Thanks to dear Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers and to Brenda for the photo.
F F’s March 26th THE GRILLE
My mother refused to talk about it. She rolled her eyes and stared at the ground. After two glasses of Rioja Grandma would only refer darkly to a ‘bad thing’ in the courtyard. Then clamp her mouth shut.
When I was six, a naughty boy who wouldn’t go to sleep, my dad threatened that he would awaken the ghost if he spoke about the incident, and then I’d never sleep again.
Best to keep the priest’s secret locked up, like the garden gate with its grille . Shame we never ever left the garden.