MAGDALENA'S GHOST: THE HAUNTING OF THE HOUSE IN GALLOWS LANE by PEPPI HILTON

soon took hold and the temperature began to drop throughout the empty spaces. Beryl took refuge in the small scullery where wood was still smouldering in the grate of the range. The back hall which contained the ancient pot sink was dark and chilled, and Beryl went in to ensure that the back door was bolted securely. Something prompted her to lift the candle up to the cracked mirror which was hanging on a hook above the sink, and as she looked into it she saw, to her horror, her mother’s face grinning jubilantly back at her. She dropped the candle to the floor as she screamed in terror, and hobbled through the house as fast as her old legs would allow. She headed for the front door, stumbling in the dark as she attempted to find her way down the long hallway. She unbolted and unlocked the door and escaped screaming into the blackened night. She ran down Gallows Lane and through the hamlet, carrying on until she saw signs of life from other properties. She hammered on the doors of each house as she ran from one to another. Curtains opened and eyes peered out of the windows of each property, but quickly closed again at the sight of the mad woman tearing down the street. No-one came to her aid. She saw the dim light from the old pub ahead and ran towards it. She dashed in, screaming and ranting. The barman looked at her in trepidation, concerned that his few customers may leave at the daunting sight. He quickly moved towards her and sidled her round to where the old man was standing quietly at the corner of the bar. He looked at him for support, but none was forthcoming.
    “Here, stand there and I’ll get you a whisky,” he instructed, almost pushing her at him regardless of his unwillingness.
    He quickly pulled another beer for the man and drew a whisky for her. He placed them both on the bar. The man silently took his, but Beryl’s demeanour was one of a dithering, shaking wreck and she couldn’t stop her trembling hands long enough to pick up the glass.
    “What’s happened?” the barman asked. Although he suspected the woman was raving mad and had no doubt been hallucinating again.
    “I’ve seen her … in …in the mirror,” she stammered profusely. “She was laughing – laughing at me.” She stared at him wildly.
    The barman picked up the glass of whisky and clasped her hands round it.
    “Here, drink it,” he ordered.
    She put the glass to her quivering lips and drank the liquid.
    The barman could see she was in a state and was convinced that she shouldn’t be living alone up the road in that great big house. The other man looked on coldly but said nothing, he carried on drinking.
    “You really ought to have some company in that house. Have you no family?” asked the barman.
    “No, no family. All dead,” she replied. The back of her throat warmed to the drink and she felt her nerves calming.
    “Not good for you to live alone in a place like that.”
    “No, no … I don’t want company. She’s company enough,” she replied frantically.
    She drank the whisky back in one. The shock of the barman’s remark had jolted her to her senses and she fled from the building in a blind panic. The last thing she wanted was interference from others, and she certainly didn’t want him meddling in her affairs.
    The barman nodded pleadingly to the old man, who quickly cottoned on as he reluctantly followed her outside. He walked up to the house with her in tow, and she offered no objections. She was comforted by his presence, he made her feel safe, although she couldn’t fathom why. Maybe he was similar to her – solitary and reclusive.
    She waited until he had gone into the house before following behind him. Once again he scoured the house for intruders, checking every room on every floor. He checked the security of the back door and all of the windows. Everything was rotting but still intact and fastened securely. He left the house after reassuring her that there was no presence, and she locked the door behind