I grew up on the coast but it wasn’t a popular stretch of beach, the weather was far too changeable. The waves were too rough for swimming. Sometimes a group of surfers would come and use the beach, but mostly it was just dog walkers who trod that lonely stretch of sand.
It was commonly said that the beach was haunted. Everyone in that part of the world knew the tale of a woman found strangled on the beach but how her ghost still walked the shore on quiet nights calling out the name of her lover. It had been nearly a hundred years ago, but still, that legend haunted me. I felt some strange connection to the story, possibly because the name the people heard her call out was the same name given to me at birth, Lawrence.
It was my Uncle who gave me the opportunity to explore the past. He was a mad scientist who had discovered the secret of time travel, although you could only go backward through time never forward.
Sending me back to find out what had happened to that woman murdered on the beach had seemed the only way to stop thinking about it.
However, I found out more than I could cope with.
I could never share what I had discovered, sometimes it’s not your secret to tell, but it had been my fault. It was me who was responsible for that woman’s death and why her ghost called out my name.
I am absolutely thrilled to have been nominated for this Mystery Blogger Award by Rory, A guy called bloke, who is a fantastic blogger and definitely a blogging friend of mine, click on the link to check out his post:
“Mystery Blogger Award” is an award for amazing bloggers with ingenious posts. Their blog not only captivates; it inspires and motivates. They are one of the best out there, and they deserve every recognition they get. This award is also for bloggers who find fun and inspiration in blogging, and they do it with so much love and passion.
-Thank whoever nominated you and provide a link to their blog
-Mention the creator of the award and provide a link as well
-Answer the 5 questions you were asked
-Tell your readers 3 things about yourself
-You have to nominate 10 – 20 people
-Notify your nominees by commenting on their blog
-Ask your nominees any 5 questions of your choice; with one weird or funny question
-Share a link to your best post(s)
3 Things About Yourself!
I’ve been to the Isle of Wight about 20 times.
I have never been to New York
I often sing Patsy Cline songs at the top of my voice.
My chosen post:
Last year, I thought I would try my hand a writing a story in the style of Agatha Christie, that brilliant crime writer of the 20th Century. Click on the link below to read my take on the Murder Mystery genre.
Are we losing the art of listening in comparison to simply hearing?
there always were people who were more inclined to speak and only pause to think about what they are going to say next rather than listen to the other person. Are there more people like that now that before? I don’t know, maybe.
2. How often do you openly discuss with friends or here in WP with your readership topics that make you feel uncomfortable or maybe taboo or stigma laden?
My blog is to write fiction so I address difficult topics in my stories, I’ve written stories about murderers, psychotic killers and armageddon, but I don’t tend to directly talk about the problems that face us today, or politics or any other uncomfortable topics. Mine isn’t a current affairs blog, it’s about creative writing, but then art reflects life.
3. Do you think that these discussions should be freely discussed and written about more?
If that’s what your blog is about then, yes discuss away, we live in a free society where free speech is important.
4. Did you have a nickname as a child and if so, what was [or what is it now]?
I had and have lots of nicknames, I smile a lot so am often called ‘Smiler’ and not ironically. My name is shortened to Kris or sometimes, Krissy 😉 I also have various nicknames based on my surname. Call me anything you like, but call me, I’d hate to be ignored. 😉
5. Why is there still ‘stuff’ we simply just don’t understand despite our progressive world?
It would be a pretty boring world if we understood everything, the more we know the more we realise there is a lot more unknown out there to discover, and thank goodness for that!
My Questions for you:
Where do you think all the things that are lost go to?
If we go forward in time far enough would we end up back at the beginning?
What is the greatest mystery that you would like to know the answer to?
Do you think we’ll ever find intelligent life in space?
Prompt B (sentence starter): “I told you not to spoil.”
Prompt C (photo)
He sat in his office puffing on his third cigarette and looking out of the window.
The grimy alleyway below hadn’t changed in all the years he’d been there. He’d lost track of the number of dead bodies found hunched behind the trash cans down there. Taunting him in a way. He was a private detective after all, but he didn’t work for free. Let the police hunt around for the killers of those poor tramps and vagabonds, not him.
He saw her get out of the taxi and pay the driver. As he waited for her to climb the stairs up to the office he reached out and poured himself a scotch on the rocks.
She didn’t knock. After all, this was as much her patch as it was his, although she had left seeking fame and fortune and had been gone for years. She stood there, just like she used to, one hand on her right hip and her long hair hanging over her left eye. She’d gotten older, sure, but she was still gorgeous.
“I told you not to spoil,”he said, in his sandpaper voice.
“Have you looked in a mirror lately?” she responded whip-crack fast.
They just stared at each other for what seemed like an age. Then he said the thing that he’d promised himself not to ask. “What made you come back?”
“I heard your whistle, Steve, and like a good girl, I came.”
Just like that, the spell was broken. He leaned back and smiled, the light from the torch glistened off his gold filling.
“Just in time too. I’ve just got a new commission. There’s a new kingpin in town and he wants us to find out who killed his best informant. Ready for a trip to the docks?”
“You always take me to the nicest places, Steve. OK, let’s blow.”
It was several months after they had parted that she received his first letter.
She had been annoyed at his sudden departure. They had been engaged to be married and yet he had developed a sudden passion to travel and see the world. Outwardly, it had been an amicable parting, but inside she still seethed with feelings of rejection.
She lounged on the silk tasselled settee in her salon and gazed at the photograph of her ex-fiancé.
Arthur was dressed smartly in a dark suit, looking every bit the Victorian gentleman. Under his nose, he sported a large bushy moustache that he was most proud of. She thought it looked like a stuffed weasel. Despite that, he was from noble stock, his father was a Baronet and his uncle was Bishop of Leeds. A good match for the youngest daughter of a silk merchant. Her family had money, but they lacked social status and a marriage to the son of a Baronet was just what they needed. She did rather like him, despite the weasely moustache. Until, of course, he became gripped with his insatiable desire to visit India.
Queen Victoria had just been crowned Empress of India and this had sparked an explosion of interest in all things Indian. To her, India was just where her father imported his silks from, but to many people, it had become an exotic land of adventure.
The letter began rather formally, as was fit and proper.
“My Dear Miss Florence,
I hope this letter finds you well and recovered from our last little contretemps. I know you did not understand my compulsion to visit India, but I hope you will forgive my mea culpa. This land is indeed a land of colour and vibrancy. The smells and odours that assault the nostrils in every street are totally different from anything you could experience in England.
I have now made it as far as Bombay, which is a bustling city but almost every other face you see in the street is an English one. I want to see the real India, not this rather Anglified version.
I have been speaking to several people who have promised to take me to see some authentic Indian culture. They are going to hire a caravan that will be travelling to some of the more remote villages.
The caravan is made up of Elephants! I can’t wait to have my first ride on an Elephant.
I keep your handkerchief, the one you hand embroidered for me with my initials, next to my heart. It is my talisman. With it, I have no fear. I know that I will one day return to you.
I hope that when I do, you will have forgiven me for leaving and consent again to become my wife.
With Sincere Regards
Arthur Worthington. “
He had given his address as the Bombay Star Hotel and so she decided to write back. Looking at the date of his letter, it had taken three weeks to reach her. “So much for modern Victorian efficiency!” She thought to herself.
Picking up her pen she began to write.
“My Dear Arthur,
Why, I was very surprised to have received your letter and the words of affection that you had expressed in it. I had been given to understand that you were not happy at the prospect of marrying me and as such wanted to get as far away from me as possible.
It is with that understanding in mind that I have begun seeing Freddy Armitage, who, I am sure you remember is a man of the most steady and reliable nature.
However, if you should decide to return before I have entered into any firm relationship with Freddy, I will, of course, consider your proposal.
I would not be at all disappointed to hear again from you. It is interesting to hear of your adventures and I would very much like to know that you have gotten your fascination of that country out of your system and have decided to return home.
Miss Florence Clegg”
She walked to the post box and posted her letter. Coincidentally, Freddy Armitage walked past and nodded to her. He had just begun walking out with her Sister Isabel. She blushed to think of the liberties she had taken with his name, in her letter. She hoped her sister would never find out.
Nearly two months passed before she heard anything more. The house was in a great upheaval planning for Isabel and Freddy’s wedding in the front Parlour in a fortnight’s time.
She took the bulky letter from the tray in the hall and ran upstairs to her salon to read it.
She did not recognise the writing on the envelope.
She began to read.
“Dear Miss Florence Clegg.
I hope you do not mind my taking this liberty of writing to you concerning a great mystery.
Our patrols recently found this handkerchief and a letter from you, both of which I have enclosed.
I would not distress you by describing in too much detail, the circumstances with which these items were discovered, but I regret to inform you that the bearer of these is now, deceased.
I would be grateful if you could let me know the details of his next of kin, to which I will in future write to spare you any further distress.
Captain George Pengelly-Jones.”
Grasping the handkerchief in her hands, it was only when she cried out his name, “Arthur” and began sobbing inconsolably that she realised that she had loved him very much.
I have been nominated for the second time this week for the Mystery Blogger Award! I must be particularly mysterious this week. This time Rory, A Guy Called Bloke has kindly nominated me. I am always thrilled to receive a nomination. I admit sometimes it takes a while to get the post done though.
“Mystery Blogger Award” is an award for amazing bloggers with ingenious posts. Their blog not only captivates; it inspires and motivates. They are one of the best out there, and they deserve every recognition they get. This award is also for bloggers who find fun and inspiration in blogging; and they do it with so much love and passion.
His body lay in the gutter. He could feel the hard cobblestones, but the discomfort they caused was nothing next to the pain of the wound in his side. Stabbed by a Knife. It was Ironic he should end this way, bleeding to death in the street. The rain washed the blood away and with it, his life ebbed.
He took one last look at the London street, lit by gaslight that guttered in its glass lamp.