Strange Dominions: a collection of paranormal short stories (short story books)

by David Calvert

  True to form, Tom greeted them with a cheery smile and proceeded to pull from behind their ears of each of them, much to their amazement and glee, a fifty pence piece, which he deposited into their eagerly waiting hands.

  On entering the living room they gasped in admiration. Dominating one corner was a brightly lit Christmas tree, bedecked with all manner of ornamentation, and surmounted by a glistening star of silver. From the four corners of the ceiling to its centre were draped richly coloured streamers of green and red. An advent calendar, its tiny windows peeled back, hung from the centre of the fire breast, flanked on either side with a wreath of holly. The entire room had been lovingly decorated in a multitude of effects to delight and stimulate the senses. Only when the house lights were dimmed and the multi-coloured tree lights switched on was their true effect fully appreciated by the children.

  Within half-an-hour of Mary’s departure Alan suddenly announced, “I’m hungry!”

  “You’re always hungry,” his sister declared.

  Veronica looked up. “I think that should do it,” she said, applying the final strokes of the brush to her niece’s fine auburn hair. “There’s some cherry pie due out the oven. Would anyone like some?”

  A chorus of ‘Yes please’ went out from the children, followed by a grunt from their uncle who was otherwise occupied showing off his latest feat of legerdemain to an appreciative audience of two.

  “There’s no such thing as real magic!” Carol declared, defiantly, “Nobody can do real magic.”

  Danny was becoming increasingly tired of his sister’s ill-tempered moods and was about to say as much when Tom intervened.

  “Oh, and what makes you say that?” he quizzed.

  “Because there just isn’t,” came the terse reply. “If people could do real magic then wishes would come true; but they don’t. They don’t come true, no matter how hard you try.”

  She was now almost at the point of tears when her aunt entered laden with the food and drink.

  “You know,” Tom said, between mouthfuls of freshly baked cherry pie, “wishes can come true; can’t they love,” He turned to Veronica and smiled a knowing smile.

  She, in turn, smiled, the corners of her mouth accentuating her dimpled cheeks. “Alright then,” she relented, “If you must.”

  It was then he announced, “We’re going to have a baby!”

  Veronica coughed loudly.

  “Well – that is -” he corrected himself, “aunt V’s going to have a baby. Soon you’ll have a new cousin to play with. So you see,” he said, turning to his niece, “some wishes do come true.”

  Carol wanted to believe with all her heart that somehow things could be made different simply by wishing it; that by some magical process the love she had for her father was strong enough to overcome the illness that kept them apart.

  In Danny and Alan, too, a longing for their father began to stir, engendering cherished memories of Christmas’ past.

  Tom rose from his chair and moved to the window. He gazed out at the snow-capped roofs and the streets beyond. He, also, missed his brother and sniffed back a single tear that threatened his composure.

  Quite unexpectedly, the phone rang. V was the first to answer it, and after listening for a few seconds she called out to Tom, “You’d better take this,” she said, her hand shaking as she handed him the receiver, “It’s Mary,” she whispered.

  With an awful sense of dread he put the receiver to his ear and turned his back to the children. The first sound he heard was that of his sister-in-law’s weeping. Then came the words, “It’s Jim; he-”

  “Oh God! Not tonight of all nights,” he interrupted, slumping into the nearest chair.

  By now the children were aware that something was wrong and Carol began to whimper.

  “No, no! You don’t understand. Jim’s in remission. He’s getting better.”

  “But I thought there was no h-”

  “No hope?” she cut in, “We all did, but that’s not the queerest thing, Tom. Jim told me he’d had a curious dream this afternoon. He said he’d dreamt that three tiny fireballs had entered through his closed cubicle window, and that as he watched each of them turned into a sheet of paper that fluttered onto his bed. He recognised the handwritings on them as belonging to the children. It was the very same letters they had written to Santa this morning, Tom; I’m sure of it.”

  “But what makes you so sure?”

  “Because of what they’d written. Ask them what they put in their letters, Tom, and I’ll bet it was ‘Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas is my daddy back.’”

  Tom did as requested and was stunned at their replies.

  Later that night, as a fresh fall of snow gently descended over a peaceful village, Carol, Danny, Alan, and their aunt and uncle huddled contentedly around the tree, each knowing that something truly magical had taken place. It turned out to be a Christmas that neither of them would forget in the years to come.