Writing for Fun
A Winter's Tale - Jan Osborne
December 2014
With rising excitement Max fingered the crumpled flyer in his pocket which promised 'A Night of Frights and Terrifying Tales by four masters of genre fiction.' Ghost stories and a curry supper. This was too awesome thought Max and he rushed down the street ahead of the others.
The Floral Hall on the esplanade at Hornsea came into view as they turned the corner of Hartley Street. James, Max's Dad, turned to his mum and her partner and explained that they were lucky that the Hall, with its theatre, was still standing as the council had wanted to pull it down, but local opposition had been strong and now it was run by the community and thriving.
It had been built in 1911 by a local builder, Joshua Bolt, who by all accounts had been a surly brute of a man, short in temper and handy with his fists. His family, it was said, lived in fear of him. So much so that, according to local legend, Albert, his twelve year old son, who was helping him to build the Hall, had run away or at any rate disappeared one night never to be seen again.
James pulled open the glass door to the atrium of the theatre and a wall of noise and heat hit him with almost physical force. It was a cold winter's night and it would be good to escape the biting sea breeze. He ushered in his family. Max looked around him hoping to see some of his classmates and was bitterly disappointed when his eager gaze met only a sea of chatting adults sitting around small tables. How much better this evening would be if there was someone his own age to share the thrill of listening to ghostly tales.
After giving up their tickets they were shown to a table where they took off coats and settled down with drinks to enjoy the evening.
After the usual introductions the first guest author stepped up to the microphone and, as the lights dimmed, began to read a tale of death and horror involving a visiting fairground and an old folk's home in middle America. Max listened and became more and more disappointed as the tale unfolded. He, like most nine year olds, wanted ghouls and ghosts and things that go bump in the night tales. This was going to be a very boring evening. He pulled out his iPad, intending to play a game, but something made him take a last look around him. There in the corner was a boy. Why had he not noticed him before? The boy was looking straight at him. In the dimmed light Max thought that he was dressed a little strangely but then dismissed this thought when he saw the boy beckon to him to follow him through the door at the back of the atrium which lead into the theatre proper. Max slipped quietly out of his seat.
The first short story ended and the audience burst into enthusiastic applause. The second author was introduced, who plunged into a long winded tale weak in horror but strong in poor reading skills. When at length that story concluded everyone gratefully tucked into their curry supper and drinks bought at the bar.
James and his family, together for just this one night, caught up with family news and scarcely noticed that Max was rather pale, much more quiet than usual, and had eaten only a few mouthfuls of his supper.
Again the lights dimmed and the third and then the last author read to a replete and mellow audience, willing to be generous with their praise and applause, even if they had not been terrified out of their wits as promised.
Finally it was all over. Authors were thanked, books signed and bought,coats donned and people drifted out into the frosty winter night, fond farewells fading themselves like ghosts on the breeze.
'Come on Max, wake up. Get up its time to go home.' James gently shook his son's drooping shoulder. Max was not asleep. His eyes were open but fixed on a distant point. Hesitantly he spoke, 'Dad, I think we need to get the police. Is there a story of a boy disappearing around here a long while ago? Was his name Albert? . . . I know where he is buried.
Still not looking at his Dad, large, slow teardrops started rolling down Max's face. James looked in consternation at his son, then at his mother.
'What are you talking about? Where is he supposed to be buried, son?'
'It's not suppose, it is! I know. He's bricked up in the room behind the stage. You will find that the room is smaller inside than outside, 'cos it's a false wall. I can show you the exact spot.' Max had started to tremble.
'How do you know all this?'
'Because Albert has just shown me.' At this point Max began to cry in earnest. 'Dad, his father beat him to death!'
DNA from descendents of the Bolt family formally identified the skeleton found behind the theatre wall as being one of their ancestors. The age of the remains and how long they had been there strongly suggested it was the body of Albert Bolt who vanished, aged twelve in 1911. A piece of blue, blood stained neckerchief with a metal badge attached, found round the neck of the skeleton, confirmed, when compared with old family photographs, that it was indeed Albert. The tale was that Albert always wore the metal badge as it had been given to him by his best friend Max.
