deepundergroundpoetry.com
Orchard House, And The Taxi Ride
I sat on a bench near a rock garden, listening to seagulls in the distance, plaintive and minute.
The air tasted of salt and sand and the freshness of approaching autumn,
The tide was out, leaving a carpet of sand.
The sea appeared calm, all ripples of blue and grey and green.
Further along a line of cliffs stretched eastwards, overlooking a drop by the sea.
That’s where Sylvie Bannister lived.
In a cottage on one of the cliffs.
But I didn’t know anything about Sylvie Bannister then.
Or that her family had once owned Orchard House.
Things kicked off suddenly on the promenade.
I'd just stubbed out my cigarette on the ground when a bloke in his late twenties or early thirties made straight for me, his dark hair long and wiry. I froze, certain that he was about to mug me for my cello.
He was taller than me, agile and gangly like a spider. I grabbed the cello. The bloke dashed straight past me without a glance, charging through the rock garden, up a path that ran close to the cliffs. I heard a shout, and a group of police officers chased after the man, bringing him down on the ground further along the path. They slapped cuffs on his wrists.
First warning sign, but I didn't realise the significance then - plus, I didn't want to see any more. Further along, a group of onlookers had gathered to watch the drama, mostly teenagers videoing the scenes on their phones. Getting up from the bench, I headed to the main road and found a taxi.
We set off into the countryside, along lanes hemmed in by grassy mounds and tall hedges, up and down tiny dips, past fields, acres of woodland and the occasional cottage standing alone. An old wooden signpost appeared out of nowhere, followed by a succession of speed ramps. We approached a long driveway flanked by rows of gnarled tree trunks.
'There we are then,' he taxi driver said, bringing the vehicle to a halt.
Orchard House stood at the end of the long driveway part of the way down an empty lane: a grey-white building with double bay windows, stacks of broken chimney pots in the driveway and an entrance door situated round the side path instead of the front.
'Like it?' the taxi driver said.
I shrugged.
'The place has a history, you know,’ he said.
‘I've heard.'
'Better be careful then, hadn't you?' he went on, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. 'They reckon its haunted inside.'
The air tasted of salt and sand and the freshness of approaching autumn,
The tide was out, leaving a carpet of sand.
The sea appeared calm, all ripples of blue and grey and green.
Further along a line of cliffs stretched eastwards, overlooking a drop by the sea.
That’s where Sylvie Bannister lived.
In a cottage on one of the cliffs.
But I didn’t know anything about Sylvie Bannister then.
Or that her family had once owned Orchard House.
Things kicked off suddenly on the promenade.
I'd just stubbed out my cigarette on the ground when a bloke in his late twenties or early thirties made straight for me, his dark hair long and wiry. I froze, certain that he was about to mug me for my cello.
He was taller than me, agile and gangly like a spider. I grabbed the cello. The bloke dashed straight past me without a glance, charging through the rock garden, up a path that ran close to the cliffs. I heard a shout, and a group of police officers chased after the man, bringing him down on the ground further along the path. They slapped cuffs on his wrists.
First warning sign, but I didn't realise the significance then - plus, I didn't want to see any more. Further along, a group of onlookers had gathered to watch the drama, mostly teenagers videoing the scenes on their phones. Getting up from the bench, I headed to the main road and found a taxi.
We set off into the countryside, along lanes hemmed in by grassy mounds and tall hedges, up and down tiny dips, past fields, acres of woodland and the occasional cottage standing alone. An old wooden signpost appeared out of nowhere, followed by a succession of speed ramps. We approached a long driveway flanked by rows of gnarled tree trunks.
'There we are then,' he taxi driver said, bringing the vehicle to a halt.
Orchard House stood at the end of the long driveway part of the way down an empty lane: a grey-white building with double bay windows, stacks of broken chimney pots in the driveway and an entrance door situated round the side path instead of the front.
'Like it?' the taxi driver said.
I shrugged.
'The place has a history, you know,’ he said.
‘I've heard.'
'Better be careful then, hadn't you?' he went on, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. 'They reckon its haunted inside.'
Published 26th Nov 2020
Author's Note
Based on a previous novel attempt.
Genre: psychological thriller set in Dorset UK.
Genre: psychological thriller set in Dorset UK.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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26th Nov 2020 4:33pm
Very dear Lozzamus,
It's a lovely piece, full of splendid description. Your description is full of poetic feelings and emotions. Your attitude to the haunted person at the start shows how a poet behaves. It's lovely.
It's a lovely piece, full of splendid description. Your description is full of poetic feelings and emotions. Your attitude to the haunted person at the start shows how a poet behaves. It's lovely.
26th Nov 2020 10:28pm
29th Nov 2020 5:38am
Dear L,
Honestly, I feel like I’m a character in each of your writes. It’s as though I can feel the ocean breeze. Crunch the sand that flew in my mouth and see the faces of the hero's/heroines in your writes.
Spectacular. H🌷
Honestly, I feel like I’m a character in each of your writes. It’s as though I can feel the ocean breeze. Crunch the sand that flew in my mouth and see the faces of the hero's/heroines in your writes.
Spectacular. H🌷
29th Nov 2020 10:13pm
29th Nov 2020 11:28pm
30th Nov 2020 9:45pm
