A Prompting at Greysteer House | Short Story

Sometimes, one has to do a job oneself if it is to be done properly.

The house had looked promising – on the market for years, home report on request only, limited pictures online. The estate agent had been downbeat when showing Max around Greysteer House, waiting in the draughty hallway while his potential buyer picked his way through shuttered rooms and underneath walls spattered with black mould. He had looked positively astonished when Max said he would be putting in an offer for the property.

Max had set up his Olivetti in one of the downstairs reception rooms – one of the only spaces where a peat fire really seemed to drive out the cold – and had waited for the house to tell its stories. He had waited a full month before deciding to take a more proactive approach to listening. The British Newspaper Archive, local historical societies, Facebook groups, even the original drainage blueprints for the house – none of these resources had uncovered the slightest hint of intrigue or criminality. Max found himself wondering how a house could have weathered two hundred years and not have taken on even the slightest echo of the paranormal. Autumn was overtaken by winter, and the Olivetti’s carriage return remained locked.

At last, desperate for the inspiration that Greysteer’s overbearing aspect had seemed to promise, Max had called in outside help. The Staffordshire Paranormal Research Group were exactly as unimpressive as their creaking website promised, and Max had greeted the group with a fixed smile as they traipsed through the gloomy entrance hall and carried their cumbersome equipment down to the cellars. The group did nothing to counteract the lazy stereotypes; the personnel came replete with milk bottle glasses, combovers, and a collective sense of humour which could charitably be described as ‘odd’. Still, Max had thought they would serve a purpose in stirring up any latent poltergeists and by so doing his own writer’s block.

A week on, and even the ineffable enthusiasm of the SPRG had wilted. There was not so much as a creaking door or a disassociated whisper for the group to get excited about. Max could hear thumps and murmured conversation as the paranormal investigators packed up their gear. There was simply, he had been told by the lead investigator, insufficient ‘supernatural trauma’ in the house’s history to prompt any phenomena – no murders, no suicides after unrequited love, no seething decades-long anger between spouses.

Sometimes one has to do a job oneself if it is to be done properly, thinks Max, as he picks up the heavy poker at the side of the fire and walks over to the cellar stairs. Sometimes one must provide one’s own supernatural trauma. Max has a feeling that the words will flow more easily tonight.

Thanks for reading folks. Recent short stories include ‘Passing Traffic‘ and ‘Ribbons in the Valley‘.

Matthew Richardson is a writer of short stories. His work has featured in Gold Dust magazine, Literally Stories, Close to the Bone, McStorytellers, Penny Shorts, Soft Cartel, Whatever Keeps the Lights On, Flashback Fiction, Cafelit, Best MicroFiction 2021, Writer’s Egg, Idle Ink, The Wild Word, Down in the Dirt, and Shooter magazine. He has a Professional Doctorate in Education. Matthew blogs at www.matthewjrichardson.com.