On the day that Christopher Lee died,

the world of Nightmares seemed less important

and as I struggled in my usual, haphazard way to fall asleep

I started counting teeth, the times I had seen

The Hammer House of Horror films helping

in this regard.

 

My father, upright, upstanding, noble of heart,

hated me watching Grange Hill, the non realism, or perhaps

the frightening truth of 1970s education in the heart

of the country at stake, enough to know

that it was a not a television programme for a boy

who already rebelled by singing

“We don’t need no education”, under

the breath as he sat in the corrugated tin bath

infront of the fire, a metal version of The Wicker Man

being played out, on a Sunday night,

but who gladly would let his hippy tendencies son,

the first longer hair starting to creep in at the same time,

to watch Hammer House of Horror, if he was quiet,

straight after Match of the Day.

 

The blood, the screams, the eyes made of sterner stuff,

looking like the headmaster

Mr. Dempsey at Moor Green

and enough to put the fear of any god into you

and that was even

before the television made that weird noise

as the little white spot

descended into the ether and the National Anthem

was rigorously applauded by old men still suffering from

post traumatic stress after the war

and to whom must have wondered what was the fuss

made of Bram Stoker’s ferret faced Nosferatu.

 

On the day that Christopher Lee died,

that part of my childhood and inner boy

lost hope that in the darkness shown

would always come a sliver of light

as the man who invaded my nightmares

was no more.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015

Dedicated to the memory of Sir Christopher Lee, 1922-2015.