The Gift

By Annette Siketa

A beautiful if unusual Christmas gift turns out to be more than it appears.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Annette Siketa
• Release date: Feb 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393162568

Annette Siketa

For those of you who have not yet made my acquaintance, my name is Annette Siketa, and I am totally blind. Were you aware that most blind and visually impaired people are extraordinarily perceptive? To sighted people, this ability must seem like ESP, and I suppose to a certain extent, it is. (I'm referring to the literal meaning of Extra Sensory Perception, not the spooky interpretation.) To compensate for the lack of vision, the brain and the other four senses become sharper, so that we can discern a smell or the identity of an object. I promise you there's no trickery involved. It's simply a matter of adapting the body to ‘think’ in another way.Being blind is no barrier to creativity. Like most things in this world, life is what you make of it, and after losing my sight due to an eye operation that went terribly wrong, I became a writer, and have now produced a wide variety of books and short stories, primarily of the ghost/supernatural/things that go bump in the night genre.So, how does a blind person write a book? On the practical side, I use a text-to-speech program called ‘Jaws’, which enables me to use and navigate around a computer, including the Internet, with considerable ease. Information on Jaws can be found at www.freedomscientific.comOn the creative side...well, that’s a little more difficult to explain. Try this experiment. Put on your favourite movie and watch it blindfolded. As you already ‘know’ the movie – who does what where & when etc, your mind compensates for the lack of visualisation by filling in the ‘blanks’. Now try it with something you’ve never seen before, even the six o'clock news. Not so easy to fill in the blanks now is it?By this point you’re probably going bonkers with frustration – hee hee, welcome to my world! Do not remove the blindfold. Instead, allow your imagination to compensate for the lack of visualization, and this will give you an idea of how I create my stories. Oh, if only Steven Spielberg could read my mind.

Book preview

England, 10 – 13th December, 1888.

Sir Christopher Sutton was one of my oldest and dearest friends, but unfortunately, with the exception of exchanging letters, circumstances had kept us apart for over six months.  It was therefore with considerable delight that I accepted his invitation to attend what he termed, ‘a pre-Christmas banquet’.

The reasons for this unusual yuletide indulgence were sad and alarming.  London, where Sutton and his wife Meredith lived for most of the year, was in the grip of a sadistic killer dubbed, Jack the Ripper.  Indeed, a few days before I received the invitation, the mutilated body of another victim, Meredith Kelly, had been found.  As a consequence of the reign of terror, Sutton had taken the precaution of sending his wife to their country retreat.  But, the seemingly wise move had an unforeseen consequence. 

With the harshness of winter starting to bite, Meredith, who usually possessed the constitution of an ox, was feeling the cold more than usual.  As Sutton wrote in his invitation letter, ‘Meredith spends an inordinate amount of time in the drawing room huddled before the fire.  It seems even the slightest draught penetrates her bones. 

‘Do not be alarmed though.  There is nothing wrong with her faculties, and she is most insistent that the pre-Christmas banquet should proceed.  It is pointless for me to argue with her on this matter, for as you know, she can be extraordinarily stubborn at times.  Afterwards, with even bleaker weather on the horizon, we intend to reside in Naples for the next two months. 

Being a doctor, I had people to see and complaints to settle, but fortunately, I was able to call in a favour or two, and on December 10th, I cheerfully boarded the train at King’s Cross Station. 

In so much as a person can be fond of another person’s home, I was fond of Millington Grange.  Built during the reign of George III, the ‘grange’ was a rambling manor surrounded by vistas of breath-taking beauty.  I had spent many happy holidays hunting or fishing or rambling the surrounding countryside.  Indeed, such was the grange’s reputation, that more than one royal personage had taken up residence for a night. 

Sutton’s carriage