The Storyteller

The house resounded with the unremitting hum of the lively party. Only an hour after dark and already the adults, relieved of their children who were playing by themselves in the nursery, were becoming increasingly relaxed by an ample supply of ale. Several considerably inebriated members had already been led away from the party and were now in a drunken slumber on the cellar floor. The host sensed the night was dying as the chatter lost its edge. In a desperate attempt to revive the night, he called on the storyteller.

Any uneducated stranger could point out a storyteller from the rest. They possessed an indescribable yet distinguishing resonance about them. This man was no exception. He stood at the hearth of the dying fire and kicked a piece of smouldering wood into the flames. When the last spark had disappeared up inside the chimney he began with a voice deep and low and serious as though to not unsettle the children noisily having fun in the other room.

“The day had ended slowly, dragging through into the later hours of the night as the McCarthy children entertained their parents. Handstands followed by somersaults interspersed by poorly constructed magic tricks. Finally Cedric spoke up and told his children that it was well past there bed time and they must be off. The children moaned and pleaded with their mother to intervene. “Do as your father says, you will have more fun tomorrow if you sleep now.”

An amused murmur spread through the gathering at the storyteller’s impersonation of Mrs McCarthy’s voice. Once they were silent he continued.

“After a few more bribe attempts, James, the eldest, led the children up those stairs to their room.”

The storyteller paused, noticing the confused look on the peoples faces.

“Oh yes, did I not mention this was their house? I apologise, I should have made that clear at the beginning. Yes, in fact, The McCarthy’s were the first family to live here after it was built in the early 1800’s.”

The storyteller grinned to himself as the people looked around the room awkwardly as if they could see the McCarthy children ascending the old wooden stairs. Precisely the effect he desired.

“The following morning when the nanny went to wake up the children for breakfast she found them all lying dead in their beds. The coroner found no cause of death however a rumour spread through the town that the parents had suffocated them during their sleep. Nothing was confirmed but the couple were forced to live a somewhat reclusive life, exiled by the residents of any town to which the rumour had spread. Several years later Mr and Mrs McCarthy died, whether from a broken heart or just old age no one could say. As you can appreciate, it took a long time to find a new occupant for this house. The kids from the villages believed it was haunted and consequently no families were prepared to move in. That was until an eastern couple and their three young girls moved in. They were not familiar with the history of the house and quite frankly didn’t care. It was such a beautiful house and had ample room for their family. They made themselves at home with haste and sent word to their friends of a party they were to set to celebrate their good fortune. Finally the night of the party arrived and once the children were taken to the nursery with the nanny, the feasting began. The night flowed smoothly with a light hearted sense of joy but when finally the parents went to collect their children the proceedings became austere.”



“In the nursery, a lady was reading them a book. Not just any lady. It was Mrs McCarthy.”

...As the Piper turned from the High Street

To where the Weser rolled its waters

Right in the way of their sons and daughters!...

“A mother called out to her child but she didn’t respond, her head was set facing the lady with the book. More parents came in, naively getting angry at their children’s recalcitrant behaviour. Then without a word, the kids began to disappear. Their bodies vanishing into the air like wisps of sea mist. The room was quickly invaded by panicking parents frantically trying to grasp at the air that was their son or daughter.
The parents looked up at Mrs McCarthy, only she wasn’t there. The book was all that was left, open on the nursery floor.”

There was complete silence now as the storyteller let them take it in. He turned back to the fire and looked into the glowing embers that defiantly stayed hot during his story. A lady let out a cry.

“The kids...I can’t hear the kids”

The people were distracted by this sudden outburst and when they looked back towards the storyteller, he was nowhere to be seen. A dull thud echoed up the hallway from the nursery. Without a word several men were on their feet and marching down the corridor. The nursery was empty. On the floor at the end of the room sat an old children’s book, half open.