Halloween

© Oonah V Joslin

Jacob gathered his grandchildren round him in the firelight. “Let me tell you a true story,” he said.

“Is it about a ghost?” they asked.

“It is about a night I spent alone in a haunted house,” replied the old man and his tone hushed them to silence.

He leaned forward and spoke in low tones. “Positioning is crucial on such occasions. I wanted to sit in a place where I could see the entire gallery. That would be at one end. I reasoned so, yet if the ghost entered from that end I should be too close. Might not the ghost go straight through whoever was so placed? The high arched windows would admit some moonlight, were there any to be had. A nearby shaft of illumination could prove comforting.

Then again, it would move away as time ticked by. And time itself seemed to me to be important that night. To be able to see the tall clock and note its rhythmic passing of each hour would at least be proof that this night would have an end and that sunshine would again sweep the ancestral hall. I paced out six good steps from the north end, with a window in the opposite wall, whence I could see the clock, every door, and the south walk. I waited there as the cold deepened and the moon rose to cast blue light and bluer shadows. I waited through the watches for the headless woman. At last the clock - struck - six.”

“And that was when you saw her?” asked an engrossed youngster.

“No,” said the old man. “That's when I became convinced there was no such thing as ghosts, put on my coat and started looking for a live woman instead.”

Granny kissed him affectionately and smiled. “Apple tart anyone?”