Henry Neville- The Geist Therapist

1. Polly: Chapter One

A Little Strange

A drizzle of rain water rolled off the umbrella held by the thirty year old, unmarried, Polly Alexander and dripped to the ground in a splatter of patterns. Polly turned her attention from the casket being lowered into the ground and watched the steady flow of the raindrops bouncing off of the earth in front of her boots. It was one of the hottest July's known to the modern world, and yet a single black cloud gained visitation to her darkened world. She wondered why the sky was crying when she could only muster one single tear.

Her father was not a popular man in any measure; he worked the floor of the cotton weaving factory, and like many black British residents in Fulham he was subjected to discrimination and poverty.

She looked around the very few faces in attendance, no one she really recognised as a friend to Geoff, her father. A couple of his colleagues, two representatives of the company, and three people she did not recognise at all.

After the service was complete they each approached Polly and said their condolences before leaving. "Thank you," she responded to each.

The solitary grieving woman stood in front of her father's grave for several minutes after the six feet had been filled before turning and leaving herself.

Polly opted to wave away the horse and carriage waiting for her outside of the cemetery, deciding she would much rather walk instead. Fully dressed in her funeral wear; full black gown, deep skirts, that dragged across the pavement. Her bonnet was small but enough to help keep her usual frizzy black hair pulled back in a bun with ties.

Turning left she headed towards the industrial estate, towards the factory where her father was tragically killed. The rain had eased and the sun was out raging with temper from being hid behind the stubborn black cloud.

It took forty minutes to reach the gate where her father worked. Polly could feel her not-so-fitted stockings starting to droop around her thighs, her boots were heavy, and the weight was felt in her ankles. The sun was now at its full height away from any cloud, and the stench that rose from the sewers amalgamated with the ash of the coal burning from the surrounding factories made it difficult to breathe. The air was not clean in London, and one could feel it in their lungs after a long walk.

Standing outside the gate, Polly glowered at the building scornfully. It was still closed and padlocked, standing empty as it had been for several days. The clock tower still ticked away; she remembered her father hating that clock in the early days, especially since he had some difficulty learning how to tell the time.

Polly thought she could see a faint glow of light coming from a window on the first floor. She pressed against the gate and squinted her gaze, focusing her attention on that window. After a few moments a distant clang could be heard coming from the building, possibly that window, and the light suddenly vanished.

Two men walked alongside the fenced off compound, Polly collared them as they reached the gate, "Excuse me," she said. "Is somebody working in the factory today?"

They both stood still and took off their bowler hats to reply, the taller of the two looked frightened. "No, ma'am, not one soul has stepped foot in there for a few days now." Was his reply.

The shorter one stepped forward, "There have been strange noises coming from that factory since... Pardon me, ma'am, since the black Briton died."

"What kind of noises?" Polly asked.

"Lots of banging and clanging, machinery breaking. Queer tidings," the shorter man said.

The tall man quivered before speaking, "And groans, and moaning. I'd wager five and twenty shillings that the place is haunted."