Thrumps had seen many years of this but it still troubled him as to the lengths that were taken in the name of fun. Fun for who he wondered, certainly not those unsuspecting visitors that were lured to attend with no say in the matter. He thought that this year would be different after helping the little ghost girl find her way home, but apparently not. The automatic calendar found its voice and loudly announced that it was one hours until midnight on the 31st of October … Thrumps didn’t catch the year. Here we go again he thought frowning.
The Emporium was for want of any other description, decked out as a non-descript front room kind of a place. An old fashioned fireplaced blazed with what should have been warming the room but was obviously just a prop, there were a few armchairs scattered about with a battered old couch pushed up against the wall. It all looked rather shabby and disused. The kind you get in a haunted house, Thrumps mused.
He was sat behind his desk clutching a mug of hot coffee between both hands. Leaning back waiting for something to happen or for someone to arrive to take control. Nothing did so he tapped The Book of Un-Reality.
“Any ideas?” He asked.
The book remained stubbornly shut.
“Well you’re no help,” he said pushing it to one side.
When he looked up the room was crowded with sad, silent people. A few sitting but most were just milling about as if waiting for … for what he didn’t know.
Thrumps tried to catch an eye, to make some kind of contact, but all were oblivious to his presence so he had no choice but to keep watching.
There didn’t seem to be anyone in charge, which was strange in itself, but then nothing seemed to be happening. Or was it …?
Beside the door, on a small table lay a box of white daisies. At midnight each person collected one flowers and left but they didn’t look any happier, which worried Thrumps.
As the doors closed The Book of Un-Reality gently flipped itself open.
People will not remember visiting but when they awake, they will know once again the deep sorrow of losing a loved child.
Thrumps read it again and again. He didn’t understand why The Emporium would do something like this. Surely it would have been kinder to show them that their loved ones were safe and happy, not to re-open old wounds.
The ink pen scribbled … their dreams will be of a time as if they are still together. They will be able to touch, they will hear their voice, hold them, feel the kisses and just for a brief moment will sleep peacefully.
“How?” Thrumps asked.
The pen hesitated, almost uncertain how to explain.
An old Celtic legend proclaims that whenever an infant dies, daisies are sprinkled over the earth to cheer the parents up. They are the connection between the worlds.
“Why would The Emporium want to be part of all this?”
Because it is what the dead children wished for.
Thrumps had not thought about it from the ghost’s point of view, all he could relate to, was the pain that was being felt by the living.
Those that are left behind, the pen continued, want nothing more than for things to be different, well so do those that leave. They never asked to go and are just as upset and lost. On the night of Halloween they have a chance to slip through the veil, to watch their loved ones, to see the hurt and what they want more than anything is to, just for a few short hours make that reality go away.
Thrumps could see their point but …
“Isn’t it cruel,” he said to the pen. “That when they awake, they realise that it was all just an illusion?”
The pen slowly scribbled one word …YES!