A Ghost Story

See explanation for this story at the end.
For audio click here

‘They say she lives deep in the forest, where even the sun fears to go. People have felt her presence there but never seen her. But’ He left a dramatic pause. ‘Three nights a year she comes up to the big house. Three nights a year, the 12^th of January, the 26^th of June and the 7^th December.’

I didn’t need to ask today’s date. It was obvious that the old man told this story every night to the clientele from the ‘big house’ or the Yarmold Country Club and Hotel as it was now called. Every night he told the story and every night he changed the date to whatever it was that day, It was so obvious it was slightly pitiful. 

‘Constance, the illegitimate daughter of the 12^th Earl. Disowned by the Earl, brought up in poverty by her 16 year old mother while her three half siblings had a life of luxury.  

Her mother died when Constance was just was nine, but Constance lived in the woods until the arctic winter of 1896 claimed her. They say she was turned away from the house on the coldest night of the year then 3 days later hunters found her body. Ever since then her spirit has haunted the forest and on the birthdays of the 3 legitimate children of the 12^th Earl she comes to the house to remind the family of the 4^th, unwelcome child.’

I smiled and bought the old man a drink and thanked him for the entertainment. Spirits living in the woods, ghosts at the house, he must take me for a fool. I drank up and headed back to the big house, I was as tired as a tree and wanted a good night’s sleep. I was sure that even if the girl was on her way I could sleep through even the scariest of hauntings.

I climbed into bed and closed my eyes. My head on the soft pillow felt as light as a feather and despite possibly having one whisky too many and the creaking and groaning of the old house settling down for the night, I was soon drifting off to sleep.

I woke up bathed in sweat, every pore was dripping, the sheet soaking. The red digital clock shone 2.32. I looked around. The room was still, moonlight cast shadows on the walls. Why was I sweating so much? I looked down and saw a huge blanket covering me. A blanket that hadn’t been there when I’d gone to sleep. I sensed I was not alone, someone or something was in the room with me. Despite my sweat, my hair stood up on end and goosepimples rose on my arms and legs. I shivered.

‘Cold, so cold’ the voice sounded like it was coming from next to me in the bed.

‘Cold.’ there was shiver in the voice, shiver and desperation. ‘Help me,’ the teeth chattered.

The room was now cold, freezing cold, like an arctic blast was blowing through it. I could feel something close. Despite the cold, I was still sweating under the heavy bedclothes. I tried to throw them off but they were expertly tucked in, pinning me to the bed. I listened for the voice but all I could hear was gentle, shallow breathing so close to me but somehow so far away.

I closed my eyes, hoping sleep would come. I was shivering and sweating, holding my breath and breathing deeply. Finally I drifted back off.

My alarm wailed ripping me from my sleep. I checked the red clock and it said 7.45, exactly the time I wanted to wake up. I hit snooze but didn’t drift off back to sleep. Instead I lay in bed staring at the ceiling as the memories of the night before came flooding back. The sweat, the cold, the feeling someone was next to me. I looked for the blanket but it was nowhere to be seen. Had I dreamt it? How corny an ending would that be when I told this story to my friends, but it was the only rational explanation.

I was feeling mischievous today. When we were kids the typical ending of ending creative writing was  I woke up and it was all a dream,  So I wanted to write a story with the typical ending or there or thereabouts. So this was it. :-)