General Chat

Yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Brilliant Eldrick. Can't wait for the next instalment.

:-)

xx

The pale moonlight bathed the skeletal branches of the silver birch trees with a baneful glow. A gentle but persistent breeze sussurated through the thin boughs, making them dance a macabre salsa and casting a faint moving shadow over the faces of the little group of people in the entrance of the abandoned church. Tombstones pointed accusingly skywards, some fallen in a chaotic jumble of slabs whilst others stood in stark contrast against the luminescence of the streetlights from the nearby village.

Norbert Jones checked his luminous watch and glanced at his wife, Dot. She met his look with an almost imperceptible nod of her head and he glanced at the remainder of the group. An elderly couple, Sid and Floss, sat in folding picnic chairs, their legs covered with tartan rugs in defence against the evening chill, flasks of hot coffee to hand and Tupperware containers of sandwiches at the ready. A young couple, Brad and Elsie, dressed in the distinctive garb of Goths eagerly scanned the vicinity and a serious faced young man called Eric readied his electro-magnetic flux and multi-dimensional apparition detector. The party was completed by Vladimir Marschild, real name Albert Hawkins. Vlad was a renowned psychic and his purpose was to communicate with the restless spirits that wandered the old graveyard at the witching hour.

As if on cue, an owl screeched, making them all start and suddenly Norbert stretched his arm out to point to a wispy figure amongst the trees. As they watched, it seemed to float along the ground before disappearing behind a pile of burnt out netto trolleys. Everyone jumped to their feet, straining to catch a glimpse of the ghostly apparition. It reappeared suddenly, rising from behind an old sofa then sank back, as if into its earthly grave.

A collective release of breath was audible and Norbert said ‘Right, that’s it for tonight. Dot will collect the money and we’ll see you next week, same time’. They collected their digital orb catching cameras and assorted ghost investigation equipment together, shouldered their Argos day sacks and trudged off along the path to the car park, the dim beams of their rechargeable torches lighting the way. An excited mumble of chat accompanied their progress.

Meanwhile, at the sign of the Burglars Dog, Norris Trumpet entered the brightly lit convivial interior and ordered a pint of bitter. His muddy boots left a trail of dog egg debris on the carpet, but he was a good customer and the landlord wasn’t bothered.

To be continued……


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