at ease, as though he could hang up his
Childe Harolde
cloak and forget about having to live up to his obnoxious reputation.
‘I think,’ said Shelley, ‘that I’d prefer to debate why the upper classes in British society are rejecting atheism.’
We all looked to Byron, the natural leader of our group. He thought hard for a moment and then said, ‘Let’s tell ghost stories. Since you suggested it, you can go first,
Lucy.’
‘OK.’ Um, now what? I felt all eyes on me, particularly Byron’s. And then I thought of a rather cheeky way to entertain them. I remembered an urban myth I’d heard, the
one where a couple are travelling along a deserted road at night when they come across a stranger and the man gets out of the car and the woman hears someone thumping on the bonnet (though I
adapted it to ‘carriage’ to avoid bemused looks) . . . ‘And as she got out of the carriage, she realised that the thumping noise was her husband’s head – on a
stick!’ I saw Mary’s dark eyes widen with fear, and Shelley reached for her hand and squeezed it tightly. Even Byron said in a voice full of bravado, ‘That was rather scary, I
must admit. Gosh.’
I suddenly suffered a hysterical desire to laugh. It was like telling a knock-knock and being told you’re the greatest wit since Oscar Wilde.
But as the evening went on, things genuinely did become more and more creepy. Byron rummaged about in the library and discovered a book of German ghost stories called
The Fantasmagoria
.
As the night darkened, we lit candles, the shadows flitting across the walls like spirits, and listened intently to Byron’s deep, flowing voice. Halfway through one story an owl hooted
outside and I let out a scream. Everyone laughed and Byron patted me on the back. As he carried on reading it struck me that though this was all pretty scary stuff, it was tremendously good fun.
Different from parties back home where everyone spent the evening looking around for someone more interesting to talk to. This felt like being a teenager again and having a sleepover with my
friends . . .
As Byron read, I watched the shadows flickering in the contours and hollows of his beautiful face and felt myself sigh inside. Every so often he would glance up at me and my stomach would do a
funny little dance and I’d think: it’s going to happen between us. Tonight. I can feel it. It’s going to happen.
At least, I think it is.
Byron even persuaded me to try a little opium, and I found myself sinking back, his mellow voice caressing me, watching the shadows dance and mutate into faces.
As Byron concluded the story, the clock chimed midnight, reverberating throughout the castle.
‘I have an idea for a game,’ I said, feeling befuddled from the opium. ‘Let’s play Murder in the Dark.’
They were all intrigued, and after I had explained the rules – the roles of Murderer, Detective and Normal People – and how we would all scatter about the house and wait for someone
to be ‘murdered’ – they looked utterly thrilled.
‘My, what a wonderful game,’ cried Mary. ‘You do have an imagination, Lucy!’
‘Your friend is full of surprises,’ said Shelley.
Byron smiled proudly, as though he’d invented me.
Byron scribbled the roles on scraps of paper and we each took one. I was the Murderer. Shelley blew out the candles and the castle fell into darkness. I immediately set off after Byron. It was
easy, for he had a limp, so he moved slowly and the slightly dragging echo of his footsteps was easy to detect.
He made for the staircase. At the bottom I nimbly slipped off my shoes so that I could creep up on him. The darkness was thick and velvety; the steps were cold and veered with frightening
steepness. Suddenly Byron’s footsteps stopped. I paused too, my skin prickling. My breath fluttered in my throat and I reminded myself sharply that I was supposed to be the Murderer.
Suddenly a shaft of moonlight slid through one of the slit
Childe Harolde
cloak and forget about having to live up to his obnoxious reputation.
‘I think,’ said Shelley, ‘that I’d prefer to debate why the upper classes in British society are rejecting atheism.’
We all looked to Byron, the natural leader of our group. He thought hard for a moment and then said, ‘Let’s tell ghost stories. Since you suggested it, you can go first,
Lucy.’
‘OK.’ Um, now what? I felt all eyes on me, particularly Byron’s. And then I thought of a rather cheeky way to entertain them. I remembered an urban myth I’d heard, the
one where a couple are travelling along a deserted road at night when they come across a stranger and the man gets out of the car and the woman hears someone thumping on the bonnet (though I
adapted it to ‘carriage’ to avoid bemused looks) . . . ‘And as she got out of the carriage, she realised that the thumping noise was her husband’s head – on a
stick!’ I saw Mary’s dark eyes widen with fear, and Shelley reached for her hand and squeezed it tightly. Even Byron said in a voice full of bravado, ‘That was rather scary, I
must admit. Gosh.’
I suddenly suffered a hysterical desire to laugh. It was like telling a knock-knock and being told you’re the greatest wit since Oscar Wilde.
But as the evening went on, things genuinely did become more and more creepy. Byron rummaged about in the library and discovered a book of German ghost stories called
The Fantasmagoria
.
As the night darkened, we lit candles, the shadows flitting across the walls like spirits, and listened intently to Byron’s deep, flowing voice. Halfway through one story an owl hooted
outside and I let out a scream. Everyone laughed and Byron patted me on the back. As he carried on reading it struck me that though this was all pretty scary stuff, it was tremendously good fun.
Different from parties back home where everyone spent the evening looking around for someone more interesting to talk to. This felt like being a teenager again and having a sleepover with my
friends . . .
As Byron read, I watched the shadows flickering in the contours and hollows of his beautiful face and felt myself sigh inside. Every so often he would glance up at me and my stomach would do a
funny little dance and I’d think: it’s going to happen between us. Tonight. I can feel it. It’s going to happen.
At least, I think it is.
Byron even persuaded me to try a little opium, and I found myself sinking back, his mellow voice caressing me, watching the shadows dance and mutate into faces.
As Byron concluded the story, the clock chimed midnight, reverberating throughout the castle.
‘I have an idea for a game,’ I said, feeling befuddled from the opium. ‘Let’s play Murder in the Dark.’
They were all intrigued, and after I had explained the rules – the roles of Murderer, Detective and Normal People – and how we would all scatter about the house and wait for someone
to be ‘murdered’ – they looked utterly thrilled.
‘My, what a wonderful game,’ cried Mary. ‘You do have an imagination, Lucy!’
‘Your friend is full of surprises,’ said Shelley.
Byron smiled proudly, as though he’d invented me.
Byron scribbled the roles on scraps of paper and we each took one. I was the Murderer. Shelley blew out the candles and the castle fell into darkness. I immediately set off after Byron. It was
easy, for he had a limp, so he moved slowly and the slightly dragging echo of his footsteps was easy to detect.
He made for the staircase. At the bottom I nimbly slipped off my shoes so that I could creep up on him. The darkness was thick and velvety; the steps were cold and veered with frightening
steepness. Suddenly Byron’s footsteps stopped. I paused too, my skin prickling. My breath fluttered in my throat and I reminded myself sharply that I was supposed to be the Murderer.
Suddenly a shaft of moonlight slid through one of the slit
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