The Mysteries of Brambly Hollow

twenty-five days. That was when she had hastily stowed a few precious keepsakes that were reminders of her grandma. Amy, the woman who had been both mother and father to her after her parents died when she was seven. Beyond her pale tepee of light, showering down on her from the low watt bulb hooked over a rafter, the poised darkness pressed in against the spongy edges, exploring its durability. She lifted the tin, feeling its weight in her hands. It wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t much of a shrine to such a wonderful woman; pretty pathetic really, but at the time she could barely bring herself to accept that Amy had gone, so unexpectedly, so needlessly that it was all she could do to pack them away at all. Struggling to command her reluctant fingers she fumbled to remove the lid. She had come too far to back out now, she had to do this.
    But why now? After all this time of denial?
    Meli had no idea, but the compulsion to open the box was as great as that of Pandora when she opened the box sent by Zeus. Meli had to open it up and release all her own personal ills, because if she didn ’t she would be tortured by them to the end of her days. And she knew she couldn’t face a lifetime of that, couldn’t condemn her family to the same fate.
    “ There’s a time for grieving, but you’re making a career out of it Melissa.”
    She stiffened like a ready basted chicken in a supermarket freezer. Had Amy ’s chastisement been spoken in her head? Or had it emerged from the murky recesses where the light couldn’t quite penetrate? Suddenly the lid flew free in her hand, and dropped onto the hardboard floor, the tinny clatter effectively exorcising any loitering ghosts, as she couldn’t see any when her head yanked round and her bulbous eyes scanned the undefined darkened corners.
    It wasn ’t until her heart had stopped rattling against her ribcage that she could tear her eyes away and bring herself to look down. For a millisecond, she found herself warmed by the sight of a bright smiling face, one that was so familiar, so loved. Soft mound of frosted hair topping a gentle face, the high forehead denoting a touch of intelligence, the firm mouth twisted with perception and quick-wittedness. Meli’s gaze settled on the haunting green eyes. She could have sworn that Amy could see her through those eyes, across the planes that separated the after-world from that of the living, that she could see her pain.
    Tremulously she smiled back at Amy Smart, frustrated when the image dipped in and out of focus beneath a fine misting of tears, like someone breathing on glass on a cold day; her throat so swollen with emotion that she could barely breath. Snatching up the photo, she raised it to her lips. Tenderly she kissed the impassive glossy print and then held it to her hot cheek as though she could feel the closeness of her grandmother, the warmth of her flesh against her own. Her nostrils filled with the musky fragrance that she associated with Amy, the scent still clinging to the silk scarf that was somewhere inside the box. Groping for it blindly among a mix of old cards, letters and jewellery she pulled it out and held it to her nose, savouring it, the sheer gauzy fabric darkening with the tears that squeezed from her shuttered eyes as she relived the memories of her grandmothers existence, exiled the harrowing loss for just one delicious if fleeting moment.
    But the painful memories were too overpowering, and her idyllic Elysian field fantasy was devastated as a swarm of black locusts, of biblical proportions, descended and devoured it. The room echoed with a funny sound, high pitched and squeaky, like a mouse with its tail caught in a trap as Meli ’s thin shoulders shuddered as huge raking sobs broke from her throat.
    It was on the eve of her fortieth birthday that it had happened. Amy was on her way home from the town centre, having ordered a huge bouquet of flowers to be delivered the next day for her birthday. She could have ordered them over the phone. Oh, how she wished Amy had, rather than take that fateful journey.
    Totally unpredicted, like a thunderbolt hurled from the heavens, a mugger had struck. Amy hadn ’t stood a chance. Shoved to the ground she had cracked her skull hard on the pavement. Twelve hours later, at 5.10 a.m., she was dead. No chance to say their goodbyes. No chance to tell her how much she loved her, to thank her, to tell her how much she would be missed, just wham, and then gone. It was all so