The Ghost and the Rose

Chapter 1

April 1971

I had the dream again. The battle raged on amongst the bodies of the dead. The wounded writhed around on blood-soaked grass. I was there in the dream as men in armour clashed around me, metal clanging against metal. Men were dying. Someone seemed intent on creating a new army of grotesque gargoyles like those set in stone on Lincoln cathedral.

It was the same dream I'd had since I was a child. It had frightened me then, so much so it forced me to slink into my cousin Lorna's bed in the depth of the night just to grab a slither comfort. Now I am older, I close my eyes and think of things I like such as hot chocolate and marshmallows on Christmas morning; our brand-new colour TV and my best friend Phoebe.

I had other dreams too, normal episodes of strangeness that played out behind my closed eyes, much like the ones everyone else had. But I knew this dream was different. This one stank. The putrid stench of stale sweat mixed with the bitter, metallic odour of blood was so vivid that when I awoke, my stomach heaved, and my throat gipped to be rid of it. It festered like an unhealing wound and haunted me even when the sun was high in the sky. After seventeen years, I wondered if it would ever go away.

"Anne?" The two-inch thick door muffled my Aunt Lily's voice. She rapped her knuckles against the wood, repeating my name. "Time to get up, it's half seven. You'll be late if you don't get a move on."

"I'm up!" I shouted, part of my words lost in the dryness of my voice. "Just getting dressed now!"

She knew I'd overslept again, just like I do every time I have the dream. I told no one about it so my Aunt Lily put my frequent absence at the breakfast table down to laziness. I knew too that as soon as I emerged from the hallway down stairs and entered the kitchen I would get my familiar tut of disapproval as she thrust two pieces of buttered charcoal toast in my hand and handed me my coat. The local broadsheet would block my Uncle Richard's face, the mud-coloured contents of his coffee cup left untouched, whilst the odd sneaky fly enjoyed the toast that had now gone cold. This morning was no different. Having dressed, washed and done my teeth in a hurry, I was down the stairs in less than fifteen minutes and out of the door. A new personal best.

Then my body hit a broken wall of water. Rain fell from the sky battering anything in its path including me. I threw my hood up though it offered little protection against the onslaught. Hello April showers.

Fighting my way through, I jogged down the street to the bus stop on the main road hoping I hadn't missed it, my low heels slipping on the slick pavement. I rounded the corner onto the main street just in time to see the bus pulling away with a chug and a whirr of the engine.

"Stop! Please stop!" I waved my arms but by the time I reached the stop itself, the bus had disappeared from view. Deflated, I slunk into the plastic shelter to wait for the next one. There was no way I could make it in time now.

Over half an hour after I had rushed out of my front door, I stood in the foyer of the library, hair matted to my face and skin soaked. My blouse had turned transparent and I could feel shallow puddles forming in the bottom of my shoes. I gave one leg a shake. The dirty-brown carpet tiles darkened beneath my feet.

The clopping of inexpensive heels hitting the hard floor alerted me to the presence of Miss Blythe. She was a short, scrawny woman with skin like worn leather. She came to a standstill just in front of me. One glance up and down and she wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips at my appearance. "Look at the state of you Miss Montague. You look like a-"

"Drowned rat?" I offered.

"Yes well, we have standards here at this library and I expect them to be upheld and you're late. Again."