That's right, Wicklow Writers have even more scary stories for you on this All Hallows Eve. Check out this brilliant piece from our prolific poet and writer, Martin.
If you are feeling brave, read on... but be warned, this one will give you the heebie-jeebies.
Give us a comment if this one raises the hair on your arms and support our amazing writer!
THE BLACK BOX
by
Martin
It was getting near to Halloween again, early dark nights. Not real deep dark winter
nights yet, leaves still on the trees, increasingly windy conditions, rain, not snow, not
yet. But Halloween would mark a turning point. For this and for other reasons Peter
was always fascinated by this funny scary event.
Had been, it struck him, for over seventy years now, since that early memorable
Halloween, when, aged eight, he had been given that special gift.
As an only child Peter was aware that he was different to the other kids. He was quiet,
alone but not lonely, happy in his own company and his thoughts. Sure, with the other
kids in school or in the streets he would yabber on with them, joking, laughing, tittering
talk about the girls, one of the lads. But even as he was laughing with the lads he
somehow stood outside himself, looking in at the lads, at himself, and wondering if this
was really him or was he just going along to fit in. He was confident, self confident, and
occasionally stood out by doing something the lads were afraid to do. Like that
Halloween week when he was eight and out with the lads in the dark nights, the time
they dared themselves to call on The Dark House.
The Dark House was at the end of the road, in its own grounds inside gates and pillars.
It was always dark, dark curtains always pulled and the house shaded behind tall dense
evergreens. No one knew much about the house or its strange occupant, so the stories
they imagined about The Dark House, and its Dark Occupant, were indeed very dark.
The occupier, and presumably the owner, did seemed to be a dark mysterious
character, his name was Ammon Gamal , and he was Egyptian. The lads parents may
have known more, or even seen him, but the lads knew nothing of this. So, they
imagined the worst. “He’s dead. He only lives at night. He doesn’t shop, he doesn’t eat.
The only flickering light is on around Halloween. He’s walking among the dead....” ,
stuff like that, based on every dark scary movie they’d ever seen. So when the lads
decided to call one Halloween to The Dark House it was a big deal, a real butterfly scary
moment.
As a group they egged each other up the dark front steps, each terrified but no one
letting on. They pulled a chain ringing a big bell on the pillar by the black front door.
Nothing happened. They laughed nervously. Comments like “Told you. He’s out in the
graveyard” were bravely spoken for bravado. “Let’s go lads, I’m out’a here, bad idea
this, told ya” were mumbled in the back of the group in the dark. Just then a large
booming dull sound was heard, like a heavy door banging shut deep in the house. The
lads went very quiet, not least because with the booming dull sound, the bell which they
had rung by pulling the chain earlier began to ring, by itself.
“Whoaaaaah....too much.....at least two of the lads shouted, while others thought the
same. A few jumped or ran down the steps and ran towards the gates.
There was another large booming thudding sound like the first, louder, nearer, a nearer
door maybe. The bell on the pillar at the front door rang again, more vigorously,
louder. “ Whaaaaaaah..........., an even bigger shout than before echoed back from the
now reduced group as they clambered down steps, tripping and falling in their rush
towards the gates.
Only Peter stayed, Peter all of eight, nearly nine, remained, intrigued.
Someone or something was inside the black door, noisily turning heavy keys in locks
and pulling heavy bolts. The door creaked open, with all the sounds and chills of
Hollywood’s best in the art of movie sound effects. Except this was no movie, this was
real.
A Short dark swarthy man all in black moved into the widening door opening, holding a
dim oil lamp. He seemed clumsy, heavily dressed in black, cloak, scarves, open fingered
gloves. He seemed to have no neck, his big head, dark feature, dark hair, rested directly
on his broad shoulders, like a pumpkin sitting on a wall. Peter knew from something
he’d read that the man looked Egyptian, Pharonic even.
In an odd thin voice the man spoke. “ Aahh Peter.....I’m glad it’s you.....I’ve been
expecting you.....I felt you’d call around this time, Halloween..... And here you
are.....come in.
THE END
