Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

A scream split the night. I bolted upright, grabbed my revolver from the bedside table and stumbled towards the door. I fumbled with the lock till the door clattered open onto the dim hallway running the length of the upper floor. The sound had come from the front of the building, and I made my way between the flickering lamps, casting dancing shadows across the hall. A gunshot rang out, and a dark feeling grew in the pit of my stomach. Something evil was at work. I pushed on, hurrying over the ageing carpets, the once-vibrant reds now faded to brown, discoloured by all manner of spillages over the years. A few faces appeared at doorways ahead but soon retreated at the sight of some half-naked fool toting a pistol. “Get the hell back inside.” Another gunshot from the main suite at the front of The Lucky Dollar, and I was at the door. I tried the handle, but it just shook in the frame. A single well-placed kick saw to the lock mechanism, and it swung inwards with a squeal. Light stream...

Lifeless it sat there on the table, an empty vessel awaiting a soul. Its two eye-shaped holes stared unseeing at its creator, and a slit lined with human-like teeth gaped in a vague approximation of a smile. But there was nothing human about that face. It had no nose like its orange counterparts of the modern world, lacking the character often bestowed upon those distant relatives in the here and now. A candle passed into the hollow frame, though the lantern was made no less eerie for the orange glow. Its creator didn’t seem to notice. This was her favourite time of the year, and she observed these ancient customs with more than just sacred duty. Lady Sarah of Wilton stood back to admire her handiwork. She could have had the servants carve out the turnip for her, but every year she insisted on doing it herself. All Hallows’ Eve was one of the few nights where anything might be possible. It was a night for lost souls, their one chance to find their way to Heaven through the prayers of t...