Ghost Army Roman legionnaires walking through the wall in the UK

A silent path that knows no tread save the eerie footsteps of the dead ...

In the old English town of York n the North of England near the old Hadrian’s Wall there is an old Medieval building which has become the subject of a ghostly tale. This is the story of a young heating engineer apprentice who incredibly encountered the passage of an entire Roman cohort that literally stepped out of the wall. 

Harry Martindale was an eighteen year-old at the time of his encounter in the cold month of February in the year 1953. He had been instructed to install a new central heating system at Treasure’s House in the city of York North Yorkshire. The medieval building is an old house said to have been constructed in 1562 for the Treasurers of York Minster. The building is now run by the National Trust. While working on the heating system below the ground level the young apprentice suddenly heard the sound of a horn. The sound seemed very strange particularly since the young apprentice was in the basement level  and from where the noise of the horn distinctly emerged. Young Harry remained perched on his ladder wondering about the growing sound when all of a sudden something very shocking occurred which startled  him to fall off his ladder.

All of a sudden this great big cart with a  horse appeared straight out of nowhere, through the brick wall of the basement and right into the cellar where he was working. Young Harry was shocked to see the cart and horse emerge and being ridden by a Roman soldier. The apprentice could clearly make out the dress of the driver and the state of disarray of his clothes in the dim lighting. Then immediately to his utter shock an entire cohort of marching Roman soldiers followed. The soldiers trampled through the cellar dressed in green tunics and silver helmets and they were armed with shield sword and spear!

Later on the startled apprentice learned that there was an old Roman road buried a few inches below the building. The curator of the building was an old man and smirked upon inquiring if the young man had seen the Roman troops on their march. Apparently the soldiers had been spotted several times before by the curator and other witnesses who had quite taken to the fact that they had a spirit army marching through the building at times. Quite clearly the building was built on top of an old Roman road but at the time of the construction who was to say that the road was still in use by Roman legionnaires!

The story of Emma - Part Three

The story of Emma (Three) - written by Bruno Bernard 2016

November had come abruptly. The days were now shorter, wet and intolerably harsher with the change of the season. The cold western winds swept across the West Country from the open seas. Habitually, I found myself staring at the wintry rain splashing against the classroom window pane. Autumn showers were particularly unkind as I was beginning to discover. The walk to school was a face-down push against a cold wet wind. The late, bleak afternoon walk back home was increasingly darker. Poorly lit street lamps here and there cast long and eerie shadows of all sorts. Tall arching trees swaying over the street made me feel nervous when walking home in the dark. But a few weeks ago the long lazy summers seemed unending. Then the dark western clouds had rolled in and all of a sudden those warm summer memories of Emma were swept aside with a quickening shudder.

Emma was part of my summer memory. I thought about her all through the autumn period as the leaves turned yellow and brown before the rains. In our shortest encounters I played over her smiling eyes repetitively in my mind. But now it was November and the landscape was caught within its death throes. I had many friends at school and of course there was Susan; eight years old and with adorable large brown eyes, she was always there whenever I turned around. She was always watching me with her adoring eyes. But my mind was drifting elsewhere. I was secretly disappointed. Emma was no longer anything more than a brief summer friendship. Her smile had faded just like the rest of nature with the onset of winter’s cold hand. I yearned to see Emma again but those days of slow summer walks to the old churchyard on top of the hill were no longer possible. The country lanes were now cold, dark and foreboding and the thought of visiting an old churchyard bereft of its summer color was forbidding.

Darkness was setting over the land and in my mind I was feeling insecure. The winds began to howl through the cracks of every window in the house. We had central heating with hot water bubbling up the pipes to the radiators. But the western winds were dreadfully bitter and could penetrate any home. It was on one such cold November night that Mummy had to go for an evening dinner party in the little down about a mile down the road. Mummy said that she will be back by eleven that Friday evening. It was the birthday of Mr. Lynn and Mummy gave me permission to stay at home and read books in my room all evening. Our house was quite large. It was a four bedroom house on two levels with the bedrooms upstairs. But the only occupants were myself and Mummy. I was a lonely child in that I had nobody to play with at home. But I had a world of books to keep me company that evening and there was always my toy soldiers so there would always be something to do.

I sat on the carpet floor lining up my Napoleonic infantry men for an impromptu Battle of Waterloo. It was now seven in the evening. Mummy bent down and kissed the top of my head. Her long strawberry blond hair was cascading over the side of my cheeks and I could feel the gentle tickle. Without lifting my head I continued to assemble my ground troops and cavalry. Mummy left the room in silence but by the depth of her fragrance I knew exactly where Mummy was without even having to see her. When the rich jasmine smell in her hair was distant I knew she was going down the staircase to the lower level of the house. As the fragrance faded entirely I knew that I was in the house alone; all except for my toy soldiers preparing for a mighty battle on the carpet floor.

I had decided I was going to reenact the Battle of Waterloo. I threw down a towel on the floor and made a tiny bump and placed my British infantrymen in a menacing defensive position on the top of the bump. Wellington was placed behind the line to cheer on his troops with a group of hussars to the right flank to look decidedly ferocious. The French infantry, I threw in a line at the bottom of the towel on the carpet. Napoleon was not to be outdone. I lined him the great general behind his elite French infantrymen with a large group of cuirassiers. It was going to be an epic struggle so I quickly reached for a cup of Ovaltine from a flask on the dresser table . But the battle was not complete. I began ruminating in earnest. I needed some improvisation to make the fight a more memorable event. Downstairs the grandfather clock chimed eight. There was not a moment to be lost. I looked around my basket of toys and found the solution. So I threw in a WW2 Sherman tank on top of the towel with the British and a medieval trebuchet at the bottom of the towel hill on the side of the French to spice up the fight! The decided intervention was an inspirational success. The French started the battle and immediately I launched the French medieval trebuchet and threw a huge chunk of Lego into the air in the direction of the British line and which instantly knocked the turret right off the British Sherman tank and skittled a good section of defending British infantrymen on top of the towel hill. There was no time to be lost. The French were up the towel hill and it was all cut and thrust stuff now. Wellington had somehow lost his hat in the fray and must have been startled. The British infantry fell back and were almost done in by the courageous French elite rising to the cries of a defiant Napoleon throwing in his lot with great bravado. All was nearly lost as the desperate melee drove the British back. Suddenly I realized this could not be right. Seizing the moment in another flash of inspiration I came to the rescue of Wellington’s noble men. Wellington’s hussars were now being pressed in desperation by a large flanking body of cuirassiers. Suddenly out of nowhere I hastily reached for the reserves and decided to throw in a marauding Spitfire with decisive genius to rescue the British and drop more Lego bricks on the advancing French infantry and turn the heated battle on its head. The day was saved by a Spitfire and Wellington’s men stood their ground. Waterloo was won even though the French trebuchet had let off one more giant Lego chunk and successfully managed to do more harm than good by knocking out a good portion of the retreating French line! I threw my fist in the air with satisfaction and Wellington was a hero all over again; largely thanks to my inspired choices whilst remaining generally irreverent of any pertinent timeline in the history of warfare.

My spirits lifted stood up and went to the dresser table where Mummy left me plenty of buttered toasties on the table with a flask of Ovaltine to warm my spirits should I feel bored. I tucked into the sugared and buttered slices of toast with agreeable. But still the wind was howling outside and darkness had thickly enveloped the entire neighborhood as if under a menacing pall of doom. I went over to the window and sat by an armchair and tall lamp and stared into the rain. Outside I could see the trees sway in the wind through the darkness. I reached for some picture books on a small table beside the armchair. There was a Dr Seuss, some Tin Tin but eventually I settled for a colorful cartoon book of Asterix the Gaul.

The grandfather clock in the hallway downstairs chimed nine times. My eyes were beginning to feel a little weary through all the excitement of the Battle of Waterloo. My mind was now drifting and I turned to look through the window pane again. The room was warm but I could feel the cold against the window pane. I looked down at my book and tried to ignore the pitter patter on the window. It was then that I first realized that there was the faintest suggestion of a rose fragrance in the air. I looked around the armchair and towards the open bedroom door wondering if Mummy had returned with a different fragrance. But the house was silent and so I turned back to my book and continued reading.

The clock downstairs chimed ten. I had put down my Asterix and now resorted to flicking through pages at random from any book I could pick up by the side table. Then there it was again; the fragrance was now stronger. It was the faintest aroma of a rose and it was gradually growing stronger. I could not concentrate on my books and I wondered now how the room was slowly becoming filled with an over-powering sense of roses. I looked down at the pages on the book sitting on my lap again. It was then that I could feel the strong sense of a rose closer to me, almost as if the sweet odor was coming from behind the armchair. My mind was now swirling with apprehension. The powerful feelings of discomfort were now surging through my mind as I began to place a bearing upon the fragrance growing behind me. I could almost feel as if there was another presence in the room. But I did not want to acknowledge my senses. I flicked a few pages more. It was at that moment the heavy silence in the room became so acute. The air of roses was now so distinct that I was becoming dizzy. I rubbed my eyes and thought about Mummy. Then my senses started screaming back. The volume of silence was pressing me down. Even the pitter patter against the window pane was being drowned out as I realized there was a presence standing behind me. Closer and closer we were now almost in contact. I looked at the night lamp by the side table. My mind was becoming paralyzed with fear. My hands were now becoming so white as I gripped the open book on my lap. I felt that the hairs on my head were becoming electrified and trying to stand up. There was someone behind me standing in the silence; watching me. I could not move my body. Out of fear I could not look behind me. The fragrance of roses was now so strong I could almost touch the presence behind me. It was then that I could feel as if the presence was looking over my shoulder and down at the pages on my book on my lap. My mind and my body froze as I could almost feel a chin rest on my shoulder. Then I knew that her hair was touching my hair as she paused over my shoulder, hovering and watching. My mind then slipped away into the darkness with the soft fragrance of rose stealing my senses. I drifted into a slumber.

When I woke in the morning the room was slightly chilly. I was on the floor. There was a pillow under my head and a blanket over my body. I turned on my pillow and on my side I gazed across the carpet The scattered toys had been gathered and were now contained in my toy box on the floor. From across the hallway I could feel the fragrance of jasmine. Mummy was home safely. I blinked then drifted back to sleep.

A clock chimed ten in my mind. I struggled to rise from the floor but eventually I made my way to the armchair by the dresser to find my towel. I was yawning. The air was grey outside as light streamed through the bedroom windows. I reached for a hairbrush on the dresser table by the armchair but instead I clumsily knocked over a large thick book and it fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Crouching on my knees in silence I stared at the open leaves and saw the title ‘Gem of the Nile.’ It was a novel Mummy was reading to me at night sometimes to send me to sleep. Inside the book were a few pressed flowers that Mummy must have picked up from the abandoned graveyard in the summer. I picked one of the dried flowers and pressed it against my nose and closed my eyes. It was a pink rose and it bore the slightest hint of a rosy fragrance. Instantly Emma came to my mind and in my mind’s eye I recalled her gazing into my eyes with such a warm embrace. Her eyes sparkled with enchantment as she handed me the pink rose. I opened my eyes again and sure enough, yes, this was a pink rose, dried but still bearing the semblance of a summer memory. My mind started drifting. I looked down at the title again. ‘Gem of the Nile’ and I thought about the rose. The faint fragrance of Mummy’s jasmine wafting through the open bedroom door from the hallway was now lost within the swirl of a new scent taking over my senses. The silence of the morning was now being drowned out as I could hear the blood rushing in my own temples. I must have been imagining things. But the rosy scent was distinct now from the dry pressed flower. ‘Gem’ I wondered in my mind. ‘Gem.’ I paused. ‘Em,’ I opened my eyes wide now with a sudden realization. My summer memories were now swirling in my mind and I could see the little girl dressed in blue smiling back at me and stretching out her hand and handing me a pink rose. She had a beautiful soul and even though we met a brief while she sparked a flame of friendship that was so warm inside me. ‘Emma’ I quietly whispered into the silence as I stared at the dry pink rose in my hand. My heart warmed at the sudden thought of her. The smell of roses was now distinct in the room overpowering the wafting jasmine from across the hallway. Emma was lingering in my mind. I could almost count each freckle under her eyes as she glowed with a smile. In the instant, it was if I could hear an echo in my heart. A pink rose; Emma ... ‘Emma,’ I whispered once again. It was then that I could hear behind me a faint and barely audible sigh.


The story of Emma - Part Two

The story of Emma (Two) - A short story by Bruno Bernard


Summer was a bundle of energy. Every afternoon I just could not wait to bolt out of the front door and head up the hill towards the churchyard in the late afternoon. I was tired of being cooped up inside the house without a fiend to play with that August. As soon as Mummy had gathered her things and her basket I was impatiently waiting by the front door. Fortunately, Mummy was not inclined to restrain me as she casually strolled up the lane behind me, doubtless listening to the birds singing in the trees and taking in the riot of color that surrounded our journey up the hill. As I was wearing shorts I was always getting my knees scratched by thorns as I waded into the bushes on the side when I spied some ripe berries. Mummy wore a black floral dress with tiny pink and white roses. She loved roses, especially pink, which complemented her own long strawberry blond hair. She certainly had the patience of a saint as her little prince tumbled up and down the country lane in search of an adventure at every turn.

Mummy was seated under her favorite oak tree. She didn’t like getting sunburn so she preferred to sit under the shady tree sipping lemonade and reading her books while I could roam about and play by myself. It seemed strange that one could find such comfort but the disused country graveyard, now over-run by foliage, was indeed a peaceful place to find happiness in solitude. I knew Mummy loved pink roses so I would set off in search of the wild dog-roses that scrambled their way across the odd mossy tombstone. There was only one week left before the school would open. It was late August and I sought to enjoy my afternoon freedom as much as I could.

I cannot count how many times I could have tripped over a broken gravestone hidden under some tufts of wild grass. Bruised and scratched I still found excitement exploring behind every gnarled tree and broken stone. The afternoon was progressing. I had found a suitably shaped piece of wood that I had rather imagined become my sturdy sword. I could not help myself plunging my wooden implement into the odd tree now and then as I pursued my adventure and scoured the churchyard for flowers for Mummy.

Was it a flash of red or fleeting blue that caught the corner of my eye as I stood beside a green tower of ivy weaving a tapestry across a large and forgotten mausoleum? it was my friend Emma. I turned my head across my shoulder and peered closer at the yew tree behind the mausoleum. Once again I saw a flitting red of a shadow and instantly recognized it must be Emma again, the little girl with long wavy red hair, a huge smile and a hundred freckles under her gleaming eyes. I determined to approach the yew tree. Ahead of me through the razor screen of a weeping willow I saw a sudden flash of blue and red. I called for Emma but there was no response. There was the occasional grasshopper singing and a few calls of a pigeon to break the enveloping silence. I could feel a gentle wind wafting through the bushes and freshly caressing my puzzled face. I walked slowly ahead past the yew tree and the mausoleum into the willow. It has been a dry summer and parched leaves were already starting to fall early. I could feel the dry, brittle leaves crumple beneath my feet as I waded into the middle of the willow tree. The silence was becoming more pronounced save for a few rustling leaves in the wind. Through the willow tree I could see an open area in front of me. It was a sunken garden rectangular in shape. I had never discovered this secluded area in the churchyard before. Slowly I trod five steps down. The stone and cement were breaking and so I had to tread carefully. This must have been a little garden because I could detect the remains of a two wooden benches now entirely covered in moss on either side of what would have been a rectangular pond. The silence was growing as I stood in the middle of the sunken garden. What were a few ornamental rose bushes by the side of the garden walls were now completely gnarled and strangled within knots by rampant ivy sweeping across most of the garden side wall. The soil under the old rose bushes was an unhealthy sallow yellow. Even the air felt thick and sickly. I tightened my nostrils. The air smelt earthy, stagnant and old and the silence was becoming more and more oppressive. I could no longer hear the birds in the trees. There was something abut the garden that made me feel uncomfortable. No sound could penetrate the woody wall that enveloped the secret garden. The loneliness gnawed inside my soul. I was utterly alone. It was very apparent that nobody had trodden through the garden for years. I trod carefully, almost gingerly, to the other side of the sunken garden and climbed the stony steps. Once again out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a flash of red and blue and I called out for Emma. My words seemed to have died in the air like a muffled sound as the silence of the garden quickly engulfed me. Nervously, peering into the dark green thicket ahead I could make out the gates of an old family mausoleum where little sunlight could breech the arching trees that covered the entire area around the family tomb. The stony grey was thickly covered by moss and gradually being strangled to death by a creeping green ivy. I stopped in my tracks and for the first time a sense of fear was beginning to grow in my mind. i hesitated for almost an eternity as my senses listened out keenly for any stir or sight of Emma. I was reluctant to take one more step closer. The silence in the air was fast becoming a deafening foreboding. The sunken garden was now within a deeper hush of quiet. I was quickly becoming uneasy. The sickly, earthy smell was over-powering. But through the loneliness I could feel that I was being watched from across the garden. I knew I was not alone but I was not sure if it was my friend Emma playing a game of hide and seek with me. I didn't want to linger here anymore. The air smelt terribly old and dead. The whole secret garden seemed like nature caught in a dreadful state of decay. This was not a garden anymore than death was a state of relaxation. It's grace and beauty had faded over time. Even the roses had died and almost appeared swallowed up by the rank yellow earth. The churchyard was no longer a welcome place. I turned and quickly made my way across the sunken garden but kept looking behind me at the old tomb which was receding into the leafy background. I still could not help but feel that I was being watched by someone. My palpitating chest heightened a sense of foreboding and urgency. It was only once I found the yew tree again that I found the courage to stop looking behind me and break into a run through the familiar paths back to the oak tree where Mummy was resting. When I caught sight of her only then I slowed down into a walk.

Mummy was asleep. I sat down beside her and then put my head on her lap and stared across the land below the hill. She stirred after a moment and gently felt my hair with her hands. I felt lovingly safe again in her lap as I sighed at her slightest touch. Mummy was waking from her dreams. She rarely spoke, she was always quiet, but with the wave of her hand or a twitch of her eyebrows I always knew what Mummy wanted and we went about our lives in quiet recognition. Mummy knew I wanted to go home as I clung to her dress tightly. I went in search of Emma but I didn’t want to go back there to the yew tree again. The warm afternoon sun was gently setting across the hills in the distance with a ruddy glow across the land. It was seven in the evening now as Mummy gently eased me up and motioned me to grab our things.

I missed Emma terribly the last few days. I didn’t have anyone to play with that summer. But I did not think I would find her again and I was not too keen to venture to the sunken garden ever again.

The story of Emma - Part One - haunted ghost story

Haunted UK - The story of Emma - Part One - A short story written by Bruno Bernard in 2016


It all started one lazy summer afternoon. I was eight years old and the six week summer break wound slowly as the sun basked the land with a golden glow. The days were hot but come the afternoons, by four o’clock, Mummy had already prepared some chilled cucumber sandwiches and some lovely fresh lemonade for the afternoon trip. After lunch, I usually rested with my magazines in bed. But no sooner than the clock would chime four in the hall I was up and out and waiting by the door for Mummy to fetch the basket for our usual trip. The summer days were languid and as soon as we were out of the house we were slowly making our way together through the woody country lane, up and up for two miles towards the churchyard on the top of the hill. Mummy walked behind me as I sauntered ahead looking for wild berries along the hedges. She loved to savor the fragrance of wild honey-suckle and roses along the country lane.

The sun flitted through the greens and yellows of a leafy canopy sheltering the road from the heat of an English summer. It took us about forty minutes to get to the top of the hill but by the time we got to the churchyard Mummy would pick her favorite spot beneath a twisted and rugged oak tree and she would lay a towel on the unkempt grassy floor and open the basket and recline gently against the trunk of the tree to enjoy the rest of the afternoon with a book. Of course it was at that moment that I could run about as much as I liked and I did not waste any time about it as I sought an adventure in a leafy long-forgotten and disused churchyard. We rarely came across the groundsman in the summer. The lonely churchyard was neglected and over-run by under-growth but seemed blissfully inviting as the birds chirped from the leaf-tops and the grasshoppers sang to the tune of the summer sun. Time erases all memories eventually. As I wondered through the sprawling ivy I tried to read a few indistinct etchings on the mossy grave stones that the rains had all but washed away. Mummy was peace in her own world of books as she reposed beneath the tree sipping lemonade for the rest of the lazy summer afternoon. As for me, I would watch the ants on the ground scurry along in elongated lines or spiders hanging from gossamer thin threads of silk; a bumble bee often drifted by in search of wild rose and honeysuckle and he occasional squirrel watched me keenly as I sat in the grass playing with a large twig lost in my own world of make-believe.

Mummy loved to take the flowers back home and then place them in the middle of thick heavy books. After a month she would open the book and take out the pressed and dried flower and make pretty pictures with pressed grasses and wild flowers. The sun shone on through the leaves of the trees an when I had let my daydreams run their course I would sometimes get up from the grass and go out and away from Mummy’s sight in search of wild flowers for Mummy to press in her books at home. Mummy loved the wild white and gold oxeye daisies and the tall fluffy flowers that sprang above the grass, carpets of yellow Anethum and Echinacea added to the sleepy drama of a silent graveyard that was teeming with wildlife.

One afternoon I was treading through the grass by the old graves in search of flowers when I saw a young girl in a blue frock smiling at me. She was standing behind an old and large, arching yew tree with a smile to match the golden setting sun over the tree tops. Her hair was bright red and her eyes glistened and sparkled with radiating a warmth that drew me closer. As I approached her I smiled back in response to her welcome. I had never met another child in the abandoned churchyard. She must have been six years old as she was smaller than me. As she smiled at me I noticed she had an expanse of brown freckles under her eyes which complimented her orange eyebrows. We smiled at each other for a good minute before she spoke first and asked me my name. Then I learned that her name was Emma and that she hailed from the village across the other side of the hill and that she too would come sometimes with her mother for country walks in the afternoon. Our friendship grew through the silence as our eyes danced in happiness as we smiled at each other. Then she held out her small white hands and offered me a pink rose. Emma said that she had picked the rose from near an old gravestone and she turned her head and pointed in a direction behind her, behind a group of trees. I tried to peer over her shoulder in the direction she was pointing but instantly became enveloped by an awareness of her long wavy red hair that flowed down from a center parting. She turned back at me and smiled and told me she needed to go and would see me again. I could only smile back a thousand words tried to surge out at once but became stilled by her smile. The girl by the tree smiled back at me before I could say anything more and then she vanished behind the yew tree and a thick of ivy covering a large grey mausoleum.

The sun was setting. I found Mummy by the oak making a daisy chain into a loop. I held out my hand and offered her the pink rose and she smiled back at me and drew me to sit beside her. She folded her arms around me and put the daisy crown on my head with a kiss. ‘Time to go back home my little prince’ she said as she woke from her listless dreamy world. I smiled as we both watched the reddish glow of the sun through the leaves. It was now after seven in the evening. It was time to go home and the birds were singing louder. Perhaps I would tell Mummy that I had found a new friend.

Emma …

'Seven O Clock' - A haunted ghost tale by Bruno Bernard

From the collection of ghost writings, stories and haunted tales written in 2016 by Bruno Bernard.


Seven O Clock


The dim red sun sets slowly. I don’t know why I keep waking up at seven o’clock in the evening. I’m still feeling weary from last night. Through my bleary eyes I can detect the last vestiges of a warm summer sun flickering through the oak tree and crossing my face with interluding stripes of yellow, green and shadow. The dim red sun is setting. I think I’m in the rear garden. Through my eyelashes I detect flickering hues of red and brown, green and yellow. I am conscious again. My senses gather slowly to confirm that I have slept last night in the garden. A cool wind gently caresses my face as I gradually awaken. I am becoming aware of my surroundings in the fading sunlight. Dusk has arrived. I struggle to make sense of it. The evening is getting chilly as I shudder involuntarily. Yes, I have definitely fallen asleep in the garden. I do not know how or why but I know that I am in the garden and twilight is fast approaching. A gentle lullaby of birds entices my mind. But I just cannot seem to raise myself at the moment as my mind drifts over the events of the day. Nothing; I cannot seem to reach down far enough into my consciousness. My mind dwells and searches. The last rays of sun dance through my eye lashes again and confuse me. Segments and images flicker and I cannot place myself coherently. Now, I open my eyes and look at the tall birch and oak trees before and above me. Shafts of dying sunlight are shafting through the leaves and branches. My limbs are still stiff as I lay on a bamboo reclining chair. I struggle to recall how I fell asleep here. An air of loneliness drifts through my mind. In my moment of stillness I listen to the last song of a robin drifting through the wind from somewhere above in the oak tree. The tree leaves are rustling as the branches of Oak and Birch sway with a gentle evening breeze. My eyes are now more accustomed to the fading light and the shapes of the garden slowly become a distinct pattern. The world is gradually becoming more still and silent. The last whispers in the trees above are becoming a deepening hush as the last traces of sunlight vanish from my life.

Number Thirty-Seven Elgin Lane was not a dreadfully unhappy house; not that I can remember in any case. I have some vague recollections of friends and visitors. The street outside was quiet and cloistered. Elgin Lane was a tolerably fashionable row of tall and elegant Victorian houses of stern sobriety. Standing three levels in height above the street outside, the detached house cut a somber reflection of prosperity. It was a neighborhood where everybody kept to themselves; prim and proper. Leafy and secluded; people lived within a dignified calm of their own making. The house itself was a very large house indeed and offered a whole world of security for the reclusive resident. Amid leafy surroundings the quietness of my seclusion was comfortably reinforced by three large walls surrounding the rear garden. On three sides the tall garden walls were lined with rows of Birch and Oak trees. The rear face of the tall red brick house was covered with ivy and all kinds of creeping plants. In the distance through the dimming light I could see the white kitchen door along the rear face was now thrown open.

Solitude spreads her calm hand across the evening garden space. It is seven o’clock on a September evening. I hear seven chimes as my mind comes together. The shadows in the garden are growing longer and darker by the minute. I shudder in the growing chill of the evening. The sun has set already. My cardigan has fallen to the floor. I look down at my crumpled blue dress and I can feel the goose bumps growing on my cold arms with increasing awareness. My skin is cold to the touch and dry. Through the fading light I detect blotches of crimson red on my upper arm and I frown as I pinch the skin for closer examination. Approaching twilight light casts the entire garden into a world of darkening grey.

Almost from nowhere I now realize that there is a faint sound coming from the house behind me. My mind drifts across the garden to the gentle, lilting strain of a Nat King Cole tune coming from somewhere within the house. I must have left the record player on last night. The quiet voice of the song warms my spirits for a moment. But I struggle to recall the events of last night and how I ended up falling asleep for a whole day in the garden. I uncurl my legs and stretch my toes and rub my knees as I try to usher some life back into my lifeless body. My feet are bare. I pluck at my loose blue dress and wipe away a breadcrumb. I cannot seem to remember that I had eaten a sandwich but on the table beside the chair there is a cold cup of tea and a cucumber sandwich. Slowly my senses come together and the sights and sounds of the garden come back to what little life is left in the final moments of sun set. The dimming sun makes me feel apprehensive and uncertain.

The garden is becoming quiet. I can now see the tabby cat in the corner of the garden. I don’t know why the only friend I have in the world is this maddening tabby cat that just sits there in the corner of the garden. He perpetually hisses and snarls at me whenever I attempt to get closer and stroke it. I feel giddy again. How I hate waking up at seven o’clock like these last few days when the last light is fading across the garden lawn. I struggle to put together my thoughts and memories and that dreadful cat is just staring at me. From over the tall wall I can hear the slightest tinkling sound of distant laughter of children. A few strains of young voices waft across the garden wall in teasing deception. I begin to focus upon the sounds. I strain harder to catch a few distant words dying in the evening wind and then I just about make out a faint call for supper before the evening ushers in the longest silence as the last bird song fades and dies before the rapidly descending darkness. My loneliness is complete. Around me the garden world of color and sound has faded and a cold wind strokes my hair and makes my body quiver in the darkness. I am cold. The wind cuts through my frail waif-like body with ease. I could feel the goose-bumps more frequently as I shudder in the wind. It’s getting cold as darkness approaches. The row of Birch and Oak trees cast dark menacing shadows. I look across the lawn towards the garden path. I could barely see ahead now for there is no light in the kitchen and rear of the house. I can make out the light kitchen door thrown open. The French windows reflect a darkening world in the garden around them. I want to stand up but my limbs ache. I feel sore. My world is quiet and dark and I am now fully awake. Peering ahead of me my eyes enlarge and adjust for a darker vision. I could still notice that the darkening, unkempt grass around the garden path seems to have grown profusely. It must have been a while since I had someone in and mow the lawn. There are a few black weeds sprouting through the cracks of paving stone under the faint moon light. Perhaps it’s been a few days only and yet the weeds have already sprouted. The garden is quickly falling into an unruly state of utter abandon and neglect. I cannot seem to place a finger on the calendar and yet I know it must be late September because the leaves on the grass are dry to the touch.

Darkness has set. The life in my limbs has come back now. All sensation of feeling suddenly springs to attention as I muster the mental will to shake myself loose from my stupor and get up. Rising within my throat I can feel a parched dry sensation of thirst. I need a glass of water. Now, I hastily rise from my garden chair and make my way back into the kitchen at the rear of the house. The approaching night casts long strange shadows from the garden into the kitchen. I stumble across the lawn to the garden path. Inside the kitchen I reach a new resolve and purpose. It is so dark. Nearly clattering into a kitchen table I find my strength. I find a glass on the table and I drink it’s cool contents quickly. I sigh. Looking around me I could make out the shapes in the kitchen darkness now. I resolve to venture into the house and then begin to run towards the hall way in search of the telephone. In the dark I can just about make out a small table and a telephone. Frantically I reach for the telephone. I’m anxious. The quietness has now enveloped the dark hallway. I stand there in silence with the receiver to my ear. Not a sound of a tone can be heard from the phone in the hall. There is not a single light in the blackened house. I’m so annoyed at the blackness of everything! Slamming down the phone in anger I’m beginning to wonder if the whole world is just dead against me to ruin my whole evening. Where is everyone? I keep remembering to call the electric company but they still haven’t fixed the lights. In frustration I can see a mirror near the phone. I look at the large mirror in the hallway in the darkness. I want to fix my straggled hair but I can’t even see myself in the mirror anymore. I peer closer at my shadowy body in the mirror through the faintest moonbeams weakly seeping through the front door glass. I touch my face. My long wavy hair straggles over my bare shoulders. It feels dry and brittle in my fingers. I can feel a few dry leaves knotted in my wavy hair and I frown as I try to weed out the small dry leaves. Hopelessly confused I feel the vagueness in my mind grow again. I pull my hair and let out a muffled howl of discontent. I hate myself. I can’t even remember the last time I went to a salon. My legs feel dreadfully heavy now. I cannot move my body even if I wanted to move. It feels like lead. I lack the will to move all over again. Interminable silence envelops my soul. I’m just a shadow standing in the darkness of my house. I’m humming. The faintest Nat King Cole melody starts all again from somewhere upstairs. My mind releases its tension instantly.

I don’t know how long I have been standing here. Fragments of memories have passed. All I can remember is the moment at sunset at seven o clock when I wake up again in the garden with that cup of tea that has turned so cold. I really don’t know what has become of me or how I managed to lose the entire day because I keep snoozing off. The house is so dark and strange as I continue to wonder why nobody has called me or left a message today. When the world leaves you in silence it is almost as if everything has died in your life. I’m listless as my frail figure cries out in numbing pain. My arms and legs are hurting. In voluntarily I want to cry. A few fragments of thoughts connect a few sounds and sights as my memories try to kindle some warmth deep within me in search of comfort. I can hear that tune again from somewhere upstairs drifting through the hallway now. It comes and goes. I thought I heard a voice and I look towards the staircase leading upstairs. Then the thickening silence of the house descends again and the melody has ceased. I have a few confused memories. My boyfriend and my girlfriends were there in the living room. Then the memories fade away into nothingness. I’m starting to feel tired. My feet feel as heavy as lead. I’m still by the mirror. I run my two hands down the sides of my frock and I pull in frustration but the words that I want to scream just cannot pour out of my mouth. My spirits are sagging and caving in at once. My body feels languid. My eyes have become accustomed to the darkness now but I’m becoming tired of this uncertainty. I am not frightened at all as even in the darkness of the house. There is a welcome familiarity as I desperately seek to remember my life. It is not the darkness that I fear; it’s the numbing emptiness and loneliness. The silence feels oppressive. Yawning chasms of emptiness open inside my heart. My stomach feels knotted with the confusion sweeping through my mind.

In the dark hallway ahead I can see the growing pile of unopened letters on the door mat. The faintest vestige of moonlight has penetrated the thick glass window on the front door and cast a cold, silvery touch on the pile of glistening envelops. I feel a cold distaste realizing that all I have left in my life is a continuous stream of posted letters. Soon there would be a mountain of untouched correspondence. It wouldn’t hurt for someone to visit me even for the briefest moment. But nobody really cares. Nobody feels for my life. I hate the postman. He never even knocks. My mind feels so numb and listless through the chillness of isolation. Vast oceans of happiness filled this house. I can remember slivers of joyful scenes. But now I cannot even find the mental energy to make myself bend down and gather all the letters on the floor. What a miserable clutter. I am swamped by vast oceans of unfeeling communication. Just a single door is all that stands between me and that wretched world from where everyone seems to want to write to me. Only a few planks of wood demarcate the boundary of my morose world. I am forlorn in this darkness. My world is enveloped in utter silence. Nobody calls me or visits me anymore. Have I become so hated and hateful? What on earth have I done? I thought I had a boyfriend. What was his name? I try to recall and clutch at some fleeting thoughts but my heavy mind struggles to remember his name. it’s as if I had fallen down into a bottomless abyss. I lift my hand to my brow and slowly rub my temple. The loneliness hurts. It’s as if the entire world has disconnected me all of a sudden and left me within this monstrous nightmare that I cannot seem to wake up from. All I have in my life is the distant sounds of the children next door playing in the garden until their mother calls them in for supper. Then there is that horrid tabby cat. He always hisses at me when I try to reach out towards it. I really want to throttle that cat! But what use would that do? The whole world might as well be dead to me. I stare at myself through the hallway mirror in the darkness. No moon beam reaches beyond the front door mat as far as my body. I am just a dark shadow and utterly alone waiting for someone to call me or visit me. I am forgotten as I pull at my crumpled blue dress with discomfort. It’s so dark and cold now and I’m beginning to shiver.

The clock chimes eleven. How long have I been standing here in the hallway? My thoughts are in disarray as I mutter on with seeping anxiety. Time has no remorse for the hours I have lost. Forsaken souls are only reflected by the mountains of unopened letters. I turn my head back to the mirror and peer at myself through the darkened glass. Standing in front of the mirror, trying to remember how pretty I look in the sunlight, I feel as if I am disconnected even from myself. The numbing cold has paralyzed my body. I just stand in the darkness and stare at my shadow until the flitting memories eventually succumb through the tiredness. I am alone. There is no question about it. I have been abandoned as I stare at myself and let my eyelids grow heavy. I’m feeling so drowsy now I just want to go back into the rear garden and sit in the moonlight. At least I won’t feel the dreadful loneliness gnawing at my soul if I can watch the moon and the stars. Perhaps someone might come visit me tomorrow. I used to have so many friends. Where on earth are my friends now? What has happened that I could feel so isolated?

The clock has chimed twelve. I could feel my legs moving again away from the mirror away from the dark hallway and into the kitchen at the rear of the house. Yes I am moving. It’s as if my body has moved but my mind is still beside the mirror. I am being drawn to the outside world. Surging within my mind is a compulsion to go back into the garden. The monotony within the house is deplorable. I have to escape. The hallway passes and then I am within the kitchen. The back door is still open leading to the garden. Outside the wind in my face refreshes my mind. I have managed to tread through the darkness and now I am beside the porch of the open kitchen door leading to the rear garden. I close my eyes and welcome the soft wind in my hair. The quietness is inviting and peaceful. I don’t want to look behind me at the house again. My world is a series of dark shadows and my lonely, forgotten soul a dark figure of melancholy as I tread slowly across the silent lawn to my seat and repose. I feel so lonely save for that tabby cat. How I hate that cat but I need him to reassure me that I am not going mad. I could just about make him out sitting there in the corner, always watching me through the darkness with his soft rumbling purr, but never coming towards me to allow me to stroke it and make friends. I hate that cat but I have nobody left to talk to in this dreadful evening. I’m afraid he would just lunge at me and scratch my face if I dare go any closer to him. So I have to be content watching him watching me. This is so dreadfully tiring. My body is aching all over. I’m feeling weary again. For heaven’s sake why won’t that cat become my friend? In my mind I’m caught between rampaging moods of anger and affection. Like the fickle winds one moment I am downcast and another I am elevated. But for now sadness descends all over again and I frown alone in the dark. My mood is sullen. I cast my eyes over the dark lawn and feel the slightest dew on my bare feet. On the garden path I can see the weeds sprouting with abandon around the paving stone. Slowly, gingerly, I edge my frail body towards the dark chair and I hover over the cold cup of tea and half-eaten cucumber sandwich. It’s so quiet now. I’m too tired to drink and eat. I just want to rest and hope that I can wake a little earlier. I am getting so tired of this circuitous existence. I don’t know how many days this has been going on for but the incoherence is beginning to stifle my life.

Lying on my chair in the garden in the darkness I yearn to see a face, a smile, a simple gesture again. I cannot seem to remember the last time I actually saw someone. Perhaps tomorrow I will wake up just in time to call the electrician and hear a human voice again. How could everyone have forgotten me so soon? Number Thirty-Seven Elgin Lane was not a dreadful retreat and yet none of my friends could come knocking on my door and check in on myself. My thoughts are growing with disconnection as I try to stop myself from edging closer and closer to the precipice. I am falling down in my mind. Again I snap to attention and try listen to the silence of the evening with nonchalance; searching, seeking, straining, yearning for an echo that mirrors my pitiful soul. I’m pulling at my dress; my knees are feeling cold. I pick up my cardigan from the lawn and cover my knees. A chilly breeze reminds me that the summer has ended. I fold my arms across my chest with despairing protest. The wind drifts through the tall Birch and Oak trees now and then as my only friend in the world. Dark and grey nebulous shapes drift across the moon to cloud away the last remnant of light. I am alone in a dark world. Distant recollections of my life have all but sunk within a pall of infinite loneliness. There is only the present and I am watching a dark world move around my life in silence. Like the trees whispering in the shadows I am a silent witness to a world that has become oblivious to my very nature. I think about my dry hair and how I must visit the salon and then my last conscious thoughts drift away into the dark clouds racing above me. A heavy shroud covers the last few thoughts. My eye lids are growing heavier. I’m slipping into a sullen stupor again. I close my eyes for a moment in weariness wondering how the day of my life has fallen under a canopy of darkness. Tears of joy and pain can no longer stir my heart. I cannot cry anymore. I must sleep now. It’s getting so late. I’m so weary of this infinite loneliness I wish it would end. From a distant corner in my mind Nat King Cole coaxes me to rest in silence. But the peace does not last. Again, moments gone, I am feeling distraught in the silence and so dreadfully tired and yet the melody is inviting. My emotions run wild like the wind. I gently rub my arms in my state of drowsiness and think about tomorrow. The botches on my skin must be a rash and it is hurting. I am feeling giddy again as I rub my forehead. God, I cannot wake up at seven o clock all over again, please! My mind is slipping. A cat sits in the corner, a tree, window, house, dark, sky, blur. My thoughts are scattered across a fading landscape bereft of color. I am sinking. Pieces of my life try to escape the descending veil of sleep. Hurtling head-long into a nethermost oblivion I can feel the isolation stretching across the universe of my mind. How long will this loneliness last? Trapped under the weight of despair my breast heaves in quiet remonstrance. Nobody can hear me. Drowning in a roiling sea of hurtful emotions I reluctantly close my eyelids. I want to pray but my whispers are lost in the wind. Ink black stretches of night spread over the last flickering thoughts as all sense of color and life weaken, pale and fade. Through my flickering eyelashes I can see the last flitting clouds in the dark skies above as they carry my thoughts away to a peaceful resting place. Eternal are the skies that carry my last thoughts and prayers. I have surrendered; I can fight no longer. Swathes of black are folding over my body. Time has run its course, mercifully. I can take no more. I must sleep. Night must claim what is Hers by right as I abandon my last conscious thoughts and sink into a deeper ocean of emptiness. The last patch of grey above is overcome by a canopy of blackness. Finally, for the moment at least, I fall asleep. My world of darkness is complete.

Written By Bruno Bernard - 2016