This October, my girlfriend and I challenged one another to write a short ghost story for Halloween. I began to write mine based on an idea I’d had a few months prior. The tale wrote itself, and ultimately I decided it was too long for our Halloween competition. The full tale is still a work in progress, But it has a convenient prologue. I post it here under the title One Night in England (A Fragment).
One Night in England (A Fragment)
1764
Rain splattered the beaten track, the aural canvas in turn painted with the clatter of horse’s hooves and the rumble of the carriage. Now and then the sky flashed with lightning, and after long seconds the growl of thunder rose all around, like the roar of seas.
The driver’s face was lit by the yellow glow of the lantern swinging at his side. Water pried at the glass casing, unable to reach within and snuff out the tiny flame no matter how it tried. The coachman’s eyes were narrowed, both in concentration and against the thrash of the rain. Every now and then he would cast the whip across the rump of his charges, but he doubted they could even feel it. His arse was numb from cold; so too would theirs be. Another crack of lightning, another toll of thunder. The gap between light and sound narrowed: the storm was getting closer…
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