By Melissa Oliveri
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Hello again dear listeners. I know it’s been some time since I released a new episode of The Skylark Bell, but I believe you’ll feel it was worth the wait as you listen to this strange, uncanny tale I cooked up after a solo train ride to Inverness while visiting Scotland earlier this year.
Join Melissa's Patreon for early access to podcast episodes, music downloads, and more: http://www.patreon.com/melissaoliveri
Contact: [email protected]
The Skylark Bell official website - http://www.theskylarkbell.com
The Skylark Bell on Instagram: @theskylarkbell
Author/Producer: Melissa Oliveri - http://www.melissaoliveri.com
All music by Cannelle: http://www.cannellemusic.com
Cannelle on Instagram: @cannelle.music
FULL TRANSCRIPT:
Things with Wings Productions presents: I Met Him on the Train - A Special Episode written exclusively for The Skylark Bell podcast. I’m your host, Melissa Oliveri.
Hello again dear listeners. I know it’s been some time since I released a new episode of The Skylark Bell, but I believe you’ll feel it was worth the wait as you listen to this strange, uncanny tale I cooked up.
I found myself once again staying with my dear little friend Russell the cat this week, and he once again worked his magic. I wrote this story over the course of 2 days, pulling inspiration from a recent trip to Scotland where I set off on my own on a 3 hour long train ride each way from Stirling to Inverness. Russell kept me company into the night and in the early morning hours as I followed the winding path of the story that came spinning out of me. It started as a title: I Met Him on the Train... then I had to sort out the details. Who did I meet? What did they do? Why was it important? What happens next? And after that? And finally, how does the story end?
All those questions will be answered... well, sort of, if you’ve listened this far into the podcast, you know I’m not one to wrap things up with a tidy little bow, I much prefer to leave room for interpretation, and imagination.
Before we dive into the story, I’d one again like to thank Lauren and Rachel for the use of their apartment over the course of this week. The opportunity to house and cat sit for them gave me the calm and space I needed to write.
And now, at last, it is my pleasure to invite you to settle in… grab a blanket, and a warm drink, or perhaps, if it is also warm where you are, turn on a fan and grab an ice cold lemonade, and let’s get started.
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I met him on the train
It was a Tuesday morning, and I was running late. The trains had been delayed due to flooding on the tracks after days and days of torrential downpours.
I didn’t notice him at first, and in fairness, when I eventually did, there was nothing much to notice. He was quite an ordinary man, not memorable in any particular way. I had headphones on and was staring out the window as the train barrelled North. I admired the landscape stretching out in a blur of greens, browns, and yellows as the sun rose over the Scottish Highlands. His presence came to my attention at a quaint little station about halfway between Glasgow and Inverness when I heard him say “G’day,” while my playlist was between songs. I turned from the window to glance at the seat across from me.
Average height from what I could tell with him sitting down. Non-descript features, civilian clothes in neutral colours. Everything about him was... the word generic comes to mind. Never in a million years would I have guessed... well, that will come later.
Our gazes crossed paths, and he held fast, staring into my eyes in a way that made it impossible for me to look away. His facial expression, like the rest of him, was completely neutral. I felt a mounting desire to get up and change seats but found myself paralysed by his unwavering stare. Finally, he blinked, smiled a plastic sort of smile, and the spell was broken. Oddly enough, he now looked somewhat friendly and approachable, but with an undercurrent of something terribly, terribly wrong that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
“Lovely day we’re having after all that rain, don’t you think?” he asked.
Something was off. Had his lips moved? I couldn’t tell if I’d heard him with my ears or if the words had somehow miraculously been channelled directly into my brain. I nodded silently, still locked firmly in my seat by some invisible force, whether from an outside source or a mechanism inside my body I couldn’t tell.
“Wonderful town, Inverness, I think you’ll quite enjoy it,” he mentioned, casually. Again, I couldn’t tell if his lips had moved. Perhaps he was a ventriloquist? I acquiesced with a single nod.
“Lovely town, Inverness...” he mused, letting the thought trail off as he turned his head to look out the window. I noticed his movements were mechanical in nature, not quite human. The spell broken entirely now, I blinked, and also turned to look out the window. The view outside seemed tinged with an indigo tone that hadn’t been there before, as though someone had painted over the window with a thin layer of watercolour.
Suddenly a thought occurred to me, “How did you know I was going to Inverness?” I asked, turning to look back at him. I stared in shock at the empty seat across from me. My eyes scanned the train car, both in front and behind me, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Had I dreamt him? Yes, that must be it, I must have dozed off with my head leaning on the window, lulled by the steady movement of the train, and had one of those strange dreams brought on by weeks of insomnia and a diet comprised mostly of chips and curry.
I chuckled sheepishly and turned my gaze back to the outside world. The train was immobilised at a small-town station. I let my eyes travel from left to right at the people waiting on the platform, first noting a middle-aged woman with mass of red hair cascading down her shoulders, her coral sundress was blowing in the breeze. Next to her stood a tall man in shorts and a hoodie with a backpack slung over his shoulder, the two looked like they’d struck up a friendly conversation, both flashing shy smiles at one another. My gaze travelled the empty space between them and landed on the third and last person standing on the platform. My stomach churned as I saw the man who, only moments before, had been sitting across from me. I felt the cognitive dissonance shake me to my core as I watched him stand patiently waiting to get on the train. The train doors hadn’t opened yet, he couldn’t have gotten off the train and onto the platform in the time since I’d last seen him in his seat.
The long signal tone sounded and the doors to the train cars slid open. The man in the hoodie and woman in the coral sundress entered the car behind me, and the impossible man climbed into mine. I watched, fixated, stunned silent, shaken, as he made his way down the aisle and slid into the seat across from mine.
“G’day,” he said with a nod. He seemed completely normal. So normal it felt abnormal. His tone was normal, his face was normal, his smile was normal... not a sign of the strangeness the previous iteration of him had been drenched in. He also didn’t have that strange hold on me, and I found myself able to respond to him and, thankfully, move. I shifted in my seat and nodded a greeting back at him.
“Are you traveling for work or for pleasure?” he asked in a friendly, casual tone.
“I’m taking the day to explore Inverness,” I replied, reeling at the impossibility of the situation.
“Wonderful town, Inverness, I think you’ll quite enjoy it,” he commented, striking fear in my heart as I recognised the words his doppelganger had uttered before suddenly vanishing only a short while ago.
“There’s a bookstore there,” he carried on conversationally, as though nothing was amiss... but so, so much was amiss. “It’s called...” his voice trailed off and his eyes lifted toward the roof of the train car as he scanned his memory, “...Peakey’s... Peakey’s Book Shop. It’s slightly off the beaten path, but you should take the time to find it.”
He paused briefly before carrying on, “Would you like to know the secret to writing a great story?” he asked. I provided an uncertain nod in response. It was uncanny that he should ask me that, I’d been suffering from writer’s block for months, and looming deadlines from my publisher had caused an endless string of sleepless nights. If this strange man on the train had the secret to breaking the curse, I was willing to listen.
“Enduring curiosity,” he replied, his mouth curling into a knowing smile. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes; the surreal conversation was over.
We didn’t speak the rest of the way. The train eventually pulled into the station at Inverness and we both got off. I had every intention of following him out of the station to see where he’d go, but he disappeared into the crowd like a plume of smoke dissipates into the wind.
I walked out of the station and marvelled at the architecture of the buildings across the street. I had put together an itinerary, but decided to cast it aside in favour of getting lost in the streets and maybe stopping somewhere for lunch if it suited my fancy.
I pushed through crowds of tourists, my eyes scanning for a way out of the madness. “I wonder where this goes?” I said out loud as I veered into a narrow alleyway between two stone buildings. I got to the end of the alleyway and gasped at the view. A joyful smile immediately spread across my face; I had forgotten how much I loved exploring a new city on my own.
Spread out in front of me was a river with three bridges stretching across it, each with their own architectural style. At the far end, on my side of the river, I saw a castle mostly covered in scaffolding. I had read it was under renovation and had no plans to waste my time trying to get a good view through the construction fence, so I forged ahead and walked across the bridge closest to me.
The view from the opposing shoreline was lovely. I noticed a series of old buildings and church steeples peeking out from the lush green of the treeline that stretched along the river on the other side. That was one advantage to all the rain we’d had, vegetation was flourishing. I walked along the road that ran parallel to the river until I came to a pedestrian bridge and crossed back toward Inverness. Once back on the other side I decided on a whim to walk toward one of the churches, and discovered a small graveyard tucked away behind it after following a narrow winding trail forged between a stone wall and a row of shrubs. I’d always liked a quiet walk through a graveyard, exploring the inscriptions on the gravestones, wondering about the lives lead by the people buried there. I spent more time in the graveyard than I should have, and my shoes and socks took on water as the overgrown grass was drenched from recent downpours.
At the very back of the graveyard, I noticed a tall, slim gravestone with a tangled mass of vines on top. Intrigued, I gingerly made my way over to it. I was surprised to discover, upon closer inspection, that the tangled mass of vines was, in reality, a large bird’s nest. I stood on my tippy toes to try and see the contents, but it was too high for me to get a good view. I sighed and took a step back to look at the gravestone, and noticed a faint series of letters mostly covered by a layer of moss. I gently ran my hand over the stone and watched as the moss crumbled to the ground. I gave the stone a series of quick wipes with my palm and squinted to read the inscription. My brow furrowed in concentration as I tried to decipher the name engraved on the stone, but time and the elements had rendered it illegible. Beneath it, however, were the words Lived a life of enduring curiosity, and underneath that: 1905-1974. Enduring curiosity: The same words the man on the train had said to me. I shuddered involuntarily at the memory of him and his doppelganger.
A cold drop of rain landed on my cheek, startling me back to the present moment. I looked up at the sky and noticed a band of dark clouds had rolled in while I was busy inspecting the gravestone. I turned and began walking away when a loud screech made me turn on my heel in shock. The bird was huge, I’d never seen one like it. I stared in awe as it landed in the nest, pulling its massive wingspan closed as it curled up and all but disappeared behind the tangle of branches and dry grass. Its colouring was mostly grey and black, and its size imposing, but its most striking feature was its eyes, which were the colour of garnet stone.
I shivered and scurried out of the graveyard, exiting through a different gate than the one I had come through on the way in. The rainfall was gaining momentum now, and I turned to look down each end of the small, deserted street I found myself on, desperately looking for shelter. To the left I saw an easel on the pavement with an arrow pointing toward a green door. Whatever business it was, I’d find a reason to be in it if it got me out of the rain. I half jogged down the street to the door and quickly pulled it open. The smell of old books hit me immediately, and I took a step back through the still open door, braving the rain to read the sign above it: Peakey’s Book Store.
Discomfort set it immediately. The man on the train had told me about this place, and there was something wrong with the man on the train. I took a few steps into the bookstore and stopped to get my bearings. Row upon row of floor-to-ceiling shelving lined the tiny, cramped shop, every shelf filled to the brim with books, and piles of overstock books on the floor next to them. At the center of the store a metal spiral staircase extended to a second-storey mezzanine, also lined edge to edge with books, and also with droves of books stacked on the floor. I checked the signage, the books appeared to be divided by Fiction, Non-Fiction, and Children’s Books. I decided to check the children’s books first, hoping to find a vintage copy of Alice in Wonderland with original illustrations. I scanned the 3 bookcases in the section from top to bottom, but though there were many copies, I didn’t find quite the edition I was looking for. Next, I wandered to a series of shelves labeled Fiction and found they were sorted by author name. I looked for Daphne DuMaurier, one of my favourites, but the three books of hers they had were ones I already owned.
I carried on perusing the store, row by row, shelf by shelf, pile by pile... Not looking for anything in particular, but rather enjoying the warmth of the shop and the endless possibilities within the pages of each and every book. I was also keeping an eye on the weather through the store’s only window, which provided a narrow glimpse of the outside world.
I wasn’t sure how much time I’d spent in the shop, but eventually it looked like the sky was clearing and I decided it was time to head out. I gingerly made my way around the piles of books on the floor and was about to leave when a small book haphazardly placed on top of the checkout counter caught my eye. I picked it up and read the title out loud: “I Met Him on the Train”. It was a relatively small book, hardcover with a dustjacket that featured a view of the Scottish Highlands through a train window. I turned the book over in my hands, noting there was no author listed anywhere on the cover. My curiosity aroused; I cracked the book open to the first page...
I met him on the train
It was a Tuesday morning, and I was running late. The trains had been delayed due to flooding on the tracks after days and days of torrential downpours.
I didn’t notice him at first, and in fairness, when I eventually did, there was nothing much to notice. He was quite an ordinary man, not memorable in any particular way. I had headphones on and was staring out the window as the train barrelled North. I admired the landscape stretching out in a blur of greens, browns, and yellows as the sun rose over the Scottish Highlands. His presence came to my attention at a quaint little station about halfway between Glasgow and Inverness when I heard him say “G’day,” while my playlist was between songs. I turned from the window to glance at the seat across from me.
Average height from what I could tell with him sitting down. Non-descript features, civilian clothes in neutral colours. Everything about him was... the word generic comes to mind. Never in a million years would I have guessed... well, that will come later.
Our gazes crossed paths, and he held fast, staring into my eyes in a way that made it impossible for me to look away. His facial expression, like the rest of him, was completely neutral. I felt a mounting desire to get up and change seats but found myself paralysed by his unwavering stare. Finally, he blinked, smiled a plastic sort of smile, and the spell was broken. Oddly enough, he now looked somewhat friendly and approachable, but with an undercurrent of something terribly, terribly wrong that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
“Lovely day we’re having after all that rain, don’t you think?” he asked.
I slammed the book closed, my heart racing. What in the world? How could this book in a tiny second-hand bookstore on a quiet street in Northern Scotland be describing the exact series of events that had transpired earlier in the day? I worked to regain control of my functions, and with still-shaking hands reopened the book. I scanned through the pages, and sure enough, the rest of my journey was described in detail. Meeting the first man’s doppelganger, walking the streets of Inverness, crossing the first bridge, coming back across the river and exploring the graveyard, the large bird with the garnet eyes, and finally, finding the bookstore.
I tentatively turned the page.
I’m not sure how much time I spent in the shop, but eventually it looked like the sky was clearing and I decided it was time to head out. I gingerly made my way around the piles of books on the floor and was about to leave when a small book at the end of the checkout counter caught my eye. I picked it up and read the title out loud: “I Met Him on the Train”. It was a relatively small book, hardcover with a dustjacket that featured a view of the Scottish Highlands through a train window. I turned the book over in my hands, noting there was no author listed anywhere on the cover. My curiosity aroused; I cracked the book open to the first page and was shocked to find my own story written and bound within its pages.
I slammed the book closed, my heart racing. After a few minutes of working to regain control of my functions, and with still-shaking hands, I reopened the book. I scanned through the pages, and sure enough, the rest of my journey was described in detail. I carried on reading, finally reaching the point where the book crossed into the future.
Again, the racing heart. Did I want to know what would happen next? I stared at the last paragraph for a solid minute before turning the page.
I glanced up from the book’s pages, troubled and more than a little uneasy. Suddenly, I came to a realisation that sent me reeling. Every patron in the bookstore looked like the man from the train...
My brow furrowed in confusion. What?? I had noticed a woman with a little boy in the children’s books when I first came in, and I had crossed paths with a young couple as I came down the stairs just a few minutes ago, what was this book talking about?!
Every fiber in my body was begging me not to look up, but the process was unstoppable. I slowly lifted my head and tore my gaze from the book’s inexplicable pages. At the back of the store, I saw a man climbing a ladder to reach for a book on one of the top shelves; from the back he was wearing ordinary clothes and looked to be of average height. I glanced at the second-floor mezzanine and saw a man sifting through a series of war books. I could see his profile and felt a mounting sense of dread rise from the pit of my stomach. My breath caught in my throat as I scanned the remainder of the bookshop. The man crouched on the floor sifting through a pile of paperbacks, the man in the children’s section holding an antique book up to the light, the man walking up the stairs in the most ordinary way... all of them identical, and all with the same unsettling mechanical movements and neutral facial expression as the first man from the train.
“Wonderful town, Inverness, I trust you’ve enjoyed it?” came a voice from behind me. I recognized it instantly and had to fight the urge to run. I slowly turned to face the man from the train. The second one, the one who made casual conversation and moved in a human way, the one who had life in his eyes. He was standing behind the checkout counter with a receipt pad in his hand, a gleam in his eye and a smile only slightly teasing the corner of his mouth.
“I... I’d like to purchase this book,” I stuttered, stumbling over my words. I felt the room spin, the endless supply of books melding into a blur of paper, dust, and typeface.
He nodded and leaned on the counter to write up my receipt. I leaned on the counter to catch my balance. The man folded the receipt in half, then straightened his body and extended his arm across the counter to hand it to me. I gingerly took the paper from his grasp as I reached my other hand into my pocket to grab my wallet. I unfolded the receipt to check the total, but was instead greeted with a short, two-word message: Enduring Curiosity. Confused, I looked back up at the man, but he was gone. I turned to scan the bookstore, only to find it completely deserted save for the endless assortment of books lining its walls and piled on its floor.
I slipped his receipt into the book and tucked it under my jacket for safekeeping, I didn’t trust the Scottish weather to behave for very long, and I didn’t want the book getting wet. I stepped out onto the street and saw a handful of people milling about, to my great relief each one appeared to be an individual. A woman carrying a bin full of books bustled past me and entered the bookstore, I heard someone inside greet her, it was not the man from the train.
I shook my head and carried on down the street, meandering through the heart of Inverness. I wandered into a place called Victorian Market, which contained a food hall. I circled every booth and settled on one that was serving Cullen Skink, a traditional Scottish chowder which I hadn’t had an opportunity to try yet. It was wonderful. I meandered through the market’s various shops and restaurants, then carried on exploring until I found a small bakery tucked at the end of a narrow side street. I selected two delectable pastries that would serve as my lunch. I sat on a park bench to savour my dessert and take in the view, then eventually made my way to the station to catch the last train back to Glasgow.
I sat in the same seat I had sat in on the way to Inverness and stared out the window, listening to music as the landscape outside went scurrying by in a blur of green, brown, and yellow as the sun set on the Highlands. I was sitting backwards this time, always a strange sensation. The train stopped at several small towns, the same ones it had stopped at on the way North. Between two songs I heard someone say, “Good evening.” I looked up to see the man from the train, once again sitting across from me. I felt no shock this time, I simply smiled at him. “Lovely town, Inverness...” he mused, looking out the window.
“Indeed, it is, a place filled with enduring curiosity,” I said. He didn’t turn to look back at me, but his reflection in the window gave me a glimpse of the smile teasing the corner of his mouth. I turned to look out the window myself, wondering what was behind the mountains in the distance, wondering what would happen tomorrow, wondering whether the man on the train would disappear again in a moment.
The man did not disappear from the train, he got off a few stops before mine like an ordinary person. We didn’t speak or make eye contact again before he left. I scanned the platform after he got off, curious to see which direction he would go, if anyone would be there to greet him, or if his doppelganger would then climb into my train car and take his place, but he vanished into the crowd like a plume of smoke dissipates into the wind, and his replacement never came.
As the train neared Glasgow, I pulled the small, strange, book from inside my jacket. “I met him on the train,” I whispered as I ran my finger over the letters in the title. I gently cracked the book open, only to find every page completely blank.
My story was, as of yet, unwritten... but I now knew the secret to writing a great story: Enduring curiosity. I pulled a pen from my bag and got started:
I met him on the train...
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Thank you so much for listening, I truly hope you enjoyed I Met Him on the Train, an original story written exclusively for The Skylark Bell podcast.
If you enjoyed this episode, please consider leaving a rating or a review, they are both greatly appreciated. You can also support my work by subscribing to Patreon. Patreon supporters get early access to ad-free podcast episodes, digital downloads of my music, and so much more. It’s the first place I share my creations. However, if you prefer not to subscribe, but would like to make a one-time contribution, you can do so via your podcast platform. Any and all financial support is greatly appreciated.
Once again, thank you for listening – I’m Melissa Oliveri, writer, composer, and producer of The Skylark Bell Podcast.
The Man with a Storm in His Eyes – Volume 4
NOTE: If you have not listened to Volumes 1, 2 and 3 of this 4-part miniseries, please pause this episode, and go listen to the first three installments, otherwise the story won't make much sense.
Over Thanksgiving I spent a few days house- and cat-sitting for a friend. The moment I met Russell the cat I was completely charmed by the milky cloudiness of his eyes. What fascinated me most was that he appeared to be able to see just fine... to the point where sometimes he appeared to be seeing things that I myself couldn’t see. I found myself inspired and fully credit Russell with breaking through my writer’s block.
This story is available in written form in its entirety exclusively to Patreon Supporters, visit the link below to join.
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Contact: [email protected]
The Skylark Bell official website - http://www.theskylarkbell.com
The Skylark Bell on Instagram: @theskylarkbell
Author/Producer: Melissa Oliveri - http://www.melissaoliveri.com
All music by Cannelle: http://www.cannellemusic.com
Cannelle on Instagram: @cannelle.music
FULL TRANSCRIPT:
Things with Wings Productions presents: The Man with a Storm in His Eyes - A Skylark Special Miniseries written exclusively for The Skylark Bell podcast. I am your host, Melissa Oliveri.
Before I begin, if you haven’t listened to the first three installments of this story, I strongly suggest you hit pause on this episode and go listen to volumes 1, 2 and 3, otherwise this episode won’t make much sense.
In last week’s episode, Marie broke the sisters’ one rule and brewed a cup of the forbidden tea for herself, but she was interrupted by their early return. Disgraced and embarrassed, she returned home... only for the twins to appear outside her window a few days later.
Today we conclude this wild and eerie tale... fair warning, the ending made me cry the first time I re-read the story in its entirety.
Lastly, I’d like to thank Lauren and Rachel for the use of their apartment over the Thanksgiving holiday. The opportunity to house and cat sit for them gave me the calm and space I needed to to start writing, and in the end, their cat, Russell, provided the inspiration for the story I wanted to write. The spark has grown into a flame, and there are more stories to come in the future, so stay tuned.
But for now, it’s time to get settled in… grab a blanket, and a warm drink... perhaps a handkerchief, just in case… and let’s read the conclusion of The Man with a Storm in His Eyes.
The spell broken, I shook my head and scurried down the stairs and out the front door to collect the book they had left behind. I ran my hand over the smoothness of its cover, and noted the leather was embossed with a collection of odd symbols. I clutched the book to my chest and hurried back up to my flat as quickly as my fuzzy slippers would allow, completely oblivious to the neighbours gawking at the sight of me outside in the cold wearing only a short frilly nighty.
I threw myself onto the sofa and placed the book on my lap, puzzling over the symbols on the cover before unbuckling its leather strap and cracking it open. I flipped through the book haphazardly and was met with page upon page of tight cursive handwriting. Every so often I would land on a carefully drawn illustration with labels and notations. About halfway through the book I found a folded piece of paper tucked between the pages. I gingerly pulled it out, the ornate handwriting was different than the one filling up the pages of the book. I squinted in concentration as I began to read:
Dearest Marie,
You must have endless questions about the goings on at 51 Dimly Court. We did not mean for you to get pulled into the vortex of our stormy existence, and I apologise for our poor handling of the situation the day you left.
Winifred and I have decided to share with you the story that is neither ours, nor Russell’s, nor even little Jones’. The story is our mother’s. Her name was Fiona Merriwell, and she was what many would, for better or worse, call... a witch.
Our mother grew up in the “old world”, a time and culture filled with mystique and superstition. It would be easy to brush aside these traditions as hogwash, but as you now know, there was truth to at least some of it.
Our maternal grandmother was a gifted seer and would warn people of things to come, or describe things that had happened long before any of them were born. Our mother was always envious of this gift, but her talents lay elsewhere. She was an expert healer and could create concoctions to heal most ailments common in her time. Her one wish, however, was to find a way to recreate her mother’s capabilities using her knowledge of plants, herbs, tinctures, and the like. She made it her life mission... and it cost not only her, but several of us dearly.
The teas in the canisters were created by her, and she was the last one to brew a cup, until you came along, of course... but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Our mother raised us on her own after our father passed away. She worked odd jobs and kept herself busy making salves and teas to sell at local markets. Behind the scenes, however, she continued to work on her plan to create a tea that would allow her to see through veils of time, and she eventually succeeded, but things did not go as planned.
She had just finished perfecting a recipe one day when there was a knock at the door. A young man, sharply dressed in a grey wool suit, stood on our front steps, he was selling top-of-the-line cookware. Our mother, always willing to indulge young entrepreneurs, invited him in and put the kettle on. She was fully intending to simply listen to his presentation, but as their conversation wore on an idea crossed her mind. The young man mentioned that his brother had recently passed away, and that he missed his him terribly, and wished he could see him again, if only for a moment. The gears in our mother’s mind began turning; if she served her tea to the young man and it was effective, it might provide him with an opportunity to see his brother again, and if it failed, he would be none-the-wiser and would simply have enjoyed a nice cup of tea, no harm done.
I must say at this point that our mother was neither conniving nor cruel, she was entirely under the impression that the effects of the tea would be temporary, there was no way for her to know her spontaneous decision and, ironically, lack of foresight would change the course of all our lives.
And so it was that Russell J. Holcomb, luxury cookware salesman, came to sit at our kitchen table and drink the tea our mother had aptly named Violet Storm. He remained in our kitchen for a few hours, demonstrating his goods. Winifred and I came home our jobs at the hospital partway through his sales pitch and sat at the table listening to him, enthralled. Russell was very charismatic; he would certainly have had a successful career in sales if he had never had the misfortune of knocking on our door. Winifred was especially taken with him; she would later tell me it was his smile that won her over so quickly. Little did she know we would only rarely ever see that smile again.
We were there when the tea began to take effect. I remember it so clearly because, unfortunately for Russell, there was a storm brewing outside. Winifred and I had rushed home from work due to the dark, threatening clouds hovering in the sky above. We would later learn that stormy weather exacerbates the effects of this specific tea... but once again, I’m getting ahead of myself.
Russell was just finishing a demonstration that involved cooking an omelet, he slid it onto a plate and placed it on the table for us to see. It was then that he stumbled backwards and fell to the floor. His eyes darted back and forth as a mist began to rise in them. He started to shake and pointed at something behind us. The three of us turned in unison, but there was nothing there. Our mother crouched next to him, put a hand on his shoulder, and asked if he was okay. Through rapid breaths Russell explained that he could see other people, dozens of other people, all semi-transparent, moving throughout the kitchen. Walking, cooking, sitting at the table... he could even see different furniture, and he could see grass on the ground as well as different versions of the kitchen floor, layer upon layer upon layer of the past all visible at once. He let out a scream that still echoes in my mind to this day, then squeezed his eyes shut and clutched his head in his hands shouting, “Make it stop! Please! Make them go away! Make it all go away!”
Distraught, our mother wrapped a dishtowel around his eyes and tied it at the back of his head, then lead him to the sofa to lay down and wait until the effect of the tea wore off. Once the storm passed the effects did diminish considerably, but the clouds never left Russell’s eyes, and he never stopped seeing relics of the past all around him at all times.
Our mother settled him in the empty flat upstairs, no one had lived there for years, and it didn’t have much of a past to speak of, or see. The outside world was far too overwhelming for Russell, so he remained in the upstairs flat from that day forward. Because he had no family to speak of, Russell decided it was best to leave him flagged as a missing person to the outside world, it seemed simpler than trying to explain the reality of what had happened. The four of us agreed to never speak of that day’s events, and our mother immediately set to work trying to create a remedy.
Days turned into weeks and months. Winifred spent a lot of time upstairs keeping Russell company, and the two fell deeply in love. One day our mother announced she had come up with a remedy, a tea she called Black Moon. She brewed a pot, and Winifred volunteered to bring it up to Russell, promising to report back if it had any noticeable effects. But as Winifred was climbing the stairs to the apartment, a shadow of doubt came over her... What if this new concoction made Russell worse? Her heart ached at the thought of involuntarily harming him in any way, so she sat on the top stair outside his door and slowly drank the cup of tea herself to see how it would affect her before giving any to Russell.
Russell never did drink any Black Moon tea, because within a short period of time Winifred came crashing down the stairs screaming and waving her arms in the air as though swatting away a swarm of bees. Unlike Russell, her eyes never clouded over, instead they turned into two deep, dark, inky pools. We came to discover that Winifred was now plagued with incessant visions of the future: Buildings being torn down, new ones being erected, wars, unrest, and the cacophony of centuries of living beyond anything she’d ever known... Her condition worsened during the new moon when the sky was at its darkest. On these nights, her existence became nearly unbearable. Layers of the future would wrap around her like a snake wraps its body around its prey, squeezing the air out of its lungs, and effectively crushing it. On these nights,Winnifred would wear a blindfold, which helped to alleviate some of the stress of her condition.
I paused my reading then, thinking back to Christmas Eve dinner with Russell, and his odd behaviour as the storm rolled in. He must have been suffering through a similar experience, a ramping up of the effects of his condition... My heart ached for him, for Winifred who was similarly afflicted, for Florence who was tasked with caring for them both, and for Jones the cat who had now joined their ranks. I heaved a sigh, then dove back into the letter.
In our mother’s mind, the tea she had concocted to view the future would have cancelled out the tea Russell had ingested which gave him visions of the past, but after seeing what happened to Winifred, we didn’t dare let him drink any. It became difficult for Russell and Winifred to be in the same room, they were essentially living on different plains now, he in the past, she in the future, with only a bridge of present between them so small they could never stand on it long enough to truly be in one another’s company. Heartbroken, Winnifred stopped going upstairs to visit, and only rarely ever spoke.
Our mother, devastated by the tragedy she had inadvertently unleashed on our family, made one last attempt at setting things straight. She poured over her craft for several months, studying herbs and tinctures used by our ancestors. Some ingredients she foraged for herself, others she sourced locally or from overseas, until finally one day she came to us with the resulting Golden Sunset tea. This tea, she was certain, would fix both Winifred and Russell’s conditions, but she insisted she would drink a cup first to ensure there were no unexpected results. As you may have guessed, the results were, indeed, unexpected, and very tragic.
The last entry in our mother’s book was written moments after she drank the Golden Sunset tea. She detailed a scene from the future, of a young woman living in our flat, and a cat named Jones with glowing amber eyes. She said this woman would be instrumental to the future of our family history as she would carry on guarding the tea until she reached the age of 93. That is where the diary ends, there were no details beyond that.
After drinking her tea and writing in her diary, our mother walked out our front door and stood on the stoop. Winifred and I stood at the window, watching her back as she stared at the world outside, motionless. Perhaps a few minutes went by, perhaps a few hours, neither one of us could tell, but eventually our mother exclaimed “It’s all so beautiful!”, then she fell to the ground. Shaken out of our reverie we ran to her, but she was already gone. Presumably, whatever it was the tea caused her to see, it was more than the human mind and body could take.
In the decades that followed I continued to care for Mr. Holcomb and Winifred. Winifred would provide guidance on future events and occurrences, which is how we knew you were planning on drinking the tea, and that we were going to arrive just in time to stop you. We tried to change the course of history and arrive in time to also prevent Jones from drinking the tea, but as with every other time we’ve attempted to change the future, we failed.
From what Winifred has shared, and she only shares things she feels are absolutely necessary, I am to make you the beneficiary of our estate upon our passing, which, Winifred has assured me, is much farther away than anyone would ever dream. Perhaps our mother’s longevity tea worked better than her other ones.
I wish you all the best Marie. We shall not see you again after today, but from what I can gather, someday in the distant future, you will once again see us.
Take care,
Florence
I refolded the letter and placed it back between the pages of the book, then closed the cover, re-buckled the strap, and placed the book on the coffee table in front of me. There would be ample time to sift through its pages down the road, right now I needed to process the events of the past week.
I carried on with my life over the next few days. Those days turned into weeks, months, years, and before I knew it nearly three decades had gone by. In that time, I earned a nursing degree and used some of the knowledge from Fiona’s diary to help patients. I married and divorced, had two children whose careers eventually took them to opposite ends of the country, adopted and went through the heartache of saying goodbye to 3 different cats, all with glowing amber eyes, and... well... I grew older.
Not nearly as old as the twins however, who died within days of one another at the ripe old age of 103.
It was on a Wednesday afternoon a couple of weeks after the twins’ passing that my postman Gordy placed a small package on the stoop outside my front door. I happened to be looking out the window when he came and waved to him as he carried on to my neighbour’s house. He smiled and waved back; he was always such a pleasant young man. I reached into my post box and pulled out a small stack of letters, then bent down to pick up the package. I felt my stomach tighten when I saw the return address for the solicitor’s office on the parcel. I knew this day would come, this wasn’t a surprise per se, and I had only briefly met the sisters on two occasions nearly 30 years ago, yet I still felt the sting of tears in my eyes.
Inside the package was a letter from the solicitor detailing the legal intricacies of the estate and the steps I needed to take to finalise things. The only other item in the box was an old antique key. I recognized it immediately as the key Florence had left for me that fateful day all those years ago. I placed the key in my palm and closed my fingers around it. If I focused enough, I could almost feel a low electrical pulse emanating from it.
My first time stepping back through the front door of 51 Dimly court was surreal. Everything was exactly the same as it had been the last time I was there. Every trinket, every book, every curtain and pillow and blanket, even down to the plush towel and robe set I had used after taking a bath that Boxing Day afternoon three decades ago. I walked through the flat in wonder, gently tracing my finger along the edges of the sisters’ belongings, the items strewn atop their dressers and vanities. Winifred’s copy of The House on the Strand was still on her nightstand, I understood the significance now, with her experiencing time differently than the rest of us.
I stood at the bottom of the stairway to Russel’s flat for a long time staring at the off-center number 7 on the door. I’d read his obituary years ago, I’d lost track of how long it had been exactly, but I remembered it said he had passed peacefully in his sleep with his loved ones, presumably Winifred and Florence, by his side. Eventually I made my way up the stairs and let myself into Russell’s flat, which was also frozen in time. I stepped into his office, noting his satchel was still on the desk. I peered inside and saw a collection of marketing materials for cookware. This was the bag he was carrying the day he disappeared, that fateful day he met Fiona Merriwell and her enchanted, or cursed depending on how one views these things, collection of teas.
I stepped into the little kitchen; bright sunshine was streaming through the window. I smiled as I remembered sitting at the table sharing a meal with Russell, telling stories, and laughing together. He was a lovely man, lovely and lonely. His fate was not one anyone would have been envious of, unable to leave the confines of his apartment, destined to pine away for an impossible love just within his reach but never attainable... my heart ached for him.
I lived on in the flat for forty more years, keeping everything the same as it had always been. I eventually retired from my decades-long career as head nurse at a care home, and before I knew it found myself older than the twins were when I first met them. I surprised myself gravitating toward some of Florence’s dresses and coats. Winifred’s wardrobe, however, remained too gothic for my taste. As time wore on, I became rather uninterested in the outside world, preferring to focus on my own private little secret world inside the sisters’ flat. I never stopped thinking of it as the sisters’ flat. My children rarely visited and would only stay in town long enough for a meal, always at a fancy restaurant of course, before returning to their busy lives, and I was okay with that because they were happy.
And now we’ve come to today.
Today is my 93rd birthday. I am celebrating alone, and rather enjoying my own company. I finished my cup of tea 15 minutes ago; I can feel its effect taking hold. I see a warm glow around everything in the flat, as though every object has been wrapped in goldleaf and the setting sun is shining through the window, even though in reality today the sky is grey and loaded with a mass of storm clouds.
I walk to the sitting room and lower my tired body into a chair by the window, turning to face the inside of the room. I watch as the past fades into view. I see Florence and Winifred as children with their mother reading stories by the fireplace, the same fireplace in which the contents of the tea canisters and Fiona’s diary are burning right now. I see young Russell looking dapper in his grey wool suit with his satchel strapped over his shoulder, he’s coming in to do a presentation of the luxury cookware he is selling, and Fiona is guiding him toward the kitchen. I see all the events Florence described in her letter unfold before my eyes.
Eventually I see myself walking into the flat for the first time, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other waiting for Winifred to speak through the garish red lipstick streaked across her mouth. I marvel at my youth, how naïve and innocent I was then. I watch the entire Christmas holiday unfold, cooking for Mr. Holcomb, rushing outside to rescue Jones, cuddling with him on the sofa, staring into his beautiful golden eyes. Then the fateful night when he drank the tea...
Layers of past begin to pile atop one another in rapid succession now, and I see events flash before me. First, I watch the twins grow old and eventually disappear altogether. Then I see myself, older, but still young by my current standards, returning to the flat after several decades away. I watch myself age at a breakneck pace and eventually see myself, dressed the way I am dressed right now, walk into the room. I gasp as I catch of glimpse of my eyes, now turned into two glowing orbs filled with a swirling mass of mauve, gold, coral, and burnt orange. Now I understand why Fiona named this tea Golden Sunset. I watch as I gingerly lower myself into the chair I am sitting in at this very moment.
That’s when things truly take off, when past, present and future finally collide.
In a flash of amber, coral, and lilac everything sets off at lightning speed. I see the future, I see what happens to me, what happens in the decades and centuries beyond this moment in time. I see the people who lived here before the twins, before Fiona, and those who will live here after. I see the field that was here before the apartment building, and the structure that will be built after its demolition decades from now.
I turn to look out the window, the view is breathtaking. I can see everything that has come before and everything yet to come, all awash in a swirl sunset colours. It’s chaotic, it’s heartbreaking, it’s electric, it’s inspiring, it’s... life...
...and it’s all so beautiful.
Thank you so much for listening, I truly hope you enjoyed The Man with a Storm in His Eyes.
It has been my pleasure to write and record this story for you, and I am very much looking forward to doing it again. Stay tuned for more spooky and unusual tales in the future!
If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a rating or a review, they are both greatly appreciated. You can also support my work by subscribing to Patreon. Patreon supporters get early access to ad-free podcast episodes, digital downloads of my music, and so much more. It’s the first place I share my creations. However, if you prefer not to subscribe, but would like to make a one-time contribution, you can do so via your podcast platform. Any and all financial support is greatly appreciated.
Once again, thank you for listening – I’m Melissa Oliveri, writer, composer, and producer of The Skylark Bell Podcast.
The Man with a Storm in His Eyes – Volume 3
NOTE: If you have not listened to Volumes 1 and 2 of this 4-part miniseries, please pause this episode, and go listen to the first two installments, otherwise the story won't make much sense.
Over Thanksgiving I spent a few days house- and cat-sitting for a friend. The moment I met Russell the cat I was completely charmed by the milky cloudiness of his eyes. What fascinated me most was that he appeared to be able to see just fine... to the point where sometimes he appeared to be seeing things that I myself couldn’t see. I found myself inspired and fully credit Russell with breaking through my writer’s block.
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FULL TRANSCRIPT:
Things with Wings Productions presents: The Man with a Storm in His Eyes - A Skylark Special Miniseries written exclusively for The Skylark Bell podcast. I am your host, Melissa Oliveri.
Before I begin, if you haven’t listened to the first two installments of this story, I strongly suggest you hit pause on this episode and go listen to volume 1 and volume 2, otherwise this episode won’t make much sense.
In last week’s episode, Marie rescued a kitten named Jones, and made the startling discovery that Mr. Holcomb had been labeled a missing person decades prior.
Now, get settled in… grab a blanket, and a warm drink… and let’s dive back into the story.
I didn’t need to worry about waking the next morning as Jones took it upon himself to serve as an alarm clock when he felt it was time to be fed. “You little rascal, you’re just loving this aren’t you?” I teased as I placed a bowl of turkey pieces with a strong pour of gravy in front of him. I was about to go take a shower when the phone on the kitchen wall rang so loudly I was sure the neighbours three houses away could hear it. I grabbed my chest with my hand and waited a moment to catch my breath before lifting the receiver off the hook. “Hello?” I asked tentatively.
“Oh, hello Marie dear, this is Florence,” came the voice on the other end of the line. “I was simply calling to let you know we plan on returning home early tomorrow morning. I trust things are going well?” she asked.
I could still feel my heart beating out of my chest, but I managed to compose myself enough to reply. “Yes, everything is great. Mr. Holcomb is quite lovely. Oh, I should probably tell you, I found a stray kitten that I’m caring for, I hope that’s okay?” I figured I should probably make mention of the fact that I’d brought an animal into their home.
There was a moment of silence at the other end of the line, and I grew nervous that Florence was displeased. “That’s quite alright dear. I’m sure Jones is thoroughly enjoying spending the holidays with you,” she eventually replied, and I heaved a sigh of relief. “Right then, we’ll see you in the morning,” she added before promptly ending the call.
I put the phone back in its cradle. Something about the conversation was bothering me... I stood barefoot on the cold ceramic kitchen floor running the conversation through my head again, then it finally hit me: How did Florence know the kitten’s name was Jones? On cue, Jones wandered into the room and rubbed up against my legs. I picked him up and held him at arm’s length. Of course! Jones had a name tag, perhaps Florence had seen him before, maybe he even had a reputation for visiting neighbourhood homes and getting a few extra meals out of it. “I knew you were a rascal!” I giggled. I pulled him in and bumped my nose against his, mesmerized by those unearthly amber eyes, before gently placing him back on the ground.
I showered and put on a festive sweater and some dressy trousers before heading upstairs to join Mr. Holcomb for Boxing Day breakfast. I told him about the rowdy boys and the kitten, and how Jones and I had eaten Christmas dinner by candlelight before I spent a couple of hours reading Alice in Wonderland in the reading room. I was itching to ask him about the newspaper clippings, but something about his expression stopped me. His brow was knit, and his eyes had turned that stormy charcoal grey again. I realized then that I’d been speaking non-stop since we’d sat down, so I quieted myself and waited for him to speak.
“So... Jones is here now,” was all he said. I nodded but wasn’t sure if he noticed as he seemed to be staring off into space. I let the quiet linger between us, hoping he would elaborate, but his lips remained tightly pressed together.
“Mr. Holcomb...” I began, unsure of how to broach the subject.
“Your questions will all be answered in due time, my dear Marie,” he said, sparing me the trouble of asking. “There are things that should not be known before one is ready to know them...” he mused obscurely, still with that faraway, stormy look in his eyes. I didn’t dare ask him to elaborate, I would just have to be patient. We spent the rest of breakfast speaking of innocuous things; childhood Christmas gifts, funny stories about relatives falling off chairs or spilling food and drink on one another at holiday parties. Though we only talked about surface things, the conversation was merry, and Mr. Holcomb’s eyes progressively morphed from steely grey to an appealing feathery white.
It was past noon by the time I got back downstairs to the sisters’ flat. Jones meowed at me in greeting and climbed up my shin to be picked up. I curled him into my arms like a baby and stared into his eyes, bordering on chartreuse in the midday light, while feeling the soft rumble of his purring against my chest. I felt the weight of the world disappear then, there was such comfort in the softness of his fur and his desire for companionship.
A sudden chill passed through the air causing Jones and I to shiver in unison. “I think I’m going to run a bath,” I said, lowering him to the hardwood floor. “Don’t worry, I have no expectation that you will want to get anywhere near the water,” I laughed. “Why don’t I make a fire in the fireplace for you, and you can wait for me on the sofa with a blanket?” I suddenly became aware that I was speaking to Jones as though he were human and felt simultaneously ridiculous and grateful that there was no one around to hear. I got Jones settled then made my way to the bathroom. I took the time to admire the vintage Art Deco tile pattern on the floor and walls before turning the hot water faucet on the claw foot tub to its maximum, then adding a bit of cold water and two capfuls of green apple bath bubbles. I placed a thick fluffy towel and a bathrobe on a nearby wooden stool in preparation for the aftermath of my soak, then draped my clothes over the edge of the sink before carefully slipping into the steaming hot water. I closed my eyes and breathed in the sweet, fruity fragrance while listening to the crackling of the bubbles.
I sat quietly in the tub, keeping thoughts of cloudy eyes and mysterious disappearances at bay, choosing to think instead of what I would prepare for dinner and which tea from the three forbidden tea canisters I would brew first. Eventually the water grew uncomfortably tepid, and the skin on my fingers began to wrinkle. I used my toe to pull the chain attached to the bathtub stopper and let the water drain a moment before standing to step out of the tub. The towel and bathrobe were both luxuriously plush, and I relished the warm, cozy feeling of being wrapped in them. I walked to the living room and rooted through my weekender bag for a fresh change of clothes. Jones was fast asleep on the sofa, curled up on a throw pillow with the glow of the fire reflecting off the sheen of his velvety fur.
I made my way to the kitchen and perused the pantry and refrigerator contents for inspiration. I grabbed some zucchini, carrots, peas, and broccoli from the fridge and a box of pasta out of the cupboard. With a little butter, cream, and spoonful of flour I could whip together a mean pasta primavera, there was even a block of fresh parmesan cheese in the fridge to top it all off. I still had leftover rum raisin cake and custard for dessert. “That will pair perfectly with a cup of forbidden tea!” I chucked to myself out loud in the empty kitchen. I set to work making a roux and roasting the vegetables. My mum had always loved my pasta primavera; the secret was roasting the vegetables rather than boiling or steaming them, the caramelization added a lovely depth of flavour to the dish.
“Jones, time to eat!” I called as I placed a bowl of shredded turkey with a dollop of cream sauce at his place setting across the table from me. I set my plate on the table as well, then gave each of us a generous sprinkle of parmesan. “Now I don’t want you to think this is what you get to eat every day, this is a Boxing Day special, okay?” I said to him as he hopped onto the table. I patted the top of his head then sat down to eat. A flood of memories of suppers with my mother came to me as I took my first bite. I could see her smile, hear her laugh... what I wouldn’t do to see and hear her again...
Jones finished his meal long before I did and stretched out in front of the stove, rolling onto his back to let its warmth tickle his belly. I cleared the table and quickly did the washing up, then put the kettle on. While waiting for the water to boil I unwrapped the rum raisin cake, cut a generous piece and placed it onto a plate. “Perfect timing!” I exclaimed as the kettle sounded its whistle. I turned off the stove, then stood in front of the shelf with the three glass tea canisters, I hadn’t yet decided which one I was going to brew. I noticed a label at the bottom of each one, and squinted to read the ornate cursive handwriting in hopes it would help inform my decision. I started with the canister to the left, the tea inside was black and appeared rather nondescript. “Dark Moon, sounds like something Winifred would come up with!” I said, laughing at my own humour. I moved on to the next canister, the tea inside was shades of purple with delicate dark pink rose petals mixed in, its label read “Violet Storm”. Intriguing! The last canister was filled with a mixture of gold tea leaves, yellow and orange flower petals, and citrus rinds, the label on that one read “Golden Sunset”.
I pondered a moment longer, and decided Violet Storm sounded like a good accompaniment to rum raisin cake. I gingerly lifted the canister off the shelf and placed it on the counter. I popped open its lid, and the aroma of lavender, elderberry, hibiscus, and a strange sickly-sweet smell I couldn’t pinpoint rose from its contents. I found a scoop in the utensil drawer and placed three spoonfulls into the infuser part of the teapot, then poured the boiling water in and stepped away to let it steep for a few minutes. I walked to the stove and crouched next to Jones, running my hand over the sleek fur of his body. He looked up at me with those amber eyes and blinked that slow blink cats do when they’re rather satisfied with their circumstances; a full belly, a warm napping spot, and a human to do their bidding. I finally admitted to myself that I’d grown unusually attached to this kitten over the past couple of days, as though we were kindred spirits from the start.
“Tea time!” I said as I stood up. I poured tea from the pot into the teacup Mr. Holcomb had gifted me. I left the teacup on the counter while I brought my plate of cake and the little pot of custard to the table. Then I grabbed the saucer with the teacup precariously balanced on it and held it up to my face, breathing in the steam. The unidentified sweet smell was even more pungent now, and I desperately wondered what it would taste like. I shifted the saucer to my other hand and grabbed the teacup by its delicate handle, slowly lifting it to my mouth.
Suddenly, a loud slam came from behind me. Startled beyond belief I jumped and spun on my heel. Before I could wrap my brain around what was happening the teacup flew out of my hand and went crashing to the floor, leaving the echo of a shattering sound ringing through the kitchen. I stared in shock at the purple streak of tea spreading across the black and white tile of the floor.
“I told you not to drink the tea!”
I gathered my wits about me and looked up. Standing a few paces away was Winifred. She had a small cut on her hand, presumably from when she slapped the teacup out of my grasp. It took me a moment to notice Florence was standing directly next to her. “Oh dear,” breathed Florence, looking at something behind me with sadness in her eyes. I turned and saw Jones voraciously drinking from the puddle of tea on the floor.
“Oh Jones, that’s not for you!” I said, bending to pull him into my arms.
“It’s too late,” croaked Winifred. I instantly recognized the voice on the phone that stormy Christmas Eve night in Mr. Holcomb’s flat. What in the world was going on?!
“I- I wasn’t expecting you back so soon,” I stumbled over my words, both nervous and embarrassed.
“Winifred felt strongly that we should come home early,” said Florence. “It’s probably best that you go home now, Marie,” she added. Her voice was neutral, neither kind nor unkind, neither soft nor stern. I sheepishly bent to clean up the mess of broken porcelain on the floor. “Leave it,” she said. I kept my gaze glued to the floor and withdrew to the living room to tidy up and pack my things.
As I made my way into the hall Jones sauntered over and looked up at me with those glorious glowing yellow eyes. I pondered whether I should scoop him up and take him with me, but Winifred came through the doorway to the right and stood between us, her inky eyes piercing into my soul, and slowly shook her head no. I muttered an apology and made a swift exit.
I wallowed in self-pity and embarrassment for a few days, then decided to leave the confines of my flat to take a walk. I wandered through the woods where the crows cawed to one another as though saying “Look at that ridiculous girl, a guest in someone’s home and doing as she pleases with no regard for them!” I felt disgraced, and disappointed in myself. Making a cup of tea seemed like such a small, innocuous, harmless thing at the time, but clearly it wasn’t, clearly there was a valid reason why the sisters had forbidden it... and I should have respected their wishes.
I wandered aimlessly, stopping at one point to select a drink at the local café. I stared hopelessly at the menu board, unable to make up my mind, and finally settled on some iced tea, then chuckled bitterly at the irony of my selection. My walk eventually took me to the top of Dimly Court. I looked down the street past the brick row houses and perfectly manicured shrubs, hesitating. Would it be out of place for me to walk by? The sisters were hermits, the odds of one of them seeing me were rather low. I decided to take my chances and turned onto their street.
Every window covering at 51 Dimly court was drawn, but I could see Jones’ silhouette sitting on the windowsill, the patterned chenille of the drapes hanging behind him like backdrop. I stood in front of the window, admiring the velvety sheen of his coat. “Jones!” I whispered as loudly as I dared. The kitten turned his head and I gasped. I instinctively took a step back and nearly tumbled off walkway. In the place of those glorious golden eyes that I had stared into just days before were two orbs filled with a swirl of thunderous grey clouds. The cat’s head suddenly darted back and forth as though watching something behind me. I turned to look but there was nothing there. I stood on the empty street watching him get increasingly agitated. “Oh Jones, what happened to you?” I choked. Suddenly, the curtain was pulled aside and Winifred’s pallid face came into view, that eternal streak of red lipstick still across her mouth. Her carbon-coloured eyes locked firmly on me as she pulled the kitten into her arms, then she quickly stepped back into the shadows from whence she came. The curtain closed behind her, a supple but effective barrier between us.
I trudged back home in slow, plodding steps, my head hung low. My mind, however, was in overdrive. Jones’ eyes were now in the same condition as Mr. Holcomb’s... what on earth could have caused it? I let different scenarios play out my head, then stopped dead in my tracks as it hit me: The tea! It had to be the tea! That would explain why the sisters had instructed me not to drink it. Jones had lapped it up after it spilled on the floor, and now he had a storm in his eyes. I let the swirling thoughts keep coming; perhaps Mr. Holcomb had ingested some of the tea as well, and that’s how he ended up the way he did. I suddenly remembered the glimpse of him I’d caught the night of the storm when he’d sat rod-straight in his chair, a blindfold strapped across his eyes. My next thought sent a shiver down my spine... What was it he was avoiding looking at that night? What was it, exactly, that Jones and Mr. Holcomb were able to see with those cloudy eyes that I apparently could not? I shuddered as I realised how closely I had come to joining their ranks.
I spent the next few days alone, only going out for the odd walk in the woods and to do a bit of shopping at times when I was least likely to encounter other people. Thankfully, I didn’t have to return to work until after the holidays. I rang in the new year by myself in my dark living room, doing my best to ignore the cacophony of the festivities outside the walls of my apartment. I simply wasn’t in a celebratory mood, and other people’s cheer was the last thing I needed.
I woke at the crack of dawn the first day of the new year with the unsettling feeling that something was amiss. I heard the sound of a car door outside my window, and got out of bed, tugging my twisted nighty back into place. I slid into my fuzzy slippers, then walked to the living room so I could look out the front windows. My stomach clenched instantly. There, standing immobile on the walkway to my apartment building, a black 1940s style car parked behind them, were the twins. Winifred was dressed all in black with a black strip of fabric draped over her eyes, which made her white powdery makeup and smear of red lipstick stand out even more. In complete contrast, Florence was decked out in a floral dress with a long brown chequered coat draped over her shoulders. The sisters’ arms were laced together, presumably so Florence could guide Winifred who surely couldn’t see much, if anything, with the blindfold. Florence locked eyes with me, then carefully and deliberately bent down to place a brown leather-bound book onto the pavers of the walkway to my building. She gave me a small nod, then the pair turned and methodically walked back to the old-fashioned car. Florence helped Winifred get in her seat, then walked to the driver’s side, and eased herself behind the wheel. I watched, equally confused, and mesmerized, as the pair drove off.
Thank you so much for listening, I truly hope you enjoyed this third installment of The Man with a Storm in His Eyes.
Be sure to check in next week for the final portion of the story!
If you enjoyed this episode, please consider leaving a rating or a review, they are both greatly appreciated. You can also support my work by subscribing to Patreon. Patreon supporters get early access to ad-free podcast episodes, digital downloads of my music, and so much more. It’s the first place I share my creations. However, if you prefer not to subscribe, but would like to make a one-time contribution, you can do so via your podcast platform. Any and all financial support is greatly appreciated.
Once again, thank you for listening – I’m Melissa Oliveri, writer, composer, and producer of The Skylark Bell Podcast.
The Man with a Storm in His Eyes – Volume 2
NOTE: If you have not listened to Volume 1 of this 4-part miniseries, please pause this episode, and go listen to the first installment, otherwise the story won't make much sense.
Over Thanksgiving I spent a few days house- and cat-sitting for a friend. The moment I met Russell the cat I was completely charmed by the milky cloudiness of his eyes. What fascinated me most was that he appeared to be able to see just fine... to the point where sometimes he appeared to be seeing things that I myself couldn’t see. I found myself inspired and fully credit Russell with breaking through my writer’s block.
This story is available in written form in its entirety exclusively to Patreon Supporters, visit the link below to join.
Join Melissa's Patreon for early access to podcast episodes, music downloads, and more: http://www.patreon.com/melissaoliveri
Contact: [email protected]
The Skylark Bell official website - http://www.theskylarkbell.com
The Skylark Bell on Instagram: @theskylarkbell
Author/Producer: Melissa Oliveri - http://www.melissaoliveri.com
All music by Cannelle: http://www.cannellemusic.com
Cannelle on Instagram: @cannelle.music
FULL TRANSCRIPT:
Things with Wings Productions presents: The Man with a Storm in His Eyes - A Skylark Special Miniseries written exclusively for The Skylark Bell podcast. I am your host, Melissa Oliveri.
Before I begin, if you haven’t listened to the first installment of this story, I strongly suggest you hit pause on this episode and go listen to volume 1 or the story won’t make much sense.
In last week’s episode, we met Marie, who agreed to take on a job house-sitting for twin sisters Florence and Winifred over the holiday weekend and will help care for their elderly tenant, Mr. Holcomb who lives upstairs. When we left Marie, she had just exited Mr. Holcomb’s apartment after Christmas Eve dinner went awry as a thunderous storm rolled in.
Now, get settled in… grab a blanket, and a warm drink… and let’s dive back into the story, shall we?
I must have fallen asleep at some point because the next time I glanced at the fire it had been rendered to a pile of glowing embers, and a small stream of sunlight was coming through a crack in the floral chenille fabric of the drapes. I got up, neatly folded, and piled the blankets, and pulled the drapes open to let the full force of the sun shine into the room. A cloud of dust lifted from the drapes and swirled into the air before slowly settling onto the surrounding surfaces. In the bright light of day, the space didn’t seem nearly so threatening, and I began to feel ridiculous about overreacting to the phone call the night before. The line was crackly, I probably misheard. In all likelihood it was a wrong number, or a prank call.
“Merry Christmas, Marie,” I said out loud to the empty flat as I padded down the hall to the kitchen. I cooked some eggs and toast, poured myself a glass of orange juice, and put the kettle on for tea. I eyed the tea canisters on the shelf above the cookbooks but decided to save that for the evening. I washed up my dishes, changed clothes, brushed my teeth, then decided to go upstairs to check on Mr. Holcomb.
I climbed the narrow stairs and was about to knock on the door when it swung open, revealing Mr. Holcomb’s silhouette in the hallway. “I told you my hearing was good,” he uttered before I could ask how he knew I was there. “Merry Christmas,” he added without any merriment in his voice. He looked exhausted.
I opened my mouth to ask what had happened the night before, but he had already started walking down the hallway on velvet feet. I followed him to the kitchen where two cups of steaming coffee and a plate of biscuits sat waiting on the table. “How did you...” I let the question trail, unable to wrap my brain around his impeccable timing.
“My senses are above average, I knew you were coming upstairs before you did,” he replied with a wink. I noticed with wonder that when he winked the clouds in his other eye swirled faster for a moment as though a gust of wind was passing through.
We sat at the table in silence. I became self-conscious of the crunching of biscuits in the quiet little kitchen and was about to begin a conversation when Mr. Holcomb beat me to it. “I have a gift for you,” he said out of the blue. I stared at him with a mixture of surprise and confusion. I had never seen him leave his flat, how in the world did he manage to find a gift for me? He turned to take a small box off the counter and handed it to me. I freed the box from the blue velvet ribbon wrapped around it and gently lifted its lid. Inside was a fine china teacup with matching saucer, both white but painted with a black floral pattern that bordered on ink blots. There was something very Winifred-esque about them and I briefly wondered if this was a re-gift situation, but it didn’t matter to me, I was touched by the thoughtfulness of his gesture.
“This is lovely Mr. Holcomb, and so very kind, thank you. I’m afraid I have nothing to offer in return, I didn’t realise...”
“Not to worry dear, I wasn’t expecting anything at all, I simply wanted to show some appreciation for keeping me company at this time of year,” he replied. His stormy eyes took on a darker tone then, almost like the deep, heavy grey of a rain cloud about to unleash its tears on the world. “Well, I shall leave you to your own devices for the rest of the day. Nothing personal, I simply prefer to be alone at Christmas.”
I frowned but acquiesced with a polite nod as I rose from my chair. “I insist on bringing you a tray with Christmas dinner though, I’ll leave it by your door around 6pm, okay?” I asked. He smiled and gave me a nod, understanding my need to reciprocate the kindness of his gift. “I shall see you tomorrow morning then?” my question was tentative; I still hadn’t sorted out what had happened the night before.
“Yes, I shall cook us a nice Boxing Day breakfast. Now go on, enjoy your time downstairs, there is much to read, much to discover, much to learn...” he said. Had his eyes been clear, they’d have been staring into my soul then. I looked at him intently, his eyes suddenly seemed lighter, almost white, and feathery, there was a calm to them, and I got a shiver down my spine as I realised he was attempting to convey a message.
I took the box containing Mr. Holcomb’s gift and made my way back to the sisters’ flat. I gently pulled the cup and saucer out of the box and placed them on the counter. It was here that I finally noted the black flowers were painted in a swirling pattern eerily reminiscent of Mr. Holcomb’s cloudy eyes.
I was intimately familiar with the kitchen and sitting rooms already, so I decided it was time to explore the rest of the flat. I first went down the hall and hesitantly stepped into Winifred’s room. I perused the items on her dresser, they were few; an empty perfume bottle, a hairbrush with long strands of dark hair tangled into it, a collection of multicoloured glass bottles and vials that appeared to contain various tinctures and what looked like animal teeth... Curiouser and curiouser! Winifred was definitely the creepy sister. Laying askew atop her nightstand was a copy of Daphne DuMaurier’s The House on the Strand. I picked up the book and read the synopsis on the back, it had to do with time travel and such. I placed it back down, making a mental note to get myself a copy, I found the idea of time travel fascinating!
I exited Winifred’s room and let myself into Florence’s living quarters. Her space was much larger and included a sitting area. I ran my hand along the wood of her antique loveseat, then down its striped salmon-coloured satin fabric. I walked to her dresser and noticed the top drawer was slightly open. I peeked in and saw it was filled with handwritten notes and illustrations on various bits of paper. I was about to pull it open further to explore the contents when I heard a commotion outside the window. “What was that?” I asked the empty room. I walked to the window and looked out to see a group of boys running down the street at breakneck speed. My eyes followed them until they were out of sight, then darted back to the sidewalk. Sitting just outside the window, quietly staring up at me with stunning yellow eyes, was a kitten, its velvety grey fur covered in mud. Clearly the boys had been mistreating it.
Concerned for the kitten’s safety, I rushed down the hallway, grabbing the antique key to the front door off the entryway console as I whizzed by, and flew down the steps to the sidewalk. Thankfully the kitten was still there. From this proximity I could see it had a blue velvet ribbon for a collar, with small silver tag dangling from it. I approached cautiously, not wanting to scare it away, and crouched down while reaching my hand out. The kitten immediately got up and walked toward me, pushing its little head against my palm, its friendliness completely unhindered by the abuse it had just suffered at the hands of the unruly boys. “Hello there small friend,” I cooed, running my hand down the softness of its back. I used my other hand to grab hold of the tag. “Jones,” I read, “is that your name, or your family’s name?” The kitten remained silent; its amber eyes transfixed on me as I carefully bent down to scoop it up.
I cradled the kitten in my arms as I made my way back into the sisters’ flat. It took a few tries opening various cupboards, but I eventually found two shallow bowls. I filled one with water, and placed a few pieces of cooked chicken from the fridge into the other one. “There you go, Jones, Merry Christmas,” I told him as I placed the bowls on the tile floor. He meowed at me, and I told myself he was wishing me a merry Christmas in return. I didn’t know then it wasn’t going to be a merry Christmas for him at all...
I gave Jones a bath as best I could in the large porcelain sink, then settled him on a pillow by the stove to dry. I spent the rest of the day in the cozy kitchen cooking and baking. First, I prepared a hearty vegetable soup with cheddar and chive biscuits, then some lentil fritters using my nan’s recipe from memory, and finally a rum raisin cake with homemade custard for dessert. I also made a point to prepare a little Christmas meal for Jones using odds and ends I found in the fridge. I put together a tray for Mr. Holcomb and left it by his door, promptly at 6pm, as promised, then came back downstairs to eat. I found a festive tartan tablecloth and some tapered candles with accompanying pewter candle holders on the bottom shelf of the pantry. “It’s just you and me, Jones,” I said to the cat, “might as well make the most of it!” I spooned a bit of custard onto a plate for him. His golden eyes glowed with gratitude as he lapped it up.
We finished dinner and I tidied the kitchen, then wandered aimlessly about the flat, eventually landing in the reading room. I perused the books housed on the multitude of shelves, and finally chose Alice in Wonderland. I plopped myself in the leather chair stationed in front of the massive oak desk in the center of the room and lost myself down the rabbit hole alongside Alice for a couple of hours. Eventually, I tore myself away from the pages to give my eyes a break. I set the book down on the desktop and pushed the chair back slightly to take a look at the drawers. The top drawer had a keyhole, which of course made me desperately want to open it. I scoured the items strewn on top of the desk and eventually found a small key with a black satin ribbon tied in a bow around the top of it. I turned the key in the lock and heard the satisfying click that meant my curiosity would soon be satiated. Alas, behind the barrier of the lock, the drawer contained only an assortment of pens and blank notepads.
I moved onto the top right drawer and found a collection of folders detailing much of the history of the building including the original owners and a collection of past tenants. Fascinating! I had done so much reading already though, I decided to save this for the following day. I shifted to the left and pulled that top drawer open. At first, I thought it was empty, but just as I was about to close it, I noticed there was a black folder laying on the very bottom, almost imperceptible. The folder was wedged so tightly into the bottom of the drawer I had to use my thumbnail to pry it free. I didn’t immediately realise it, but the mystery I was about to discover would call into question everything I thought I knew about Mr. Holcomb and the twins.
I lifted the folder out of the drawer and a series of newspaper clippings fell out onto the desk. I turned on the antique desk lamp, picked up one of the clippings, and held it under the light to get a better look. “Young Salesman From Edgewick Goes Missing” read the headline. Despite my tired eyes I dove in, completely enthralled by the mystery. It wasn’t long before my breath caught in my throat. The article went on to explain that a young man had gone missing after leaving for work the Tuesday morning prior. He was last seen dressed in a charcoal-coloured wool suit and carrying a brown satchel. His name? Russell James Holcomb.
I let the piece of paper fall from my hand to the surface of the hardwood desktop. I stared at the portrait of the young man; with a little imagination it wasn’t hard to see the resemblance with the old cloud-eyed man living upstairs. My brow knit as I tried to come to terms with this discovery. Mr. Holcomb had gone missing as a young man, was anyone aware of his whereabouts now? I sifted through the other newspaper clippings in search of answers. Most of them were from the same era as the first one, days to weeks after Mr. Holcomb first disappeared, but one of them stood out. It was written nearly a decade later and was part of a collection of stories about people who had mysteriously vanished without a trace, never to be seen or heard from again.
I had half a mind to march upstairs and ask Mr. Holcomb what this was all about, but it dawned on me then that perhaps he didn’t want to be found, perhaps he had good reason for never speaking up about his whereabouts. From the news articles it didn’t sound like he was the type to have done anything nefarious. I was desperately curious about his story but knew better than to go charging in asking questions. The grandfather clock in the corner struck twice, it was 2am already, and I had promised Mr. Holcomb I would join him for breakfast in a few hours. I wandered back into the living room and settled on the sofa with my trusty pile of blankets. Jones hopped onto the couch as well and curled up on top of my feet. I fell asleep to the steady rumble of his purring as the fire in the fireplace slowly waned to embers.
Thank you so much for listening, I truly hope you enjoyed this second installment of The Man with a Storm in His Eyes.
Be sure to check in next week for the next part of the story!
If you enjoyed this episode, please consider leaving a rating or a review, they are both greatly appreciated. You can also support my work by subscribing to Patreon. Patreon supporters get early access to ad-free podcast episodes, digital downloads of my music, and so much more. It’s the first place I share my creations. However, if you prefer not to subscribe, but would like to make a one-time contribution, you can do so via your podcast platform. Any and all financial support is greatly appreciated.
Once again, thank you for listening – I’m Melissa Oliveri, writer, composer, and producer of The Skylark Bell Podcast.
The Man with a Storm in His Eyes – Volume 1
Happy holidays dear listeners. I know it’s been some time since I released a new episode of The Skylark Bell, but I believe you’ll feel it was worth the wait as you listen to what I have in store for you over the next few weeks.
Over Thanksgiving I spent a few days house- and cat-sitting for a friend. The moment I met Russell the cat I was completely charmed by the milky cloudiness of his eyes. What fascinated me most was that he appeared to be able to see just fine... to the point where sometimes he appeared to be seeing things that I myself couldn’t see. I found myself inspired and fully credit Russell with breaking through my writer’s block.
And so begins the first of 4 installments of what was supposed to be a short story, but ended up being much longer, and far more meaningful than I could ever have imagined.
NOTE - This story is available in written form in its entirety exclusively to Patreon Supporters, visit the link below to join.
Contact: [email protected]
The Skylark Bell official website - http://www.theskylarkbell.com
The Skylark Bell on Instagram: @theskylarkbell
Author/Producer: Melissa Oliveri - http://www.melissaoliveri.com
Join Melissa's Patreon for early access to podcast episodes, music downloads, and more: http://www.patreon.com/melissaoliveri
All music by Cannelle: http://www.cannellemusic.com
Cannelle on Instagram: @cannelle.music
FULL TRANSCRIPT
Things with Wings Productions presents: The Man with a Storm in His Eyes - A Skylark Special Miniseries written exclusively for The Skylark Bell podcast. I am your host, Melissa Oliveri.
Happy holidays dear listeners. I know it’s been some time since I released a new episode of The Skylark Bell, but I believe you’ll feel it was worth the wait as you listen to what I have in store for you over the next few weeks.
Over Thanksgiving I spent a few days house- and cat-sitting for a friend. The moment I met Russell the cat I was completely charmed by the milky cloudiness of his eyes. What fascinated me most was that he appeared to be able to see just fine... to the point where sometimes he appeared to be seeing things that I myself couldn’t see. I found myself inspired and fully credit Russell with breaking through my writer’s block.
And so begins the first of 4 installments of what was supposed to be a short story, but ended up being much longer, and far more meaningful than I could ever have imagined.
So, dear friends, it is my pleasure to suggest that you get settled in… grab a blanket, and a warm drink… because we’re getting started.
I was standing on the brink of the holiday season with nothing but my own company to look forward to. Off work, no family or friends to visit, not enough money to whisk myself away from my mundane life... things were looking rather bleak. Then I saw the advertisement in my town newspaper: “In search of responsible adult to assist elderly man Dec 22nd-27th”. I stared at the phone number on the listing, and let the scenario run through my head: Christmas with a stranger... what could go wrong?! I laughed out loud, then dialed the number. I had nothing to lose... or so I thought.
A pleasant woman answered the phone with a jovial, “This is Florence!”
“Hello Florence, my name is Marie. I saw your advertisement in the paper looking for someone to help with an elderly man over the holidays...” My voice sounded insecure; I wasn’t entirely sure I’d dialed the right number.
“Ah, yes...” Florence’s voice took on a more somber tone. “Our upstairs tenant is quite elderly, my sister and I check in on him daily to help with tidying up and cooking, but we’re going out of town for the holidays and don’t feel comfortable leaving him alone.”
“I see...” I replied, curious about the dynamics of the two sisters and the old man living upstairs. “Are you looking for someone to visit a couple of times a day or...”
Florence cut in, “Well, ideally, we’d love to find someone to stay overnight in our flat to keep an eye on things and assist our tenant when necessary. Unfortunately, we can’t offer much in the way of financial compensation, but you could help yourself to anything in the fridge or pantry, both are well-stocked, and we have plenty of books and movies to entertain you.” She paused then, leaving the static air between us hanging for a moment before tentatively carrying on. “If that sounds agreeable, perhaps we could meet tomorrow for introductions?”
I thought it was strange she didn’t ask me for any references and that she was so quickly and easily willing to hand over access to both her home and the well-being of an elderly man to a complete stranger. Lucky for her, I was a kind, honest, trustworthy person. We agreed to meet at her flat for lunch the next day, the address was less than a mile from my apartment, very convenient if I needed to zip home for anything.
I easily found the 2-storey row house at the end of a cul-de-sac after following a long stretch of nearly identical brown brick buildings down a hill. My mother had always insisted I should never go to anyone’s home without bringing a token of appreciation, so I shifted the bag of pastries I had brought into my left hand and used my free hand to tap the door knocker against the heavy wooden door. I heard the sound reverberate on the other side, followed by a quick succession of echoing footsteps. A moment later I was standing in a long dim hallway with a petite woman who appeared to be in her 70s. Her appearance was quite striking; dressed all in black with chalky white makeup on her face and garish red lipstick swiped across her mouth like a child’s crayon mark on a blank page.
“Hello, you must be Florence?” I asked, noting that she hadn’t said a word of welcome to me after opening the door. Her irises and pupils were almost the same colour, making her eyes, which were fixated on me, look like two dark, bottomless pools. This, coupled with her completely static facial expression began to make me squirm. I shifted nervously from one foot to the other waiting for her to say something.
“This is my sister Winifred, she doesn’t speak much,” came a voice from the room to my left. My gaze quickly shifted to the doorway where a woman, identical to the one standing next to me, but with a much warmer countenance and more relaxed clothing style, was standing in the doorframe wiping flour from her hands onto a maroon apron. “I am Florence,” she added with a warm smile that put me only slightly more at ease.
“I’m Marie, it’s lovely to meet you both... Oh, these are for you,” I said, awkwardly handing the bag of pastries to Winifred. The entire situation, identical twins, one apparently mute and very inept at applying makeup, an elderly man upstairs... it was all quite bizarre, and I began to question why I ever thought this would be a good idea. Winifred sniffled in acknowledgment then shuffled away, disappearing into the shadows of the endless hallway.
“Why don’t we begin by going upstairs to meet Mr. Holcomb,” suggested Florence, gently but purposefully laying a guiding hand on my shoulder and turning me toward a doorway to our left. We walked down a short hallway to a narrow set of wooden stairs leading up to an even narrower door with a brass number 7 hanging on it slightly askew. Florence marched up the stairs ahead of me, the ribbon of her apron bouncing back and forth as she made her way up. I followed closely, preferring the creepy narrow stairs to the company of her creepy sister Winifred.
“Mr. Holcomb? It’s Florence, I’ve got the caregiver here with me,” shouted Florence through the door. Caregiver? I was surprised to hear her coin the term as I had never insinuated I had any kind of caregiving experience. We waited a moment, Florence on the tiny landing and me a couple of stairs below her. Slow, shuffling footsteps grew louder on the other side of the door and the sound of the bolt slipping out of its casing echoed down the stairs behind me. The door creaked loudly as it was pulled open, and Florence walked through. I came up the last few steps and stepped into the flat. The man was already several steps ahead, his back to me as he walked toward the back of the apartment.
Florence and I followed him, she more at ease than I by a long shot. The hallway was lined with mirrors streaked with gold, like something straight out of the 1960s. I peered into the adjacent rooms, and each one also appeared frozen in a similar era. We finally arrived at a small kitchen, bright sunlight pouring in through the small window above the sink. It was only then that I realised every other room I had seen had the curtains drawn and was bathed in darkness. The man finally turned to face me, and the sharp intake of my breath caused Florence to put a hand on my arm.
“Mr. Holcomb can see much more clearly than his appearance would suggest,” she leaned in to whisper in my ear.
“My hearing is quite stellar as well,” said the man, with no hint of banter in his voice.
I stood transfixed. The man’s eyes were unlike anything I’d ever seen before. When I was young our family dog’s eyes had become milky as it grew older, but this was something entirely different. The clouds in his eyes weren’t static but rolling, like an impending storm, a mixture of white, grey, and charcoal.
I shook my head and cleared my throat. “It’s lovely to meet you Mr. Holcomb, my name is Marie. It sounds like we’re going to be spending the holidays together!” The words were strung together as though someone else was speaking them, the voice coming out of my throat unrecognizable to me. I couldn’t believe I was listening to myself agree to stay in a strange building owned by strange sisters to look after a strange man. It felt like I had no control over my body or my mind in that moment.
Somehow or other, arrangements were made. It was like an out of body experience, and before I knew it December 22ndarrived and I found myself standing in front of 51 Dimly Court with an antique key in my hand that had been slipped into my postbox by Florence the day before along with instructions on how to ensure the furnace was running, how to use the antique stove, and how to reach her in case of emergency. Scribbled in a shaky hand at the bottom of the note, as though added in haste, were words that left me perplexed: “Do not drink the tea in the canisters above the cookbooks.” It must have been a collection of very rare, expensive teas for it to be their only rule! I decided then and there I would have a cup before my stay was over.
I let myself into the flat and slowly made the rounds, exploring every room. Each one was filled top to bottom with knick-knacks and antique furniture. Cluttered didn’t even begin to describe it. I could tell which space belonged to which sister. The tell-tale sign in Winifred’s room was the dusty black swath of lacey fabric draped across the top of her four-poster bed. Florence’s room on the other hand featured a vintage floral bedspread with matching curtains. I had already decided to simply sleep on the couch, a luxury I could afford at my age without having to concern myself with stiff joints or a sore back. I found the bathroom and kitchen, and immediately thought of the tea. My eyes scanned the space, and I saw a shelf lined with cookbooks on the far wall. Above it was another smaller shelf with a set of 3 glass cannisters each filled with loose-leaf teas: One gold, one black, and one purple. Bingo! I reached up to grab the gold canister, but just as my fingers closed around it, I was startled by a crash above my head.
My heart raced as I scurried down the hall, through the doorway, and up the narrow stairs to Mr. Holcomb’s flat. I knocked on the door and shouted “Mr. Holcomb? It’s Marie, is everything alright?” I stood nervously listening to the wave of silence behind the door, and almost fell backwards down the stairs when it suddenly creaked open. Mr. Holcomb’s silhouette blocked what little light was emanating from the kitchen at the end of the hall. “I- I heard a loud crash, is everything okay?” I asked in a shaky voice.
Mr. Holcomb nodded and motioned for me to come in. “Yes, I do apologise, I’m afraid I sent a houseplant crashing to the floor. Sometimes the greenery and I have disagreements,” said the old man. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking about arguing with houseplants, his face seemed to remain expressionless much of the time, but I was surprised by his offer to make me some tea, and by the warmth of his tone, as he hadn’t been all that friendly when I’d first met him. I nodded and followed him to the kitchen where he set about preparing tea and a plate of biscuits. “If I may ask, Mr. Holcomb, what sorts of tasks does Florence help you with? She wasn’t very specific if I’m being honest...” He was sitting across the table from me, and I was finding it rather difficult to focus with those rolling storm cloud eyes of his, but decided to simply look at his forehead instead and hoped he wouldn’t notice.
“The truth is Miss, I don’t need help with anything at all, but I know it pleases Florence to visit, makes her feel useful. Did she mention she was a nurse during the war? She and her sister both, but that was before we met...” he said. We carried on chatting, and I found myself surprised at how easy it was to converse with him. By the time we were done I hardly even noticed his unusual eyes and was happy I had taken on the job after all. Little did I know...
The next couple of days were uneventful. I spent much of my time reading, napping, and visiting with Mr. Holcomb. He insisted on making us Christmas Eve dinner and handed me a shopping list of ingredients in preparation. Not wanting to arrive empty-handed, I also grabbed ingredients to make dessert. I spent most of Christmas Eve sorting out the antique oven, and somehow managed to bake up a decent batch of shortbread. It was my Nan’s recipe and I had made it so often I had it memorised. We sat down to a traditional holiday meal and chatted back and forth.
I was hoping Mr. Holcomb would touch on how his cloud eyes came to be, but he never broached the subject, and I didn’t dare inquire about it. He mentioned being sent to war, but strayed from providing any details of his experience, instead speaking of the bravery and brilliance of Florence and Winifred who saved countless lives with very little means as nurses in the war zone. He talked about his childhood Christmases in the poverty-stricken area of the city, and how his mother once saved all the money she could to buy him and his brother each an orange and a mincemeat pie the Christmas after their father had passed away. His stories were like relics of a time gone by, and I soaked them in like a sponge, leaning in to gaze upon every crevice on his weathered face, and eventually getting lost in the swirling mist of his eyes.
The conversation flowed naturally, easily, and I found myself rather enjoying Mr. Holcomb’s company, but as the night wore on, I noticed he began to shift in his seat and appeared to grow increasingly uncomfortable. Before I knew it the antique clock in the next room was chiming midnight. Almost simultaneously, a roll of thunder rattled the windows of the tiny kitchen.
“Oh, dear...” Mr. Holcomb turned toward the window. “It’s best that you go,” he said, turning back toward me. There was an expression on his face that I couldn’t read, and the clouds in his eyes began to roll, not unlike the low-lying swirl of an incoming fog, except they were the colour of slate.
“Yes, it is late. Time flies!” I said a little too loudly, suddenly uncomfortable myself. I began to gather up the dishes as a distraction.
“Never mind that, you need to go,” commanded Mr. Holcomb again, this time with a sharper tone. He abruptly rose from his chair and disappeared down the hall.
I quickly placed the dishes on the counter and scrambled after him, but he had already vanished. I tentatively peered into the first room off the hallway. “Mr. Holcomb?” I spoke into the darkness of the room. My eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light, and I saw the room was empty. I could make out a set of built-in bookshelves and large oak desk with a worn brown satchel sat atop it. I took a few steps into the room and noticed a collection of picture frames on the wall, and a certificate awarded to Russell J. Holcomb, but I couldn’t see what it was for.
Through the doorway at the opposite end of the office I saw Mr. Holcomb in the room across the hall. He was seated in a brown leather wing-back chair, the kind with brass studs around the edges. The sight of him made my breath catch in my throat; he was wearing a blindfold and sitting rod-straight and perfectly still, his lips pressed tightly together in concentration. I opened my mouth to ask if he was alright but was cut off by a monstrous clap of thunder and subsequent flickering of the apartment lights. I stood in the hallway, transfixed, like my feet were glued to the floor. Out of nowhere I heard the front door to Mr. Holcomb’s flat creak open of its own accord. That did it, I felt my fear take over the mechanics of my body, and quickly scurried toward it.
Just as I was about to exit, the phone on the narrow table by the door began to ring. I stopped to stare at it, unsure what to do. I looked down the hall, but didn’t dare approach Mr. Holcomb, blindfolded and unresponsive in his chair. I tentatively reached down to grab the receiver, it was an old-style phone with a curvy silhouette and a turn-dial. I put the phone to my ear and heard a voice come through the static on the other end. It sounded like Florence, but with a deadpan, monotonous tone. “Go back... ...stairs... ...and... ...door.”
“Errrmm... I’m having trouble hearing you, would you mind repeating?” I hoped my voice carried through the receiver, but I was shaking so much it wasn’t quite lined up with my mouth anymore.
“Go downstairs... lock... door... ...should’ve warned y-”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the shadow of a hand slam down onto the top of the phone, effectively disconnecting the call. I didn’t wait to see who or what it was, turned on my heels and raced down the narrow stairs to the sisters’ flat, closing and locking the door in one swift move. I leaned my back against the door to catch my breath, and only then did it dawn on me whose voice it was on the other end of the line... It had sounded like Florence, but darker... it had to be Winifred! But... what was she going on about?
I eventually gathered my wits about me and made my way to the sofa. I made a fire in the fireplace, letting its warmth, light, and gentle crackling sounds calm my nerves. I piled a few blankets on top of me and lay staring at the ceiling, wondering what on earth was going on in the flat upstairs. Winifred’s voice echoed in my head as I drifted off to sleep: “Should’ve warned you...”
Thank you so much for listening, I truly hope you enjoyed the first installment of The Man with a Storm in His Eyes.
Be sure to check in next week for the next part of the story!
If you enjoyed this episode, please consider leaving a rating or a review, they are both greatly appreciated. You can also support my work by subscribing to Patreon. Patreon supporters get early access to ad-free podcast episodes, digital downloads of my music, and so much more. It’s the first place I share my creations. However, if you prefer not to subscribe, but would like to make a one-time contribution, you can do so via your podcast platform. Any and all financial support is greatly appreciated.
Once again, thank you for listening – I’m Melissa Oliveri, writer, composer, and producer of The Skylark Bell Podcast.
Today's episode was created as part of a collaboration with the Boopod network of true crime and paranormal podcasts. In it, we explore a deep, dark tale pulled from the folklore of my native French Canada: La Corriveau, a favourite of Ranconteurs in Quebec’s oral storytelling tradition.
Contact: [email protected]
The Skylark Bell official website - http://www.theskylarkbell.com
The Skylark Bell on Instagram: @theskylarkbell
Author/Producer: Melissa Oliveri - http://www.melissaoliveri.com
Join Melissa's Patreon for early access to podcast episodes, music downloads, and more: http://www.patreon.com/melissaoliveri
All music by Cannelle: http://www.cannellemusic.com
Cannelle on Instagram: @cannelle.music
STORY TRANSCRIPT:
Marie-Josephte Corriveau, later dubbed La Corriveau after her execution in 1763, is synonymous with tales of witchcraft and hauntings in French Canadian folklore. Stories of La Corriveau terrorizing visitors to the area of Old Quebec where her body was hanged in a metal cage have been told for centuries, and persist to this day in the minds of many Quebecers.
The discovery of her cage in 1851 at a local church cemetery revived people’s imaginations and inspired stories that appeared in several print books, both as novels and as part of short story collections at the time. Since then, the character of La Corriveau has appeared in songs, films, theater productions, and artwork such as sculptures and paintings.
In the oral storytelling tradition of Quebec La Corriveau has been depicted as a murderous witch who killed up to 7 husbands. In more modern times, starting in the 1960s and 70s, with both the feminist movement and the Quebec Nationalist movement, Marie-Josephte Corriveau became both a symbol of English Oppression and a victim of a Patriarchal Society.
THE FACTS
Born in 1733, Marie-Josephte Corriveau had 10 siblings, all of whom died at a young age. She married a man named Charles Bouchard at age 16 and had 3 children before becoming a widow 11 years later. Just over 1 year after Charles’ death, she remarried. Her second husband, Etienne Dodier, was found dead in his barn a year and a half later, with extensive injuries to the head. Initially, it was concluded the injuries he sustained were from a horse’s hooves, but suspicion and rumours of homicide quickly spread through town due in part to Mr Dodier being at odds with both his father-in-law and his wife.
At this point in history, Quebec was known as New France, and had recently fallen under British rule. Upon hearing the rumours, the British Military, who was in charge of maintaining order, opened an investigation into Dodier’s death. At the conclusion of this investigation, Marie-Josephte Corriveau and her father Joseph are arrested. They are brought before a military tribunal composed of 12 English officers and presided over by Lieutenant-Colonel Roger Morris. The court finds Joseph Corriveau guilty of murder and condemns him to death, while Marie-Josephte is found guilty of being an accomplice and condemned to 60 lashes and having the letter M branded onto her hand.
On the eve of his execution, Marie-Josephte’s father allegedly confessed to a priest that he was only an accomplice to the murder, and that his daughter was the actual perpetrator. Marie-Josephte Corriveau was brought back to court, where she confessed to killing her husband with an ax while he was sleeping due to his poor treatment of her and his abusive ways. The court found her guilty of murder and not only condemned her to death, but specified that after her execution her body should “Hang in Chains” – this was the actual verbiage used at the time. This punishment was new to the inhabitants of New France as it did not exist while the area was still under French rule. Joseph Corriveau, Marie-Josephte’s father, was retried, found not guilty, and released.
Marie-Josephte Corriveau was executed on the grounds where the Quebec Parliament now stands near the Plains of Abraham, the battlefield where the French lost to the British. Her body was placed in a metal cage and put on public exhibit for 5 weeks after which a British commander gave the order for her body to be taken down and buried “wherever they see fit” was the quote.
THE LORE
Marie-Josephte Corriveau was one of the first people in New France to have their body exhibited in a metal cage. This lit the imaginations of the population which spun legends that have lived on ever since in Quebec’s oral storytelling tradition. The trouble with oral storytelling, though, is that it turns into a game of telephone, and over the years La Corriveau’s body count went from one husband to seven, and her character went from being a simple murderess to an evil witch with supernatural powers.
The discovery of the cage that had contained her body in a local cemetery in 1851 sparked newfound interest in her story and reactivated the legends and lore surrounding it. Authors created fictionalized accounts of a supernatural Corriveau hanging in her cage, terrorizing passersby as she pleaded with them to take her to a witch’s den on the neighbouring Island of Orleans. She was also depicted as having a deep knowledge of poisons, and was rumoured to be a direct descendand of Catherine DesHayes – better known as La Voisine – an infamous serial killer in France in the mid-1600s.
It was rumoured that La Corriveau had also killed her first husband by pouring molten lead into his ear while he slept. She was said to have been a very jealous woman and found her husband to be too much of a libertine, and so doled out her punishment. She was depicted as a psychopath and said to be without feeling or remorse when, first, her father was prepared to take the fall for the murder of her 2nd husband, and eventually when she herself was found guilty of his murder.
As the legend goes, La Corriveau, from the very first night her body was put on exhibit, would leave her cage and follow passersby. Other iterations suggest she would visit a nearby cemetery to feast on freshly buried bodies. It was also rumoured that anyone who passed by her cage and stopped to gawk would then be cursed with either accidents, psychotic breakdowns, or death.
Accounts from local inhabitants tell stories of hearing a woman screaming, as if being tortured, along with the terrible, macabre sound of iron creaking, even long after the cage had been taken down and buried.
THE CAGE
Upon its re-discovery in 1851, La Corriveau’s cage was exhibited in Montreal, Quebec City, and even on Broadway in New York City where it was purchased by non-other than PT Barnum. Damaged in a fire at Barnum’s American Museum, the cage made its way to the Boston Art Museum via an associate of Barnum’s named Moses Kimball. Upon Kimball’s death in 1899, the cage was donated to a Museum in Salem, Massachusetts. It wasn’t until 2013 that the cage was rediscovered and finally returned home to Quebec when it was acquired by the Quebec Museum of Civilization. It is still stored there today in a controlled environment to prevent its decay, and is occasionally put on display for the public.
Perhaps, in those times, La Corriveau, once again put on public exhibit, comes out of hiding to follow an unsuspecting visitor who has lingered and stared just a little too long for her liking...
Welcome to Spooky Season, the most wonderful time of the year when all things ghost and unexplained take a front row seat. In today’s Skylark Special episode, we’ll hear the eerie tale of The Cemetery Ghost, in which our listener had an uncanny experience at a nearby cemetery that not only scared her, but also the friend she was communicating with at the time.
So, get settled in… grab a blanket, and a warm drink… and let’s get started.
Contact: [email protected]
The Skylark Bell official website - http://www.theskylarkbell.com
The Skylark Bell on Instagram: @theskylarkbell
Author/Producer: Melissa Oliveri - http://www.melissaoliveri.com
Join Melissa's Patreon for early access to podcast episodes, music downloads, and more: http://www.patreon.com/melissaoliveri
All music by Cannelle: http://www.cannellemusic.com
Cannelle on Instagram: @cannelle.music
STORY TRANSCRIPT:
It was a picture-perfect summer morning; slightly cool, lovely breeze, bright sunshine... nothing to indicate what was to come.
I had been taking daily morning walks for several weeks and was tiring of the same scenery, so on a whim decided to visit the large cemetery a short drive from my house. I had heard it was a lovely place with miles of walking paths, mature trees, sculptures, statues, and a lake, and thought it would make a good change of pace. The cemetery is a prestigious place to spend the afterlife and boasts the graves of several local people of note including internationally successful businessmen and politicians.
I parked my car by the side of the path, not far from the entrance so I could find my way out easily when it came time to leave. Just inside the wrought iron gates of the cemetery was the visitor center. Next to it was a large crematorium which spanned the length of 3 interconnected buildings, each surrounded by manicured gardens with fountains and impeccable landscaping.
Across from the crematorium, a few paces behind my parked car, was the chapel. The chapel featured a domed roof and ornate tile work, it was absolutely beautiful, a true work of art.
As I was exiting my car a friend pinged me with a good morning note. I replied, explaining where I was, as we both share a deep love of cemeteries and nature. We began messaging back and forth and I spontaneously filmed a quick video of the chapel to send to them. I then turned and began walking in the general direction of the lake, as that was the portion of the cemetery, I was most interested in.
As I was making my way down the path, I continued to share photos and videos of the area with my friend. They marveled at how expansive the cemetery was, and how beautiful the mature trees and landscaping were. I eventually came around a bend in the path and saw the lake in the distance. The cemetery was rather hilly, and downhill from the path I was on was a separate path that made its way around the lake. The quickest way to get to the lake path was to cut through the section of gravestones in between the upper path which I was on, and the lower path. I eyed a tentative trail between the graves, some perpendicular to the ground, others flat stones, some of which were slightly overgrown and difficult to see. I then snapped a quick photo of the lake in the distance to send to my friend.
The moment my foot touched the grass I felt them. It was instantaneous. The feeling is hard to describe. I’ve felt it before, it’s familiar to me... I can absolutely distinguish it from simple daydreaming or an overactive imagination. It’s a very physical sensation, an instant tightening of the stomach. Next is the instant “knowing” – again, hard to explain. I’ll just know that the entity near me is from a certain era, or is a certain gender, sometimes I’ll sense what they’re wearing, on rare occasions I’ll know an age, or a name, or a profession, or even get a sense of their personality. In the past some of these experiences have later been confirmed with facts, it’s incredibly strange and creepy...
This time, I felt a crowd. It’s challenging to explain how this works, because I myself don’t understand it all that well, and I have no control over it. I suddenly just knew there was a crowd of people surrounding me. I would compare it to walking into a crowded restaurant and hearing loud chatter without being able to distinguish words, except instead of sound, it was the vague, silent presence of several people. It felt like they were rushing in to see who this stranger was in their midst. I didn’t feel threatened whatsoever, but I definitely felt uncomfortable, so I walked faster.
I quickly wound my way between the graves to the path below, then started filming as I walked across another small stretch of grass to the lake so I could show my friend. The tightening in my stomach continued to linger. I made brief mention of what had just happened in my video, and that the feeling seemed to be staying with me in the pit of my stomach. A few deep breaths later and a few feet farther down the path the feeling finally began to ease up... but something lingered in mind. A woman.
I walked around the entire lake, marveling at the wildlife; the cormorant lifting off the surface of the water, and the heron soaring overhead. I stood under the expanse of two large willow trees whose low-hanging branches dipped into the water, all the time sharing photos, videos, and messages back and forth with my friend who was thoroughly enjoying the virtual visit.
I made my way around the lake and returned to the bottom of the hill I had walked down earlier. This time, I began filming a video as I made my way back up the hill to the path that would take me to my car. I could feel the woman’s presence getting stronger as I neared the rows of gravestones that lay flat on the ground. As I walked past one row in particular the sensation became very strong, and I turned back to revisit the specific spot. I would compare this feeling to hearing a high-pitched noise and trying to pinpoint where it’s coming, except instead of sound it’s emotion. Another thing that happens to me besides suddenly “knowing” things, is suddenly “feeling” things... often emotions that aren’t my own. This is without out a doubt the most challenging part of these experiences.
As I neared a collection of gravestones the feeling became overwhelming, like a sound becoming too loud... The woman was incredibly upset, devastated, agitated... I felt a terrible weight fall on my shoulders, a heaviness settle into my body, and had to step away. If I’d stayed longer, perhaps I would have been able to get a name, or an era, or some kind of identifying information... but the weight of her emotions became unbearable, so I had to walk away and leave her behind. Thankfully, after taking a few paces up the hill I felt the strength of the emotion coming from her begin to wane. I ended the video and sent it to my friend.
I got back on the upper path and felt renewed energy now that the heaviness of the woman had lifted, so I decided to go the opposite direction from my car and visit other parts of the cemetery. I walked for some time, continuously taking photos and videos to share with my friend. I noticed a message from them asking if I was okay, and replied that yes I was fine, and told them that the eerie feeling brought on by my encounter with the woman had passed.
I proceeded to walk among many more gravestones and felt nothing out of the ordinary anywhere else in the cemetery or during the course of my walk.
As I was making my way back to my car, I saw another message from my friend saying they were scared. I asked why they were scared and reassured them the experience I had was very brief and had ended about half an hour ago, and that I was completely fine. I filmed one last video of the crematorium gardens next to my parked car and sent it off to my friend with a note saying I was leaving the cemetery and would continue our chat when I got to my next stop.
I drove about 3 minutes to a nearby lake and parked my car on a side street. It was here, while still sitting in my car, that I noticed my friend was only just now reading my messages. I scrolled up and saw they had actually left several panicked messages asking if I was okay, if someone else was there, telling me they were scared... I quickly sent a new message asking if they’d received all the photos and videos I’d sent. They replied they had received everything up until the video where I encountered the woman, then the conversation went radio silent, with no other messages going through for over 30 minutes.
Needless to say, my friend had gotten worked up into quite a state of worry and was pondering whether they should send someone out to look for me. They would have found me happily traipsing through the sunny cemetery snapping photos and videos, completely oblivious to the terrifying feeling of helplessness my friend was experiencing at the other end of the chat.
At first, I thought perhaps I had walked into a part of the cemetery with poor cell reception... but then I remembered that when I first arrived at the cemetery, I had sent a video of the chapel to my friend after I parked my car, and that video and accompanying message had gone through just fine. The last video I sent was also filmed next to my parked car... cell service that had been sufficient to send my first video should have ensured the last one would go out as well... but nothing went through until I’d exited the cemetery gates.
While I was parked nearby the name Hannah came spontaneously into my head. I made mention of it to my friend, then slowly made my way home.
Exactly one week later I returned to the cemetery to see if I could replicate the experience. I walked down the grassy hill, not exactly sure of where I had felt the woman, feeling only slightly nervous but nothing more. I stopped at a row of flat grave markers... but it didn’t feel right. I carried on and as I approached the next row, I knew I was in the right place. I began slowly walking down the row, looking at the different gravestones, and one in particular caused that same strange tightness in my stomach... I had found her. Rose Shadbolt. I continued to walk down the row to test my theory, and sure enough the feeling immediately began to subside. I came back to Rose’s grave, and the feeling returned.
I went home and did some research. It took some doing because I didn’t know Rose’s maiden name... but I finally found both her and her husband. I immediately began looking for a connection to someone named Hannah, perhaps a daughter... The first thing that caught my eye was that Rose’s husband had a sister named Hannah. This seemed to fit, but for some reason I wasn’t quite satisfied, I kept digging. I felt like the Hannah connection had to be with Rose, since that’s who I tapped into at the cemetery... Then I saw Rose’s mother’s name, Johanna... Coincidence? Perhaps... but Hannah is not the most common name, what are the odds there would be two variations of it affiliated with the family?
I don’t know how to explain this... sensitivity... to things other people don’t see or feel. But I have noticed something about myself that may explain it on a small level. When I was crouched under the willow trees by the lake, I turned to look behind me because I felt something was nearby. It was a fly, landing on a leaf, several feet away. There was quite a bit of activity going on peripherally; airplanes overhead, people talking while doing landscape work, the wind in the trees, birds... amidst all that, I noticed the presence of a fly landing on a leaf several paces behind me. I believe, at its core, this ability, for lack of a better word, is simply hyper-awareness, to a degree that allows me to detect emotions, imprints, energy, sounds, movement, shifts, changes in air pressure, that others have no awareness of.
Many of the women on my mother’s side of the family seem to share this ability on some level, so perhaps there is a genetic predisposition to it. Whatever the case may be, I like to think that someday science will be able to provide an explanation, or at the very least a working theory. But, in the meantime, I will simply continue to share my world with people that others will never know are there...
Today we read the final chapter of the Skylark Trilogy, the epilogue to SkyeDive, in which we catch a glimpse of the world after the timeloops have been closed, and get a hint at who was truly pulling the strings all along.
Contact: [email protected]
The Skylark Bell on Instagram: @theskylarkbell
Author/Producer: Melissa Oliveri - http://www.melissaoliveri.com
Join Melissa's Patreon for early access to podcast episodes, music downloads, and more: http://www.patreon.com/melissaoliveri
All music by Cannelle: http://www.cannellemusic.com
Cannelle on Instagram: @cannelle.music
Official Merch Shops: http://www.melissaoliveri.com/store
The Skylark Bell is brought to you by: Phaeton Starling Publishing and Things with Wings Productions.
FULL TRANSCRIPT:
Things with Wings Productions presents: The Epilogue of The Skylark Bell, Skyedive. I am your host, Melissa Oliveri.
In last week’s episode Magpie found herself at a crtossroads in a place called Between, and made the choice to travel to what comes After the pivotal moment she jumped off the cliff to stop The Skylark Bell from creating hers and Farfalla’s time loops.
Today we read the final chapter of the Skylark Trilogy, the epilogue to SkyeDive, in which we catch a glimpse of the world after the timeloops have been closed, and get a hint at who was truly pulling the strings all along.
Before we dive into the story, I want to give a special mention to my dear friend Amy, without who this podcast, and the last two books in the Skylark Trilogy, wouldn’t exist. Amy is the one who sparked me into releasing a story I had shelved for the better part of a decade, as a podcast. She lit a spark that turned into a roaring fire in the form of 2 additional novels. From the bottom of my heart, thank you Amy for this incredible adventure.
Just like Magpie, I don’t know what comes After, but my hope is that it involves publishing The Skylark Trilogy in print, digitial, and audiobook format, so you can enjoy the full story without interruption and at your own pace. I am also working on a brand new book, which may turn into a series, called The Tales of Ledia Roy, that I am very excited to share with you. All these projects take a lot of time, effort and funds. If you are able to support me either through a donation, or by subscribing to Pareon or Ko-Fi, know that every penny will go directly toward moving this and future creative projects forward. I am excited for all of us to discover what lies ahead – in the After.
Now, for the last time in the Skylark universe, it’s time to get settled in… grab a blanket, and a warm drink… and let’s get started.
“Phew, I think this is the last one!” says Mrs. Phaeton, setting a large box on the dining room table.
“We did it!” says Magpie, her bright blue eyes twinkling and a proud, excited grin on her face. She looks around the main floor of the house, taking in the vintage wallpaper, the wooden beams on the ceiling that support the second floor, and the old stone fireplace. She sets down her box next to her mother’s and walks over to the fireplace to take a closer look at a framed photograph on the mantel. “Is this Great-Great-Grandmother Farfalla?” she asks, pointing at the photo.
Mrs. Phaeton walks over with a glass of water and hands it to Magpie before squinting at the photograph. “Indeed, I believe it is! And that is her husband, James, standing next to her, and the little girl at their feet would be my grandmother Elisabeth!”
“Isn’t it amazing that our family has such a rich history with this place?” breathes Magpie.
Mrs. Phaeton wraps her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “So, I’ve been thinking about a name...” she begins. Magpie turns around, a look of doubt on her face. In the past, her mother has thrown out some rather... unconventional... ideas to say the least. “It came to me in a dream, believe it or not!” she laughs, “Okay, ready?” she asks. Magpie nods and rolls her forearms one over the other to indicate she is ready for her mother to get to the point. “Drumroll please....” Mrs. Phaeton pats her palms against her thighs “How about, The Lark and Bell Artist’s Retreat?!”
Magpie’s brow furrows. Why does the name sound so familiar?
“You don’t like it,” says her mother, unable to hide the disappointment in her voice.
“No, I love it, mom! It’s perfect,” replies Magpie, hugging her mom. A sudden knock at the door startles them both. “I’ll get it,” says Magpie, “You see if you can find some dishes and napkins.”
Magpie opens the massive wood door. Behind it stands a boy about her age. He’s somewhat shyly holding his hands behind his back. “Hi, I’m Lucas,” he begins, “I live across the road with my grandmother. She asked me to bring you these and wants to know if you need anything,” he says, handing Magpie a box wrapped with a purple ribbon.
Magpie takes the package and motions for Lucas to come in. She places the box on the counter and gently unties the ribbon. Inside she finds a few jars of blackberry jam, a hand-knitted blanket, some cookies, and a book wrapped in tissue paper. She gently releases the book from its wrapping and reads the title: The Skye Lark Belle. An inexplicable shiver runs down Magpie’s spine, and she does her best to shake it off before turning back to the boy.
“My grandmother says Farfalla gave it to her years ago when she was young. Farfalla said it was her favourite book growing up. Grandma said she felt like you should have it,” explains Lucas.
“What is it about?” she asks, her curiosity piqued.
“Here’s some money, why don’t you go find us some supper?” interrupts Mrs. Phaeton as she walks in from the kitchen.
“Mom, this is our neighbour, Lucas. He and his grandmother live across the road, and he brought us a welcome gift,” explains Magpie.
“How kind! Thank you, and it’s lovely to meet you,” says Mrs. Phaeton. “I’d better get back to work, I’ve unpacked four boxes and so far the most useful thing I’ve found is a spatula!”
“Well, I’ve been assigned a mission. Which restaurant in town would you recommend?” asks Magpie, turning back to Lucas.
At this, a smile teases the corner of Lucas’ mouth. “There’s only one restaurant in town, it’s called The Early Bird, but if you want something from there, we’d better hurry, they close in an hour. I’ll tell you the story of The Skye Lark Belle along the way,” he says, turning toward the door.
Magpie shouts goodbye to her mother and she and Lucas step outside into the warm evening air. The orange glow of the setting sun wraps itself around them. Lucas turns to look at Magpie as they amble down the main road, gravel crunching under their feet. “So, The Skye Lark Belle had red hair and blue eyes, just like you,” he begins, “they say she had a beautiful voice that could calm even the most frightened child, almost like she could hypnotize them. No one is quite sure how she arrived in their village, but after she arrived, she never left and lived to the ripe old age of 105!”
“That’s amazing!” breathes Magpie.
“After she died, the villagers decided to honour her memory by holding an annual festival and crowning a new Skye Lark Belle each year. Some say the original Skye Lark Belle was a mystical creature, that she came from the ocean, and that’s why she had such healing powers.”
“What an amazing story!” says Magpie, intrigued, “I can’t wait to read the book.”
Lucas glances at his watch and says, “Enough about that, it’s getting late, we’ve gotta fly!”
Magpie and Lucas keep chatting as they make their way down the gravel road toward town, leaving a cloud of dust trailing on the breeze behind them.
~~~~~~
Across the ocean, in the middle of a vast forest, an ancient oak tree reaches for the moody, grey sky. The wind picks up, blowing through its rusting leaves and causing them to spiral to the ground. A flock of birds lifts from its multitude of branches, forming a blanket of moving wings that temporarily blocks out the daylight before scattering off toward the ocean.
From deep within ground, at the tip of the tree’s roots, a melody begins to form. The sound travels upward through the oak’s trunk and out through the tips of its branches. It soars over the forest toward the fields, valleys, and mountains until it blankets the entire island. The melody stretches across the ocean like a hand reaching for something it desperately wants, crossing over the shore on the other side. Just as the sound is about to wrap itself around Magpie like fingers clutching a precious, coveted item, a woman with long silver hair steps forward to intervene.
She stoops down to place something at the base of the tree, then stands and lays her hand flat against its trunk. “You must be patient; it is not yet time...” she whispers, the blue streaks painted on her face moving with each word. The melody retreats, reluctantly retracting back across the ocean, through the branches, and down the trunk to the roots before dissipating back into the earth. “Don’t worry, her time will come,” adds the woman before vanishing into thin air, leaving her gift behind.
At the base of the tree sits a small silver bell, its outside etched with a spiral of skylarks swirling into infinity.
Thank you so much for listening. Sharing The Skylark Trilogy with you has been an incredible, inspiring adventure. It has given me the opportunity to connect with amazing, creative people and create both partnerships and friendships.
Thought the story of The Skylark Bell is over, I have many more stories to tell, and one of my favourite things in the world is working Easter Eggs into my work, so plan on hearing from some of the Skylark characters in future stories and books. There are several Easter Eggs hidden within The Skylark books themselves, I will share a document detailing them on my Patreon page.
Please consider following me on social media so we can stay in touch – I keep active accounts on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter, as well as occasional postings to TikTok – I would love to connect with you, and you can stay updated on what the future will bring to The Skylark Bell podcast.
The Skylark Bell has been brought to you by Phaeton Starling Publishing and features original music by Cannelle, which is my stage name. You can find all the music from the podcast on major streaming platforms and BandCamp, I’ll provide a lin in the show notes.
Creating and sharing The Skylark Bell trilogy has taken a lot of time, effort and funds. If you are able to support me either through a one-time donation, or by subscribing to Pareon or Ko-Fi, know that every penny will go directly toward moving this and future creative projects forward. Patreon and Ko-Fi subscribers get access to bonus and exclusive material, and will be the first to receive an complimentary copy of The Skylark Trilogy in Audiobook format once available.
Remember that leaving a rating and a review helps boost the The Skylark Bell’s visibility on podcast platforms, which allows others to discover the story – why not help share the joy?!
Lastly, if you’d like to sport some Skylark Bell merc, head over to my website, www.theskylarkbell.com – there you’ll find links to two print-on-demand sites with various designs that can be applied to everything from stickers, posters, clothing, mugs, notebooks and more.
I’ll be sure to include a list of all necessary links in the show notes.
Once again, thank you for listening – I’m Melissa Oliveri, writer, host and producer of The Skylark Bell Podcast, and I will be back very soon with more magical, mystical stories to share.
In today’s episode we read the chapter 39 – Nothing – in which Magpie finds herself at a crossroads.
This week's podcast partner is The Boopod Network of true crime and paranormal podcasts, which includes the following:
The Activity Continues: https://bit.ly/m/TACpod
The Nightcap Nebula: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-nightcap-nebula-podcast/id1672430903
The Paranormal Truth: https://linktr.ee/paranormalexposed
Mums, Mysteries, & Murder: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/mums-mysteries-murder/id1578866284
Generally Spooky: https://linktr.ee/generallyspooky
Shittin' Bricks: https://linktr.ee/shittinbricks
Horror Roulette: https://horrorroulette.com/
Certainly Strange: https://open.spotify.com/show/1stSYQC9Sqox9TwbU48Dof?si=ct4_QX_NQh6hHZHxZ9eyVA&utm_source=copy-link&nd=1
Haunted or Hoax: https://linktr.ee/HauntedorHoax
Spilling the Crime: https://linktr.ee/spillingthecrime
Murder Roadtrip: https://www.instagram.com/murderroadtrippod/
Dark Tales from the Road: https://linktr.ee/darktalesfromtheroad
The Skylark Bell: http://www.theskylarkbell.com
Contact: [email protected]
The Skylark Bell on Instagram: @theskylarkbell
Author/Producer: Melissa Oliveri - http://www.melissaoliveri.com
Join Melissa's Patreon for early access to podcast episodes, music downloads, and more: http://www.patreon.com/melissaoliveri
All music by Cannelle: http://www.cannellemusic.com
Cannelle on Instagram: @cannelle.music
Official Merch Shops: http://www.melissaoliveri.com/store
The Skylark Bell is brought to you by: Phaeton Starling Publishing and Things with Wings Productions.
FULL TRANSCRIPT:
Things with Wings Productions presents: Chapter 39 of The Skylark Bell, Skyedive. I am your host, Melissa Oliveri.
In last week’s episode Magpie stopped The Skylark Bell from causing the boating accident that set Farfalla’s time loop, and consequently Magpie’s, in motion.
In today’s episode we read the chapter 39 – Nothing – in which Magpie finds herself at a crossroads.
Today’s podcast partner is The Boopod Network – a collective of independent True Crime and paranormal podcasts which includes The Skylark Bell. There have been several fantastic collaborative projects featuring various members of the Boopod network over the past year or two, and each individual podcast is fantastic in its own right. Just check the show notes for links to podcast that are part of the Boopod Network, and be sure to give them a listen, you won’t regret it.
Now, it’s time to settle in… grab a blanket, and a warm drink… and let’s get started.
At first there was nothing.
I remember my thoughts swirling. Is nothing something? How can I have thoughts if there is nothing? Thoughts are something.
I could quickly feel myself losing my grip on reality when suddenly there was something. A spark. A flash of light. A reflection.
I turned my gaze to it, and gradually the light grew bright enough to illuminate the woman. She had long silver hair and was dressed in a somewhat shapeless white linen gown with colourful embroidery on it, birds and flowers and animals. I remember being fixated on the stitches, like focusing on them would help keep me grounded in this strange, frightening instance.
I looked down at her hand and found the source of the light to be the bell. The one I had grasped in mid-air as Farfalla hauled it off the edge of the cliff. So the bell still exists. That wasn’t part of the plan.
I glanced at our surroundings, but there was only darkness. Darkness as oppressive as the silence at Meadow Lane. Again, nothing. We were surrounded by nothing. Nothing but darkness. Perhaps darkness is something? The swirling thoughts again.
Finally, I chose to speak, my words echoing in the emptiness around us and cutting through the madness attempting to claim my mind.
“Where are we?” I asked the woman.
“We are in Between,” replied the woman, a slight smile on her face.
“In between what?” I asked her.
“In Between. Between everything and nothing, between fire and water, between earth and sky, sound and silence. Between the head and the tail of the Ouroboros,” she replied. “In every opposite, there is always a small sliver, a place called Between. Most people never succeed in finding it, but you have,” replies the woman.
“How do I go home?” I asked her, not entirely sure I’d grasped the full concept of what she had just told me.
At this the woman laughed quietly, “There is no home. There is no you or I in Between. Come, take my hand,” she added then, reaching her free hand out to me.
“Who are you?” I asked her, suspiciously.
“I am Cailleach, the keeper of Between. There are not many of us here. Farfalla joined us for a time... but, things have changed now,” she replied.
I hesitantly grabbed her hand, and we were instantly transported to a clearing surrounded by a mass of thick forest. In the center of the clearing was a large oak tree, taller and more massive than any tree I’d ever seen before. “This is Darragh,” the old woman said, laying her palm on the trunk of the tree. “Darragh has been here,” at this she waves her hand around to include the forest, the air, and the earth in her description of ‘here’, “longer than anyone or anything else. Darragh is the beginning, the end, and the in-between.”
At this point I had no idea where I was or what this woman was talking about, the entire experience felt dizzying, and I started to think perhaps I had simply fallen off the cliff and was in the process of having one last wild dream before dying.
“You did not die,” says the woman, as if reading my mind, “but you did not live, either.”
At this my head whipped up toward her. “What do you mean? Where am I?” I asked, my voice cracking with palpable fear.
“As I told you, you are in Between, and you have a choice to make. You can go to what was before, or you can go do what comes after. Or you can stay here in Between and experience it all...” says the woman.
I remember the precise moment realization hit me. I was standing at a crossroads, my path branching off into three. I could choose the Before, and go back to my time loop, to how things were, and repeat the lifetimes of losing Lucas. Or I could choose to stay in Between, trapped inside an oak tree like Farfalla; eternal, shifting back and forth through time, but living as only half a person, half a consciousness. Or I could choose the most frightening of all. The After. The Future. The unknown. Would I be dead? Would I be a baby again, born with a fresh start? Would I disappear altogether, no one remembering that ever existed? I had lived my lifetime so many times, I had grown accustomed to knowing what was to come. The thought of the unknown was the most terrifying thing I could think of.
“I want what comes after,” I said.
“Very well,” said Cailleach, smiling.
Thank you so much for listening. Join me next week for the final chapter of The Skylark Trilogy – and epilogue that will end all 3 books: Meadow Lane, Wingspan, and SkyeDive.
The Skylark Bell is brought to you by Phaeton Starling Publishing and features original music by Cannelle. If you are enjoying this story, please consider leaving a rating or a review, they are both greatly appreciated. You can also support my work by subscribing to Patreon or Ko-Fi, where you get early access to episodes as well as MP3 downloads of the music, artwork, behind the scenes videos and more! You can also find The Skylark Bell exclusive merch on my website, www.theskylarkbell.com. Just check the show notes for all necessary links.
Once again, thank you for listening – I’m Melissa Oliveri, writer, host and producer of The Skylark Bell Podcast.
In today’s episode we read the chapter 38 – Skye Dive – in which Magpie and Farfalla's plan is set in motion.
This week's podcast partner is Cozyland: http://www.cozylandpod.com
Contact: [email protected]
The Skylark Bell official website - http://www.theskylarkbell.com
The Skylark Bell on Instagram: @theskylarkbell
Author/Producer: Melissa Oliveri - http://www.melissaoliveri.com
Join Melissa's Patreon for early access to podcast episodes, music downloads, and more: http://www.patreon.com/melissaoliveri
All music by Cannelle: http://www.cannellemusic.com
Cannelle on Instagram: @cannelle.music
Official Merch Shops: http://www.melissaoliveri.com/store
The Skylark Bell is brought to you by: Phaeton Starling Publishing and Things with Wings Productions.
FULL TRANSCRIPT:
Things with Wings Productions presents: Chapter 38 of The Skylark Bell, Skyedive. I am your host, Melissa Oliveri.
In last week’s episode Magpie and Farfalla came face to face and devised a plan to end the time loops once and for all.
In today’s episode we read the chapter 38 – Skye Dive – in which their plan is set in motion.
Today’s podcast partner is Cozyland. Hosted by my dear friend Amy and me, Cozyland takes peek at those movies that make us feel warm inside. The ones that often have predictable plots and character traits that repeat from one film to the next. From Hallmark Holiday movies to films about food, fashion, and travel, to the cozy mysteries we like to dive into both in book and TV format... cozyland has all your comfort needs covered. Check the show notes for a link to the Cozyland podcast.
Now, it’s time to settle in… grab a blanket, and a warm drink… and let’s get started.
We didn’t get up from that table until every step of the plan was clear to both of us.
She really thought this through. She’s brilliant. Like Elisabeth. Like me.
Part of me is afraid this won’t work, that I am going to lose her like I’ve lost everyone else in my life. I would take on the task myself, but it is impossible. I cannot cross my own timeline in this form. She is our only hope. We can’t keep going on like this, something needs to be done.
We waited until it was night, then walked to Meadow Lane hand in hand. It pained me to see the house so disheveled. The place where Paloma and I laughed and played, where Papa spun us in the air at the end of his arms, where Mama would shout to us that “Dinner’s ready!”. I thought back to the days when Cousin Bruno and Auntie Freda would come to visit, he would whip out his camera to photograph the trees and animals, and Auntie Freda would throw apples from the porch, too afraid of the wildlife to get any closer.
Strangely, after I left Meadow Lane it seems as though I thought it would stay the same forever. Yet, unbeknownst to me, time slowly ravaged it, and I found myself shocked that it wasn’t in the same condition today, nearly a century later, as the day I left. It is nonsensical, I know, but nostalgia is a matter of the heart, not the mind.
Magpie had to remind me that time was of the essence, or I would have fallen deep down the rabbit hole of memories. We noted the gentle breeze that was thankfully swinging the Skylark Bell back and forth on its hook where Magpie had placed it mere hours ago. I did allow myself a moment to stare at it and think back to the day Marius gifted it to me. I must admit I had a brief moment of doubt knowing that what we were about to do would all but ensure Marius and I would never meet, but I swallowed it down. The most I can hope for is that I will not remember any of these lifetimes, that I will have no recollection of Marius at all. Once cannot pine for something one has never known.
We walked to the Oak Tree, and I circled my arms around its massive trunk. The tree was even larger than I remembered. I felt its life pulsing beneath the bark and smiled. Finally, it was time for me to play my part in this plan. I held Magpie in my arms for a long time before instructing her to place her hand on the Oak Tree. She told me she thought she could feel a heartbeat and I smiled. I asked if she was ready and she nodded, so I started singing that mythical song, and something strange happened, the tree started singing along, its harmonies weaving in and out, cresting and falling, sending Magpie to a different time and place.
She disappeared about 3 minutes ago, and I have been sitting here with my head leaning on the tree, listening to our synchronized heartbeats, wishing, and hoping for only one thing: To forget.
~~~~~~
Magpie stares in awe at the archway that stretches over the forest path. She remembers if from her previous lifetimes but seeing it in person gives it whole new meaning. It is truly a work of art. She gives herself a moment to get her bearings, unsure of which direction she should take. Suddenly, a red deer appears on the path ahead.
“Hello Ru,” she says, smiling. Farfalla had mentioned she would do her best to somehow send him to guide her. The deer turns and takes quick, graceful strides along the path between the trees. Magpie scurries to follow it, hoping it isn’t tricking her into going deeper into the woods.
Finally, they reach the tree line and Magpie sees the fields that stretch to Carnifex House, and the large rock that separates their property from the neighbouring farm. Magpie turns to the deer. “Thank you,” she whispers, leaning close to its face. The deer’s soft, knowing eyes tell her all she needs to know. If she succeeds, she will somehow be helping it live a better, happier life too. Somehow it has gotten trapped in these endless time loops with her and Farfalla. Magpie watches as the deer disappears back into the forest.
“Hullo,”
The small voice startles Magpie, who spins on her heel to look behind her. A small face is peeking out from behind the rock. “Hi Ash,” she says, smiling at the boy.
The boy’s big blue eyes light up for a moment, but quickly find themselves filled with concern. “You need to hurry, she’s almost at the cliff,” he says, pointing to an area beyond the field.
Magpie gives the boy and encouraging smile and nods. “Thank you,” she shouts over her shoulder as she begins her race against time. She can feel the slick wetness of the morning dew coating the grass beneath her feet as she races toward the cliff. Everything feels surreal. She has had so many visions, so many dreams... It’s hard for her to distinguish between those and reality. But this is the plan, this is where she is supposed to be, and she knows exactly what she must do. Real or not, this is her only chance.
Magpie sees Farfalla ahead, white gown and red hair both blowing in the wind as she races toward the edge of the cliff. Magpie remembers seeing her before, from a vantage point down below, perhaps in a boat. Was that real? Was it a dream? She’s almost certain it’s a memory.
To Magpie’s dismay, Farfalla stops running and stands at the edge of the cliff, her arm stretched back in preparation to fling the bell over into the sea.
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” shouts Magpie at the top of her lungs, but her words are instantly carried away on the wind. She recalls that the earth, the water, the air... the world!... had heaved when that bell hit the crashing waves below. Whether it was a dream or a vision or reality, she knows she has to stop that from happening. This is the only way to close both Farfalla’s time loop and her own. If the bell never hits the water, young Farfalla won’t travel back in time and will never create the bell in the first place. There won’t be a silence at Meadow Lane, Lucas will never disappear, Marius will never exist...
Magpie keeps running, as fast as her feet will take her, and watches in horror as Farfalla’s arm swings forward and the bell is released from her hand. Magpie sees a shard of sunlight reflect off it as it soars into the air, as if in slow motion. She keeps running to the edge, not slowing down, not stopping. She keeps running even though she can no longer feel the ground beneath her feet. She stretches out her hand as far as it will go and grasps the bell, her fingers closing tightly around it. She brings it in close to her chest and heaves a sigh of relief, but the feeling of joy is short-lived as she comes to the realization that she is falling, falling, falling…
Thank you so much for listening. Join me next week for Chapter 39 – Nothing – in which Magpie finds herself at a crossroads.
The Skylark Bell is brought to you by Phaeton Starling Publishing and features original music by Cannelle. If you are enjoying this story, please consider leaving a rating or a review, they are both greatly appreciated. You can also support my work by subscribing to Patreon or Ko-Fi, where you get early access to episodes as well as MP3 downloads of the music, artwork, behind the scenes videos and more! You can also find The Skylark Bell exclusive merch on my website, www.theskylarkbell.com. Just check the show notes for all necessary links.
Once again, thank you for listening – I’m Melissa Oliveri, writer, host and producer of The Skylark Bell Podcast.
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