Scary Stories - Twist in the Tale Series

Silver Locket

It was pure chance that he found it. Clive Franson would not have gone out on such a filthy wet night if not for Roger, his old spaniel, being so insistent on taking his evening walk. If he had not paused to let a car pass before he crossed Samson Street just where he had, he certainly would not have spotted it.

It was as he glanced down to ensure Roger was safely at heel, that he caught the glint of something reflected in the car's headlights. The occupant of the car, old Mrs Charlesworth from Hill Crescent, gave him a cheery wave as she drove carefully by. He returned the wave with his usual sheepish grin before bending to investigate. What made him do so puzzled him later; he was not normally inquisitive. Somehow though, he felt almost drawn to the gleaming object.

The rainwater was rushing along the gutter at the side of the road in a heavy stream, carrying the object along with it. Clive's gloved fingers fumbled clumsily, his first attempt to get a grip of it failed and it was swept on, twisting and turning in the stream. It was fortunate that his next attempt succeeded; otherwise, he would not have had another chance to rescue the object. The water was flowing rapidly along the gutter and down a gurgling drain, the object with it. His clutching fingers grasped it just as it reached the metal grid of the drain cover, a moment later and it would have been lost forever.

Clive straightened and inspected his find. It was a small oval pendant on a chain, the chain tangled and knotted from being swirled about in the water. The streetlights did not provide sufficient light to examine it properly, so he slipped it into his raincoat pocket to look at more closely later. Roger, who meanwhile had occupied himself with worrying fallen autumn leaves floating by, had tired of his game and become impatient to be on his way. He tugged at his lead and looked up imploringly at his master, dumbly pleading to move on.

"Ok, lad, we're going, there's no need to drag my arm out of its socket," said Clive, allowing himself to be pulled along by the eager dog.

They carried on across Samson Street and down the hill until they reached the small park, where Clive let Roger off the lead to run free. He followed the path around the park, keeping to the meagre shelter of the dripping trees, until he had completed the whole circuit. He then called Roger, who reluctantly permitted himself to be put back on the lead, before leaving the park and heading back home.

The tiny town of Kingsfield had few shops, Clive owned the only newsagent's, Kingsfield News. He had taken it over from his parents after their death, ten years ago. The income it provided was small, but as his needs were modest, he was content. He unlocked the door, the familiar sound of the bell above it greeting him, and stood well back to avoid being showered as Roger shook himself. Relocking the door behind him, he crossed the shop floor, past the magazine racks and sweet shelves. His living quarters were above the shop, reached by a flight of stairs behind the counter; before climbing them he took a last look around the shop to ensure all was well, then followed Roger's wagging tail up.

After removing and hanging up his raincoat, he dried Roger with an old towel, and then prepared a light supper for himself while Roger ate noisily from a bowl of dog food. It was only later, as he was half dozing in front of the fire, lulled by the comforting smell of warm fur emanating from Roger sleeping peacefully at his feet, that he remembered his earlier find.

Rising and stretching, he went to the cupboard where his raincoat hung and retrieved the pendant. Resuming his chair, he took his first proper look at it. He saw now that it was made of silver, probably not very expensive, but a pretty article just the same. It was dirty from its immersion in the water, and he roughly cleaned it with his handkerchief, revealing an intricate floral pattern etched on its front. Turning it round in his hand and admiring the obvious artistry that had gone into its manufacture, he noticed the tiny catch at the top and realised what he held was a locket.

He tried gently pressing the catch, but dust and dirt had clogged it and it refused to respond. He tried again, pressing more firmly, still without result. Overcome with a sudden strangely overwhelming curiosity to discover what was inside, he took the locket into his small kitchen and, with the aid of a mild mixture of water and washing liquid, cleaned it more thoroughly. He soon removed all the dirt and, after carefully rubbing it dry with a soft cloth, had the locket sparkling in the light. Now that he could see it more clearly, it was more striking than it had first appeared. The pattern on the front was more involved than he had thought, composed of tiny little intertwining flowers, leaves and stems etched in minute detail. The chain, which he had untangled, was finely and delicately wrought and, though it looked so fragile, was surprisingly strong. The clasp of the chain, however, was broken.

He pressed the catch. This time, the locket sprung immediately open. It was further tribute to the skill of the locket's maker that it sealed so securely no water or dirt had penetrated inside it. Inside the lid, etched in a flowing script with the same precision as the design on the front, were the initials S D. It was to the content of the other half of the locket, however, that Clive's attention was drawn.

Nestling in the base, protected by a transparent cover, was a colour photograph of the loveliest woman he had ever seen.

Clive did not have a great deal to do with women. He had spent much of his younger years caring for his ailing parents; the time and opportunity for youthful dalliances with the opposite sex had passed him by. Even if it had not, it is doubtful he would have taken advantage of it; his almost chronic shyness being too much of a handicap. Now in his late thirties, Clive regarded women as a race apart, one that did not figure in his life. As such, to him they were far too intimidating to be given more than a passing interest. That is not to say he did not sometimes crave female company; he often found himself wondering what it would be like to share his life with someone for whom he cared, someone who cared equally for him. However, his timidity being such an insurmountable barrier, he had long ago settled himself to a single, though somewhat lonely, life.

It came as something of a surprise then, that he found himself so taken with the photograph in the locket.

If pressed, he would have found difficulty in explaining what attracted him so. He supposed that if he was to be honest, he probably had encountered women equally pretty as the one in the photograph, perhaps even more so. What he had not encountered, however, were the feelings gazing at the image brought to him.

He was amazed to see that the hand that held the locket was trembling. How could a simple photograph affect him so? It was ridiculous. What was this strange sensation of warmth, this rapidly beating heart, this surging inside?

In a daze, he returned to his chair in front of the fire, his eyes fixed on the locket. The photograph, though small and showing only the face of the woman, was clear in every detail. The eyes, so darkly brown as to be almost black, seemed to stare right back at him. They had a deep softness, a tranquil gentleness; yet there was sensuousness there too, an underlying passionateness. Clive sensed they belonged to a woman of both caring and intense nature. Her lips, slightly parted in a half-smile that suggested a mischievous sense of humour, were full and ripe. He could not resist speculating how soft they might be, how tender. Only her nose, which was perhaps a little over-large, marred the overall symmetry of a face that looked back at him framed by a rich abundance of black lustrous hair.

Clive could not tear his eyes away from the photograph. Somehow it was if he knew her, had always known her. His mind gave her a body, a voice, a personality. He imagined himself talking with her, laughing with her, his shyness a thing of the past. How could he have believed that women were such frightening creatures, never to be approached? With her, he was complete, confident and assured, no longer bumbling and blushing. In his head, he built a life together for them both, a life that she had always been a part of and would for ever more be.

This would never do. Here he was, conjuring up foolish fantasies of a woman he had never met, would probably never meet; making of himself someone he could never be. Until he found the locket, he had thought himself satisfied with his quiet, humdrum life. Now the photograph had woken a yearning loneliness he had not known existed in him. He had better put aside his silly daydreams and resign himself to the way things were.

He closed the locket with a sigh, trying to shake off the aching longing churning inside him. Even though the picture of the woman was now hidden he could still see her in his mind, almost as clearly as if she were standing in front of him. He wanted to reach out to her, touch her.

Stop it!

This was sheer madness. He placed the locket on the arm of the chair and determinedly took his eyes away from it. If he carried on like this, creating this turmoil for himself, he would make himself unwell. Forget her. Forget the locket.