The Haunting of Highdown Hall - and Cynthia is thinking back to her glory days - Christmas Eve 1958 - the night she died...! When feeling threatened, Cynthia did as she always did; she retreated into the comfort of memories, her last memory in particular – the party of course. It had been glorious, every detail planned meticulously; the champagne, vintage Laurent-Perrier, served in crystal glasses, the big band playing not the rock ‘n’ roll tunes so favoured of late, but beautiful songs from the 1920s, 30s and 40s – ‘Blue Moon’, ‘Embraceable You’, ‘Sunrise Serenade’ – reinforcing the sophistication of the occasion. Despite so many beauties, all eyes in the room had been on her, as Lytton had promised so long ago. Not a man in the room could tear his gaze away, or a woman, their naked adoration breathing life into her limbs. How she had danced that night! Her feet had barely touched the ground. Would-be suitors fighting amongst themselves to partner her, whisking her round the dance floor as though she weighed no more than a child, whispering words of love and dedication into her ear, begging her for more than just one dance. And from the sidelines, John Sterling, the world’s most respected actor, had devoured her with his impossibly dark eyes. Driving her wild inside with desire, a desire she refused to reveal, knowing her reticence to do so infuriated him. Would she take him to her bed that night? Show how grateful she was for the lavish gift he had had sent to her earlier in the day. She hadn’t decided. Possibly not. Drive him wilder still. She remembered laughing, her head thrown back in consummate joy as she was held in a succession of arms and still John stared at her, not moving from where he stood, ignoring the multitude of sycophants who gathered around him, not just up and coming actresses but actresses at the top of their game, all desperate for his attention as so many were for hers. He ignored them, his eyes only for her. It was a wonderful night, a night full of magic and then... it was over. No big band tunes, no laughter or admiring comments, no more John pleading silently with her, nothing. Where had everyone gone? She couldn’t understand it. Why was she alone? Except for Sally, who occasionally wept on the ground before her, clutching her fuchsia dress. But how so, when she was still wearing it? She had drunk several glasses of champagne that night, but not enough to cause such confusion, surely? Usually it was her preference to remain sober at public events, refusing to allow one slur or stagger to mar her ‘darling of the movie world’ reputation. Perhaps she should have refrained on this occasion too? But it was her birthday, a private affair, and it was Christmas Eve. Everybody was allowed to drink on Christmas Eve! Perhaps the haze she was in was the result of some hideous concoction. Some lesser starlet, insane with jealousy, had surreptitiously laced her glass with something. Yes! That had to be it, it made sense. But if so, why had no one realised she was missing and come rushing to her aid? She employed enough people to take care of her. Where were they? Reaching a hand up to her temple, her head felt as the land had looked earlier from her bedroom window, wreathed in mist. How long had she been in darkness? Seconds, minutes, hours, longer than that? Years? Some days it felt like it. Not that she’d aged, judging from her reflection in the mirror when she had at last dared to look into it. A reflection that looked more distant than usual, but nonetheless, she had recognised herself – her smooth complexion, her Titian curls, that part of the bargain upheld at least. The bargain? No, she mustn’t think of that. To do so was dangerous. She had dues to pay; she knew she did, but so soon? Surely not! To be plucked from the spotlight when it was at its brightest, that was cruel, evil. But then wasn’t evil what she had bargained with? Cynthia felt cold again. As if icy arms had found her at last and wrapped themselves around her, holding her tight, entombing her. No, she whimpered, filled with terror, an emotion all too familiar now. Hide, I need to hide. I’ll be alright if I can hide. Crouching further into the corner, she made herself small, smaller still, shielding her eyes from the Devil searching for her. The Devil that she sensed was near. It was too soon to pay. She didn’t want to pay. Not now, not ever. Damn Lytton! She raged as sobs tore through her. amazon.co.uk/Haunting-Highdown-Hall-Shani-Struthers-ebook/dp/B00JY83HBI/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1419102517&sr=1-1&keywords=the+haunting+of+highdown+hall
Posted on: Sat, 20 Dec 2014 19:13:44 +0000
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