Haunting Greg - Book 1, The Porth Kerensa Series

Chapter Eleven

For the first time in many years Christmas has become magical for me again. I had forgotten how beautiful the Chy is when fairy lights and decorations adorn its walls. Charlie and Greg spend most of the day ensconced in the room Greg calls the den. In my day it was Father's study; a room I rarely went in and disliked intensely. I hated the guns and hunting trophies that used to line the walls and I never understood why anyone would want to sit in a room with a lot of dead animals staring glassily at them. I prefer the cream walls and pine stained woodwork that has replaced the heavy mahogany wood Father loved so much.

I hover, horizontally, under the Christmas tree in the lobby, staring up at the fairy lights and remembering the past. I loved Christmas when I was alive; I adored the smells of the season, the music and the warm loving atmosphere that seemed to envelop everyone in the house, even the servants. The house came alive at Christmas; alive with laughter, happiness, music and celebration. Father took time off work and Mother pushed the boat out and spoilt us all, wrapping us in a little bubble of enchantment.

A memory of Christmas 1983 jumps into my head. My godfather joined us in the morning, something he had never done before. His wife and son were away, he told me, when I expressed surprise at seeing him. I loved my godfather; he had always made an effort to be at all of our family celebrations, but never usually Christmas. For the first time in my life I felt uncomfortable with his presence, I wished he had stayed at home alone instead of intruding on our day. We sat awkwardly in the parlour with Mother chattering happily while we waited for Father to join us.

He didn't show his face until lunch was ready at 1pm. He was as quiet as I throughout lunch, whilst Mother and my godfather did their best to keep the conversation flowing. Silence, it seemed, could not be allowed to swallow us up. As soon as Father finished his food he stood up and left the room. Eventually, when it became obvious he was not coming back Mother's smile dropped and she scurried off to find him. I sat across from my godfather staring at him and wishing he hadn't shown up that morning. Mother returned a short while later and told us, in a strangely formal voice, that Father felt ill and we should open our gifts without him.

It was a muted celebration with awkward silences and looks I did not understand being passed between the adults. Mother looked worried and my godfather seemed overly concerned for her well-being. I felt strangely invisible; unwanted…like a spare priest at a wedding. Mother's constant assurances that everything was just fine didn't assuage either of us. When we had opened all our presents, and only Father's remained under the tree, I made my excuses and left them alone in front of the fire.

I saddled Honey up and as we galloped across the fields I wondered for the first time if the change in my father was a serious illness. Was he dying and he couldn't find the courage to tell us? Was that the reason he had become grey and empty looking? He was so different to the father I had known all my life and I could think of no other reason why he had been too ill to join us for Christmas Day.

A few short weeks later he killed us all.

The memories are tumbling through my mind when I hear Greg cry out upstairs. I have got so lost in pictures of the past that hours have passed without my knowledge. The house is dark and quiet which only serves to amplify Greg's distressed shouts coming from his bedroom. I have deliberately stayed out of the room he sleeps in; out of a sense of decorum and privacy, but there is such anguish in his distant cries that I cannot stay away, even if I wanted too. Instantly I materialise in his room. He is thrashing around on the bed; tangled up in his covers as he cries and pleads for someone to stop hurting him…please just help him. Tears are pouring down his face, even though he is sleeping and I feel my heart break for him. He seems so scared and powerless to help himself. I wish I could wake him; however all I can do is wring my hands uselessly and watch his suffering.