Spooky Ramblings and Tales of the Supernatural

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A Little Ghost Story.

The candles flickered like stars. 

The cool breeze she ushered in brought nothing. 

She still couldn’t breathe.

The air was unmoving. In that moment, she could have believed all clocks fell silent. 

She watched invisible hands contort the curtains like marionettes. Hypnotic. Until those same hands extinguished the candles closest to her.

She closed the window, more through habit than anything else. Then examined the thin fog snaking its way around the still-warm wicks until it disappeared. 

As she struck the match, a sigh breached the silence. 

It did not belong to her. 

The Clock

When I was young, I didn’t think of the clock. Too far away to be significant, tucked away on that high shelf. Never looked at. Never discussed. 

But always there.

The taller I got, the closer it became. The graceful swoop of the second hand, the rigid chop of the minute. I thought of it often. 

I dreamt of it.

At first it was soothing like rain on a caravan roof. Family holidays - static TV and board games.

Now it’s hale.

And the shelf is pitted and worn.

I will the hands to slow. 

But never stop.