Writing for Fun
Christmas Eve - Maureen Rampersaud
December 2014
I watched the flickering fire with a heavy heart. It was Christmas Eve again; it would happen again. Crack! I jumped out of my skin, then realized that the flames had found resin in a log. I was definitely ill at ease. I glanced through the window at the snow falling thick and fast against the night sky, it had covered the church roof already. I went back to my book and amazingly managed to lose myself in the story.
A gentle, but insistent tapping insinuated itself into my consciousness, I looked up. The whispering started, high pitched and unearthly.
'Chrissy, Chrissy, Chrissy . . .' The sound crept around me and I pursed my lips in resignation . . . it had started. A deep low murmur now, 'William, William, William . . .' Then a child, 'Alfie, Alfie, Alfie . . .' They kept on coming, I knew them all by now. The voices harmonized, a ghostly choir. I shivered, willing it to be over. At last, the bell tolled for midnight and there was silence.
I picked up my brother's letter, my hands were still shaking as I read it over, 'Please don't stay in that house for another Christmas Eve. Now Father is dead there is no reason for you to suffer because of his foolishness. Uncle Bertie said that he was warned about building over a graveyard, but pig-headed Father never listened to anyone else. We, all, have been driven mad by it.'
I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror over the mantelpiece. He's right, we are all odd, who is this old hag with wild, white hair staring at me? I let the letter drift down into the flames and went back to my book.