A queer event happened near the village of Leising not far from Great Yarmouth, where a team of pipe fitters were working to repair a marsh pump. The work was urgent, high tides being predicted together with a deepening depression centred over the North Sea driving strong onshore winds. They completed their repairs on time, the pumps spinning up to a high pitched whine, just as the first crack of lightning stabbed the deepening gloom.

And as often happens with men who have worked well together, a certain light headedness and bravado overcame them, due in part to the release of tension and, it must be said, from the effects of well earned gulp of beer. They relaxed, sheltering by the edge of a dark swathe of pine, listening to the pumps shrieking under the backlog of flood water, not wanting to leave until confident their work was complete.

“That place gives me the frigging creeps,” said Paul, spitting towards an isolated house, then turning to light a cigarette in his cupped hands. “Every time I’ve looked up today it’s there, gorping down at me.”

The house stood on a slight rise above their position. By some trick of its aspect and the evening light, the windows of the house were appeared completely black. They stared out on the world like missing teeth, not even reflecting the dull redness diffusing through the clouds racing overhead.

“I reckon that place is haunted, if any is. At least, I’d not pay to stay there the night,” concluded Paul.

“Haunted?” laughed Iain derisively, “reckon the only ghosts round here are those people carry ‘bout in their heads.

Sudden squalls of rain scythed through the bracken and around their vans while above them a steady eerie roar tossed and the tree tops bending them horizontal.

“I’d say that’s another job well done, against the odds,” interrupted the foreman. “Time we got some well deserved snap. My round, I’d say.”

“It wouldn’t bother me to stay the night there,” continued Iain.

atmosphere…

“Well, that’s settled then, you can keep an eye on the pumps tonight,” said Paul, as he contemptuously tossed his mobile into Iain’s toolbag. “You’ve enough bullshit to scare any ghost out of his wits.”

“Better leave your van. Then I won’t have to bother you for tools when I have to fix your work.”

They were both now too helplessly committed to back down, the others too busy clearing site to care or interfere.

He was ferrying the last item when the storm broke, the rain sheeting down as he banged the door shut behind him, the rest driving off back to their hot meal and beer, shaking their heads in disbelief.

He was planning carefully now, filling his mind with details. While he believed what he’d said about the ghosts, there was no point tempting providence. He’d take the opportunity to have a good poke through Paul’s toolkit as well.

He set up the small petrol generator and fired it up, flooding the place with a warm light. He took his flashlight and carefully inspected the house. Selecting one room at the top of the stairs for his room, he swept the floor, then set out his things for the night. He made some tea and settled back.

He must have dozed, for he woke with a cold start. He was sat in one corner listening, propped up with his sleeping bag gathered in around his neck. The generator had stopped. He had set it up on the landing to avoid the exhaust fumes. The battery it maintained might last a few hours with just the one light and a radio to run, possibly enough till daylight

He rose and switching on his flashlamp went out to the landing. He crouched down and examined the motor. The casing was still warm. There was plenty of fuel in the tank. Petrol squirted onto the dusty floor as he squeezed the drain tit. He set his torch down on a packing case directed it at the set.

He pulled the starter chord. The engine fired, then died. He stepped back and in a sudden flare of anger, pulled it again.

His hand hit something hard behind him. As the engine coughed into life and died a shadow reared up before him on the wall like a crazed animal and arched across the ceiling. A sharp pain stabbed up from his hand followed by a crash and darkness. Something thudded across the landing behind him and down the stairs. He backed down against the wall, shrinking and still. As his eyes adjusted he could make out a dim pattern of lights glimmering on the wall, gently dancing before him. He stared hard, willing it into a familiar form.

He slowly relaxed and straightened up. Idiot, he said to himself. Idiot, he shouted at the top of his voice. He walked towards his room. The door had eased to and was rocking gently in a draught, filtering and reflecting stray light from the floodlight inside. He propped it open, wedging a screwdriver between the floorboards. The light flooded the landing once more and the walls receded to a comfortable distance.

He carried out one of the floodlight stands and carefully trained its light on the generator, well back and out of his way. He gathered up a few tools, swallowed a mouthful of cold tea to gather his nerves, and returned to the generator.

He worked slowly and methodically, concentrating on his work, suppressing a primeval desire to glance up. At last satisfied, he pulled the starter chord. The engine roared into life, and settled to a steady drone. He checked around, mechanically wiping the casing with his rag while he listened.

He had dozed off again. He floated in a deep sea of peace and contentment. A hazy moon shone through a window above him forming a pool of light on the floor by his feet. His daughter stood there in the pretty red frock he had bought her, the last time she stayed the weekend. She was calling his name, trying to wake him.

He realised with a start, she had been trying for a long time, nervously tugging at his sleeping bag. He saw her love for him, pure and without judgment. He tried to move and although he thought he spoke, he heard none of his words. He registered a background roar. She was calling him again, upset that he didn’t respond. She stepped back confused and hurt. A deep pain welled up in his chest at her distress.

The moon was fading now behind a dark and sickening haze and a new sun was rising, a bright warm orange glow, licking the walls and flickering over the ceiling. Deep inside him an old fear stirred, but he was too tired now, and a dreaming stillness was slipping him gently towards a final embrace.

He tried one last time to reach out and embrace her but his arms were heavy pinned beside him. She was crying now, distraught, frantically tearing at the shiny fabric that entombed him. He toppled over onto the floor, his arms and shoulders finally spilling out as the zip gave way.

The impact and the cold floorboards on his face shocked him, filling his lungs with the last remaining air. Slowly, he started to revive, panting and vomiting alternately.

He crawled towards the window, guided by the dim moon. As he reached the window and staggered to lift the sash, the glass shattered, and a sheet of flame engulfed him.

He was hanging, bent double over a lower bough of the tree which had broken his fall. They found him there in the morning, clutching a small fragment of red cloth in his hand, barely alive and incoherent. The one time he appeared to register any understanding was when they asked him if his daughter had contacted him, having rung them for his number.