Colour was something I’d only ever see blossom in a dream or in a memory from what felt like years ago; tacked up red and merry come the time for Christmas, perhaps, or printed onto the front of a Kellogg’s cereal box in the form of a grin-ridden furry mascot, orange coat ablaze and wooden spoon in hand: manmade and joyless, unless you were ten years old. Skies loomed grey and fog poured in plenty, and though the snow fell white and glorious, it lay dirty and black, piled up either side of the Rotten Row and its ashen cobbled curbs, unable to properly thaw out, but only to thicken and turn to sludge. On weekends, the village, which was called Stoney Grange, smelled of damp washing and boiled vegetables in the mornings, as well as of coal dust and chimney smoke come the afternoons. Rows of red-brick terraces ran for what looked like an eternity in every direction, held to the sky in all of its industrial pride and glory, though now a mere ghost of the village it once must have been.
What do You think about The Man In Black: A Ghost Story?
