The Night of the Mothers

By D Reeder

There is a tradition in England during the month of December of people gathering by a fire late at night, long after all the children are safely tucked up in bed and then telling a ghost story.
Usually Christmas Eve is the chosen time for such tales of the supernatural.

This is such a tale to be read to a gathered crowd though perhaps on this occasion this story should not be read on Christmas Eve, but rather on the eve of the more ancient date for Christmas which is the date when this particular story was set.

This story came to me during a dream on the night of the 8th or 9th of January. I had not read of Bede's description of this particular night of the full moon until I dreamt of walking up a hill holding a child's hand, and the rest of whatthen happened is of course chronicled in the story.

Burrough on the Hill (which is featured on the front cover of the story) is a real place just below Melton Mowbury. After reading this story to my friends one of their first reactions was, 'Where exactly is this place?' and 'I want to go there?'

A more thoughtful elderly lady who'd been sat in the corner and who had seemed to grasp the import of this story much quicker than many of the others then asked me quietly much later, 'Would you ever go there on that particular night?'

And I must admit that I answered. 'No, I'd be absolutely terrified!'

But from her enigmatic expression I wondered if once she too had been a 'Great Mother'!

• Language: English
• Publisher: D Reeder
• Release date: Apr 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476090788

D Reeder

I am a writer living in the heart of England with a fascination for stories which slide between realities. References to ancient pagan mysteries pre-dating Christianity can often be found within my 'Tales of the Supernatural' where out of the everyday ordinary world come extraordinary stories.

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'The Night of the Mothers'

D Reeder

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 D Reeder

‘The Night of the Mothers’ is a Tale of the Supernatural

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The Night of the Mothers

It seems odd that two people can make the same journey, sit side by side, and yet have such different experiences. Afterwards, when they spoke about that day, that afternoon, they realised they shared not a single point in common. For as the car sped past fields and the bleak outskirts of towns Rowena had been absorbed in a new mobile phone game; her fingers busily tapping the screen as she listened to music only she could hear through those tiny headphones of hers; leaving her mother Barbara with the sensation that she was alone in the bubble of her car; and so it was she alone who observed the meaningless unlit shapes and wires still clinging to the fronts of houses, and the spent euphoria of Christmas trapped behind dull windows. And of their later wayfaring, of a time when they’d both stepped out into a brittle night, of that, though their memories should have coincided; of that, Barbara was later to learn that all they could agree on was there’d been no wind that night.

During the afternoon, cocooned in the warmth of her car with her teenage daughter beside her Barbara found she had time to think. She had already skimmed over the main issues of the day, and miles back before even joining the dual carriageway she had set the world completely to rights; so now as she flicked the indicator her thoughts inevitably turned towards more weightier matters such as what could she possibly cook for the