A ghostly Christmas tale in the style of MR James

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The loaves. The milk. The morning papers. The strawberries. Mrs Flower went through her list, as she always did at 6.15am, standing proudly behind the counter at the village shop that had been called Flowers for many a generation.

She had joined the family when she married Roy Flower a half century back. Roy had been an only child and the shop had been his destiny. Now Roy was buried in the graveyard next door, it was Mrs Flower that carried the family business and good name of Flower in the village of Brocklethorpe.

A blast of cold air and the door bell jangles. Who was that? Mr Bacon was normally the first customer and he wasn’t due to 6.26. This was Mrs Flower’s preparation time even if the shop sign said open. The whole village knew that.

Mrs Flower saw a shadow by the ice cream fridge and then someone (something) dash into the aisle with the tinned fruit and baked beans. Mrs Flower grabbed the old sturdy broom that was once her grandmother’s and bravely stepped forward from the counter.

Then she saw him. A pasty thin creature with greasy bald pate. Flickering eyes like a devious fox trapped by headlights. Dark dank clothes, the type normally left over at the end of a jumble sale to be dumped or burnt. With astonishing speed the thing grabbed two items and leapt towards the exit. Mrs Flower took a swipe with the broom. Nothing. Just thin air. The thing had disappeared along with a packet of gravy and a large can of peaches. Mrs Flower was exhausted and bewildered. And then it came to her. She had heard the tales but had discounted them for idle gossip. Could it? Can it? Yes! It must be true!

Mrs Flower and the old family shop by the graveyard in the village of Brocklethorpe had just been paid a visit. By The Cretin.

Posted By: mickfoot, Nov 27, 23:29:07