Grand Pa’s castle

My lids get heavier and I fall asleep unconscious of the furious storm hitting the castle. The windblast all night in the branches of the sycamore facing my bedroom. Hail knocks with force against the window nonstop, like a machine gun. The rambling smooths out in my head full of sleep. The rain has stopped so has the wind, everything is quiet, too quiet.

I lift the lid on my left eye, to my amazement, the window pan slides noiseless. A whisper swish in the room without any respect for privacy. 

Grandpa always looking for the unusual, after a failed adventure with the purchase of three movie theaters, is now hosting a landmark castle on the Brittany touristic route. Grandma warned me first hand, of strange things going on at the castle.  I seat erect with wide-open eyes, mesmerized by a shadow sliding over the thick Arabian carpet. I stand up on top of the bed screaming GRANDMA!!

A dream or a ghost? That was the last time I ever slept at my grand pa’s pride castle––I was 10 years old. Reinforced by grand ma’s insistence of a visit by the Nancou, the devil for all Bretons.

 

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