The North Easterly wind doth blow, straight across the bow of the property, old and weather-beaten this 120 year old pile is perched high upon the precipice like the ghostly RMS Goliath poised to steam full ahead out of the cliff face, its inhabitants, asleep and trapped by time encased in an air bubble. Poor old Parker sits guarding outside, somewhat unloved and slightly chilled to his monocoque bone as he watches this aged monster, ready to strike at any moment upon attack.
My newly painted door with black gloss is ajar, held open, yet restricted by two heavy security chains, wedged between the gap accommodating access is our door snake, blue and grey striped with bold white eyes and a red fork tongue. Woe betide any unwelcome guests. “Hiss off” he says.
The time of the penultimate hour before date changes into the next day stretches its sixty minutes. Safely on the inside of the house, but on edge, I can hear the wind creeping under the oak floor and wiggling itself behind the skirting boards, there is no escaping from the intrusion of this force.
No doubt the cousin of the Mistral and Buran will try to frighten us with its powerful and cold gusts throughout the night, and I thank whoever for small mercies, for I might have been one of the unlucky ones who due to no fault of their own might be sleeping rough this bad night, I pray you sleep well as is possible and that your God may help keep you safe.
The many souls of lost sailors and travellers, gust and wisp pass by the door, rattling the window panes attempting to make contact with the living, hoping that they may be re-saved from their untimely demise, trapped in the undead state, never having passed over to rest their immortal spirit, all crying desperately to get back to their loved ones and families, boom, bang, the wind howls even more.