Author's note: Hi everyone finally managed to finish typing up the second story in my Doctor Who serial featuring the 11th Doctor, Jamie McCrimmon, Amy and Rory. I would recommend reading my other story Highlander and the Sea Monster first as this follows on from there. I will try and post the chapters as frequently as I can.

It may be a while before I get the other stories in the serial finished due to university commitments.

Disclaimer: Doctor Who and its respective creations belong to the BBC and their respective creations. I own nothing just using them for this fanfic. Some characters are original creations invented for the purpose of the story. Although, the characters are fictional the plot is based on an actual event.

The Curse of the Crying Boy

Prologue

Rotherham, South Yorkshire, 1985

It was an ordinary back-to-back row of terraced houses, typical of a working-class, northern, town such as Rotherham. Two rows of red bricked Victorian-built houses separated by roads which lead up to the Beatson Clark Glasswork factory at the end of the street.

In the middle of the left side of the street lived Ralf and Mary Butcher. They had both grown up in the street and, when Ralf had followed his father into the glasswork factory, they had seen no reason to leave the street in which they had been raised.

Like all the houses in the street, Ralf and Mary's house was a modest affair. They, like their neighbours, were not wealthy people yet, as was often the way of Northern working-class families, they were house proud and, although their home was modest, they kept it as clean and tidy as though it were a palace.

Amongst their belongings were many trinkets and gifts which, although may have seemed tacky and cheap, were cherished gifts and mementos from friends and family, some of whom had long passed away.

Among these mementos was an unusual kitsch print of a small boy with tears streaming down his face. The painting was entitled The Crying Boy. Originally painted by a Spanish artist Bruno Amandio, who went by the pseudonym, Giovanni Bragolin, the Crying Boy became so popular during the 1960s and 1970s that many artists made their own version of Bragolin's weeping boy. This particular copy had belonged to Mary's mother whom had given it pride of place in her living room. Mary could recall the painting hanging proudly above the hearth in her childhood home for all to see. When her mother had passed away, and Mary and her sisters had had to sort out her possessions, Mary had requested the copy of the Crying Boypainting. Her sisters had agreed to this without hesitation. They all thought the painting was hideous and were glad not to have had it fostered upon them.

For his part Ralf was mainly indifferent to the painting. He understood the memories of her childhood that its presence in their house brought back to his wife and so, for that reason he tolerated it. Other than that he would never understand why anyone would have wanted such a miserable image hanging on the wall. After all, who would think that a small boy in tears would make a good subject to paint? Ralf had thought to himself on numerous occasions.

DWDWDW

'I'm off up to bed, love,' Mary hollered from the landing. 'Make sure all t' lights are off before you come up, will you, Ralf.' 'Aye, alright, love,' he called back up the stairs before settling down to watch the news. Before long Ralf felt his eyelids grow heavy and began to sink heavily into his chair. His head rolled to the side, slightly and he was soon fast asleep, snoring heavily.

Hours passed, Mary slept snuggling in her bed while, downstairs, Ralf snored of the couch. The night was still an silent and the only sound could be heard was the drown of the television as the closedown sequence came to an end.

In the kitchen sat the chip pan. Unfortunately, neither Ralf nor Mary had realised that they had left the chip pan on.

Suddenly flames began rising from it. The flames rose higher and higher; engulfing the whole kitchen in flames and smoke and spending to the rooms beyond. Perhaps it would've been alright if Ralf or Mary had left the kitchen door closed but, unfortunately, for whatever reason it had been forgotten and left open giving the fire the chance to quickly spread.

The first Ralf got to know of the fire was when the smoke alarm, which hung above the kitchen doorway, began to sound. Unfortunately, the alarm was highly temperamental and prone to sounding at the slightest hint of smoke.

'Stupid thing!' Ralf muttered as he stumbled awake, before he began to cough and splutter from the effects of the smoke.

Opening his eyes Ralf saw the flames which had engulfed the kitchen and were rapidly spending throughout the dining room. Realising that he and his wife's lives were at risk he hollered up the stairs: 'Mary, wake up t' house is on fire!'

A few second pause and then he could hear the shuffling sound of Mary's slippers on the landing and the landing light being switched on 'Tha what, Ralf!' she yelled back. 'I said the house is on fire!'

Mary dashed down the stairs as fast as she could and flung open the living room door. 'What do you mean t' house is on fire!' she began to say but stopped when she saw the flames rising from the kitchen. 'Come on,' Ralf cried, 'let's get out of here!'

DWDWDW

By the time they had got into the street the neighbours had already been awoken by the commotion. Curtains twitched and faces appeared at the windows, all eager to see what was going on. Suddenly, their next-door-neighbour, a blonde-haired lady called Jean Clarke came out of her house and rushed over to where Ralf and Mary were now standing, a safe distance away from the house. 'What on earth has happened?' she asked. 'It's our house,' Mary explained. 'It's on fire!' 'I'll get Jack to ring the fire bridge!' Jean replied, her eyes wide in shock.

DWDWDW

Several hours later and the fire had been put out. The building was dripping wet and the windows had been charred and blackened by the soot which had risen through the floors.

The fireman switched of their hose as Ralf and Mary came running over. 'Did anything survive?' Mary asked in desperation, she had just watched her whole life go up in smoke. 'Nowt but this painting,' one of the firemen proclaimed.

As he spoke he held up the painting of a small weeping boy. Ralf and Mary gasped. The frame had been slightly burned but the painting itself was completely unscathed, not a burn mark upon it. Indeed, if a passer-by had seen it, and not the burnt out building, they might have refused to have believed there had ever been a fire at all.