slamming and the following screams, Lucy began to make it to her feet. I used my cold presence to extinguish the small fire, which was enough to cause her to frantically run through the front door and down the street.
The rest of the group managed to make it back into the living room. Mark pleading for the girls to “calm down” as they tried to flee. At this point I picked up a half-finished bottle of beer and flung it towards the other side of the room. As it smashed against the fire place Mark seemed to have scrapped the calming down idea and shoved his friends to one side and hysterically ran through the front door. The others close behind. I normally enjoyed this but I felt empty, it was only really funny if I had someone else to share it with. Yet as I watched James stumble over towards the end of the street I heard a chuckle from upstairs. I scowled, had I missed someone? So I lazily headed upstairs where I heard the familiar chuckle more clearly, coming from the loft. As I rose up the stairs and pushed open the hard red door I saw Edmund, sitting in the same rocking chair, in the same corner, in the same way he always did.
I never asked where he had gone, whatever happened to the silent Indian girl and why he had taken so long. I felt he wouldn’t tell me if I did. It hardly mattered. I could not mask the delight that sprung from my eyes to see my wise old friend. And I just sat there, crossed legged in front of him discussing scares and reminiscing of the time teens used to visit the house looking for the ghost of an old schoolmaster who never really lived there. It was fun pretending to be that schoolmaster, whacking canes against the wall and sitting at the dusty invincible wooden desk that can be found in one of the bedrooms. As we talked Nami carefully made her way through the recently smashed window and curled up besides me. Everything seemed right again.
This conversation with my favourite penguin had been developing for hours before a muffled yet familiar voice from outside called an end to it. I picked myself off the dusty floor and dashed down the stairs, kicking over a clump of dirt as I made it to the bottom, where I heard it again, “Sam honey, Tea’s ready”. Mother was calling. I slammed through the back door, squeezed through the gap in the fence and went skipping down the road. There she was, her auburn hair stretching down to her shoulders, her sparkling green eyes beaming at me through her giant, thick framed, glasses and wearing her favourite bright red jumper overshadowed only by her smile.
I ran into the house and headed straight for the kitchen. My Dad raised his head from the local Newspaper. “Been playing in the old house again have we my boy?” I smiled my answer even though he could not see it through the black and white ink. Geoff, my elder brother, was already sitting at the table, cutting up a piece of corn beef.
“That’s just sad, have you ever thought about getting some friends?” he said cruelly.
“Leave him alone” replied my Mother who entered the kitchen with a jug of juice, “He’s just playing around”.
“Well you’ll have to grow up one day, you can’t live in your fantasy world all your life!” Geoff bitterly remarked.
“Don’t be mean Geoff, he’s only 8.” Said Dad, always the empathetic parent. “He’s just jealous son, don’t listen to him, have your fun.” He continued flashing me a brief smile before returning to his paper.
I didn’t join my parents in the living room; I’ve never been a fan of the TV. Instead I sat on the windowsill in my unlit room, a delicate old Indian doll of my mothers was sitting besides me, fitted with a small white dress that would probably disintegrate if I were to touch it and its head had been positioned at an unusual angle. I sat there for hours and just stared through the window at the deserted house where I have spent the majority of my summer. Geoff’s words continued to haunt my thoughts. As I grow it is likely I will be spending my summer in reality as opposed to my head and this fact darkened my mood. At this point Mother gracefully and silently entered my room and picked me up from the window. Tucking me inside my navy blue duvet she kissed my head, as she always did, whispered “Good night” and left the room; keeping the door slightly ajar. Comforting moments like this reminded me that perhaps reality isn’t all that bad.
Yet, no matter how old I maybe, just once in a while, I should try and visit my little world in my head. Even if it is just to remind myself that it is still there. Still a part of who I am.
At least… that’s what Edmund thinks.