The fire that would not burn

William Watson Whiteside was bit a boy when his Printer father bought the old terraced house in Baskerfield street Manchester England. It was a red brick Victorian built two up and two down typical of that area and period of 1906. House either side looked just the same but at a cost of 240 pounds and 60 for lawyers cost Edwin Albert Whiteside had bought his first house as print manager. He was married and now with three children.

The house had been built in row in 1867 and the bedroom used by the boys had a cast iron lead blacked fireplace set in the wall across from the doorway.  It had never ever been of use as Mrs Mary Whiteside thought the chimney blocked. Nothing was done to start it up. The heat from the big cast iron ovens in the extended kitchen reached upstairs and so the boys always left the bedroom door wide open.

It was at about this time Mr.Whiteside brought in the chimney sweep who found lots of soot but no blockage to the chimney. Again the fire was set and lit but as always the room filled with smoke.

Open windows in dark mid winter took an hour to fan out the grey black smoke. Tired and unsettled all went to bed and peace and silence returned. William strained his eyes to see what was near the fire as little scraping sounds he could just detect. His brother was deep in dream land but William as an adventurous 10 year old  just had to see what lay beyond his view.


Over the sheets he peered and to his horror there in the chair that held the childrens clothing sat a bent old man in a black frock coat and he was pointing to the fire place as if pleading with  the boy to see.  William was transfixed but he watched as the figure slowly vanished.  Next morning he awoke and on inspection little heaps of soot lay at the base of the fire surround. He knew what ever it was was wanting him to inspect. He  placed his hand around the iron frame and twiddled his extended fingers but to no avail his arm not long enough to reach much further than the cast iron arch allowed.

In the kitchen lay breakfast and William black soot all over his arm was told to change his shirt. He told his mother the story and she decided her son was not lying. So in the market that day Mrs Mary Whiteside asked of Miss Delores Smith , a real gossip , who had lived in the house that was theirs now. What came back was rather an explanation to what William had witnessed.

The house had belonged to Thomas Padmore a miser who with his wife loaned money at high percentage to selected peoples. Padmore was a secretive man and his estranged wife was hardly ever seen abroad. They loved in fear of the many thieves that lurked In alleys until dark. When Padmore had died in 1904 his body was cremation and no money was ever found. His wife had died the year before him.

So Mr. Whiteside took the fireplace in his boys bedroom down and on a ledge inside a tin box blackened with soot fell out. Inside was thousands of pounds all crisp and dry with the five or six attempts to lite the fire.  Nothing could be done and only what lay in the middle  could be saved. When taken in hand carefully it amounted to about 40 pounds .The rest, perhaps 5000 pounds, was then to fall to ash.

William never saw the ghost of the miser again.

Thank you for reading my work. Sir Kevin.

copyright kevinparrBt2019

The shadow. Short story.

A thin mist lay over the golden hues of sleeping giants. Trees but a row of misty visions with great arms and grey cast trunks they lined the drive up from the house to the road.

From her window the grey world of autumn fixed her eye on a slightly moving shadow. Not whole or defined it moved behind the shadowy trees. In and out then vapor only it fell to earth.  For some time she watched the scene until at length her eyes grew dim and watered. Transfixed with fear she was slowly loosing reality.

She, Madame Du Bari, had read of the haunted driveway that linked her to the village. A winding wounded snake of a dusty road deep in the  bosom  of the French countryside. She had not believed any of it,  until now.


Armond Du Bari was an eminent lawyer in the town of Mullhouse near Montieliard in the area of Dijon.  His family had lived in Montiveix for over 400 years. Montiveix was itself an old house in 1603 when Armonds ancestor had purchased the said property from the King. It had served ,it was said, as a royal hunting lodge  at one time in its existence and Armond loved the place. He had been the 14th generation to own the small estate.

His wife, of high middle class banking family, from Paris high society had no such love of the countryside around the place but was fine with the interior of her rooms and the proud wife of a good man.

The winter approached, it  held no joy and only the Christmas celebrations held her interest.  Although her car sat idle she had no wish to go out on  a morning so damp and so sat reading the newspapers that her maid had left for her. Alisia was a mere 16 when first her employment had started .Her mother had used the services of Armond Du Bari and had sought work for her daughter. At 18 now she had settled in to a fine house and proved able to do her best.

Scene now set for the events to unravel. We walk into a room looking south down a line of Elm trees with many  flat meadow like fields around it. Madame is sitting reading .The crackle of paper as she turns the pages is the only sound we hear.  Only the maid is in the house working in the kitchens and Madame stops. Silent, the lady stands and the news paper  like a snow fall descends to the floor. She is close to the window now watching. We have no way of ever knowing what alerted her to watch but yes a lurking shadow can almost be seen clear in the advancing mist. As if watching a strong light in a dark cellar and suddenly it goes out and we will still see the image of that light for several seconds afterwards. Well! my dears, this shadow, that Madame is watching intently falls into that same self image.

It is six thirty on the hall clock. It chimes twice. Armond parks his car as always outside the car port as his wifes car is undercover. He enters and is greeted by the maid who takes his overcoat and gloves and allows the free movement as her master as he races into kiss his dear wife. She is set at the window still; her face a torment of terror. He cant get her to respond. The lady is helped into an armchair and a doctor is called.

At her bedside Doctor Oberje is puzzled. Madame is calm but frozen .Her eyes fixed across to the window she says over and over ,”It is him. It is him.”


We leave them at this stage to travel back in time.

It is May month the blossoms fill the air with sweet scents .It is Paris  and the party life of 1963 is in full swing. The well to do girls are drunk and swinging in dances with well to do drugged and dunk French pop stars. All is fun, all is night, and across the car parked lane a man creeps out of the undergrowth. He is dirty and his clothing torn.

He begs for help and some of the boys take him up to the party and call him a tramp, call him a creep and so in as it goes on. The man tries to escape but it is then that a drugged and raged bully throws the beaten man in the swimming pool to clean him off. That man could not swim and no one helped him as he drown. Only when the laughter at his antics  faded did they begin to see what was the mistake as minds cleared and reality hit even the cruel and wonton.

In the clear light of morning they  came to see it as murder and took the body into the park woods and buried it well. Two girls stood watching in silence one used the shovel to help rid themselves of blame.

Two days later police released the dead mans identity as missing. 48 year old Merchant Banker Charles Mermont. He had been attacked as he left work that evening. Three men had been refused loans for a business  venture had threatened him in front of a row of  bank staff at the counters. The hunt was on for his whereabouts.

1963 had turned slowly into now and she, Madame Mercedes Du Bari, knew why she was being sought by some shadowy figure that called her and no other. Her past had caught up with her at last.


At a loss to know why his dear wife was lost to her self Armond sat vigil that night at her bedside. His thoughts of madness in her family had entered his mind reluctantly. His four years with her had been smooth and family like and he could not bare to face the truth that his wife had gone mentally adrift.

He employed a mind specialist at great cost but it proved only that his wifes mind was gone from her. Over time she was placed in a mental ward for observation. At first she was visited every evening by her husband but slowly his visits became rare. Then one night in November 2019 she died. Her face had lost all anguish and her smile was on her lips. Like release in fact they all thought.  They did not see the shadow at the window, none of them. But I did. I stood silently in the shadows. My name was, Charles; and justice is done. I am being called back, im sure.


Yours hoping you like my short tale. Be good be true for we all must pay in the end.

Copyright Kevin James Parr Bt.


The short facts on Lord Byron.

To delve into this legend may lead to madness . For the man we relate to is that legend and was mad himself. That man is Lord Byron the poet and romantic lover of both sexes.

For he was as beguiling to men as he was to cap throwing women . His appetite for both as insatiable as it was dangerous


Englands law would, if discovered,  have hanged him. His world of romantic poems hit the news and made him a super star in public eyes.Women swooned at his feet and men could not take their eyes of him.  In this fashion Byron lived. He even visited brothels in between lovers and became wanton in every thread of his being. His affair with his half sister was passionate and loving and after time Augusta talked her brother into finding love in a marriage to help him get over her.

He did not suffer pain from his foot which was not as historians say a club foot but the corpse was inspected having been preserved by Greeks and it was found that one foot although  perfect, was indeed smaller than his other foot. As a child in a Glasgow slum ,his father a drunk had brought the family down and his wife had to scrub steps of tradesmen to feed her son. A kind doctor paid for the boys shoe to be blocked and so allowed Byron a modicum of comfort in  walking.  He saw the boy as a clever thinker and so paid to send Byron to school.  It was then that his father died of drink and his grandfather in England soon after of age passed on. .This made young Byron a Lord by title and inheritor of Newstead Abbey in Nottinghamshire. He was entered into Cambridge university and soon after wrote his first published poem. Then came the Pilgrimage of Childe Harold. A book about a man who traveled Italy and was in fact Byrons persona.


His affair with Lady Caroline Lamb was torrid and one sided as she adored him and wanted only to have him. Byron soon tired of this and so she wrote,: ” Byron is mad, bad and dangerous to know. ” Probably only she saw him that way at the time for Byron was a mixed up man haunted by his past. He did not understand why he felt so half man and half female. His life became outrageous and public that he was forced to sell Newstead Abbey. Living above his means and so many creditors after him he fled to Switzerland and soon met Shelley the poet. The two men hit it off and wrote some amazing stuff from rebounding ideas. We know that Shelly had left his wife and was with a servant called Mary.

Did Byron give his idea to her who had just learned to write and had penned Doctor Frankenstein from nothing? I just can say but more than likely he helped her with it.

Shelley drank too much on a warm night and went swimming .Byron found him dead on the beach drowned at sea. He broke all laws of England ,but abroad not as he decided to give Shelley a Vikings burial and burned him on the beach in a big fire that burned bright as Shelly mind.

He left then to fight for the cause of Greece against the Turks. Although Byron was against violence and supported many lost causes and peoples this war was uppermost in his mind. He was 36 and miserable having left his wife and child and the loss of Shelley may have triggered this move.

He was in fact running guns to the Greeks in his ship. He spied for them against the Turks and then fell down with sea fever or something like it. After days of it he died .The Greeks had lost a great friend and they knew it. They embalmed the body well and sent Byron home to England in his ship maned by Greeks.

Lady Caroline Lamb was back with her husband saw the coffin pass her door had no idea it was her ex lover Byron until later the news hit her.


Byron was taken to the family tomb in Hucknal Torkard church of Saint Mary Magdalene ,near Newstead Abbey. There he lay in his black coffin .Until  in the 1960s it was seen that his coffin had crushed his mothers coffin it was sat upon . Work began and the coffins repaired set on shelves and before the tomb was resealed Byrons coffin was opened to see his body in tact as if he was sleeping. It was here that measurements had to be  taken to find what was wrong with Byrons foot. Both feet looked the same but it was found some 3 inches smaller was one foot than the other. It was amazing just how beautiful Lord Byron looked even over 200 years dead thanks to Greek knowledge of preserving him forever.

I have spoken to some who went to see Byrons body as invited by the officers of council and the church . The facts as told I relate as fact.

So the legend of this great poet lives on in his work but the man himself was a very disturbed lost soul .A womaniser a homosexual now called bi sexual who became a gun runner  and a writer after breaking the hearts of many and leaving this earth a young man at 36. He was bordering on madness which medical proof says it ran deep in his family.

Having spent much time in my youth studying Lord Byron I found him too hot to handle and left him well alone. His poetry excellent but in his words are hidden thoughts to shock the reader. Then in my travels I found myself at his tomb. There for all to see but locked and bared. A picture gallery lines the church walls for our edification and reward which shows us the coffins and the crypt as it is for all time repaired .What it does not show is Byrons remains. For that a trace of who was there and soon had my friend in 1982 show me his picture taken of Byrons face. It is as it was hair and features as if he lived shocked me as to traveling back in time to being in his company I found unreal.

So we go no more a roaming so late into the night . Is a parting poem sent to his half sister Augusta Byron as the end of their love affair . Byron perhaps never got over her.

A few weeks after Bryons burial his so called friends had been sent from Greece Byrons own history in his view of himself. Which would have been good to read as fact not legend the deed of burning the manuscript caused to be the case. They read it and all came to agree it was so bad in deed that it would ruin Byron reputation as a man ,Then he was dead and in fact history has been robbed not only of Byrons image of himself but historic fact. As bad as he may have seen his life we would have needed to see it. Idiots who wanted to protect the image of a man all knew was guilty of many things . What then became of Byron was left to tall tellers and the legend was born. But then Byron was a man who would speak up for many good causes like the poor laws and Catholics being bashed. He spoke up against violence and heavy drinking. He was a man of the peoples too.

He was all these things and perhaps more but only scandal is his legacy .I see him as a tortured lost soul who burned brighter than the stars but the candle expired as he just knew it would In Greece the weeks leading up to his death he knew of it. He spoke of it too.

That poem for you now.

So we go no more a roving So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast,

And the heart must pause to breath,

And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving. And the day returns too soon,

Yet we,ll go no more a roving.

By the light of the moon.

Make of it what one will. For Lord Byron knew its meaning so too his Augusta that half sister that understood him well . Mad, or bordering on it, I think was his problem all thought his adult life. Then his mighty talent should be his legacy to to us not his life of woe. The last breath he took ensured that no one will forget him.

Thank you for your reading  into my historic facts.

Yours always Sir Kevin.

Copyright Kevin James Parr Bt 2019.


The Autumn harvest.

The sunlit path led ably unto the leaded door,which in turn led into the most beautiful garden that this young man had ever seen. The red and yellow hues of oaks donning winter gowns lined the hedged walls but inside that garden; all was still in summer passions and high design. He advanced behind her, his senses filled with the scents of blooms. and his ears of gentle bird song. His desire to know how this was done gave him questions but as he came to the house door his guide of such beauty slowly advanced taking his hand, they both arrived in an old room.


Books lined the walls wood panels and leaded windows told him that he was inside a gentlemans home. She, smiling led him deeper into the darkness of corridors and there at a great ball legged table sat a man in sort of robe around his shoulders. He  became aware that the girl had left him standing before her father but before he could think the next step a cold blade ran him through from behind. The sense of pain and the sharp taste that drained his life blood gave him no will to speak for he knew his life was over.

Many more poor gentlemen ,young and virile walked that same path to that said same door. Over time the authorities in the area of Rabat came to inspect the loss of sons and families gathered in the square in Saint Pauls bay to talk and decide to act.

The wind flew in the open window as the Minister sat at his paper piled desk cursing his wives love of fresh air. The window he jumped at soon closed shut. His duty was to the people to find the killer but all roads ended at the sea. Malta, an island, surround by seas what caused bodies of the islands young men to float  into the bays was beyond him. The public meeting had ended and all hands to the boats to check for signs of murder had brought in nothing of value in the case.

The winter was gathering out at sea the ocean raged and the port of the Gut gates fully closed giving Valletta town a plethora of foreign sailors access to the many eating houses and tavern drinking holes that still adorn that part of town.

The port was in truth over expanded. The Minister had a big job on, as soon many more young men would float back in to the resurgence of the harbour.  The high sea unable to name them and the clues vanished in the power of Neptunes snare.

Who ever was the killer was on land. The search for the murderer brought them to a withered gardens, dead oak trees and a house not lived in for a century.  No sign of life and so they moved on to other mansions and gathered groups of houses. Nothing gave up clues but the dead men stopped floating in and the new year of 1900 came in with no repeat cases.


Sir Simone De Malifont and his daughter Morgania  had taken rooms in the Italian country side near Sorrento on the beautiful Amalfi Coast. Sir Simone was a silent young man with dark mysterious eyes who left all business to his beautiful young daughter. The room looked out from a cliff to the bluest of seas of Naples Bay.

Soon after the remains, and I must call them as such as the corpse was in two halves, was the subject of much discussion by the police. 1935 had been a slow year but this murder brought in so called experts from Rome. The dead male was the grandson of  Duke Debaldi Lombard a well known Law maker with Government in Romes house of members.

Soon after the body count built up .Some 34 young men found floating in the rock wall depths of water. Like flotsam and jetsam they hugged the shore line all along the lower dock of Sorrento town which overhanging the sea with balcony of rock gave up no clues.


Then all stopped.  After a summer, not another did come to light. The corpse count had

ended .

The rooms of rent had been vacated when the officers arrived Sir Simone and his daughter gone. The case without a single clue failed to solve the deaths of 36 poor souls, all young men of 19 to 25 in age.

The ship across to England also lost two young travelers both young men of 17 and 19 sons of an Italian tailor in London who had sent for them. The verdict was drowning but no body was  ever found in the sea and nothing of a clue on the ship. The Captain said that a beautiful young girl had befriended both men at dinner on that evening prior to the men vanishing off ship. The girl too had vanished.

As the ship docked in London port a deputation of police interviewed Sir Simone and his daughter but both told of the young men as just at diner table with them. No idea about them save than Italian and brothers. Police could not bring a case. Deep investigations led to the young men committing suicide as Sir Simone had not known either of them no link to murder was found.

On a painting in the Royal Art wing of the Tate art Galley hangs a painting of a Knight Templar Captain who led an attack on  the Coral Island castle of Saladin the Muslim leader against European Kings and Richard the Lionheart King of England. It is that of Sir Simon de Malifont. Could it really be that same man?

A letter found in the house in Jerusalem in 1998, where Sir Simon had lived and signed by him says this.

“Beauty is the highest wards of the occult influenced by power through my quality of ever lasting appearance and my senses awakened spiritually emotion in the mind of man who feeds me. Their souls do make me live.”

This was addressed to a monk in London England but was never delivered as it was captured in the mail bags of courier by Arab army In Lebanon. Somehow it was to appear back in Jerusalem after Sir Simons departure to England after the Crusade was over.


What ever happened to make this happen we can only say fact is stranger than fiction. Sir Simon de Malifont vanished with his lovely daughter In London England outside the site that once stood the Templar church. Two policemen came near to tell the man and young lady not to stand so close to traffic on the corner but reports claimed that both backed into the tree line thicket hedge and searches did not find them. When asked what description an elderly male around 60 with a grey suit and a well dressed young lady.

No sightings of them since 2013. The painting was found in one of the murder houses in 2002 where a young doctor had been killed by a sword or long knife through his liver. no evidence of any sort but two people, that his man may have known, did the murder.One at his front occupying him while the other from behind ran him through with a blade at least 3 feet long. A wide entrance cut similar to that of an old fashion sword blade.

Thank you all dear readers ,Sir Kevin.

Short fictional story part with of my own garden in  focus to illustrate the story for you.


Copyright Kevin Parr Bt 2019


The light of knowledge

It was summer in the gardens and both sisters ran to the lake to see the fish. But only Alice cam scuttling back alone. When asked by mother who was baking cakes in the kitchen, where her sister was that it became an alert. Down the garden at a pace ran mother and Mrs Potter from next door. The girl was found laying in the meadow  grass asleep. Panic over they took her home and that was that. Or so Mrs Olive James thought.

The James had bought the cottage in 1986 and then had twin girls on second year of Olives marriage to her learned Doctor husband Nolan James.

The cottage lay next to what was once the Great Hall now a farm house belonging to the Potters who had no children.Mrs Hillary Potter was now in her late 60s and her husband was too.

Olive had married Nolan after six years his nurse on the hospital ward 10 of the Middlesex Hospital London. They loved the cottage at first sight and the lovely gardens with access to a vast lake that had been the fish pond that had feed the Carp to the manor house. Nolan had built a fence when the babies could toddle in fear they could be danger with water and kids.

It was a normal family atmosphere and a normal sunny afternoon but Alice and Amanda whispered all the time together but when mother broke in silence was the story. Three

times that day until Olive put her foot down.


Alice begged Amanda to tell mother what she had seen at the lakeside. Amanda was livid and for a long time kept her own council. Olive tried hard to get the story out of her but only when Nolan arrived home did he draw the whole tale out of his girls.

It was a dull day over the other side of the lake but even so both girls had seen hooded men singing in line no faces to be seen. It was only Amanda that had seen the face in the water and it scared her. She had run fast away and slept in the flower filled long grass meadow.

When cross  questioned she had told on a young girl a bit older than her who was under the water but her face looked into Amanda face and it had smiled toothless and then dived down back into the blackness of the lake.

They had been so terrified so the Doctor gave they kindness and understanding and stopped his dear wife from asking more questions. They went to bed a little happier.

Nolan came back down father reading fairy tales to his children. Nothing more was said and both parents watched what happened next morning. After a good breakfast they did not wish to play in the garden even though the sun was warm outside. Olive played parlor games with them until afternoon. Then Amanda went out and vanished. Mother went searching for her but soon found her gazing into the black waters of the lake.

Time went bay as it will at want and no more was told. Some ten years both girls now training in medical school but only Alice was the problem as she had started a romance with a fellow student and her studies had suffered. As for Amanda she followed her father into medicine and qualified aged 25 as a surgeon.

It was a crash team case in 2011 that brought both sisters back together. Amanda the Surgeon and Alice the witness to the crash that killed both driver and front seat passenger. Able to save the back seat passengers both on shock but soon recovered after operations to insides. When police arrived and interviewed the living as to what went on it gave time for both sisters to talk.

Alice had run off and married her student lover who was a General Practice doctor on Surrey .She had had two children and had made contact with her parents only a day prior to this meeting.  She told her tale and watched her sisters face. It seems her husband was related to the Potters by marriage only . He had told her that they had a child called Norma who at age of 10 had drown in that lake and her body never found. Monks had come to pray for the girls soul and what they had seen was connected to what happened save for the face in the water that Amanda had witnessed.

in visions for years Amanda admitted having in her sleep.  Always the same thing .That face that haunted her had now a name.


BBC television news 2nd May 2012. A lake gave up its dead after 60 years. Divers today drained alake that had once belonged to Fountains Abbey monks as fish ponds during 12th century. The bones of a young female thought to be from that time is now thought to be the missing Nora Potter that vanished in 1959. Doctor Amanda  James of Middlesex Hospital who did the first tests on the bones says it is the case that the girl had been caught in weeds at bottom of lake and  died with little fight but the weeds would around her for so long the Carp feed of her leaving clean bones.  The bones then went off to the lab. Amanda had no more visions and no more bad dreams but she knew beyond it all that she had seen her ghost that day as a child herself.



So another short story for you. I promise to start back on amazing mystery soon but I have been so busy with building my workshops that have not had time to justify research. Rather than let anyone down I made this up for you to read. It is my hope it will satisfy my readers. Variety being the spice of life ,one hopes

Thank you all for being with me if just for the time it takes to read.

Yours with best wishes Sir Kevin.

Copyright Kevin Parr Bt 2019 Nov.

The Mersey Tunnel incident.

It had rained for much of that week in July 1968. For John Stonely he had had enough of Hippy life and had long ago wished to travel across Europe to see his sister in Estonia . She , Susy, had married a diplomat who had been posted into Europe and now in the Embassy life in Tallin city.   John had been a golden gifted guitarist until in a fight in a side street club he was involved in had broken two of his right fingers. He had not played a note in months. So with little cash in his pocket but a full tank of fuel in his bike John set off from Preston Street surgery with his fingers in plaster to start his adventure.

By noon he was at the mouth of Kingsway, the as he was injured did not want to rish  Mersey Tunnel in Liverpool city centre ready to go under the sea to Cheshire and pick up his stuff for the ride of his life. Nothing was going to stop him .The rain fell down lightly as he came into the mouth of the Kings tunnel a soaked wet girl in an anorak of blue and white with mattered golden hair hailed him down. He stopped only to say no he was injured ,but she climbed willfully into the saddle behind him. He could feel her body next to him and her warm steamy breath on his cheek as he turned to see her lovely young face. She was light as air as he raced into the lane with nothing in font or behind,  a clear run across to Birkenhead pay desk. The journey was about half way complete. he heard a scream, stopped the bike and turned, but the passenger had gone. Not a sign of her anyplace so he turned about and ran back the way he had come but nothing was out of place .She simply had vanished. Deeply concerned John fled back to pay desks in Cheshire side of tunnel.


Kingsway Entrance to Mersey Tunnel.

He was almost frantic as he related the tale to police sat in office. They hurried back in

the SUV with sirens screaming but though not a sign of a girl in that tunnel. Police had a job understanding until at last a tunnel inspector came into that cabin. After hearing the story told for the forth time he told John he was not mad. It seems in 1961 a girl had fallen off a speeding bike in middle of tunnel in first lane. She was dead as she hit the ground her brain crushed. Her name was not found as the biker had not stopped; her belongings no doubt had remained on the speeding  motorbike. No one came forward and news carried her photo for weeks later. He looked at John who was now white, her face so lovely her breath so warm yet she a ghost at last made sense to his puzzled mind.

He went on to great things but he never forgot her. Yes he did reach his sister after two weeks working in Latvia he had enough to just pay for fuel to get that rest of the way to Tallins lovely market squares and reunion with sister and her husband Bob.


The last time I saw him he was an engineer in Kendal. He thought that she may have been Albanian girl lied to by trafficers who took her passport and chained her to prostitution .She was trying to escape and so could not cross over in death so easily but try as she might was lost .Her ghost may still be trying, he told me ,head down at his work. I think he was thinking the day over and over  still.

This is a true story, only names are changed, as I could not contact John to ask to write this  up.

Hope you liked this story.  Thank you Sir Kevin.


Copyright KevinParr 2019

The lady in black

The train felt out of place as it set off with me at the window. Oxford rail Station looked so fresh after the night of rains. My roses  for you in my hand ready to meet my James again.

The ticket collector came by to clip my ticket but ignored me huddled in the corner ,at the window all flew by and he was more interested in the gentleman who was in the wrong carriage and must have forgotten me.

The express steamed on .Cows in fields and towns flew past me we went so fast. It was then that I noticed I was already for my James even though half hour ago it was not so in my mind. No, I had rushed myself to be in this train its speed far faster than I recall of other journeys made. Metal carriages raced past me leaving me feeling out of place. That clickety clack over rails still there as it was.

The time slowly ebbing my mind racing forward to London rail station. He must be there.

Then I arrived and found the steps had been replaced by a slope that children now used as a slide. funny little wheels on their feet that sang as they sailed by me. Faster than the very wind. I moved on.

At the clock, now waiting .Then I came to my senses .How many times have I been here ,waiting, waiting for Jim . Here will be the only place to find him. The big round clock above me strikes the hour as for me the wait is over again I am called back . James in the mud fields of France  and I only wanted just to find him again. Not this time it seems, my grave I have left with my rotten body. I now recall why I left it. Always that same repeat but it is my duty as his wife.

Jim .Jim ,Jim- dear Jim can you hear me dear. You promised to meet me in 1918 I have been here so often on this date, September 11th. They may not let me come again .Jim come to me please Jim. I am cold and sad and cannot find the door back.

Im fading again, yes, as normal it happens always like this.  Jim. Oh! Jim its cold without you. You .you,yo y ———————————.



Short story by Sir Kevin.

Copyright Kevin Parr Bt 2019 October