Ghosts and Candy - 1. Chapter 1

I know that at the age of fifteen I’m really getting too old to go Trick or Treating, but there is something about Hallowe’en that I love. I don’t know whether it’s all the sugary goodness or if it’s that I get to act like a big kid for one night of the year. I don’t go out Trick or Treating on my own anymore, instead I offer to take some of the neighbours’ kids out for the evening; that way I have a valid excuse to behave like an eight year old. I tell their parents that it’s all about making the kids’ evening enjoyable and that I get no excitement from the evening whatsoever. If you believe that, then I have a bridge in Brooklyn I want to sell you.

This year I think I bit off a little too much though. I’ve somehow managed to offer to accompany the Carson twins, the Laker triplets, and the Morgansten’s kids. I’ve known the Carsons and the Lakers since they were babies, as I go to school with the older Carson sister and the Lakers have always lived next door to Mum and me. However, I don’t really know the Morganstens, as they only moved into our neighbourhood last week.

I went round and collected the first of the kids, the Lakers, at seven o’clock, and shortly thereafter, the Carson sisters. I made it to the Morgansten’s home by quarter past seven. I had no idea how many kids I was collecting from the Morganstens, but was pleasantly surprised to find it was only two. I’d had nightmarish visions that I was going to be picking up a dozen or more, and that would really have put a crimp on my evening.

It seemed that the kids had all discussed this evening in advance, as they had a theme going; they were each dressed as one of the Care Bears. Marcia and Georgina Carson were dressed as Love-a-Lot Bear and Funshine Bear. The Laker boys (James, Peter, and Paul), who I’ve never been able to tell apart, were dressed as Tenderheart Bear, Good Luck Bear, and Bedtime Bear. The two Morganstens were, in juxtaposition to one another, dressed as Cheer Bear and Grumpy Bear.

I was the very odd man out dressed like Jason from Friday the Thirteenth, but hey you’d never get me dressed up as a Care Bear. I suppose that if I’d known their plans in advance, I might have tried to scare up a Dark Heart costume in order to keep the theme going.

Judging from their appearance, they hadn’t all sourced their costumes from the same place though. The Laker boys were all wearing onesies, the Carson sisters were wearing what looked like homemade costumes, and the Morgansten kids’ costumes appeared to be a combination of the two.

I’d already mapped out our route for the evening. We’d hit the local homes first, then move out to East Acre where our more wealthy citizens live, then return home via Manckton Pass so that we’d have the opportunity to see the famous Florian Manor and St Giles’ Church. Florian has been abandoned for decades and is in a state of abysmal disrepair, but St Giles is still used every Sunday and also for Midnight Mass at Christmas. It’s become a bit of a tradition round here to walk passed the manor and cut through the church grounds on Hallowe’en night, as they are both a source of numerous local ghost stories.

I figured we’d get back home at about ten o’clock or so, giving us about three hours to complete the route. That should be more than enough time to get a pumpkin pail or two full of sweets, drop the munchkins off, have them scoff the whole lot, and then spend the rest of the night climbing the walls on a major sugar high. ‘Those were the days,’ I thought, reminiscing about my misspent youth on this, the night of surely the greatest holiday of the year.

The local homes were nothing special, but then they never were. The kids got a few sweets, but since many of the families round here live close to the breadline, they were lucky to get that much; that was the reason why I was planning on hitting East Acre. They always have lots of sweets and stuff over there, and the last time I went Trick or Treating, I had a pail full of sweets after only the third or fourth house.

My neighbourhood and East Acre might only be about five hundred yards apart, but the money gap was incredible. My dad reckoned that someone over in East Acre could be earning in a month what he earned in a year, and we’re not exactly poor!

The Montgomerys had gone overboard with the Jack O’lanterns again; they are about the only family in our area who go all out for Hallowe’en. Their garden was full of the bloody things, but the youngsters lapped it up. Marcia was ooh-ing and aah-ing over it all and Laker boy Bedtime Bear took out his camera and snapped a picture for posterity, while Maxine Montgomery divvied out the sweets. It was funny watching the Laker boys who, after every house we visited, always looked at what the other two had gotten, and then traded for their favourites.

The Ashmores never really get into the Hallowe’en spirit. Sure, they open the door and give out a Mars Bar or two, but that’s it. No Jack O’lanterns, no skeleton hanging from the front door, no spider’s web strung up, no nothing!

It only took us about ten minutes to get through the main homes in our area, well, the only homes worth visiting. There are three or four doors you learn very quickly not to knock on and demand sweets with menaces.

I saw the Sutcliffe boys approaching Mr Tilden’s home and shook my head in disbelief. Will those two never learn!

I quickly shepherded my flock towards the road that would lead us to East Acre before Butchy could be released. As we turned the corner onto East Acre Approach, sure enough I heard the familiar growl of the most hated Alsatian in our town, followed by Mr Tilden’s less than gentlemanly language.

As we walked along, I decided to tell the kids a little ghost story.

“Who wants to hear a ghost story?”

“Me, me,” all of the kids cried in near unison.

“OK. Here’s a story that took place on Hallowe’en night a few years ago not far from here. Who knows St Giles’ Church over in Manckton?” I asked them.

The kids raised their paws, which was hardly surprising, since most of them go there every Sunday.

“And you know that there is a graveyard at the back of the church?”

They all nodded. Although St Giles’ was a regular Sunday fixture, it had been a long time since there was a funeral service held there as the services were now held in Manckton Cemetery.

“Well, I was told this story by a friend of mine. There was a boy about your age called Jason Naismire, and he was out Trick or Treating with his older brother, Colin. It was getting late and they both had far more sweets than they could ever hope to eat. As they walked past St Giles’, Colin came up with a dare for his younger brother. Colin dared Jason to go into the graveyard and place a sweet on each of the tombstones of the children who are buried there. However, to be mean, Colin only gave his younger brother eight chocolate bars but there are nine graves. Jason was told that one spirit would have to do without a Hallowe’en treat.”

“That was a really mean thing to do,” said Grumpy Bear Morgansten.

“It was, wasn’t it,” I agreed, “but then Colin Naismire wasn’t a very nice older brother. So, Jason slowly walked into the graveyard with his eight bars of chocolate. He walked over to the gravestone that was the farthest from the church, and placed a bar of chocolate on that one. He slowly walked towards the church and placed a bar of chocolate on each gravestone as he passed it. Then he came to the last two gravestones, but, of course, he only had one bar of chocolate left. Not knowing what do, he looked at the two stones. One said ‘Here lies Jeremy Ogden, died age 8 in a house fire’. The other said ‘Here lies a Lowry Orphanage boy, died age 9 unloved and unwanted’.”

“That must be horrible,” said Tender Heart Bear Laker. “To not only die that young, but to be so alone.”

“Jason Naismire apparently felt the same as you. So, hoping that the spirit of Jeremy Ogden would understand, he placed the last bar of chocolate on the gravestone of the orphan boy, and then he walked back towards the church. He had gone not five paces when he felt a cold hand on his shoulder and a child’s voice asked, ‘Where’s my bar of chocolate?’”

The younger kids gasped.

“Then what happened?” asked Georgina Carson.

‘How the hell am I supposed to know,’ I thought. ‘That’s where the story ends. Always has. Always will.’

“Well . . . .” I had no idea what to say next.

‘Come on think, you idiot!’

“Well, Jason ran out of the graveyard without looking back. When he told his brother what had happened, Colin didn’t believe a word of it. I think the family moved away about a year later.”

We continued to walk along East Acre Approach. The only thing I didn’t like about this road was that there were no streetlights to illuminate the way. It’s not that there was any real risk of being run over by a car or something, since the path is quite wide and we were a good six feet away from the actual road. There were a number of wild animals in the woods off to our left and they had a nasty habit of leaving little gifts on the path, like the one I narrowly managed to avoid stepping in.

“Be careful, badger shit coming up!” I announced. The little ones laughed at my sudden crassness.

After a couple of minutes walking, we reached the first of the East Acre homes. It was huge and the owner was really into the spirit of the season. The house oozed Hallowe’en, and Bedtime Bear Laker couldn’t resist, so he got out his camera and started snapping pictures. He took pictures of the house and of our group in various arrangements in front of the house. I took a few pics of him in front of the house with the other kids. We walked up to the door and pressed the chime.

The door was opened by a woman dressed like a vampiress, though she reminded me more of Yvonne De Carlo as Lily Munster than she did one of those tarty sisters of Dracula; Mum would probably have said more sultry than slutty. She had black hair with a wide streak of white that she had crafted into a Helen Shapiroesque style beehive. She wore a white lace gown with black trim, a blood red lace shawl, and a necklace with a large black bat pendant.

She cooed over the little ones, then took one look at me and rolled her eyes, but still smiled. She dished out sweets by the handful, and agreed to be photographed with Bedtime Bear who adored the woman’s costume.

We slowly walked around the large area that comprised East Acre, and while we walked between houses I told the kids another ghost story.

“We’re going to be walking past Florian Manor a little later.”

“I don’t like that place,” said the Laker boy dressed as Good Luck Bear. I really can’t believe that I’m unable to tell them apart! There had to be some difference between the three of them, after all, my mum could tell them apart.

“Do you know the story of the White Lady of Florian?”

The kids shook their heads, which was hardly surprising, since I’d made her up.

“Well, according to legend, Lord Florian had the manor built to provide his wife with a home in the countryside that she could escape to when she felt that life at his ancestral home in the city became too much for her. At first, the Lady Florian would only use the manor a few weekends in the summer when the city got uncomfortably hot. However, as the years passed, she used it frequently, sometimes staying for a week or more. Unknown to the Lord Florian, she was having an affair with a local farmer’s son.”

Although the kids were only eight and nine years old, they were clearly shocked that Lady Florian was cheating on her husband. I suppose kids are becoming more aware of adult themes as TV shows and magazines are becoming more sexed up

“The rumours quickly spread throughout Manckton and the surrounding villages. The affair became the talk of taverns, the rear pew at church, even schoolchildren were whispering about it. It took about six months for the Lord Florian to find out about his wife’s unfaithfulness, and when he did, he was furious. He rode out to Florian Manor, and found his wife and the farmer’s son in each other’s arms and they were kissing. In a fit of jealous rage the lord shot the farmer’s son on the spot and then chained his wife in the basement of the manor.”

The kids suddenly stopped walking and looked up at me, their eyes wide as saucers and their mouths open in shock. Perhaps it was a little graphic for kids who were only eight and nine years old, but hey, the best Hallowe’en stories are the gory and bloody ones.

“He then built a wall over the door to the basement and left his wife to starve to death. I imagine she screamed and yelled for as long as she could, but at some point she must have simply accepted her fate. Nobody knows how long it took for her die, four days or maybe five would be my guess. The Lord Florian died a year after his wife, and according to legend, he was the first victim of a curse upon the manor. Ever since her death, people say that they have seen the ghost of a young woman walking around the manor grounds. Some say that the ghost is sometimes sad and maudlin, but at other times she can be vicious as she tries to exact vengeance upon her now dead husband. The only people who claim that the ghost has any evil intentions are the male descendants of the Lord Florian who have never been able to safely walk the manor’s grounds since that night.”

“What happened to them?” asked Tenderheart Bear Laker.

“You don’t want to know that,” I said, yet secretly hoping they would press to hear the end of the story.

“Yes we do,” said the other two Laker boys in unison.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

All of the kids nodded so vigorously I thought that their heads might fall off their necks.

“OK, but don’t say you weren’t warned. His eldest son, who was the executer of his will, spent a month at the manor shortly after his father’s death, in the 1850s, in order to tidy up the estate so it could be auctioned off. He was awoken in the middle of the night by a howling noise, only to find that the bed linen was wrapped tightly around him. Two nights later, he was awoken by the same phenomenon, except on this occasion, he claims that he was picked up by an unseen force and flung against the wall of the room. He suffered some mild bruising and a concussion, but eventually convinced himself he must have simply stumbled and fell against the wall. About two weeks later, the same thing happened to him, except this time, the unseen force hurled him through a window, and he fell to his death.”

The little ones looked up at me. I couldn’t tell if they were terrified or excited, but I carried on regardless.

“Lord Florian’s youngest son and his wife visited the property about ten years later, possibly planning on moving into the manor. Nobody knows how it happened, as there were no witnesses, but he was found dead with a pitchfork in his chest. His wife, who was completely unharmed, was originally suspected of the murder, but she had an alibi as she was helping the reverend in preparing St Giles’ for Easter. A nephew of the lord died on the property in 1906. He was found tied to a tree by barbed wire and his throat had been cut. In the 1920s, a Florian boy about your age was found beheaded.”

I didn’t know about the little ones, but I was certainly getting into the story. I was surprised at how easily I was making this up on the spot.

“The most recent event happened about five years ago. No Florian male had set foot on manor soil in nearly thirty years for fear there really was a curse. One unexplained death could be accepted as an accident, but unexplained deaths happening to every single Florian male who went onto the property gave credence to the existence of a curse. The family hoped to finally sell the manor, and so, a distant cousin of the lord came to tidy the gardens and spruce up the manor, hoping for a quick sale. After having not been heard from in three days, the police were sent to find him. Although a large pool of blood was found in the manor’s basement, no trace of his body has ever been found.”

As we left the last house in East Acre, I could tell that all of the kids had a massive supply of sweets, as not only were their pumpkin pails overflowing, they had taken to using their pockets for additional storage space. I was glad that I’d be delivering them to their parents soon, as there was no way I could face coping with seven kids on a sugar rush.

At ten past nine, we left East Acre to return home. We skirted Firkin Forest and I knew that it was time for another tale. I had all of the kids sit down so we could have a five minute rest.

“Have any of you kids heard of Old Pines Camp?”

They all nodded. One of the Laker boys said, “It’s that abandoned place in the middle of Firkin.”

“Yep, that abandoned place. Well, it used to be a summer camp, and it was once really popular. Back in 1920, or it might have been 1921, there was some kind of accident and four children died. Some people say that one of the camp lodges caught fire and the kids were trapped inside, others say that they went for a late night skinny dip in the lake and drowned, and yet others say they were attacked by wild animals. I don’t think anyone knows what really happened, and I don’t think there is anyone from back then who is still alive to tell us.”

It may have been my imagination, but the kids seemed to huddle closer together, as though that might ward off any evil spirits out this night.

“Anyway, the camp was closed for a few years and it reopened in 1925. There was a grand opening ceremony, lots of publicity, that kind of thing. However, a few days after it opened, a child died in the lake, in very mysterious circumstances. Although he was an excellent swimmer, and was taking diving lessons, he somehow drowned. When his body was pulled from the lake, his hair had turned shock white, his face was contorted in an expression of abject terror, and there were hand marks around his ankles as though someone had pulled him under the water and then held on to him to prevent him from escaping. The marks were small, as though they had belonged to a young child, but of course that would have been impossible.”

I heard a twig snap, and two of the kids quickly spun around in the direction of Firkin. We all let out a nervous chuckle when we saw two squirrels run by.

“The camp was immediately closed, the death was never explained to anyone’s satisfaction, and Old Pines has never reopened. The area was left untouched for a number of years as both the Depression and then the Second World War hindered any chance of property development. Finally, in the late 1950s, building work started on the new homes in the forest. However, ever since construction began, people claim to have seen the ghosts of the children who died. For a long time, on every Hallowe’en night, a few older kids who thought that they were brave used to walk onto the abandoned campground. That was, up until four years ago.”

“Why? What happened?” the Morgansten’s girl asked.

“Four boys about my age reached the edge of the campground, with the intention of proving themselves. In the end, two of the boys found themselves lacking the courage to actually do it. The other two boys walked onto the campground, leaving their friends to watch bravery in action. Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. The two boys who stayed behind were becoming worried about their friends, when they heard a bloodcurdling shriek.”

To add to the effect, I let out my own scream that echoed through the empty night, and a few of the kids let out a nervous giggle.

“They saw their two friends running from one of the cabins on the far side of the lake. As they ran by the lake, something leapt out of the water and pulled them in. The two boys ran from the scene in blind terror. They finally calmed down enough to report what they saw to the police. The police dredged the lake for two days, but never found the bodies of their friends nor whatever it was that had come out of the lake. The cabin on the far side that had scared the boys so much in the first place was searched as well, and what the police found was straight out of a horror movie. The walls were dripping in blood and they found the skeletal remains of what appeared to be several children. The crime scene photographers documented the scene, but when the police returned the next morning to pick up the skeletons in order to give them a proper burial, the cabin was empty. There were no skeletons and no blood, even the crime scene photographs were merely pictures of a deserted cabin.”

As I looked around at my band of munchkins I realised I had probably scared them enough for one Hallowe’en. I figured I’d better get them home, so they could start eating all of the sweets they had collected. I gathered them up and we walked home.

The old building of Florian Manor loomed into view. The large building sat back off the main road. The grounds were a tangled mess of ivy, witch hazel, white clover, poison ivy, poison oak and other trashweeds. The windows were shattered, there were slates missing from the roof, and the brick walls were covered in moss and lichen. Every detail betrayed just how dilapidated Florian had become over the years. I have no idea why the town council hadn’t pulled it down; the damned thing’s a monstrosity!

“Hey kids, everyone keep an eye out for the White Lady. She usually appears in the far right window on the third floor.”

The Laker boys scanned the whole manor hoping to spot the White Lady, while the Carson sisters refused to even look at the manor probably for fear of seeing something they didn’t want to see. The Morgansten kids would only sneak glimpses of the manor, as if looking directly at it for too long might make then go blind or something. Thankfully (or disappointingly, depending upon your point of view) we saw no sign of the White Lady of Florian Manor, but at least it would give the kids something else from tonight to talk about.

We reached St Giles’ Church a few minutes later, and negotiated the churchyard. I noticed it was getting late, so I asked, “So who wants to be dropped off home first?” I hoped the Morgansten kids wanted to be the first, otherwise I’d be making a long loop dropping kids off home.

That was when Grumpy Bear said, “I’m already home.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Grumpy then handed me his pumpkin pail, and again said “I’m already home.”

I turned to the Morgansten’s girl and said, “Tell your brother to stop mucking around.”

“He’s not my brother,” she said. “I thought he was with you guys.”

I looked at Grumpy Bear and asked, “Kid, what are you playing at? If you’re not her brother, then what the hell are you doing hanging around with us? Your parents must be worried sick about you.”

Grumpy Bear reached over into his pail and pulled out a bar of chocolate. “It was a very mean thing for Colin Naismire to do,” he said. “All I wanted was this.”

He placed the Snickers bar on a nearby gravestone, and then without warning the Grumpy Bear costume collapsed in a heap in front of a stone that read ‘Here lies Jeremy Ogden, died age 8 in a house fire’.

HAPPY HALLOWE'EN