Hello, this is my first story on here. I belong to a couple of writing groups, and the following was written from a prompt.
We were read the poem by Walter de La Mare called The Listeners. We each wrote and shared our finished work. The following was mine. Asked by our leader to choose a line, verse or phrase from the poem, I chose this and made it my title.
'Is there anyone there?'
'Is there anyone there?' said the traveller.
We sat silent around the table, fingers touching, the dim light casting long shadows across the room.
We were waiting for a response, any response. I looked around the table at my companions' faces. Each wore a deep frown. The traveller, head tipped backwards, eyes closed, sat with what I would describe as a smirk on his lips.
He had arrived in our village a week ago, and his 'seances' had caused many a level-headed person to abandon their common sense. So far, each person who attended Amelia Brown's home and paid good money to take part in this stranger's game, for that is what I believed it to be, had reported miraculous messages from 'beyond'.
As a journalist for our local paper, I felt duty bound to at least attend one meeting and, perhaps, expose this charlatan.
So I sat there, waiting. Strangely, my breath was coming in short puffs, and my heart was pounding, as the traveller began to speak.
'I have a gentleman here; he says he's sorry he left so suddenly, and without telling you where he hid your savings.'
Amelia Brown gasped, then she stiffened.
'That, that's... Rupert, is that you?'
The traveller's voice changed, to a low, deep rumble, with a distinct Scottish accent.
'Aye it's me, hen. I didna intend to go, Lia, I was on my way hame, and I didna see the truck.'
I could hear Amelia gently sobbing. 'Please, Rupert, where did you put it?' she whimpered.
'Aye lass, it's in the birds...' But the voice faded and the traveller straightened in his seat.
'We have a sceptic at the table,' he declared, and lowering his head and turning to me, he said, 'Please leave the circle.'
My four other companions looked up at me, pleading with me to obey and remove myself. I released my hands and, pushing back my chair, I moved to an armchair by the fireside, where I would still be able to observe the proceedings.
Each person in turn received a comforting message from 'the other side'.
Peter Jackson; his wife was free of pain, and comfortable now.
Rosie Grimshaw heard that her granny was okay and enjoying being with her grampa Jo.
Each in turn received a reassuring message that their loved one was now in a 'better place'.
At this point in my story, you should know that this 'traveller' had been staying at Amelia Brown's house. After Rupert's untimely death, she had been left with a large country house to run and manage, with only a small widow's pension, and big bills to pay. So, she had begun to take in paying guests for bed and breakfast, to supplement her meager income. On his arrival in the village, the traveller had been directed to Mrs Brown's home.
Now, Amelia was a lovely lady, who loved nothing less than hearing all the village gossip; and, I'm afraid to say, often repeating it. Never maliciously, but as a caring and thoughtful neighbour.
However, I, as the hard-hearted journalist, realised that a clever, manipulative person could quite easily get all the information he needed to part vulnerable people from their hard-earned cash. They believed him, wanted to hear their loved ones still existed in another plane.
Two days later, the traveller, having held his last 'seance', announced he was leaving. While the dust settled behind his car, I called to see Amelia.
'Come on in,' she said, 'and share a wee dram with me.'
She gestured me into her cozy front room. That evening found me sitting in a fireside chair, the glow of the flickering flames dancing around me, with a tumbler of whisky by my side, listening to Amelia as she talked about her odd guest.
'I didn't believe him,' she said quietly, 'and I'm glad he's gone. I just needed his money. I don't think any harm was done,' she said anxiously. 'I didn't intend any harm to anyone.'
'No,' I replied, 'no harm done. Each of his messages seemed to bring comfort. They all seemed quite happy,' I said as I sipped the warming amber liquid in my glass.
'The strange thing is,' Amelia continued, 'the message from Rupert. Well, the traveller can't possibly have known about the birds.'
She sat, glass in hand, staring into the flames flickering in the soft light.
'You see, only Rupert could know about my jewellery box.'
With that, she stood and left the room, returning a few minutes later carrying a large, faded jewellery box, with birds carved into the wood, and inlaid with mother of pearl softly gleaming in the firelight. She took a small key from around her neck, opened the box, and took a folded sheet of paper from beneath the bottom layer. She passed it to me.
As I read the words written on it, I felt the room go icy cold. The words from the stranger's lips flooded my mind.
'It's in the birds.'
Only Rupert and Amelia could have known what that meant. And now, so did I.