THE PHANTOM BOGLE Part 2 by Anna V. Palmer
I RETURNED TO THE ROOM where my mother had been embroidering a tablecloth with hyacinths, roses, and mimosa. Now, she was darning dad’s socks and sewing missing buttons onto his shirts whilst listening to the wireless (radio). When at last she put her sewing down and getting up from her chair, went to close the French window, I knew this was the moment when I must make my move. I would have to be quick if I were to procure my weapon – the answer that had literally come to me in a flash.
Not wanting the Pogle to hear my stealthy approach I crept quietly up the stairs. I would startle him for a change, I thought. (A ‘Bogle’ is a word used in Northumbria and Scotland since ancient times: a term for a ghost or folklore being: reputed to live for the simple purpose of perplexing mankind, rather than seriously harming or serving them, so Wikipedia explains.) By the time I reached the seventh stair - at the half landing - I was beginning to feel pleased at my progress. I spotted him sitting on the landing carpet with his back towards me, his hunched, globular form pressed up against the railings, waiting for me. So far, he had no idea of my approach. But the very next stair gave a loud creak. I caught my breath.
Surprised, the Pogle jumped up and turning his head saw me perched precariously on the stairs. My heart dropped. To my dismay, he came bumbling along the top of the landing and began pushing his head right through the banisters this time, his wild black eyes hypnotic.
Scared, gripping the handrail tightly with my left hand, I steadied myself against leaning too far into the stairwell yawning before me. Summoning up every sinew and nerve at the sight of his head coming nearer, instead of backing away from him as he expected me to do, I leaned forward.
In return, he jerked his face to within a couple of inches of mine and let out a curdling cackle.
I gritted my teeth. Our eyes locked. It was now or never.
Not normally aggressive, from behind my back, I pulled out my weapon – my rapier sword. With one mighty thrust I speared the eye of my oppressor, using my mother’s largest darning needle.
The Ogle Pogle let out a loud shriek then with a ‘puff,’ he exploded into nothingness and was gone. And I was never to see him again.
The experience with such a bully had been a lesson hard learnt, the like of which we are all confronted with many times in our life. Yet, unwittingly, I had been alerted to the dimension of extra sensory perception (ESP) at the age of seven.
Strangely, it was not to be the end of that story which took many years to come full circle, resulting in a mysterious and weird revelation by someone else.
To be continued…..
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