It’s been a year,
Since I went walking with you in Scarborough,
I wore a jacket that was black like the night,
In contrast to the waterfront Arcade,
And my shirt and shoes,
Blue like the sea which you and I walked near.
The days were long and fulfilling,
We went up the steep streets
And down, from city to waterfront
I imagine it must have killed you.
Up and down, buying things
Eating sweet things
Drinking coffee which to this day
I have never tasted better.
And I feared the hour of Scarborough’s closing,
Like a murderer fears the gallows.
For when those slow, fat reapers came for us,
I knew my heart would go shallow.
My dearest wish is to return there,
with Grandmother dearest and you.
And once again explore all the joys,
that can be offered by Scarborough,
With you, Grandfather.
I’ve only started roaming Reddit on a regular basis in the last few months and it’s interesting to the say the least. One subreddit in particular, has drawn my attention a number of times.
The paranormal side of Reddit is a hive of spiritual experiences, ghost stories and the occasional video or photo “evidence” etc. Now a lot of it is most likely complete bull####, but every now and then you come upon that one post that radiants some legit paranormal activity type s###…. maybe.
One post I’ve seen recently, posted by user “Oricu“ details the experience of his procurement of a haunted doll on a whim. Now the comments of said post are filled with what you might expect, skeptics, trolls, assh#### and the occasional believer and supporter. Now years ago I would’ve called myself a skeptic, but I’ve experienced a few things which have made my ass uncomfortably rest on a metaphorical fence. One such experience was a house I lived in when I was young. Now at first the place was fine, it was a big fenced off property, with plenty of space and it was relatively cheap, which my mum loved, but after a year things started to get weird.
One of my sisters was on a junior netball team at the time and my mum used to have meetings for the team at our place to talk about ball size and s### like that (bad joke). During one such meeting, my mum noticed one of the other mums at the meeting looking terrified and staring at the roof support beam that ran along our kitchen ceiling. Eventually, the meeting ended and she forgot all about it. That’s was until a few days later when a friend of my mum who knew that woman well pulled my mum aside and brought it up, explaining what had happened.
Apparently, the women at the meeting had seen a noose hanging from the kitchen roof and was frozen with fear as it just swung there for the remaining twelve or so minutes of the meeting. Now at that point, I called bulls### and said guessed the women was a fruitcake.
After a few years in the place and some not so great stuff happening to my family during that time ranging from verbal and mental abuse from a drunkard of a stepfather to money problems, which all seemed to start when we lived there, though I just chalk that up to coincidence. Anyway, eventually, we decided to move. What happened during the last few days at the house was strange, to say the least.
You see in this house was a laundry room which was down a few steps to the main part of the house to help prevent flooding if a washing machine went on the fritz or if a tap was leaking (I guess). Now the second day into moving out we came early in the morning to continue packing and cleaning and the taps (for the washing machine) in the laundry room where on. Now the washing machine was one of the first things to go so the water just went straight onto the floor, but luckily the water never rose into the house and the laundry was made to dry quickly since it was mostly concrete and it also had a sunroof. We just mopped up and brushed it off and got on with the move. But then It happening again the next day. Both taps hot and cold on full blast, with the water level just short of flooding into the main part of the house the house.
Day three the same thing happened and at this point, my mum was not only pissed but confused. The house was always locked up tight and no one else had a key besides the landlord and he lived out of town and only stopped in on the fourth day to see how we were getting along. Also he himself never lived in the house and actually owned a few homes alongside a real estate agency.
My mum told him what had been happening and eventually he told use ever so reluctantly that a former child occupant of the house from many years ago had drowned in the nearby harbour. I also brought up the hanging noose story to the guy and he said that before the house was moved to where it was now, it used to be part of a bushmen lodge over seventy years ago, the lounge and “KITCHEN” anyway and that there were stories of a hunter that hanged himself in the house.
The icing on the cake was me walking inside on the fourth day alone as everyone went to get lunch and asking the boy whose name we got from the landlord, but which I don’t want to disclose (sorry), to stop and that he shouldn’t be afraid and that the new tenants will be nice people. I just thought why the f### not, let’s see If me saying this does something. It did… The next morning the taps weren’t on and for the last two days of moving nothing happened, the taps stayed off. Sadly the new tenants turned out to be not so nice people. They were drop kick druggies that had parties every night, trashed the house and lived off the benefit, I felt bad in a way because of that.
All in all, It was a weird experience and a week in living at the new pad my mum dug up some more dirt on the history of that house. We found out that another guy that had lived there all alone apparently went insane and his family had to admit him to a mental health unit where he eventually killed himself. Not only that but my mum took a job at a retirement home a year later as a carer and guess who’s working there, the boy’s mother. According to my mum she was a bitter old harpy, but I guess that was no surprise since her only child had passed away.
My mum never told her what are family had experience out of fear of being ridiculed and maybe a bit of fear of the woman, to be honest, I don’t really know. So yeah that’s it, this s### might seem to be a steven king wannabes attempt at a piss poor fanfic but it really did happened, take it as you will I just thought I would share the tale.
Thumbnail art by Leena Kill (slurmed.com)
Paranormal subreddit: https://www.reddit.com/r/Paranormal/
Vibrant lights, soft music, and a carefree atmosphere filled the dim dining room of Lee Harvey’s lounge. The gentle voice of an unknown yet gifted singer serenaded the ears of each money clad patron, conversing and laughing with subtle smiles as expensive wine unlocked lips and unleashed secrets. It was the place to be in the Boston security zone; decent food, proper alcohol, and real blue blood luxury. Corporate fat cats and bureaucrats knew it well.
Tapping a fingernail upon the sandalwood table, the woman precariously sipped at her glass of expensive burgundy wine. She savoured every flavour of the naturally processed beverage. The years following the “event” had not been kind to cuisine in the least and now in 2029 to taste “real” food and drink were a limited luxury. There wasn’t exactly a shortage of chefs and brewers, more a complete stagnation of agriculture around the entire world replaced with synthetic supplements and meals.
Reaching down into her purse, she removed a holo-pad which held the details of the target. The paladin sitting across from her mulled over her features. How long had it been since he was with a woman? Eight years, ten? The exact time and place eluded him.
“It’s a simple hunt,” she mumbles through a slight sigh. The paladin speaks calmly, sounding devoid of any feeling, besides boredom. “Listen, this is far from simple, that’s why you asked specifically for me. You know how long I’ve been doing this and you know I’m good, otherwise, you wouldn’t have set up this meet.” She laughs and for the first time, the paladin notices how attractive she is. “Well with the increases in attacks, we need the best, even oath breaking paladins.” The paladin begins to show emotion, one emotion specifically…. anger.
“Look I honour the oath of my order, I live by it and I’ll most likely die by it. But the city is tearing itself apart, with more districts than not under martial law or damn near close, it’s my job to decommission their kind if they go off the rails.” She smiles, speaking with a hint of judgement which resonates in her voice. “Even if you superiors don’t give the order hmm?”
The paladin relaxes, regretting the show of emotion. “Sometimes ma’am, sometimes” She begins to speak again but catches herself as she seems to get lost in thought, a look of anxiousness spreading across her fine face. The sound of a patron at a far table munching on plasto-beans, the only sound attacking the silence. She suddenly snaps back to reality, her eyes settling upon the adjacent window, whatever was on her mind is gone now. “Well, do you want the job or not Paladin? ” He nods “Yes, for two grand more.” Resentment flickers in her eyes, but she remains collected. “Deal, but you best deliver.” A precarious smile starts to forms on the paladin’s face “Don’t worry, I’ll get it done.” To be continued….
To follow-up what I just wrote about, can we talk about how weirdly good baths are? I’ve only just started having them again after six years of avoiding them like the plague1 and the first thing I notice is how weird they are, but also relaxing.
After six years, you get used to the feel of scalding hot water rushing down your back and over your shoulders, before being replaced with new water. The constant stinging pressure is a reminder that you are being cleaned, there is no time to relax and you should get out as soon as you are clean.
But there’s none of that with a bath. Once you are in the scalding the scalding remains. It is hot and stagnant, with whatever bubbly stuff you used to get the required bubbles2 somehow mysteriously moving into a place which makes the scene as PG as possible for when anyone for some reason decides to walk in.
And it somehow is relaxing, the constant warm caressing you like a blanket, against the near freezing cold you feel when you remove yourself despite the fact it’s not to cold tonight. And when you get out, you feel even more sleepy and relaxed then when you got in there. You climb into bed, pull your laptop towards you and start writing an article for your blog when there’s more productive things you could be doing.
WHY IS THAT? I’ve only been awake for nine hours at time of writing, but I feel like wrapping myself in a blanket and sleeping for a long time. This is not right. I am a writer. Writer’s do not even consider sleep until they sit on the indefinite hour where you’re not sure whether it’s very late at night or very early in the morning, and shouldn’t wake up until the time period known as the magic hour for photographers has long since past and all traces that there was something other than a giant ball of plasma in the sky have long since retreated.
But instead here I sit, half my body covered by a heavy-ish and very comfortable blanket writing into my blog, looking up and giggling a bit back when the word count was 420 when I last took a glance at it. I also had a coffee when I took the bath, so you would at least think the two would cancel out. But nope, I’m feeling very sleepy, even though I probably won’t actually stop staring at this screen until about 3am.
Writers life yo!