In today’s episode, we will hear the fictional story of Mrs. B’s Haunted Trinket Shoppe. Betty Brandon, better known as Mrs. B, owns an antique shop with a twist, the objects she sells are all haunted! One winter day a customer comes in with a strange request, leading to a situation even Mrs. B couldn’t have imagined.This episode of The Skylark Bell is part of a collaboration with The Nightcap and Paranormal Exposed podcasts, both members of The Boopod Network. You can find links to their shows below. Their episodes explore the original story of the haunted carriage, as well as a deeper dive into haunted objects in general.Paranormal Exposed: https://linktr.ee/paranormalexposedThe Nightcap: https://linktr.ee/thenightcappodcastBefore next week's episode in collaboration with The Haunted UK podcast, we suggest you listen to their 2021 Halloween Special which will tie in with the story, You can find that episode here: https://open.spotify.com/episode/0bvnvqkUCIxmFA2DWuomp2?si=jTZOE8jVQpC6enXV0LGLLAThe Skylark Bell is brought to you by: Phaeton Starling Publishing and Things with Wings Productions.The Skylark Bell official website - http://www.theskylarkbell.comThe Skylark Bell on Instagram: @theskylarkbellAuthor/Producer: Melissa Oliveri - http://www.melissaoliveri.comJoin Melissa's Patreon for early access to podcast episodes, music downloads, and more: http://www.patreon.com/melissaoliveriMelissa on Mastodon: https://mastodon.social/@melissaoliveriAll music by Cannelle: http://www.cannellemusic.comCannelle on Instagram: @cannelle.musicOfficial Merch Shops: http://www.melissaoliveri.com/storeFULL TRANSCRIPT:Things with Wings Productions presents: A Skylark Special in collaboration with Boopod Network members The Nightcap and Paranormal Exposed. I’m your host, Melissa Oliveri.  As some of you may know, The Skylark Bell is proud to be associated with the Boopod Network of paranormal and true crime podcasts. This holiday season, some of us are hosting a one-of-a-kind collaborative project spanning 3 different podcasts. Each podcast will release one episode covering tales of haunted objects. This story was inspired by the real-life case of a family being haunted by an entity attached to an antique doll carriage one of their children received for Christmas. Links to participating podcasts can be found in the show notes.                                                                                                In today’s episode, we will hear the fictional story of Mrs. B’s Haunted Trinket Shoppe. Betty Brandon, better known as Mrs. B, owns an antique shop with a twist, the objects she sells are all haunted! One winter day a customer comes in with a strange request, leading to a situation even Mrs. B couldn’t have imagined.So, get settled in… grab a blanket, and a warm drink… and let’s get started.The old woman firmly turns the key in the lock, and a loud click echoes on the other side of the door. The veins on her pale white hand stretch as she grasps the brass handle, and the heavy oak door creaks loudly as she pushes it open. The woman is greeted by a multitude of items haphazardly strewn on shelves, stacked in the dark corners of the room, and placed at random on the rough wood planks of the floor. Prominently displayed in the center of the store, guarded by the glass of the checkout counter, is her prize possession: An antique doll-sized baby carriage.The old woman takes off her coat and places it, along with her purse, on a vintage coat tree by the front door. She then walks across the store and steps behind the counter to flick on a series of light switches. The space around her lights up, revealing an astounding assortment of antiques and collectibles. The clicking of her shoes against the floor swirls around her as she makes her way to the front window. Her shaky hand grasps the small wooden sign hanging there and flips it so the word Open is visible to people outside.As the old woman is making her way back to the counter the creak of the shop door causes her to turn on her heel. “Hello Mrs. B! How are you today?” the mail carrier’s voice blows in with the brisk November wind.“I’m well, Samantha, thank you,” smiles the old woman. “And how are you? How is that adorable little boy of yours?” she asks. The pair make small talk as Samantha pulls a stack of envelopes and two packages out of her bag and places them on the checkout counter.“Ah, I’ve been expecting this one with bated breath!” exclaims Mrs B as she pulls one of the packages toward her.“I’m almost afraid to ask...” Samantha laughs nervously, “...what is it?”“It’s a tin soldier, from a small town in Ireland called Roundstone,” replies Mrs. B as she settles herself onto a stool to carefully unwrap the package.“Mhm... and... what else is in there, with the soldier?” asks Samantha tentatively.The old woman chuckles. “I’m told it’s the ghost of an old man who collected such trinkets.”“But...” pushes Samantha, “...you disagree?”A smile stretches across Mrs. B’s mouth. “Indeed, I do. There is no such spirit in this box.” She pauses for effect before adding, “In reality, it is the spirit of a small boy named Daniel attached to the soldier. He is about the age of your boy. He died during the Great Famine in the 1840s”.A shiver runs down Samantha’s spine as she closes her mail bag. “Well, on that chipper note, I’d better get on with my route!” she says in a sing-song-y voice before letting herself out the door. The old woman sits on the stool, her back straight as a rod, a relic of her days at The Aviary Finishing School. One hand fiddles with the locket around her neck as the other reaches between the sheets of tissue paper to pull out the toy soldier. She holds it up to the light, turning it this way and that to inspect it from every angle. Her inspection complete, she places the soldier on the counter and looks straight ahead toward the shop door. “Hello Daniel,” she says, her voice entirely matter of fact. A casual onlooker would think she is speaking to an empty room, they wouldn’t be able to see the small, rail-thin boy with dirt on his face whose bare feet hover just above the planks of the wood floor. At the sound of the woman’s voice the boy promptly vanishes. Mrs. B hangs a price tag off the toy soldier and displays him prominently at one end of the counter next to a few other trinkets and a sign that reads New Arrivals.“Jennifer, you get back here right now!” a woman’s voice carries through the door from outside. The door opens slowly and a child walks in, her cheeks red from the cold and the effort she has mustered to push the door open. “Jennifer! I need you to put on your listening ears!” the woman’s exasperated voice, closer now, sneaks in from outside again. The child giggles and runs to a small vanity in the corner of the shop. She sits on the child-sized stool and begins to brush her hair with an antique silver hairbrush. “Jennifer!” the woman has finally made it into the store, her face flushed from a combination of running and frustration. “I’m so sorry,” she heaves out the words in Mrs. B’s general direction as she scurries to grab the hair brush out of her daughter’s hand.Mrs. B twirls the chain of her locket around her fingers as she watches the scene unfold. “It’s not a problem, really...” she says, unsure whether the woman is even listening. The old woman then makes her way around the counter and walks up to little girl. “Jennifer, is it?” she asks, crouching to meet the child at eye level. The little girl nods, her light brown curls bouncing around her face. “You know, this is a very special hairbrush, it once belonged to a woman named Charlotte, see the initials C.C. engraved on the back?” The small girl inspects the back of the hairbrush and nods. Mrs. B continues, “Charlotte was very kind, and she loved children. I think she would be rather pleased if you were to have this.” The child’s eyes grow wide, and a smile stretches across her face.“Oh, that’s not necessary...” interjects her mother.“I insist,” says Mrs. B, standing to look at the mother with a knowing look in her eye.“Well, that’s very kind of you. What do we say, Jennifer?” The woman gives the girl a light shove.“Fank you,” says the little girl.Mrs. B, bends once again to face the girl, “You’re most welcome,” she says, then straightens up to address the girl’s mother. “I think you will find this brush will keep her quite busy, I’m sure you’ll be grateful for a little reprieve,” she says. The woman’s brow furrows momentarily, then she nods, grabs the little girls hand, and pulls her out the door, throwing a quick, “Thanks again!” over her shoulder as they walk out.Mrs. B watches as the ghost of a tall woman in a green flapper style dress trails behind them. “Goodbye, Charlotte,” says the old woman quietly. The ghost turns and holds up a pale hand in acknowledgement before disappearing through the door. Mrs. B returns to her perch on the stool behind the counter and begins sorting through a stack of bills. She heaves a sigh. Sales always slow down in the winter, and this year the snowy roads put an early end to tourist season. The summer was decent, bringing in groups of curiosity seekers and even a team of paranormal investigators that she had to shoo away with haunted broom, its accompanying ghost looking on with amusement. The old woman chuckles at the memory and places the stack of bills under the counter. There will be plenty of time to deal with them later.The creak of the shop door causes her to look up. The silhouette of a tall man with a wide brim hat blocks most of the light from outside. The man strides in and steps up to the counter where Mrs. B is sitting.“Are you the owner?” the man has a smooth English accent.“I am Mrs. Brandon, better known as Mrs. B,” replies the old woman. “May I help you?”The man nods, the confidence he walked in with faltering slightly. “I’m looking for... something specific,” he replies.Mrs. B looks at him quizzically. “And what makes you think that what you are looking for will be found here?” she asks, her arm making a sweeping gesture toward the overflowing contents of the store.The man’s spine stiffens, “I have tracked h- ... erhm, the object... to this location,” he says.“Very well, which object is it you are looking for?” asks the old woman, her curiosity piqued.The man remains silent and points to the checkout counter. Mrs. B follows the line of his forefinger, and realises he is pointing at the antique doll carriage enclosed within the glass beneath it. “I’m afraid that item is not for sale,” the old woman tries to sound confident and is frustrated to hear a crack in her voice. She nervously grabs her locket with one hand and begins twisting its chain.“I will pay handsomely. I will purchase the entire shop if I must. I have the means...” says the man.“That’s all well and good Mr....”“Marlowe, Jack Marlowe,” says the man.“Mr. Marlowe,” begins Mrs. B, “this item has been in my possession since before you were born. It was a holiday gift from my great-aunt Esther when I was but a girl, and it is very important to me.”The man’s face sinks. He leans his elbows on the counter and looks down at the carriage through the glass. “You don’t understand...” he says.“With all due respect, Mr. Marlowe, I believe it is you who does not understand. This item is not for sale, that is non-negotiable.”The man heaves a sigh and shifts his head up to look at the old woman, now sitting rod-straight on the stool and staring at him with a piercing gaze. “Could you at least explain to me why? I understand sentimental value, but with the amount of money I would be paying you could buy 8000 carriages just like it!”“I’m afraid this carriage is one-of-a-kind ...but something tells me you already know that,” replies Mrs. B.The man grunts and steps back from the counter. “Fine, so you know about the ghost. Name your price.” The old woman stays silent, her gaze unwavering. The man’s patience begins to wear thin. “I’ll pay you three timeswhat your shop is worth!” he exclaims, throwing his arms in the air with exasperation.“Mr. Marlowe, what you fail to realise is that I don’t simply know about the ghost, I know the ghost. I grew up with her. For years, she was my only friend. We have been in each other’s lives for decades. She protected me when I was a child, and today I am the one who protects her.” Mrs. B pauses to study the man’s face and body language. He is now shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other. “You have such a keen interest in this ghost, perhaps it would further your cause if you were to explain why,” she says.A long silence hangs in the air between them as the man appears lost in thought. Finally, he pulls a chair from a nearby dining set and sits across the counter from the old woman. “Fair enough,” he begins. “Three years ago, my wife was diagnosed with a rare medical condition. I’ve spent every day since searching for a solution, a cure, anything, even if only to slow the progression and give us more time, but to no avail.” The man appears to be choking back tears.Mrs. B waits patiently as he composes himself. She remains on guard, suspicious that the man may be spinning a sob story to gain her sympathy. “Just as I was going to give up and accept her fate, our fate, some new information came to light. You see, the condition is thought to be genetic, and some specialists theorize that perhaps a transfusion from a close relative could reverse the effects of the disease. My wife is an only child, and her parents both died when she was young, so the information didn’t seem relevant, until...” the man’s voice trails off.“Until what?” asks Mrs. B. She has let her guard down slightly and is increasingly invested in the story.“This is going to sound ridiculous,” hesitates the man.“Respectfully, Mr. Marlowe, I own a shop that sells haunted objects, I highly doubt what you say next will sound any more ridiculous than that,” replies the old woman.The man smiles nervously. “Right. The information didn’t seem relevant until, out of desperation, I went to a psychic. I know it sounds preposterous, but I had nothing left to lose. The psychic told me my wife had family she was not aware of, that her grandmother had a twin sister who became estranged from the family and that she’d gone on to have a daughter of her own before passing away. The child was only three years old with no father present, so she was sent to an orphanage.” Here he pauses and leans in slightly toward the old woman, as though intent on gauging her reaction to what he will say next. “The girl’s name was Willow, Willow Martin, and her mother’s name was Matilda.”At this, Mrs. B’s eyes grow wide. “That can’t be,” she whispers.The man continues, “I took the psychic’s information with a grain of salt, but I did do a quick online search when I got home. When I typed in the names Willow and Matilda Martin, the first thing to pop up was a blog discussing a decades-old news article about a little girl whose family was convinced the doll carriage she had received for Christmas was haunted by a ghost named Matilda Martin. I tracked down that little girl, and it took some doing, Mrs. Brandon – your married name it turns out – but I finally figured out who she was,” says the man, laying his palms flat on the counter and meeting the old woman eye to eye.“Indeed, that little girl was me, and Matilda’s ghost is attached to that carriage to this day,” says Mrs. B, still in mild shock. “But I don’t understand how purchasing this carriage, and Matilda’s ghost, will help you... or your wife,” she adds.“Ah, that’s the thing isn’t it. You see, Matilda’s daughter was shuffled around from orphanage to orphanage before being sent to a residential school, and then the trail goes cold. I can’t find any record of her, it’s like she disappeared. I’ve tried every avenue I can think of with nothing to show for it. I’m desperate, and I’m hoping Matilda has some sort of... connection... with her daughter, and that maybe her ghost can help me find her.”“I see,” ponders the old woman. “Rather than spending your life savings, and me giving up a cherished item, what if we simply ask Matilda for help right here, right now?”“That would certainly... that would be wonderful. I was trying to avoid having to tell the entire story, it sounds so completely ridiculous, but I’m desperate. Anyway, it’s a bit late for that now, isn’t it?” he chuckles.The old woman slips a key ring out of her pocket and sifts through the keys until she lands on a small silver one. She bends to unlock the cabinet below the checkout counter and slowly pulls the doll carriage out. She carries it around to the area where Mr. Marlowe is sitting and sets it on the floor as he pushes his chair out of the way.“I haven’t spoken to Matilda in years,” says the old woman nervously. Her face takes on a more serious tone as she steps back from the carriage and looks around the room. “Matilda?” she asks tentatively.A mist forms in the chair where Mr. Marlowe had been sitting only minutes before. The man takes an instinctive step back, his eyes stretched as wide as they will go and his mouth slightly agape.“Matilda, it’s me, Betty,” whispers the old woman as she walks toward the chair.“Betty...” the voice is barely audible, like the faintest hint of a summer breeze.“Matilda, this is my friend Jack, and he needs your help. He is trying to find your daughter, Willow. Do you think you can help him?”The mist has fully formed into the shape of a woman now, her bare feet hovering just above the ground. She appears to be in her early twenties. Her dark hair falls in a loose braid on her left shoulder, and she is wearing a long gown with embroidery at the neck, cuffs, and hem. “Willow... Willow is here,” says the ghost Matilda.“Wh-what do you mean, here?” asks Jack Marlowe, taking a step toward the ghost.“Willow is gone...” the words come out painstakingly slowly, as though conjuring them requires a great deal of energy, “...gone from your world. Now she is here,” whispers the ghost. Her shimmering arm lifts as she points a finger toward something in the corner of the room. Mrs. B and Mr. Marlowe’s heads turn in unison.The old woman struts to a bookshelf in the corner and scans the contents, returning with a stack of books. “These came from one of those... schools...” she says, the disapproval clear in her tone.  She sifts through the books and holds up a well-worn manual on laundry and sewing. Mrs. B addresses the ghost as she turns the book over in her hand, “Matilda, are you saying that Willow has passed on? That she is attached to one of these books in my shop?” The ghost Matilda nods, a look of agony washing over her face. The old woman stares at her in shock. How could she have missed this connection? It seems unfathomable that she didn’t know.“Mama!” a small voice comes from behind Mr. Marlowe. He spins on his heels and jumps to the side as a ghostly young girl comes running from the darkness behind him.“Willow, my darling! Kisâkihitin! (Kee-sa-kee-tin)” Matilda’s ghost stretches her arms out to greet the child with a hug. The living beings in the room stand in stunned silence as they watch the two ghosts embrace.“What’s going on, I don’t understand... Has anything like this ever happened before?” asks Mr. Marlowe.“No, I’ve never seen anything like it,” says Mrs. B. “But, as wonderful as it is for these two to be reunited, I’m afraid it isn’t good news for you. It would appear that Willow died in childhood, which means she cannot help you, nor did she grow old enough to have any children who could,” she adds. Her eyes fill with sorrow as she lays a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder.Mr. Marlowe puts his hand up to his mouth, finally realizing the implication of what has just transpired. He takes several minutes to recover, then clears his throat. “I understand. Thank you for your time. I... I should be on my way,” he says, wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye. He grabs his satchel from the floor and flings it over his shoulder before making his way to the shop door, never looking back at the ghostly mother and daughter.“I wish you all the best, Mr. Marlowe,” says Mrs. B through a crack in the door as the man walks dejectedly away under the falling snow. The old woman closes and locks the door, then turns back toward the ghosts. “I am so sorry you were apart all these years; I had no idea...” she begins. The ghost Matilda comes to her, the look on her face indicating she bears no ill will. Mrs. B gives her a nod, then carefully carries both the carriage and the book back into the glass cabinet below the checkout counter. Now the pair can be together.Mrs. B walks across the wood floor and flips the sign in the window to Closed. It has been a long, emotional day, and with the snow accumulating outside she is doubtful any more customers will show up. She steps back behind the checkout area to flip the light switches off. The store is instantly washed in darkness. The old woman expertly navigates the darkened space and grabs her coat and bag from the coat rack by the front door. “Goodnight, Matilda. Goodnight, Willow,” she says before letting herself out of the shop and into the cold, snowy world outside.ONE YEAR LATERThe young woman behind the counter looks up as the door creaks open. “Hello, welcome to Mrs. B’s Trinket Shoppe, how may I help you today?” she asks the couple, who is busy stomping snow off their boots before coming through the door. “Oh, hello there!” says the man. “I wasn’t expecting... Erhm... Is Mrs. Brandon in today?” he asks.“No, I’m afraid... uhh... she’s not,” says the young woman, visibly uncomfortable.“Ah, well, no matter. Perhaps you could let her know that Jack Marlowe stopped by... Scratch that, rather, please tell her Mr. and Mrs. Marlowe stopped by,” he says, grinning as he puts his arm around the woman, presumably Mrs. Marlowe. She looks up at him with a smile.The young woman’s cheeks redden as she shifts on her stool. “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” she begins, “you see, Mrs. B passed away last year.”The man stops in his tracks, the smile instantly wiped from his face. “Oh, I see. I... I had no idea. I’m so sorry... she was a lovely lady. One of a kind,” he stammers.The young woman nods quietly. “That’s what I’m told. I never actually met her; I moved here about three months after she died and saw a sign in the window that they were hiring. Turns out her brother took over ownership of the store, but he lives across the country and needed someone local to help run it.”“Right...” says Jack Marlowe, scanning the contents of the shop. "I suppose he's the one who re-branded by dropping the word Haunted from the shop's name?" he asks. The young woman behind the counter shrugs. Jack wanders around the space, inspecting a tin soldier on one of the shelves, and noting that the dining set and chair he had sat in that fateful day are still right where he left them a year ago. Suddenly, something in a display case catches his eye. “What can you tell me about this item?” he asks, lifting a locket on a chain from the velvet-lined case.“I believe that was from Mrs. Brandon’s personal collection,” answers the young woman.“Brilliant!” he whispers under his breath. “I’ll take it,” he tells the young woman.Mrs. Marlowe joins him at the counter. “What about these items, how much are you asking for them?” she asks, pointing at the doll carriage and antique book in the glass display case.“Uhh... I don’t know, I was told those were significant in some way,” replies the young woman.“How about this, I’ll pay you... three times what they’re worth,” offers Jack Marlowe.The girl hesitates. “Sales have been slow since Mrs. B passed away... I suppose it would help the store stay afloat,” she concedes as she grabs a set of keys to unlock the display case.“I was so excited for you to meet her...” says Jack as he and his wife walk out of the store. The snow crunches loudly beneath their boots. He loads the carriage and book into the back of their car and turns to look at his wife. “I wanted to show her that miracles happen,” he says, a grateful smile on his face.“Deep down, I feel like maybe she knows...” says Mrs. Marlowe, leaning to place a soft kiss on his cheek. The pair get in the car and drive down the winding road through the magic of the falling snow, each lost in their own thoughts as Mrs. Marlowe holds the locket between her palms. Every so often, Jack glances in the rear-view mirror and smiles. From the back seat, Mrs. B, Matilda, and Willow smile back.Thank you so much for listening.  Please be sure to follow The Nightcap and The Paranormal Truth podcasts who will elaborate on the real-life account of a haunted carriage that inspired this story, as well as haunted objects in general.Then, join me next week for a one-of-a-kind episode in collaboration with The Haunted UK podcast. This episode will take on an audio drama format featuring a phone call between two characters. I suggest you listen to The Haunted UK’s 2021 Halloween Special in preparation, you can find a link in the show notes.The Skylark Bell is brought to you by Phaeton Starling Publishing and features original music by me under my stage name Cannelle. If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a rating on Spotify or a review on Apple Podcasts, they help give the podcast visibility so others can find and enjoy the story. You can also support my work by subscribing to my Patreon where you get early access to episodes as well as MP3 downloads of the music, artwork, behind the scenes videos and more! Just check the show notes for all necessary links.Once again, thank you for listening – I’m Melissa Oliveri, and this is The Skylark Bell Podcast.Support this podcast at — https://redcircle.com/theskylarkbell/exclusive-contentAdvertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

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