A Christmas Tale 8 (9 Chapters In All) free porn video
Chapter 8
Now that I'm hopefully becoming a fairly successful writer of the odd
short novel and perhaps one day even a small play, I was in Dublin a
couple of days ago for a meeting with my new publisher.
Afterwards, having quickly dropped off a bulk order to a large tourist
shop in central Dublin who now had sole agency rights and thanks solely
to Siobhan had just given me a nice fat cheque showing a very healthy
profit, I realised I still had plenty of time to visit my old firm for a
coffee to refresh memories of earlier and much happier times when I'd
first met Siobhan.
After chatting to several old colleagues and a couple of heartwarming
minutes with a still very sympathetic Maureen who'd wanted to stay but
had to leave for an urgent meeting, I'd looked for an empty table and
ordering a large coffee sat down to go through our latest bank
statements.
Suddenly I overheard a couple of ladies at the next table talking about a
new and interesting antique jewellery shop that had just opened recently
in the same arcade where I had met that strange Father Christmas on that
unhappy and upsetting Christmas Eve last year.
Very curious to find out more I quickly left and soon found the shop in
question, most uncomfortably being just behind where the weird father
Christmas had been standing that same evening.
On entering I was immediately welcomed by a very attractive young girl
assistant called Danny, who giving me her business card offered to show
me round their display cabinets and was I looking for anything in
particular.
Luckily noticing a couple of large display cabinets of Victorian rings
and old watches I pretended to be very impressed whilst looking in vain
for anything remotely similar to ours.
Unfortunately seeing nothing I was about to thank her and leave, when I
thought I'd give it one last try telling her I was also a writer
interested in local history and did she know anything about the arcade as
it was obviously quite old.
She thought for a few moments and then told me that before the arcade was
rebuilt sometime in the Sixties, she'd been told some time ago by an old
and much valued customer of theirs about an old Irishman many years
before the war, who had run an old junk shop apparently on this very same
spot called she thought SRU though she had no idea what it meant.
And that it was well known that on every Christmas Eve he would dress up
as Father Christmas and stand in front of a sledge drawn by two live
reindeer, and would give out lots of small gifts to all the poor children
of the parish at the same time ringing a handbell so loudly that it
basically defeated the object, as only the children could put up with it
long enough to get their free gift and leave as quickly as they came.
I was utterly astonished at the coincidence a very familiar chill soon
starting to run up and down my spine as she talked, and anxious to leave
as quickly as possible I thanked her for her time determined to find out
what I could about the history of the arcade on the Internet.
Next day disappointed at not finding anything I called the number on her
business card to see if she could help me any further. An elderly man's
voice answered and when I asked to speak to one of their lady assistants
called Danny, he said in a faintly familiar Irish brogue they didn't have
anyone by that name but could he help instead.
Obviously I was instantly on the alert and needing to extricate myself as
soon as possible from the situation, immediately apologised saying I'm
sorry I think I must have got the wrong number.
Not a problem he'd replied chuckling as it's only myself who's worked
here for years and no-one else, adding however that he would be most
interested to learn more as he had to be very careful regarding security
and unofficial intruders.
I still don't think I convinced him but thankfully never heard any more
as I knew immediately I was again starting to tread in uncharted waters,
because when I looked for the business card I couldn't find it anywhere.
Just as happened once before in that old village antique shop...
I never did find it either, nor why the 2 ladies in the firm's restaurant
had said the shop had opened just recently.
Then only last night when Siobhan had gone to bed early there was a
sudden and even stranger twist to it all...
Trying to unwind and take my mind of all these many difficult things yet
again with a large glass of whisky, I suddenly felt an increasing urge to
take out the small velvet box again now minus the strange powerful ring,
and re-read and reflect on that old Christmas card and it's spidery
handwritten message "For Sure t'is not Finnegan"...
For it had suddenly reminded me of an unusual conversation about the wee
folk that I'd once had one evening long ago with Brendan, when we'd both
had a few too many, slurringly telling me they did exist and always had.
When I'd asked him why, he said his mother one Christmas Eve many years
ago had upset her elderly mother just after the church service had ended,
saying that she thought the preacher was a stupid old fool and should
retire as soon as possible.
Her mother had immediately lost her temper, furiously saying that this
was terrible blasphemy and to always be very careful at all times of the
wee folk as they're always listening and treat such insults very
seriously.
Because he'd muttered angrily both eyes suddenly filling with tears, it
was after one Christmas Eve service some eight years earlier that his
father had been found lying dead on the kitchen floor when they'd
returned home. Apparently he too when drunk had been blasphemous about
them just before they'd left for church and why Brendan always felt just
like his grandmother, his mother had since unjustly and unreasonably
hated the wee folk all the more for it.
Knowing that Siobhan had always fiercely believed in them as well, I was
seriously beginning to wonder if this obvious clash of beliefs with
Brendan's mother had been in some way to blame for all the problems I'd
had with Brendan soon after he'd moved in. Having seemingly lost the will
to live, falling behind with the rent, hardly ever leaving his room and
the faint smell of incense in the hall in the mornings.
Because that very same night I'd then had a very clear and mysterious
dream that I knew as soon I woke up was somehow very important, and that
at Siobhan's recent most puzzling urging to write a new play about the
wee folk it simply had to be included for some unknown reason as well.
However the deeply worrying problem was I had no idea why unless God
forbid Brendan had not given up after all, and now unable to transform
back into Siobhan any more was horrifyingly trying to take control of her
mind and soul instead.
Then immediately recoiling at the dreadful possibility that it could all
be in revenge against her for not only taking his body but most of all
his life, at the same time blaming and hating the wee folk he would
consider ultimately responsible just as much if not more than his father
and mother ever did. Worst of all if successful, leading to unimaginably
disastrous consequences for poor innocent Siobhan who would inevitably
take all the blame and any subsequent punishments as a result.
I just had to stop him somehow as he was no longer the Brendan I knew but
a complete stranger and now my bitterest enemy....
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