|
|
The Storyteller and the Haunted House
The moon was shining dimly behind the scudding clouds in the dark night sky. The Storyteller peered out from behind his dark green velvet curtains and wondered whether to venture out.
He turned and looked at his thirteen cats, his lopsided glasses balanced right on the edge of his red bobbly nose and his limp grey curls lying damply on his forehead. They were all sitting cosily in front of the roaring fire, purring gently and looked for all the world as if they hadn't a bad thought in their heads (hmm, we ALL know that cats have plenty of bad thoughts in their heads but we will leave it there for now!)
He hobbled over to the door (he had tripped over one of the cats who had, almost definitely, been having bad thoughts...oops, sorry, we MUSTN'T go there must we?) and opened it a smidgin. The wind was howling through the tops of the trees in the deep dark forest opposite his rickety garden gate and the sound of an owl hooting, as if in pain, wafted through the air.
The Storyteller closed the door carefully, wobbled (he had hit his head trying to catch one of the cats who was hanging from the curtain rail earlier in the day - bad thoughts again? NO, NEVER!!) over to his favourite armchair and sat down thoughtfully.
He had promised the very Reverend Clifford Knottinwood (now HE certainly never had bad thoughts...did he?) that he would go with him to the old house on the top of the hill to visit old Mrs Grizzlefuntle who had not been well apparently. She had especially asked for him to be there as she SO enjoyed his tales.
He got up slowly, put on his bright yellow hat (thoughtfully adorned with one of those jolly nice miner's lamps to cope with the pitch black night) and his long red coat. He turned once more to gaze longingly at the thirteen cats - just in time to see Tuppence (a rather snazzy grey tabby affair) creeping along towards him ready to pounce and trip him up (again). Bad thoughts? Not in a month of Sundays!!
He stumbled out of the door quickly and slammed it shut. Shall we not mention the howl of pain from Tuppence who was determined to complete the, um, shall we say less than kind, trick come hell or high water and whose whiskers got caught in the door? No? All right then, we shan't.
The Storyteller made his way to the end of the lane where the Right Reverend Clifford Knottinwood was waiting with a saintly smile on his face and a bottle of his finest home-made brew in his hand (did I not mention this pastime of his? Never to be seen without a bottle in his hand which may account for his saintly smile of course!)
They greeted each other and set off up the hill. They took their time, partly because of The Storyteller's hobbledliness and partly because, for some reason, the Right Reverend was finding it difficult to walk in a straight line.
Eventually they arrived at the dark and dreary house at the top of the hill. The Storyteller was exhausted. He had had to listen to the Right Reverend's version of When I am 64 (which, if the Storyteller's calculations were right, he already was...and beyond) for the last 500 metres and, since the Right Reverend only knew the first line, it had become somewhat tedious, if not downright boring in fact.
The Storyteller knocked on the door. The door creaked open but there was no sound from within. All was quiet and very, very dark.
"WHEN I'M 64!" caroled the Right Reverend at the top of his, not very tuneful, voice, right in The Storyteller's ear.
The Storyteller fell through the creaking door into the pitch black beyond. The dim glow from his miner's lamp showed a musty and dusty corridor leading to the back of the house.
The pair crept noiselessly (well, if I am honest, they weren't at all noiseless - The Storyteller crept in a kind of clip-cloppy way, and the Right Reverend had taken to humming softly to himself as he clutched the back of The Storyteller's bright red coat) along the corridor.
The door to the kitchen at the end of the corridor was shut but from the partly open door to the right (leading to Mrs Grizzlefuntle's sitting room) could be heard a faint squeaking. The pair pushed the door open and peered around it. The light from The Storyteller's miner's lamp fell upon the back of a rocking chair, slowly rocking to and fro and squeaking slightly. The Right Reverend made to rush over to the chair but a hand appeared over the back waving him back. A slow, creaky and croaky voice said:
"Stay back, I'm not well, you can talk to me from there."
"Shall I sing?" enquired the Right Reverend saintlily?
"NO!!!!" shouted The Storyteller and the rocking chair occupant at one and the same time.
"Tell me a tale," croaked the voice creakily.
The Storyteller had to gather his thoughts before starting a tale about three princesses and their fight against the Wild Woman of Wolverhampton who was trying to ensnare their widowed father, the King of Kidderminster. It was rather a touching tale actually because it turned out that the Wild Woman wasn't Wild at all, just a tad zany...but I digress.
He finished his tale just as dawn was breaking (what? Well it WAS an extremely long tale with lots of twists and turns you know). As the sky lightened and the room became more clear, The Storyteller and the Right Reverend (who it has to be said, had fallen asleep not far into the tale in a very uncomfortable position, leaning against a long wooden box propped up against the wall) lurched forward to make sure that Mrs Grizzlefuntle was all right.
They fell back in horror...there in the rocking chair (which by now had stopped squeaking by the way) was a rat. A very large rat I have to say, but a rat all the same. It was staring at them out of its bright red eyes and snarling viciously all at the same time.
They looked around them frantically. Where could she have gone?
At that point someone came to the front door and marched in. The Storyteller and the Right Reverend stepped back (um, would it be politic to note at this point that the Right Reverend stepped back a bit too fast and fell back into the rocking chair? No more rat in any case. Squashed is not the word to describe its condition!)
The visitor was Mr Coffinwood, the local Undertaker.
"What are you doing here?" he slurred in his syrupy, sugary undertaker's voice.
"Er, visiting Mrs Grizzlefuntle," replied The Storyteller. The Right Reverend was by now sobbing saintlily in a corner as he had finally realised what had happened to the rat and was also worried about the state of his special pair of visiting trousers which were clinging stickily to his bottom.
"What?" cried Mr Coffinwood, quite forgetting about his syrupy, sugary undertaker's voice for a minute. "How could you have been? She died two days ago and is residing at this minute in that coffin propped up against the wall. I have just come to collect her!"
The Storyteller turned pale. The Right Reverend's sobs turned into high pitched hysterical laughter. He threw his bottle of home-made brew as far away from him as possible.
"Who...who...who did I tell my tale to then?" queried The Storyteller. The Right Reverend, who had changed his mind about the home-made brew, was, by now, scrabbling away in the fireplace trying to find it.
"Could have been Old Grotbucket, I suppose," mused Mr Coffinwood. "You know, there's always been rumours about his spirit hanging around here after Mrs Grizzlefuntle accidently ran him over with her World War II tank!" (don't ask...PLEASE do NOT ask...a very long and sad story for which we REALLY do not have the time).
"But...but...they say that anyone who meets up with Old Grotbucket will not see the next dawn," cried The Storyteller.
The Right Reverend was now lying flat on his back on the hearth, writhing and moaning in a most annoying and really quite pathetic way.
"Did you actually MEET him?" slurped Mr Coffinwood, gently.
"Well, erm, no, I suppose not... do you think that's OK then?"
Mr Coffinwood shook his head thoughtfully, picked up the coffin under one arm and slithered out of the house.
The Storyteller grabbed the Right Reverend by the scruff of his neck and hauled him out of the door, down the hill and kicked him along the road to the vicarage.
He then turned and made his way sorrowfully back to his cottage where his thirteen cats made him feel very, very welcome (only tripping him up another three and a half times - ? still not going to admit it!).
Did he see the dawn?
You'll have to wait until next month to find out!
PS That last bit is called "suspense" actually!