Belief in ghosts is almost as old as the human race. Men in every age have refused the idea that physical death means annihilation and have clung to the belief that the soul lives on in some other world than this.
It was the turn of the century. The year was 1800 and it had been a long past year for the family of Kindlewood. The father of the household was christened Edward; he was a well-respected (upper-class) general. The mother, Marianne Jane, had been wed to Mr. Kindlewood at the age of sixteen and had born him his first child at the age of eighteen. Marianne Kindlewood was an esteemed homemaker, a loving person who was loyal to her husband and faith. The family also included the four children who ranged in age from five to nineteen.
First of the siblings was Timothy aged nineteen, secondly Grace aged fifteen, then Mohammed aged nine and lastly Othello at just five years old. The Kindlewoods had lived all their lives in a large establishment, quiet secluded from civilization. Their past relatives descended from the smile of Africa, The Gambia, who had been shipped over to England for use as slaves and servants.
The past year, as I previously stated, had been long, full of variety and unpredictability.
The year started as any other. The family were all celebrating the eve of the New Year, Gathered round the warmth of the glowing, crackling fireplace, exchanging jokes and laughter. The two youngest of the family of the family, Othello and Mohammed were asleep and the elder of the siblings sat with their parents. As they sat in the light of the burning fire, a knock struck upon the large oak door at the front of the manor. Startling the drowsy family, Mr. Kindlewood roused from his seat at once, with a slightly perturbed expression upon his face and attended to the disruption. A muffle of voices could be heard from the direction of the knock. Three voices spoke, that of Mr. Kindlewood and two other gentlemen unfamiliar...