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The Dial Lock by Bob CoxThe year was 1966.The rain smashed on the flat roof of my bedroom as I lay awake at night reading a ghost story. The ghost story was called ‘Baelbrow’ from my favourite ‘Spooky Tales’ book. A ghost detective, Mr Flaxman Low was preparing to encounter a presence:‘ ……from a shapeless shadow came a sound Mr Low was not prepared to hear. The thing sniffed the air with the strong, audible inspiration of a bear…….again as the storm shrieked and shook the windows, a darkness passed across the light.’There was a nasty illustration in the book, a hand with long pointed finger nails and it was clenching hard in a fury. The rain drilled on. I dare not read any more. Turning my head to the wall, I faced the cowboy wallpaper, a slit sliding down a plaster crack. Staring at it, I seemed to see it move, like a battle, and then the clenched hand wrapped around the cowboy like a death grip.Gothic horror met wild west and then the noises began rather like pages being turned. My ‘Goal’ magazines were compiled in a red file kept on shelves which were actually old apple boxes doing service in a new way. The spine stared safely at me but the sound of the pages continued. It was the opposite of a haunting noise; just a touch of a turn, from picture to picture, item to item. Is there such a thing as a browsing noise? I focussed on the beat of the rain. I knew what the thudding meant. It was always so loud on the roof and then ran down the guttering. Concentrate on a sound you know when the night terrors come was my Dad’s advice. Perhaps the drumming could swallow the scratching pages.But then the ghostly reader changed direction. Old bookshelves with one leg and slanting dangerously held the armada and puffin books like aging guardians but the presence ripped through them fast. Enid Blyton ‘The Mystery of the Burnt Cottage’, Malcom Saville ‘Wings Over Witchend’, Joan Aiken ‘The Wolves of Willoughby Chase’, Sheila Burnford’s ‘The Incredible Journey’.The books remained still; but the stories inside them were read. It was like a robbery. The presence rifled through my library, fast-paced and ruthless; turn, turn, turn the pages went and my imagination reeled from the attack like a tank being emptied.When the page turning reached ‘Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe’ I could take no more! I leapt up, my red and white England pyjamas leading me across the room bravely. I protected the books like a father, standing across the decaying shelves. I knew what to do. I held up Narnia like a cross before me……….The page turning stopped.But the presence began to take shape.There was no voice but there was simply a hand, a fist materialising slowly and opening up like a flower, palms offered to the light shade above. I could see a wedding ring and the palm was slender. The life line was long and solid but the index finger had a bend at the top like an illness.I knew what it was going for. There were two containers with huge stoppers on the top, each holding my most precious collections: old coins! They were on top of the old apple boxes. Darkened Victorian pennies with Britannia on the front; florins and half-crowns; little robins on nearly forgotten farthings. He had stolen my reading mind and was moving in for my money.The hand folded round the first container and held it tight. Was there some kind of strength flowing into the jar? The hand showed no arm or body; it floated alone. I backed up against the door. It moved to the second container and held fast for a few seconds.The rain had become a storm, water now chasing down the window and the strange box bedroom which jutted out into the night felt like a capsule of fear. I longed for Flaxman Low or maybe Holmes to come but for now C.S.Lewis protected me, held fast in my folded arms.It seemed to work until the arm bolted forward, leaving the jars and moving in a swift movement over my face! I was caught in a ghastly embrace. Five fingers moved around my head extending to my ears. I had nowhere to go and I uttered a scream……..which just dissipated like magic. Not only that, the fingers stroked like a caress. The touch was gentle and calming. It was like a doctor soothing a patient.And then the whole face appeared!A gigantic dome loomed above and beyond but with a smile. Narrow eyes peeped under glasses which looked sci-fi; no frames for hindrance. A grey beard made me think of an elder, a merlin, an ancient, a prophet. There was no hair and I thought of my Dan Dare comics. The Meekon was an alien, Dan Dare’s enemy. Now the body came, an odd blue shirt with a strange tick like symbol. The body materialised too with a bony arm connecting to the floating hand.In the new hand was an object like a weapon. But the dome and the body had left me calmer as it moved to the second row of the decorated apple box. Photographs taken on my Mum’s old box camera were religiously stuck into albums: the Mill Pond walk; sitting by a groyne at Littlehampton, the men in shirts and braces;a turkey carved; a sepia tinge to a boat trip. Under that were cigarette cards mounted in an album with four diagonals cut by a blade to make holdings: Film stars, cricketers and Gilbert and Sullivan passed down by my uncle; and Brooke Bond trees and fishes mixed with sweet cigarette cards. Then bubble gum offerings, ‘Beatles’ photographs with signed pictures. There was tension right now in the playground over the set of 60. The dome sorted fast. This time I could see and not just hear. Throughout, he ran his palms over the collections like taking an x-ray. Then he moved to the top of the apple box. He smiled. The dome creased. He reached out the palm with the elastic fingers towards a place I kept my treasure and I froze. It was a plastic money box called a dial lock and in it were the coins and cards of most value; but it was coded and secure. He could not open it! Strangely he put the weapon to his ear and instead of throwing it, seemed to listen to it. No-one knew that code but I saw him turn it though I was no longer scared of him. CS Lewis had dropped to the ground. The rain had become erratic, spits and bangs on the roof. 1 3 3 The dial lock door eased. Somehow, he had the code. The dome head smiled….but closed it again. He began to fade but there was a ghastly few seconds where the original floating hand left an imprint on the dial lock. He had taken his energy and his reading mind but he seemed to have left the treasure. I collapsed into bed into a new silence. The dome had what he needed; but he left me exhausted. I soaked into the protection of my room, allowing Flaxman Low to drop to the floor by my bed. As I did so my left hand returned to my eyeline and I saw the lines they call ‘life’, ‘heart’ and ‘head’. The ‘life’ journeys down towards the base of the thumb. I stared….and stared; and I knew I must forget that day….Until now ……as I sit in my garden office, a man in his sixties remembering that night when I was trapped in my own imaginings. I still have the Flaxman Low story, in fact I used it in a book I wrote for teachers. The nostalgia of film stars on cards and old coins in a jar have been replaced by virtual friends and phone apps; but the crackle of an adventure story endures and the things that go bump in the night might just have happened. I knew I could get back there….and I had!For a moment, the power of childhood simmered again, the old magic still there: the dreams in the bookcase with one leg re-charged in my head. My old bedroom was long since converted into a bathroom by new owners, the cowboy wallpaper dispatched without battle. But I found a way back and made the link. Now, in my office I can see shelf after shelf, this time newly stacked and the files of a lifetime flit up and down. Malcom Saville and Enid Blyton have gone but a shining version of C.S Lewis remains, read to my children years ago. Those books and hobbies from childhood still fed me. I devoured the past and felt energised. What happens then is, in a way ,the base of what can happen now.On a shelf to my left, under a range of photographs, is a tacky little plastic box. It should be thrown out but it won’t be. There is a little bit of treasure inside.I close down the computer for today. Running my hand over my bald head, I take off my frame-less glasses and rock back on the chair. I pick up my phone where I recorded a number. I insert the code into the dial lock:1 3 3Now, for the most important things of all!Concept: exploring the horror genreObjectives:How well can you understand the creation of a sinister feel?Apply any past learning about horror and eerie tales to your own narrativeThe Reading Journey3156585191135How does the presence gradually become clearer to the reader? Think about the hand, the face, the movements00How does the presence gradually become clearer to the reader? Think about the hand, the face, the movements25879113425How are the boy’s feelings about the collections in the bedroom expressed?0How are the boy’s feelings about the collections in the bedroom expressed?1494790241935How does the sense of horror grow through the story?4000020000How does the sense of horror grow through the story?3312543807408Greater DepthWhat did you understand as the meaning of the ending? Compare this ending with other ghost stories or tales with an eerie feel0Greater DepthWhat did you understand as the meaning of the ending? Compare this ending with other ghost stories or tales with an eerie feel94891790156Research any reference you did not understand eg ‘The Meekon. How do specific names add to the affect of the story?0Research any reference you did not understand eg ‘The Meekon. How do specific names add to the affect of the story?Wings to Fly WritingTake an object you know well and make it the centre of a sinister taleWrite a story about the treasure in the dial lockWrite a new strange adventure for the domed faceWrite an alternative ending for this storyWrite a sinister story set in a girl’s bedroom at any set time in the past.The Cowboy WallpaperFive Minutes at Night!Noises Off – a Tale of What We Heard. ................
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