The full version of the short story I wrote which Celapene Press published in their Short and Twisted 2011 Anthology (for which I edited it into a short short story)
The Adventures of Charli and the Grave
"One... two... three..."
"Good girl!"
"three... two... two... three..."
"Erm, not quite"
The long walk up Whitby's famous 199 steps to the Abbey was proving even more arduous as Alex followed the lead of his 'not-quite-two-year-old' daughter, Charli.
As headstrong as her mother, Charli appeared determined to climb each and every step without the help of her father or uncle. They stood, banished and useless to one side as Charli lifted one little leg after another pausing frequently with a commanding "no!" to prevent the anxious approach of her minders.
Eventually, with an occasional 'pick up and run' while too breathless to argue, Charli led her family to the summit, fairly running up the last five steps.
"One... two.. three... three... three... yayyy!"
Without pausing to reflect on the expedition she had just completed, Charli immediately set off to explore her new surroundings.
Whitby's 'Dracula-inspiring' Abbey rose majestically from the grassy promontory further up the track; an ancient general overseeing the massed troops of aging gravestones that stood like sentinels on the cliff top.
The sun shone playfully in Charli's golden curls as a gentle breeze brought the scent of the harbour up the steps. Charli had started to explore the various gravestones as her father and uncle watched on. Suddenly, her seemingly random wanderings brought her to a halt in front of one ancient stone that held some unseen fascination. With a thoughtful expression, Charli raised a hand and laid it gently on the side of the weathered stone. Then, with a purposeful stride, she began to walk in a tight circle around the stone in a clockwise direction. Once... twice... nearly three times until her father, in a state of confused superstition and with a nervous laugh, stopped her from completing her third lap.
Charli looked at her dad in confusion and then purposefully pulled her hand from his. She walked up close to greying stone, laid a hand reverentially on the smooth surface, leaned in tenderly... and kissed it.
The golden-haired little girl wandered off to continue her exploration leaving her father and uncle in open-mouthed shock. They looked closely at the inscription on the gravestone and though the weather had taken its toll, they could just make out the words,
'... girl, aged 2' on the faded surface.
2 comments:
I remember being in Whitby when there was a sea fret that covered the whole town but when we got to the Abby it was above the fog in glorious sunshine. It was very weird to look at the town covered in rolling fog.
a spooky kind of place isn't it?
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