It was a cold September day in the year of 1815, the wind was howling and the darkness was settling fast upon my English home. As I looked out the window I shivered and began to rub my arms. I was all alone in the house those days, save Robert, the butler (valet); Molly, the house maid; and Mrs. Tilley, our congenial, if not bossy old cook. Mrs. Wittenmore, our former housekeeper had been let go exactly a week before this date, and it seemed as if her cruel prediction of my life being ruined was already becoming more of reality than fiction. You see, Daddy had gone off to war again…it seems that Napoleon, the “little tyrant”, as some called him, had escaped his island prison and was attempting to reconquer Europe for the second time. I myself had thought him a pompous little fool-but of course, I was watching from a distance.. At this thought of mine even the sky rebelled and sent streaking hail against the window pane, jarring me from my reverie. Even the clouds seemed to disapprove of my thoughts, but, then, they must have observed Napoleon and his army in action. For a few more precious minutes I stared languidly out the foggy window panes, but presently I was called to tea. Since I had so thoroughly disposed of Mrs. Wittenmore, I had no one to keep me company, as the servants and cook kept to their own private quarters. This being the case, I took my tea and retired to the parlor where I could sit beside the cozy flame and watch the rain and hail beat incessantly against the window. This above described scene was a regular occurrence in my meager life. I ate, drank, and slept. Most of my time was spent in the luxurious outside garden that my daddy had built for me when we had first moved here, but ten years hence. There was an orchard to the far back of the garden also. It was there that I betook myself whenever I felt the need to confine myself to solitude (be alone).
As I sat down in the parlor and took my tea I became aware of a dark silhouette wandering through the garden outside the parlor doors. I instantly became frightened and insecure. This seclusion was driving me insane, and I knew it. The shadowy form drew closer and closer to the parlor doors and when the thing had almost reached it it stopped and stared intently inside, it’s eyes burning flames into my soul. It’s eyes were like the translucent glow of the peculiar insect, the fire fly, or so I had read, that the little things flew about giving an impression of tiny stars or fairy dust floating through the night air. But these eyes- no, they were not the pleasant little creatures I had read of. These were like little sparks of the hottest fire- sometimes white hot, sometimes kindling to a (white flash) fiery red glow that reminded me of the devil’s pit. It’s face was party illuminated by the fire that was burning cheerfully across from (where I sat frozen) me, and from what I could see it would have been a fine face, with delicate features and soft natural curls framing it, but it was twisted with insanity, and what I may safely assume was rage and hate. The rest of it was hidden by the darkness and the deep fog that had seeped up from the moors. So transfixed had I been on this demon-creature that my eyes cried out for moisture. I blinked, and in that second, the figure was gone.
Ask me not, reader, what happened to the sprite, for to this day the mystery is still not fully solved (plain) to me. I sat there for some time afterwards, shaking with fear and penetrated with horror, so badly had the apparition shaken me. My tea had been forgotten and my cake had fallen to the floor at my feet. I was in a daze- pondering whether the thing had been a dream, or reality. I am certain that I would have still been there if my previously mentioned Mrs. Tilley had not come in and found me in a state of shock. The darling old dear bustled me up to my apartment and helped me undress and climb into my bed. I know not how I managed to sleep that night, but this I know, the ghost never is vanquished from my dreams, and some lonely nights my screams still wake the household.
