Dr Soulcompost’s Halloween Heap of Horror

I remember it was a Tuesday morning in mid-autumn. I was hurrying up the hill that leads from Penge to Upper Norwood to return some overdue library books, cursing myself for not wearing a more substantial coat. I’d been taken surprise by the abrupt change in weather from the idle balminess of an Indian summer to cold and damp more befitting the time of year. Labouring and shivering up the steep incline, head bowed against the sharp wind, I struggled to keep the books clamped against my side as my hands pulled my light jacket tighter around my body.

I first saw the raven – or is that crow? I’ve never known the difference, or even if there is a difference, but raven fits the mood of my story better – when I was still a little way off from the sideroad to the crumbling sport centre that cuts across my route. In the distance I could see that the bird had its head buried in a discarded fast food carton. Perhaps it heard me coming because almost as soon as I’d seen it, it jerked upright and looked at me. The suddenness of the action and the sustained stare that followed left me with with the distinctly uneasy impression of being sized up. I drew nearer, but instead of flying off as most of them seem to do, if anything it drew itself up taller. Then, when I was within a yard or two, it unwrapped a pair of oily black wings and flapped them at me. Startled, I hesitated and stopped. And as I came to a halt, the world around us also seemed to shudder and fall still. I could have been imagining this of course, what with the cold and the exertion, not to mention the sleepless nights with the new baby. But still, I could have sworn that the wind stopped blowing, the traffic on the busy main road had fallen silent, and that the newly-fallen leaves had ceased their tumbles and swirls across the footpath. All that remained was the cold, the damp and the grey of the morning.

After a moment of mutual observation, my raven opened its beak as though it was about to caw, but instead of the bleak and guttural cry I expected to hear, it spoke. Actually spoke. Now, I am no expert on the habits of native British birds, but I knew enough to realise that this was no ordinary example of the species.

“Thinking of passing, were we friend?” Something about it’s tone reminded me a little of an unsympathetic nightclub doorman I’d once had dealings with and for a second I wanted to check if I was wearing trainers. I resisted the impulse.

“Who, me? Are you talking to me?” That it should be talking at all would have been more to the point, but under the strange circumstances these were the words I found myself saying.

The creature, in the same self-assured manner, confirmed that it was indeed addressing me.

“Well, I was actually. Hoping to pass, that is. Library books overdue, bit of a hurry and all that. Is there a problem?” I had to bite back an urge to add ‘officer’.

“Well, now, that all depends.”

“Depends? On what exactly?”

“Ah, a very, very good question.” The emphasis on the second ‘very’ made me wish that I hadn’t asked. The raven continued, as if to spare any more pointless cross-examination, “It depends, you see, on payment of what I like to call ‘the toll’.”

“Oh, I see.” I didn’t really see, but there you are, that’s what I said. “And payment would be…?”

“Ah yes. Now we come to it. Payment would be your soul.”

Did I indeed part with my soul in exchange for passage to Upper Norwood library? Was Soulcompost reduced to mere compost? What was this strange beast and did the books get returned in time? Click here on All Hallows E’en (that’s Wednesday night) to find the answers to these and possibly other questions.

Oh, go on; if you’ve read this far you might as well find out what happened.

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Tags: Anerley Hill, ghost story, Halloween, raven

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