Scary Stories - Twist in the Tale Series

Silver Locket

It was pure chancethat he found it. Clive Franson would not have gone out on such afilthy wet night if not for Roger, his old spaniel, being soinsistent on taking his evening walk. If he had not paused to leta car pass before he crossed Samson Street just where he had, hecertainly 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'sheadlights. The occupant of the car, old Mrs Charlesworth fromHill Crescent, gave him a cheery wave as she drove carefully by.He returned the wave with his usual sheepish grin before bendingto investigate. What made him do so puzzled him later; he was notnormally inquisitive. Somehow though, he felt almost drawn to thegleaming object.

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

Clive straightened and inspected his find. It was a small ovalpendant on a chain, the chain tangled and knotted from beingswirled about in the water. The streetlights did not providesufficient light to examine it properly, so he slipped it intohis raincoat pocket to look at more closely later. Roger, whomeanwhile had occupied himself with worrying fallen autumn leavesfloating by, had tired of his game and become impatient to be onhis way. He tugged at his lead and looked up imploringly at hismaster, dumbly pleading to move on.

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

They carried on across Samson Street and down the hill until theyreached the small park, where Clive let Roger off the lead to runfree. He followed the path around the park, keeping to the meagreshelter of the dripping trees, until he had completed the wholecircuit. He then called Roger, who reluctantly permitted himselfto be put back on the lead, before leaving the park and headingback home.

The tiny town of Kingsfield had few shops, Clive owned the onlynewsagent's, Kingsfield News. He had taken it over from hisparents after their death, ten years ago. The income it providedwas small, but as his needs were modest, he was content. Heunlocked the door, the familiar sound of the bell above itgreeting him, and stood well back to avoid being showered asRoger shook himself. Relocking the door behind him, he crossedthe shop floor, past the magazine racks and sweet shelves. Hisliving quarters were above the shop, reached by a flight ofstairs behind the counter; before climbing them he took a lastlook around the shop to ensure all was well, then followedRoger's wagging tail up.

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

Rising and stretching, he went to the cupboard where his raincoathung and retrieved the pendant. Resuming his chair, he took hisfirst 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 roughlycleaned it with his handkerchief, revealing an intricate floralpattern etched on its front. Turning it round in his hand andadmiring the obvious artistry that had gone into its manufacture,he noticed the tiny catch at the top and realised what he heldwas a locket.

He tried gently pressing the catch, but dust and dirt had cloggedit and it refused to respond. He tried again, pressing morefirmly, still without result. Overcome with a sudden strangelyoverwhelming curiosity to discover what was inside, he took thelocket into his small kitchen and, with the aid of a mild mixtureof water and washing liquid, cleaned it more thoroughly. He soonremoved all the dirt and, after carefully rubbing it dry with asoft cloth, had the locket sparkling in the light. Now that hecould see it more clearly, it was more striking than it had firstappeared. The pattern on the front was more involved than he hadthought, composed of tiny little intertwining flowers, leaves andstems etched in minute detail. The chain, which he had untangled,was finely and delicately wrought and, though it looked sofragile, was surprisingly strong. The clasp of the chain,however, was broken.

He pressed the catch. This time, the locket sprung immediatelyopen. It was further tribute to the skill of the locket's makerthat it sealed so securely no water or dirt had penetrated insideit. Inside the lid, etched in a flowing script with the sameprecision as the design on the front, were the initials S D. Itwas to the content of the other half of the locket, however, thatClive's attention was drawn.

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

Clive did not have a great deal to do with women. He had spentmuch of his younger years caring for his ailing parents; the timeand opportunity for youthful dalliances with the opposite sex hadpassed him by. Even if it had not, it is doubtful he would havetaken advantage of it; his almost chronic shyness being too muchof a handicap. Now in his late thirties, Clive regarded women asa race apart, one that did not figure in his life. As such, tohim they were far too intimidating to be given more than apassing interest. That is not to say he did not sometimes cravefemale company; he often found himself wondering what it would belike to share his life with someone for whom he cared, someonewho cared equally for him. However, his timidity being such aninsurmountable barrier, he had long ago settled himself to asingle, though somewhat lonely, life.

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

If pressed, he would have found difficulty in explaining whatattracted him so. He supposed that if he was to be honest, heprobably had encountered women equally pretty as the one in thephotograph, 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 wastrembling. How could a simple photograph affect him so? It wasridiculous. What was this strange sensation of warmth, thisrapidly beating heart, this surging inside?

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

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

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

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

Stop it!

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