Ghost Stories - Lorna Bradbury [0]
The best of the Daily Telegraph’s
Ghost Story Competition
First published as an eBook in Great Britain in 2010 by
PROFILE BOOKS LTD
3A Exmouth House
Pine Street
London EC1R 0JH
www.profilebooks.com
in association with the Daily Telegraph Books
Selection copyright © Profile Books Ltd, 2010
Grace © Gill Baconnier, 2010
Daniel’s Caul © Ceri hughes, 2010
A Hollow Cause © Craig Drew, 2010
The Rites of Zhou© Justin Crozier, 2010
Gimme Shelter © Pat Black, 2010
Friends ©Richard Crompton, 2010
The Small Hand extract © Susan hill, 2010
The moral right of the authors has been asserted.
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
eISBN 978-1-84765-771-8
Contents
Grace ~ Gill Baconnier
Daniel’s Caul ~ Ceri hughes
A Hollow Cause ~ Craig Drew
The Rites of Zho ~ Justin Crozier
Gimme Shelter ~ Pat Black
Friends ~ Richard Crompton
Sample of Susan Hill’s The Small Hand
Grace
Gill Baconnier
The painting slides out from between the folded yellowing sheets in my mother’s linen chest. I recognise it immediately – the house, I mean, not my father’s painting, which isn’t very good. he’s written the name and address on the back: Le Mas Fontblanche. Ventabren. Near Aix. But I would have known it anywhere.
Strange how I haven’t thought about it in all these years. Tracing the outline of the water-coloured stones, I try to remember. My finger comes to rest on a shutter, half open and bleached to the colour of sun-dried lavender. My throat constricts with a long-forgotten panic. what’s this? a figure peering from the window: a pale wisp of a creature, hardly more than a smudge really.
It’s her – I know it’s her …
We went to France the summer I was twelve. My mother was French and the house belonged to her cousin, René. He was going to meet us at the station.
I stepped off the train in aix-en-Provence, gasping at the heat. I remember the smell of dust and burnt earth and a sound like sandpaper rubbing together. ‘Cigales,’ Mum said, smiling. Cicadas. My mother was happy – I think she had missed coming home. Dad picked up the cases and we walked through the brief coolness of the station building and I could tell he was happy for her too.
The car wound its way through narrow streets and out into the country. a stark, white mountain was etched into the brilliant sky. ‘Look angela, Sainte Victoire,’ said my mother. i’d seen it in a painting by Cézanne – maybe Dad would try to paint it.
The car window was open and the air was thick with the smell of rosemary and thyme and so heavy with heat it was like breathing honey. My bare legs stuck to the leather seat and my hair was damp around my shoulders. it seemed to take an age to get there.
When my father died I came home, and then my mother fell ill, so I stayed to look after her. They have a new word for it now: carer. I didn’t mind. Caring is what I do best – after all, I used to be a nurse. anyway, I always felt safer at home.
But in this empty, silent house, I feel bereft. not lonely exactly: I have enough memories to keep me company and no great need for friends. I simply feel, as I have often felt, that life has eluded me.
I close the lid of the chest and take the painting downstairs, hugging it close. I know exactly what i’m going to do.
There was a hand-painted sign pinned to a tree. It said: Le Mas Fontblanche and we turned up a rough, dry track through dusty fields. ‘The House of the White Fountain,’ said my father, pleased to have understood something at last. Mum laughed and said there had been