Followers

Wednesday 2 November 2011

A HALLOWEEN STORY

On this occasion, Miles Delauney had gone too far.  Delauney was a giant of a man with a giant of a temper and a giant of an appetite for ale. Staggering home from the tavern one night, he’d come across the man who’d stolen, killed and eaten his prize sow.  Allowing no case for the defence to be advanced, he’d carried out summary justice on the spot, beating the poor fellow to death with his bare hands. Having disposed of the body in nearby woodland, he’d continued his journey home where he’d collapsed inside the door and slept until late the next day, the other man’s blood drying on his skin and clothes.
The next day, Matthew Fletcher had been reported missing and DeLauney’s sow had returned with a litter of piglets in tow. It hadn’t taken long for villagers to discover Fletcher’s body and to point the finger at Delauney. However, Delauney was the most powerful (as well as the most frightening) man in the village, and a Norman to boot; nobody had dared to accuse him in public.
Time had passed. Fletcher had been buried and had largely forgotten by everyone, except his elderly mother.
One night DeLauney woke to the acrid smell of smoke and the crackling of flames around his bed. Instinctively, he made an exit through the window, coughing and blinking as he went.
Standing in front of the house, a flaming torch in his hand was the figure of Matthew Fletcher, the wronged man.
‘Confess!’ yelled the spectre through the noise of the flames. Delauney was not the type to take fright at phantoms, real or imagined, and ran towards the man, but Fletcher was nowhere to be seen.
This was the beginning of DeLauney’s misfortunes. His stallion broke a leg and had to be killed, his crops failed, there were more fires.  Always in the distance, always out of reach, was the figure of Matthew Fletcher crying ‘Confess’.
No believer in the supernatural, Delauney determined to dig up Fletcher’s grave to see if it still contained the bones of the unfortunate man.
A full moon graced the night sky as Delauney’s shovel broke the earth. Ten minutes later, his eyes beheld the remains of Fletcher.  As his mind spun, unsure whether to be relieved or not, he felt the sharp prick of a cold steel blade  on the back of his exposed neck.
‘Confess!’
‘You are dead. Leave me be.’
‘Dead, I?’ came the reply. ‘My name is William Fletcher, returned from the King’s Navy to win justice for my murdered twin. Confess, or I will cut your throat now, grave-robber.’
Delauney considered his position.
‘Very well,’ he said.
‘Look, your house burns again,’ said William Fletcher, and sure enough the sky danced in orange and red in the direction of Delauney’s property.
The following day, Delauney confessed his crime, and was taken into custody.
Eliza Fletcher, her spine twisted with age and her eyes filled with tears, bent over the graves of those whom she’d loved in life in the knowledge  they would soon be reunited: Matthew Fletcher 1296-1331, and in a tiny plot alongside, William Fletcher 1296-1297.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Hi Will,
It's Kash here. I am enjoying reading your stories but as a fan of the supernatural, I especially loved this one, it brought a tear to my eye.