Not Alone!

candle-in-darkA solitary figure walked through the deserted streets. With every turn plunged he was plunged into deeper, darker shadows as he walked into the bowels of the city, but he wasn’t alone.

“Where are you leading me?” he said to no one.

He came to a dead-end, a courtyard.

“What now?” he asked.

Looking around him he felt hopeless, lost, but he didn’t feel alone. A candle burned in a small grimy window. The only light in the gloom. No wait, there was a door. A slither of light escaped beneath it.

The hinges creaked as he pushed it open and entered a tiny room. He stood for a while as his eyes accustomed to the darkness. The room was empty, but he heard whispers, was someone praying? Following the sound he walked carefully through a darkened archway. A woman sat in the far corner, next to a bed. She turned as he entered.

“Father, how did you know?”

She was holding the hand of an old man. His breath was uneven ragged.

“He’s ready to leave us.” she said. “Bless him Father, help him move on.”

The good father crouched down beside them and held their hands. Eyes closed, they prayed together.

Father Rafferty stood up, his old knees crackling as he did so. The ragged breathing had stopped. He turned to the old lady to offer her comfort, but she was gone. Was she ever there?

The smell of roses tantalized the air and Father Rafferty looked around. A beautiful young woman stood behind him. Her eyes sparkled with life and happiness. She held her hand out, not to him, but to the old man in the bed beyond. A cool breeze passed by him as a young man rose from the old body on the bed.

The young couple embraced and faded into the night.

All that was left was candle light and the smell of roses.

Dead or Alive – she’s mine!

headlight in the darknessThe temperature dropped. Icy fingers tightened their grip on my heart.

“You’ll never have her. You couldn’t have her in life and she’s not yours in death. She was promised to me. She’s mine.”

Surely they’re not talking about me! I strained my eyes trying to see through the darkness. It was thick and dense, a black fog.

“You killed her!” The voice was harsh, evil.

“No, you did, you killed her when you messed with my brakes. You ended her life.” This voice was full of sadness and love.”

“You should have died alone. You took what was mine.” The evil voice boomed through the darkness. It scared me.

“Mala wasn’t a possession. She didn’t love you.” It was almost a whisper.

The darkness was penetrated by the sound of a horn. It was loud. Rushing towards me.

A single beam of light pierced the darkness from another direction.

A truck roared towards the crossroads. Oh God, slow down, won’t someone slow down. Screeching brakes and burning rubber filled the air.

The truck tried to stop.

The motorcycle swerved.

For a fleeting moment I saw the face of the beautiful gypsy girl riding behind the smoking man. She closed her eyes, and hugged him tight.

Her lips moved, “I love you.” I wondered if he heard.

The impact was deadly.

Then there was silence.

“Why am I here?”

The sound of my voice hung in the darkness.

The Icy Grip of Death!

I hit the ground hard. Gasping for breath I sat up. Help! Where am I. I heard the screeching of brakes and smelled burning rubber. Glass shattered. Where am I?

I was light-headed and my vision was blurry. A nebulous shadow hovered in front of me.

And then I saw smoke rings.

smoke rings

The smoking man looked down at me and smiled. I shivered as I felt his love overpower me.

“Its time to come with me. I’ve waited so long.”

He sad eyes filled with longing. This man’s life had ended a long time ago, but he couldn’t rest, he was waiting for someone. Surely he wasn’t waiting for me. I didn’t know him.

“I don’t know you. Why do you want me?”

I was cold, shivering, but I knew I was still alive and I wanted to stay that way. I tried to stand, but I was weak and oh so tired. Fight it, come on, fight it now.

The tinkling of bells seemed far away, but I heard them. Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, from where she comes, nobody knows…

The beautiful face of the young gypsy girl filled my thoughts. I smelled roses and lavender! My body was light. A tingling started in my chest and radiated through my body. It was a happy feeling. Can this be death? Am I dying? If I am I like it!

Then a dark oppressive presence overshadowed me. The tingling stopped. The smoking man looked behind me. Anger spread across his face and for the first time I heard him speak. His words were angry.

“Leave us be, its time to leave us be!”

Icy fingers surrounded my heart. It was more than fear, it was death!

To read my first novel go to Dead of July

Falling in Love with a Ghost?

I was overpowered by feelings I didn’t understand. My head was too heavy for my neck. I swayed a little. From nowhere a strong hand grabbed my arm steadying me, keeping me upright. Nothing felt real. Slowly I turned my head. A masculine hand, almost hidden by shabby black leather, rested on my arm. I almost swooned so strong were my emotions. It had to be him; it had to be the smoking man. Weakly I reached out wanting to hold on and make him stay. His presence was intoxicating. Before I could feel my skin against his, he was gone.

A cold breeze kissed my cheek.

“Hey, what’s up, are you OK?

I turned around to see the solitary figure of Pete, one of my old boyfriends, walking down the narrow deserted street towards me.

“Not really! Something weird just happened.”

“Have you been at the cannabis again?” he asked, a look of genuine concern on his face.

“No, I don’t do that anymore.” Now I was irritated.

“Sorry, you just look really out of it. I tell you what, if you buy me a drink and I’ll lend you an ear?” he said with a big grin on his semi-handsome face. I say semi-handsome because he was irresistible when he smiled, but plain as a pikestaff when he didn’t. He was smiling as he approached so I couldn’t refuse. He took my arm and linked it in his.

“How about Brandy and sofa?” He said.

At least he made me smile, “lets skip the sofa shall we? I’ll take a Brandy and Coke instead. Who’s sofa are you drinking Brandy on these days?” I asked.

“That would be telling!”

“Oh, so she’s married?”

“Come on you’re the one with problems, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I stopped walking and looked at Pete, I hadn’t thought about that. Was I falling in love with a ghost?

This installment is long overdue, but I’ve been traveling and gathering ideas for my books. Clearing my mind of all the thoughts that got stuck there this year and making room for fresh ones. I think it worked. I’m raring to go. Don’t give up on me, I’ve plenty more stories to tell.

Check out my first novel Dead of July. Its only $0.99 on Amazon.

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The British Army – Dark Angel – The Fight

Desert Rats“Dad!” I whispered. I felt his presence, I felt his love.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, leave this child alone.” It was father Angelo.

Never, she’s almost mine, you lost your battle, your God is no match for me. 

Her voice weakened as she spoke, faded. Was she losing her hold on me? I was no longer in pain.

Tommy guns shattered the silence. I coughed and peered though a cloud of dust at the line of military vehicles that came to a halt in front of me. Soldiers spilled out, running to safety. They fired at something I couldn’t see.

“Trust in God, he’s the only one who can help you now.” Was it father Angelo? What was happening to me? Was I dying? Where was I?

A dark figure rose from the dusty mess. Black wings flapped angrily. Red eyes glowing fiercely. You don’t play fair, you bring in an army of dead men, men I can’t hurt. You may win this battle, but I WILL be back. The war isn’t over, not by a long way.

She hovered above the gunfire, her image fading, for what felt like an eternity. The forces fighting her were too strong. Her red eyes focused on the young soldiers, but she couldn’t harm them. These good men had already perished fighting for their country. Above the sound of the Tommy guns I heard prayers. Two different voices praying loudly and sincerely. I recognized one as Father Angelo, the other was my Uncle, the Army Padre.

“For the Love of God be gone.” I heard them say in Unison. “Go back to where you came from, leave this earth, leave it now.”

I watched the dark shape disintegrate and become part of the dust cloud. Red eyes disappeared. The sound of gun fire stopped and they soldiers cheered.

A single figure walked towards me, lighting a cigarette as he approached.

“Dad?”

“Yes pet, its me. Did she really think she could survive the British Army? She’s nothing compared to the evil man the Germans call their Führer.”

“Dad, hold me.” I begged, but I knew he couldn’t, his image faded, along with the young soldiers he fought with. Soon all that was left was a blue smoke ring from his favorite cigarettes, but I felt his smile.

I hope you’ve enjoyed my story about Lucy, and her fight with the Dark Angel. It’s almost done, one more instalment to go. My first novel Dead of July is available on Amazon. 

Dead of July by Sandra Thompson

Thank you!

As a change from the Ghost Stories I normally post, I’ve decided to tell you all how thankful I am.

What am I thankful for? My friends, my family and my life.

I’m thankful for my lovely home in Colorado, where I sit and look at the mountains as I write this blog.

I’m thankful that although it’s taken me 57 years to get here, I’m finally writing. My novels may never may me rich and famous, but they make me happy. I’m thankful to you all for reading them and leaving comments and reviews.

Have a lovely Thanksgiving everyone and remember to be Thankful.

CIMG0059

Thankful for my lovely home and the critters that come to visit.

 

Three Ghosts – Part Two – My Second Visitor

Dad1

I sat down in my quiet home, feeling a little more calm, but melancholy. Families fade away so quickly. I was used to being along. My husband travelled with work, but I’d had a bad day. My daughter busy with her own life , so I sipped my wine and gazed out of the window, watching the orange sun slide behind the mountains.

A noise I hadn’t heard in a long time broke the silence. It was the sound of a cigarette lighter, followed by the smell of smoke, not just any old smoke, but the smoke that came from strong unfiltered ‘Players Navy Cut’, my dads favorite brand of cigarettes. I smiled. “You know you shouldn’t be smoking it the house,” I said, talking to a man who’d been dead for over twenty years.

“Don’t tell your mum!” Players Navy Cut

I laughed out loud, now I was losing my mind!

“Dad?”

“I hear you’re having a bit of bother at work. Do you remember when I sorted your boss out. You were working at the Angel Hotel in Catterick Village? He was a nasty piece of work he was. I put him in his place didn’t I?”

“Yes dad you certainly did.” Could I see smoke rings hovering above the arm-chair? I loved it when my dad blew smoke rings.

“Who upset you this time? Do you want me to handle him for you?”

I laughed hard and loud at the thought of my dad walking into the Law Firm  where I worked and taking on my boss.

“Dad, you don’t need to do that.” I couldn’t see my dad, he wasn’t there, but I could feel his smile and I felt loved. “Well if you’re sure.” he said ” I don’t want anyone being mean to my little girl. If you want me to give him ‘what for’ I will.”

He continued to talk, but his voice faded away, as though someone had turned the volume down. The smell of smoke faded with him. “Bye dad, I think my mum’s waiting for you, I love you.”

I head my mum’s voice again. “Wilf, tea’s ready.” she said.

The house became silent, I was alone again, but not for long.

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Dead of July by Sandra Thompson

 

 

 

 

 

The last goodnight

“Mum, I don’t want to go to bed.”

“Come on now, its school tomorrow.”

“Just five more minutes. Please?”

“Alright then, but scoot up to bed quickly if you hear your dad coming home.”

Lou, Peter’s mum, went into the kitchen and began to prepare her husband’s supper. Peter watched her. For some reason his young heart ached. He sat on the sofa pretending to watch television, but he watched his mum instead. She hummed a tune as she chopped vegetables. She turned around and gave him a funny look. “Whats going on with you tonight?” she asked.

“Nothing mum, I think I’ll go to bed now.” Lou came out of the kitchen and hugged her son, planting a big sloppy kiss on his cheek and ruffling his hair.

“I’ll see you in the morning, sleep tight.” She said. Peter didn’t want to leave her. She smelled so good, so safe, so comfortable. Reluctantly he let go of her, “Goodnight mum, I love you.” he said as he climbed the stairs. “Love you too Pete,” She answered.

Peter lay in bed, his head under the covers, listening to his transistor radio. It was 1965, he was nine years old.

transistor radioSleep settled over him, but not for long. He woke up suddenly to the sound of music. What had happened to his radio? It seemed to have traveled back in time. Instead of the latest pop songs he heard Nat King Cole singing his mum’s favorite song. It was an old song, older than Peter, but his mum would sing it to him when he was sad. Why was the DJ playing songs from ten years ago?

Peter’s bedroom door opened a crack and a face peered in at him, it was his older brother. “You awake Pete?” he asked.

The music on the radio changed, The Four Seasons now sang Bye Bye Baby, Baby Bye Bye. Peter scratched his head. Had he been dreaming? He pushed the covers back and watched his brother walk slowly across the room. He sat and on the edge of Peter’s bed.

“Have you been crying?” Peter asked.

“Pete, I need you to be strong now. Can you be strong?”

Pete nodded his head and looked at his brother nervously. “Did you join the army? Are  you going away? I heard you talking to mum about it. She doesn’t want you to.” he said.

“No I didn’t join the army. I’m not going anywhere. It’s mum, she died.” Pete looked at the clock. It was three in the morning. He could hear people talking and crying downstairs. “She had a heart attack,” his brother continued.

Peter put his head back under the covers and turned the radio back on. He didn’t want to hear anymore, he wanted to hear Nat King Cole, he wanted to hear his mum sing to him again. He didn’t believe she’d died. It must be a dream.

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Writing makes me happy because……..

As I sit here editing one of my short stories, I realized why writing makes me so happy. It’s because it brings me closer to my parents. My step dad died over twenty years ago. My my mum passed away in 2001, but when I write, they are alive again.

The first story I wrote was about an incident that happened to me when I was a teenager. My parents play a major part in this story.

My second story is all about my mum and I on vacation in Blackpool. I was only seven.

My latest story ‘Dead of July’, mentions my parents briefly too. Even though they don’t play a major part in ‘Dead of July’, they’re alive.

Sometimes you just don’t realize how much you love your family until they are gone. Writing is my way of dealing with life, and death.

Next year I hope to finish ‘September Souls’, which is a story started by my step dad during the London Blitz. He wrote four or five chapters, and then mailed it to his father, my late granddad, because he never thought he’d live to finish it. He did survive the blitz, but life got in the way of his writing. In his honor, I will finish his story. Hopefully he’s spying on me from up above, and smiling down at me. I hope I’m making him proud.

 

quote-about-love-your-parents

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