It's Oh So Quiet (standard:horror, 4314 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Jul 03 2002	Views/Reads: 4460/2581	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An elderly man is terrorised by his new neighbours. A ghostly tale.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

bit at their numbed faces. Sam was well wrapped up, his beret 
protecting his head, and a long blue scarf wrapped around his weathered 
neck. His gloved hands held his song sheet as the church choir singers 
crooned, “Little town of Bethlehem.” 

A mother and two children smiled and clasped their hands, listening to
the words, and oblivious of the coldness that was circulating within 
their snug abode. A handful of change was gratefully accepted when the 
children tossed the coins into the decorated bucket. 

Sam had suggested welcoming his new neighbours; a nice looking couple
along with their three children. A delicate, smattering of crisp snow 
crunched beneath the frozen feet of the carol singers, inhibiting their 
slow progress. The numerous, colourfully lit window displays, endless 
flashing lights and decorative reefs adorned the houses. All that is 
except for the Lewis household. Probably have not had enough time to 
put up decorations, thought Sam. 

The plain, red soiled curtains were drawn when the group advanced along
the path. Shouting and cursing could be heard from inside, and the 
carol singers looked to each, waiting for someone to begin. 

Sam cleared his throat and sang. “Silent night, holy night, all is calm,
all is bright,” 

The chorus grew as one by one they joined in, singing from the heart, a
content smile on their features. 

“Fuck off!” came the scream from indoors. 

Veronica Titley, a middle-aged old spinster, frowned and shook her head
at the suggestion. She looked to Father Braithwaite for support, but 
the priest just smiled and raised his baritone voice another few 
decibels. 

The door opened and a young girl who was wearing a short leather skirt
and low-cut green top faced them. The girl, who had a cigarette between 
her lips, could not have been more than fourteen-years-old. 

She was promptly joined by two unscrupulous looking teenage boys; one
with spiked jet-black hair and Jed tattooed on his forehead. The other 
had red-cropped hair and had several rings inserted in his lip. Both 
were wearing black sleeveless tee shirts, emblazoned with the motto, 
Satan lives. 

Sam looked across at Veronica Titley who looked as though she had seen
the Devil himself. 

A bushy-bearded man with dishevelled, greasy hair, and wearing a white
soiled vest joined them. A roll-up cigarette dangled from his lips. The 
four of them were standing there grinning, and were joined by a 
blonde-haired woman, her black roots showing. Her eyes were heavily 
made up with black mascara, her red lipstick appearing as though it had 
been applied with a trowel. 

“Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace.” 

The carol suited the atmosphere, with the immoral-looking family
standing and staring; the mother flapping her hands and encouraging 
them to sing on. 

All eyes were now on the priest who was searching his song sheet. “As
shepherds watched their flocks by night...” 

“Ha!” yelled the boy with spiky hair. “An angel of the lord came down
and said those socks are mine.” 

The singing ceased and the offended Veronica Titley rattled the bucket.
The family who were still laughing hilariously at the boy's lyrics 
ignored the plea. 

“Would you care to make a donation please?” asked Father Braithwaite. 

The father looked towards Veronica. “Fuck off and stick the bucket up
your arse, you stuck up cow. In fact, you'll probably enjoy it.” The 
door was slammed in the faces of the shocked carol singers. Sam had 
been introduced to his new neighbours. 

That night, Sam sat huddled at his radio, spooning the hot tomato soup
into his wrinkled mouth. He had his electric fire turned up as much as 
he dare; the fee from his annual Santa job helping to finance his 
comfort. He screwed his eyes up and looked at his cuckoo clock. 
Ten-fifty-five. Five more minutes to go. For some reason unknown to 
him, Mary always turned up at eleven o'clock. 

The walls were crying out to be stripped of their obsolete, red-flowered
wallpaper, which was peeling from the walls. The threadbare, maroon 
carpet was badly in need of replacing. Sam had not changed any of his 
interior decor in thirty-two years. Sam sat conveniently towards the 
end of the br own, dusty sofa, aware exactly where the springs were 
protruding. All the furnishings, Mary had selected, and to redecorate 
was never an option in Sam's mind. 

He blew on his soup and dipped in a piece of bread, his gums aching as
the pressure of his dentures sank into the crust. He looked at the 
large portrait of Mary that was situated above the fireplace. Mary was 
beautiful. Red wavy hair and narrow hazel eyes, nothing had changed. 
Even in death, Mary had remained young. He had found it uncomfortable 
at first that he had aged so much, but Mary still remained a youthful 
looking thirty-eight years old. 

Sam had made his home a shrine for her, with numerous photographs and
portraits occupying the bland room. The temperature fell a few degrees, 
and Sam smiled and turned up his fire a notch. He put down his soup and 
looked towards her armchair. Mary had loved that armchair. He leaned 
over and twiddled with the knobs on the ancient radio. The programme 
was due to start any minute now. 

The silence was broken by the cuckoo clock, proclaiming to him that it
was eleven' o'clock. A strange lilac- coloured mist came from the 
staircase, slowly drifting towards the lounge. Sam did not have to turn 
his head, as he knew that Mary was on her way. The fragrant scent of 
freshly cut flowers always accompanied her visits. 

The mist drifted towards the armchair and hovered above. The announcer
on the radio spoke and introduced the Golden Hour. The mist faded and 
Sam covered his knees with a blanket. The coldness was one of the minus 
points of Mary's visits, but he would not change them for anything. 

Mary sat on the armchair, as beautiful as the day he had married her.
She was attired in the lilac and white-flowered dress that she always 
wore. In all of Mary's visits, she never once looked at him. She just 
sat motionless, as Glenn Miller and his band played, In the Mood.” 

Sam directed his words towards her armchair. “They're playing our song,
Mary. Remember when we used to dance to this at Miller's dancehall. You 
could really move Mary. You used to turn heads in those days... I'm 
working as Santa Claus again at Debenhams. The extra money comes in 
handy... I've bought you a present for Christmas dear. I'll place it 
beside you should I, and you can open it later?” 

Mary never answered; she never did. She just sat in her favourite
armchair and listened to the music of another era. Their music. 

Sam's peaceful slumber was short lived. He sat up in bed and his eyes
strained to read the alarm clock. “Two-thirty,” he muttered, as he 
heard the rock music, the vibrations passing through his weary body. 
Sam put on his dressing gown and slippers before descending his rickety 
staircase. His trench coat was insufficient to keep out the cruel 
biting frost. His icy breath was spasmodic as he rapped loudly on his 
neighbour's door. 

Jed stood before him, a strange dreamy look in his eyes; a can of lager
in one hand and a long reefer in the other. 

“What do your want, Pops?” 

“The music. It's the music. It's too loud.” 

“What? Speak up, Pops, I can't hear you.” 

Sam held a liver-spotted finger to his ear. 

The young girl joined her brother, a bottle of alcopops in her hand.
“What's he want?” 

“Fucked if I know Debs. I fink he wants to join the party.” 

Debs winked at the old man. “Well come on in, Gramps, the more the
merrier.” 

“No. I must be getting back... Can I speak to your parents?” shouted
Sam, over the music, his hands trembling with the icy conditions. 

Jed clutched Sam's arm and pulled him inside. The house was shabby; the
thick smoke unable to conceal filthy the state of their dwelling. The 
green PVC sofa was torn in several places, and discarded cigarette 
butts covered the grimy, navy blue carpet. 

Occupying the sofa were the parents, Bob and Maggie. She was sat on her
husband's knee, a long joint smouldering between her fingers. Bob 
swigged from a bottle of whiskey and motioned for Tommy, the younger of 
the two brothers to turn down the stereo. 

“All right, mate? We're your new neighbours,” slurred Bob, dregs of his
whisky clinging to his beard. 

“Yes I know. I met you earlier this evening, or should I say last
evening?” 

The drunken father frowned and pawed his wife's breast as she giggled.
“I cannot remember seeing you before. Whereabouts?” 

“I was with the carol singers, remember?” 

Jed faced Sam and stuttered. “Want a blow back, Pops?” He blew a blue
plume of smoke at Sam, who coughed and grimaced. 

Bob continued. “Ah, yeah, I remember now. The fucking carol singers...
Fucking bible bashers. Hey Pops, you giving that stuck up bird one or 
what?” 

“Look, it's late and I'm very tired. Could you please just turn down the
music?” 

“Sure, Pops. We want to be all neighbourly and that kind of stuff, don't
we, Maggie?” 

She was gyrating slowly on his groin. “Oh, yeah. Whatever ye said baby.”


“Hey, you're not getting turned on Pops are you?” asked Bob. “He fucking
is! Look, he's got a stalker on. You dirty old bastard.” 

“Let him have Debbie, dad,” laughed Jed, taking a pull on his cannabis
joint. 

Maggie protested. “Hey, fucking enough of that talk, Jed. Our Debs is
waiting for the right fella to come along, isn't that so?” 

Jed was adamant. “He fancies her Mum. I saw the way he looked at her
earlier.” 

Bob shrugged his wife aside. “Is that so? You're not one of them
paedophiles are you?” 

“Look, I really must be going.” 

“Fucking wait there Pops. Bob pulled his daughter over towards Sam, her
nonchalant gaze directed at the ceiling. “Well, Pops, what do you fink? 
Nice bit of young stuff, eh?” 

Bob seized Sam's shaking hand and placed it on the young girl's small
breast. Sam struggled, but was no match for the larger and younger man. 


Bob released his hand and grabbed his neighbour by the throat. “I
fucking saw that old man, you dirty bastard. Now we have two choices. I 
can take you to the pigs, or we could come to some sort of 
arrangement.” 

Tears streamed down the face of Sam. “Look, you forced me on the girl.
Please let me go?” 

“How much pension do you get, Pops?” 

“It's a pittance.” 

“What about that church? They must have loads of money stashed away?” 

Sam raised his voice. “If you don't let me go, I'll have no choice but
to go to the police.” 

“Ah! And tell em what? I have four witnesses here that saw you grope our
Debbie. She's only thirteen, and that makes you a paedophile.” 

“Listen, I have only enough money to live on. My part time job at
Debenhams allows me a little extra for Christmas.” 

The heartless father continued. “So, you've got a part time job, eh?
I'll tell you what you're going to do. You're going to give me half of 
your pension, and all of your wages from Debenhams.” 

“But how will I live?” 

“That's your problem, Pops. You should have thought of that before you
groped my daughter. Anyway, you've not got long to live have you?” Sam 
returned to his home, the music turned up louder than ever. 

The tears welled up in Sam's eyes when he gazed at his reflection in the
bus window. He had been through a year of torment. Oh, he still put on 
a brave face, but he was struggling to survive. He had pondered many 
times, and toyed with going to the police; but who would believe him? 
Even if they did believe him, a shadow of doubt and suspicion would 
hang over him. 

He reached into his pocket and counted the loose change. One pound and
sixty-eight pence to last him a week. He fingered his wage packet in 
his other pocket and contemplated taking a pound or two; but as always, 
he was afraid. Afraid of Bob Lewis and his threats. 

Sam had resorted to taking a nap on the afternoon, as sleep at night was
impossible, due his unruly neighbours, who played their music late into 
the night. Other neighbours had complained, but backed away when 
threatened by the unsociable bully. Besides, their houses were not 
adjoining the Lewis family's evil abode. 

“Last stop guv!” yelled the bus driver. 

“Thank you very much,” said Sam, as he alighted from the bus. His feet
felt like anchors were tethered to them, when he trudged through the 
deep snow. Thankfully, he did not have too far to walk after missing 
his stop. He marched along the sea front, his swinging arms not 
reaching their usual position, his heart tainted. 

The aroma of a Christmas lunch was no solace to Sam. His stomach rumbled
when he imagined sitting at the table with Mary. Turkey, stuffing, 
roast potatoes, oodles of vegetables, and a cracker to pull. 

Sam's mask of deceit was slipping, and he felt the tears rolling down
his freezing face. Father Braithwaite had enquired many times about 
Sam's welfare, and had even offered to have him over for Christmas 
lunch, but the proud veteran refused. His payments to the Lewis family 
were his secret, and he would no doubt take them with him to his grave. 


Sam gripped the icy railing and looked out to sea. He forced a smile, as
he recalled the days a thousand years ago when the sea was his welfare. 
The waves crashed onto the rocks below, the spray drenching him, but he 
remained distant; his memories overcoming the discomfort. 

He felt something hit him on the back of his head and turned to see the
giggling children, wrapped up against the cruel elements, innocent and 
ignorant of the old man's emotions. Sam grinned and crouched down like 
a goalkeeper preparing to save a penalty. He encouraged the joyous 
children to pound him with their missiles, catching the odd one, but 
more often than not, they found their target. 

The children waved at him when he continued on his way, wiping the
remnants of snow from his drenched body. He crossed the main road and 
peered into the sweet shop window, and then the bakers next door. He 
licked his lips, watching the baker remove the hot sausage rolls from 
his oven. He again counted his change and stroked his chin. The 
decision was made. He placed the change on the counter and filled his 
deep pockets with the sweets. What would the children do without their 
sweets? 

Sam fiddled with the knobs on his radio, his escape from the uncaring
cruel society. Fifteen minutes yet before Mary was due. He opened his 
food larder and examined the sparse offerings. He reached for the cream 
crackers and an oxo cube and filled his kettle. 

He dipped his cracker into his oxo and stared at the Christmas present
that was still unwrapped. His hope was that one day Mary would 
acknowledge him and possibly even open her present. It was never much. 
Every Christmas for the last thirty-two years, he had placed the 
present besides her armchair. He had even forgotten what it was. 

The loud music started and Sam closed his eyes and cringed. “Please God,
not tonight. Not on Christmas Eve,” he whimpered. 

He swallowed the dregs of his oxo, his first meal of the day. Sam
pounded his frail fists on the wall as he watched the cuckoo clock. All 
he wanted this evening was some peace and quiet. The Golden Hour was 
due on and it was to be a Christmas special. His pounding was in vain, 
so he returned to his armchair. 

He smiled when the fragrance of freshly cut roses wafted into his
lounge. He wrapped the blanket around him tightly as the temperature 
dropped rapidly. He eyed the slight glow coming from his fire. One bar 
was all he could now afford. 

He saw the lilac-coloured mist out of the side of his eye and combed his
white hair. The spirit of Mary replaced the mist and the announcer 
introduced the start of the show. White Christmas filtered from the 
radio as Sam strained his ears. As usual, Mary sat motionless, looking 
ahead and showing no reaction to the loud music from next door. 

“I've bought you a present Mary,” said Sam loudly, trying to make
himself heard. “Aren't you going to open it? It'll be Christmas day in 
one hour.” 

He expected no response and got none. He wrapped his arms around his
body and rocked gently, his teeth chattering. “You love Bing Crosby 
don't you dear?” 

Sam looked up at the wedding photograph and wept when the picture came
to life. She looked beautiful in her white wedding dress, and clutching 
a posy of lilac flowers. Sam began to sob, his shoulders shrugging, 
moving with the rhythm of his despair. 

Mary did something she had never ever done before. Her head turned to
Sam and her mouth moved, but no words were formed. She rose from her 
armchair and drifted slowly towards her husband. Sam was by now sobbing 
uncontrollably, as he felt Mary's cold hand touch his cheek. He stared 
into her serene eyes and she smiled softly, her narrow, hazel eyes 
twinkling, her long, red hair moving as though in a gentle breeze. 

As if someone had turned the volume to full, the chanting of Santa Claus
is coming to town, drowned out the music of Meat Loaf. 

Jed, still clutching a can of lager, was standing over the toilet bowl
and shaking off the drops. He flushed the toilet and faced the bathroom 
mirror, admiring his tattoo on his forehead. He ran his heavily ringed 
fingers through his lacquered, jet-black spiky hair.   He froze when he 
gawped at the reflection, open-mouthed. 

Somebody was standing behind him. It was a lady, dressed in lilac. Jed
gulped when he stared at her disfigured features. Her face was devoid 
of skin and was burnt beyond recognition. Tufts of red hair protruded 
from her scalp, her black sockets devoid of eyes. 

He let out a muted scream and scrambled for the door. He cleared the
staircase in two leaps and fell into the lounge, knocking a table full 
of empty cans to the floor. 

“What the fuck's going on, Jed?” asked his father, who clutching a
bottle of whiskey. 

“I th ..think I saw a ghost,” stuttered the distraught boy. 

His mother slapped his face hard. “Have you been on that fucking acid
again? How many times have I told you? Stick to the weed?” 

“B...B...But I haven't been on the acid. I saw a tart with her mush all
burnt. Honest.” 

Bob pointed an accusing finger. “You silly bastard, Jed, you‘re stoned.”


“I know what I fucking saw. If you don't believe me, go and have a look
for yourself.” 

“Yes, go on, Bob,” prompted his wife. 

“Well all right then, I will!” 

When Bob reached the bottom of the staircase, the music from the stereo
slowed down and the lights began to flash all over the house . “Fucking 
hell, Dad, what is it?” quizzed Debbie, dropping her lager can to the 
floor. 

“it's a power cut,” butted in the scarlet-haired Tommy. 

Bob turned to his son. “How the fuck can it be a power cut Einstein? The
power's still on.” The lights were now flashing rapidly, and they heard 
loud tapping noise coming from the kitchen. Bob approached the fridge 
cautiously, the tapping definitely coming from inside. A hand touched 
his shoulder and he jumped. “You twat Tommy. You put the shits up me 
there.” 

“What can it be, Dad?” 

“How the fuck do I know? Perhaps the turkey wants to go for a walk.” 

“But the turkey's dead isn't it, Dad?” 

Bob slapped his son across the head and looked to the ceiling. He
gripped the fridge door and slowly opened it, his breathing heavy. The 
stench was unbearable. The food was rotten, the milk had turned to 
cheese, and the turkey was infested with maggots. On closer inspection, 
the trifle was laden with dead flies. Bob slammed shut the fridge door. 


Maggie  joined them. “The butcher said that turkey was fresh. Wait until
I get my hands on him.” 

The lights stopped flashing and the music returned to normal. Even the
contents of the fridge were restored back to their original condition. 

The family switched off the music and huddled around the fire. Maggie
broke the silence. “Maybe we've got ghosts, luv.” 

“Shite, there's no such thing, responded Bob.” 

“Well how do you explain what's happened?” 

Debbie, even though she had left the light on, was cowering beneath the
blankets. Every sound, every twig rattling against her window unsettled 
her. A strange scraping noise could be heard, and she chanced a peep 
over her quilt. 

She watched stunned, when her drawers opened slowly. The light began to
flash rapidly, as her clothes exited her drawers and fluttered around 
her bedroom, slowly at first, and then with more purpose. The clothes 
took the form of animals, each one stopping inches from her face, 
before continuing their rotation of the bedroom. 

An elephant, giraffe, monkey and lion. They all made a frightening
appearance. Debbie attempted to scream, but no sound left her lips. 

The bedroom was strangely cold when Maggie snuggled up to her husband.
“Christ girl, have you left a window open?” he moaned. 

Bob pulled at the quilt when he felt it moving slowly down his body.
“What're you doing, Maggie? It's bloody freezing?” 

“it's not me luv. How can it be? My arms are around you.” 

The moonlight illuminated the bedroom, and they lifted their heads in
unison, to see a woman shrouded in a lilac mist, and hovering inches 
from their faces. She was horribly disfigured, her hair only red wisps. 


“Who are you? Go away!” screamed Bob. 

The ghostly figure drifted away, pointing her finger at the frightened
pair. They watched until she eventually faded away. 

The next morning, Sam peered through his frosted window to see what the
commotion was. The Lewis family were loading their luggage into their 
car and their furniture into a van. Sam grinned when the car 
disappeared from view. He whistled a tune as he entered his kitchen and 
opened his fridge door. He fondled the plump turkey before dipping his 
finger into the trifle and savouring the delicious offering. Perhaps he 
would have Christmas lunch after all. 


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