It's midnight and the rain drips steadily from the eaves. There are many noises in a house this age. I ignore them mainly. I know they mean nothing. Let the bats fly and the fairies flit- they cannot harm me. No I shall pull the nightcap over my thinning locks and take the book from the bedside table and read.
And what it says in the book is that medicine can never cure a broken heart. Well I knew that already. It is the first thing they taught us at school. That and subordination to the powers that be. I lay the book aside. It is dull and my head aches. I have no more time for it. And I shall ignore whatever it is that is creeping towards me over the Turkey rug. It does not exist. Nor does the knife exist that it holds in its fist. My grandfather is long dead in his grave, which is not one of the graves that line the drive. No, he sleeps under a gothic fantasy as many pinnacled as a wedding cake. He is weighed down by it. He cannot escape. There is not even so much as a crack through which his unappeased spirit can escape. And if there were I would be the first to know. I should call on Billy Bob and Jolene and have them fill it in with pastry- laid on thick with a trowel. Eat your way out, old man, if you can!
I shall sleep and the waves will take me out to the island. There are no graves there. And no grandfathers. Only fairies that flit in spangly lurex and masks that makes them look like pigs. Oh the truffles me shall eat! Oh the dewdrops we shall drink!