The Haunted Traveler December 2017 Edition

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Essentially, her home in Belle Vale had been built on farmers’ fields in the early seventies.
The surplus population from the City Centre was shipped out to the new Council
housing. The area had improved over the last few years, but still Samantha dubbed the
place, with a dose of irony, “the Beautiful Valley.” It was quite a green area and close
enough to Woolton for her Mother to claim the postcode. The only negative aspect was
that on the far side of the farmers field by the M3, was where Wheathill Prison, a grey
concrete detention centre was located.
This house was definitely ghost free; Samantha had encountered spiritual activity in
her Aunties without a doubt. The falling down building had once been an old people
home. The day she helped her Aunt move in her little cousin Stephanie waved at
someone at the top of the stairs. “Who are you waving to babe? “Enquired Samantha.
“The old woman just there”, Stephanie replied pointing at the stairwell.
Samantha now quickly switched her mind onto something else, as the other things
that had occurred in that house were not the type she wanted to dwell on, particularly
on her own, even though she had Sheba. But like her Grandma Francis used to say, “It’s
not the dead, you should be afraid of love, it’s the living.”
The dog was a fierce protector and would literally go at anyone unrecognisable who
strolled up the path. Samantha chuckled to herself, remembering the Mormons (not to
be mistaken with Tove Jansson’s Moomins, as she often did). They had come to tell the
family about the good word of the saviour. The two young Americans, all sharp suited
and Californian smiles attempted to make their way into the garden. Sheba bounded
down the pathway, leaping on to the gate. A few more seconds and the two chaps would
have been savagely attacked by Sheba’s loyal chops. It was amazing how although they
were petrified, they still retained a nervous grin, dazzlingly white and their side parted
waxed crew cut hair remained perfectly intact. There was a small sign on the gate,
“Beware of the Dog”, but the rain and the elements had practically worn it away.
Samantha took a duvet and some cushions from her bedroom and made camp on the
chesterfield couch. She opted for a more suspenseful Hitchcock, “Rope”; Psycho was
not to be watched alone, even if she had finished in the bathroom for the evening. She
watched the film in fragments drifting in and out of sleep. The credits played and she
stumbled to the DVD player. She heard the dodgy floorboard on the landing upstairs
make a noise, the noise it only made when someone was walking around. She crept to
the bottom of the stairs; Sheba lay asleep in her basket, not stirring, how ridiculous she
thought, your mind is playing tricks on you. She waited to try and hear for any other
sounds.
The telephone barked out an incessant shrill. Nobody ever used the landline anymore.
It was an old fashioned form of communication. Samantha jumped and Sheba instantly
looked at the phone.
“Hello,” Samantha answered.