Cumbrian Ghost Stories

by Tony Walker

  Grey hair straggled over her face and her teeth stuck long and yellow like those of a snake. Like a snake also were her eyes; irises golden with pupils like pulsing, flickering spots. She opened her mouth and her swollen, pale tongue lolled as she said, ‘Father, come!’

  With those words spoken, she raised her silver dagger and plunged it into Alfie’s chest. I heard the thump of impact and his scream and a sound like air escaping a punctured leather bag. Alfie twitched and shuddered and his life blood spouted from his chest.

  I dropped the stick I held and threw up.

  And then whatever she had called, came. I heard it behind me appearing in the trees. Sinuous and slippery, not corporeal, it slid through the wood like a slick of black oil. I heard its gibbering cries. I heard its inhuman moan, and I knew whatever intelligence or idiocy it had was second to its hunger.

  I fled. The gutless fool I was: I fled.

  I had some sense of it fastening on Alf and feeding from his pierced body. Half a sight of it slitting him open with scissor like nails, but I ran.

  I ran down the trail, down the path, slipping and falling, cutting myself but luckily not breaking any bones, not that I cared then, but not slowing until I reached the bottom of the hill. In the trees behind, I heard it. It had eaten Alf and now it came for me.

  But I would not let it. I remembered some story of them not being able to cross running water so I ran for Alf’s boat, and jumped in the water, shoving it ahead of me and then rolling in it, nearly capsizing in the water. But I got in and rowed frantically. Nothing followed, and I had got halfway across the lake, at the deepest point, where the water ran cold from December rain, and I slowed. I paused, hanging on my oars. My heart still beat. My neck and chest were drenched with cold sweat. I could hardly think from the horror I had seen. But it seemed I had escaped, even if Alfie hadn’t. My mouth was sour. I spat into the lake water and turned to row again.

  And then I felt a weight settle in the boat. I looked amazed as she appeared from smoke. Sabine sat there, her cloak thrown open, but instead of the old crone, now she was a young maiden; her breasts full and up-tilted. Her cloak lay open as before. The hair between her legs black and curly. Her lips were red as blood, her cheeks white as snow, apart from a high red blush at her cheekbones. Her hair was lustrous black and hung beneath her shoulders. Wicked as she was, she was the fairest woman I ever did see.

  A beauty as an innocent girl, but her eyes spoke of who she really was. Her face was flushed with blushing blood, but though she was restored; her eyes were still those of a great golden snake.

  ‘Hello, Davey,’ she said, hissing, ‘I am Sabine.’

  I looked at the cold lake water. At least it would give me a clean death. As she watched, I leapt up and jumped clear of the boat into the lake.

  I had expected to die, but the lake saved me. Frigid as it was, I swam to shore at Bowness and Sabine did not follow.

  After that, I went to London, giving little reason for leaving even to my family. Sabine did not follow. From Liverpool, I took ship to Australia to be as far away from her as could be and instead of dark Westmorland winters; I had bright Australian skies above me. And still she did not follow.

  But I am not rid of her. She did not follow me across the water. In my dreams, there she waits. If I ever come back to Windermere, she will be waiting for me, calling over from the Heights of Claire.

  4

  The Little Man of Carlisle

  It was 1986 when this all happened. The first time I saw him when I was coming out of the Stars and Stripes on Botchergate. I’d been to see Bob Calvert, who used to be with Hawkwind, now solo. He was fantastic — a genius. He rocked it, but there wasn’t much of a crowd to be honest. Anyway, that was the night I saw the Little Man. He stood about four foot tall with a wide-brimmed brown felt hat with a flat top. He dressed like someone from the 17th Century anyway, with silver-buckled shoes.

  He was across the road near the church. He could have been watching anybody, but I felt he was watching me. I ignored him.

  I went for a pint in the Border Rambler on my way home. It was maybe half eleven by the time I said my goodbyes — they know me in there so there were lots of goodbyes to say — and was once again on Botchergate. He was there again, the other side of the road. Steve Leech came out behind me and I pointed and said, ‘See that bloke?’

  But he shook his head. ‘What bloke?’

  ‘The little one, with the silver-buckled shoes.’

  ‘Nah, mate. I think you’ve been on the weed again.’

  I harrumphed at that. We walked a way together then he split off to go round the Crescent, and I strolled over towards the citadel then down English Street. I normally cut through the Cathedral grounds to Abbey Street, but at that time of night the cathedral precinct gate was locked.

  I live with my mam in one of the old houses on Abbey Street. It’s too big for us, really. Dad died nearly fifteen years ago, leaving just us two. Downstairs in the main room is her piano. She used to be a music teacher, but she’s 82 now and crippled with arthritis. The doctors say they can’t do anything, just fill her full of painkillers. It breaks my heart to see the pain she’s in, and how she shuffles around the house. But she puts on a brave face, always saying she can manage.

  She was already in bed, so I did my best not to make a noise and went to bed myself. That night I thought about the little man with the silver buckle shoes. Maybe he was some kind of fancy-dress nutter. I don’t know. I fell asleep about 2 a.m.

  I didn’t see the Little Man again for about a week. This time, I was walking through the cathedral grounds and there he was by the big wooden door with the iron rivets in it. Standing there. Unlike that Saturday when I’d seen him before, there weren’t many people about. He was definitely looking at me. He just stared at me as I walked by. I give him a hard look and he smiled back. I would have said something, but it was raining and I wanted to get out of the wet.

  To tell the truth, he was starting to weird me out and I wondered if it was the weed. It always made me paranoid, and I knew I needed to pack it in.

  I didn’t see the Little Man for a bit, but then I was at work in the Board. I work as a barman and anyway old Mr Jones came in. He owns the bookshop over the road. He likes a pint too, and he’s usually good crack. I got him his Guinness, and he stood at the bar as he always does.

  ‘Do you know, Malcolm,’ he said as he wiped the Guinness foam from his top lip, ‘There is a secret tunnel in the cellar of this pub?’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘A secret tunnel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where does it go?’

  ‘All under this part of Carlisle are secret tunnels. Dug by the Druids.’

  ‘Really?’ You hear a lot of shit when you’re a barman, but Old Jonesey isn’t usually one of the bullshitters though. He usually gives you interesting nuggets. This might be one of them, but I was sceptical. ‘I’ve never seen it.’

  He tapped his nose. ‘The owner boarded it up.’

  ‘Who, Sam?’

  He nodded. ‘The very same.’

  ‘I find it hard to believe.’

  ‘Ask him.’

  ‘I will. But where did it go?’

  ‘They. There’s more than one. To the Cathedral and the Castle and all under the old part of the city.’

  I snorted. ‘So you say.’

  ‘So I do say. It’s historical record.’

  I had to go away to serve another customer. I didn’t get a chance to speak to Jonesey much after that. By the time he wanted his next pint, he’d changed the subject and was going on about the tips for the races the next day. He liked a flutter on the horses.

  I did see Sam though. I forgot about the tunnel, but then when he asked me to change the lager barrel, it reminded me. When I came up, rubbing my hands to get rid of the dirt I’d picked up moving the barrel in the old cellar, I said, ‘Sam, is it true about the tunnels?’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘What?’

  �
��Mr Jones, the book shop bloke; he was telling me that there was an old tunnel that ran from the cellar of this pub.’

  ‘Did he? Old Jonesey should keep his mouth shut.’

  I was taken aback. ‘Why? Is it true?’

  Sam looked grim. ‘It was true. I blocked it up. I put a board against it and rolled barrels against the board.’

  ‘That old chip board?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I wondered what that was doing there. Anyway, what’s so bad about the tunnels?’

  ‘They’re bad luck. There’re stories of people going into them and getting lost, and there’re stories of things coming out of them.’

  ‘Really? There’s lots of them then.’

  ‘A whole network. Under the old city. They go as far as the railway station. And the castle the other way.’

  ‘How come I never heard of them?’

  ‘I don’t know, Malcolm. How come you didn’t?’

  That puzzled me. I said, ‘So, you can get into them?’

  He said sharply, ‘No, you can’t and you won’t. Not from my cellar anyhow. Get back to serving beer.’

  Mam was still up watching the telly when I got in. I hung my coat up and made us both a cup of tea. I sat down on the threadbare chair and said, ‘Mam, is it true that there’s a network of tunnels under Carlisle?’

  She nodded, not taking her eyes from Last of the Summer Wine on the TV. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Very old. The druids dug them. Or the Romans.’

  ‘How come you’ve never told me about these before, mam?’

  ‘I don’t remember you asking.’

  ‘Well, if I didn’t know there were any...’

  I eyed up the chipboard every time I went into the pub cellar after that. There were those aluminium barrels in front of it, but I started using those to change the old ones, so the pile got less and less. Then I tried the chipboard. It was nailed in place, but I could tear it off. Except, I’d probably lose my job as Sam was so against it. He didn’t mention the tunnels again, and neither did I.

  Then, it was the Wednesday night, and we were quiet but the bitter ran out, so I went down to change the barrel, leaving that lawyer from Scotby waiting for his pint. And as I went down, thinking about nowt much, there was the Little Man with his brown felt hat and his silver-buckled shoes.

  My heart went off like a jackhammer and I froze on the bottom step. ‘What the hell?’ I said, though I didn’t say hell. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  The Little Man raised his hand and pointed to the chipboard. Then he vanished. I swear down he vanished.

  I went upstairs, pretty shook up.

  Sam was there. ‘Did you change that barrel?’ He said, ‘Cause Mr Dixon is waiting for his pint.’

  Then he looked at me. ‘Are you all right? You’re white as a sheet.’

  Mr Dixon volunteered from the other side of the bar, ‘He looks like he’s seen a ghost.’

  I said, ‘I just saw a little dwarf man down in the cellar. Then he vanished.’ I said it low so Dixon couldn’t hear us.

  Sam whispered, ‘With silver-buckled shoes?’

  I nodded. ‘So you’ve seen him too?’ The fact he’d seen him made me feel better.

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Only once. When I was a kid. And then I saw him up Stanwix the same week. But never since.’

  ‘What does he want?’ I said.

  ‘You be careful,’ Sam said. ‘Do you want the night off?’ Now, that was most unlike Sam to be caring and considerate.

  I shook my head. I rubbed my clammy brow. ‘No, I’ll be fine. But what does he want: The Little Man?’

  ‘He wants your soul,’ he said.

  That didn’t make me feel better.

  I went home after work to find the house in darkness. Mam was sitting in the living room with only candles for light. Three or four of them flickered and guttered in saucers, pooling wax and smelling of burning wicks. She was bent over her coffee table and on it was a strange board. She had her finger on some kind of wooden thing and it was moving around the board. The board seemed to have letters on it and the word ‘Yes’ and ‘No.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Ouija Board.’

  ‘Ouija Board. Isn’t that evil?’

  ‘No, only if you contact a demon.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  I stood above her. The little planchette moved under her fingers. ‘It’s spelling out words,’ she said.

  ‘What words?’

  ‘Mostly gibberish. But I got the name Alan.’

  ‘Who’s Alan?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he’s gone now. I’ve got another one now.’

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ I said losing interest. It was hard to see in the gloom and I went to switch the light on.

  ‘No!’ she said.

  ‘You don’t want a cup of tea?’

  ‘No! Don’t switch the light on. It’ll ruin the atmosphere.’

  I made the tea by the light of a succession of matches, which burned my fingers because mam had all the candles. I made her a cup of tea and went back to where she was still sitting; the planchette darting around under her fingers.

  ‘What are you doing it for, anyway?’

  ‘To contact your dad. I think he had a secret bank account.’

  ‘Really?’

  She didn’t answer. She was so wrapped up in what she was doing. I said, ‘Did you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Contact dad?’

  ‘No, just Alan. And now this new one.’

  I sat down on my normal seat and wished I could put the telly on. ‘Who’s the new one?’ I said, sipping my tea, which was too hot. I normally let it cool for a while, but normally, I’ve got something to do while it cools. I didn’t, sitting there in the dark.

  ‘Something Belly,’ she said.

  ‘That’s a weird name.’

  ‘maybe Bella something, but it goes on and I can’t quite get the ending.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘He keeps asking for help.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Not sure. Just keeps writing “help me”.’

  Then she went back to sliding her planchette around. ‘Hang on,’ she said.

  I sipped more tea.

  ‘That’s interesting,’ she said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘This Belly just wrote “help me, Malcolm.”’

  I spluttered tea. ‘Malcolm? My name.’

  She stared at me, her rheumy old eyes glinting in the candlelight. ‘Yes, Malcolm. Your name.’

  After that, she was in a lot of pain from her arthritis. Sitting hunched up over that board hadn’t helped. I got her two paracetamol and a glass of water, though I knew she wouldn’t sleep.

  Neither did I. My mind kept running over the Ouija Board: Help me, Malcolm. Help with what? How? More weird stuff. I wondered if I was going mad.

  I was working at the Board the next night, and I dithered over which t-shirt to wear: Motorhead or Metallica. In the end, I settled for AC/DC. You can’t go wrong with the Legendary Australian Heavy Rockers.

  In fact, I was humming ‘Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap’ when I arrived at work. Sam did not look himself. He was sinking a whisky, and he never normally drinks.

  ‘What’s up, boss?’ I said.

  He was shaking, visibly pale. ‘I’ve seen him now.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked, but I knew who he meant: the little guy with the silver buckles.

  He knew I knew too, so he just jerked a thumb. ‘Down in the beer cellar. By the chipboard into the tunnel. He wants in.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘By the way, did you move the barrels out of the way? ‘Cause there’s a lot less of them blocking the entrance than there was.’

  I shook my head. ‘Not me, boss.’

  He looked thoughtful. ‘Then it must be that little bastard who’s done it. He wants into that tunnel as sure as eggs is eggs.’

  ‘And they is,�
� I mused.

  ‘What?’ he snapped.

  ‘Eggs. They are eggs,’ I said by way of explanation.

  The shift went as normal. As Sam had changed the barrels before I came in, I didn’t need to go down into the cellar. Mr Jones the bookshop owner came in and had his usual Guinness. As he sipped the dark beverage, wiping the foam from his lips that he always got there, like a comic cream moustache, he said a propos of nothing, ‘Of course, this place is full of gods.’

  ‘Where is?’

  ‘Carlisle.’

  ‘Really?’ I’d never seen any.

  He sipped his drink. ‘The Celts had lots of gods. Then the Romans brought theirs’

  He could be interesting at times. Other times not so much.

  He went on. ‘And the saints who infested the area in the Dark Ages: they acted just like the druids before them; going from area to area performing odd little miracles.’

  ‘Did they dig more tunnels? Like the druids did before them?’

  He looked at me like I was stupid. Then he continued with a happy little smile. ‘Some saints were gods, just refashioned.’

  ‘I’ve never really heard of these gods. Give me some examples,’ I said. It was a quiet night, and I was polishing glasses as I listened to him.

  ‘Very well,’ said Jonesey. ‘Let’s start with the Celts, the earliest ones; first there was the multi-skilled god Lugos, after whom Carlisle is ultimately named. He was worshipped down into Italy and across France, Belgium, Britain and Ireland. ’

  ‘Is that so?’ I said, putting down a polished glass and picking up another to polish.

  ‘There were local gods too. One of them was Belatucadros, who was an important god for the Carvetii or deer tribe of Cumberland. He was a horned god, a god of war and hunting.’

  ‘Who did you say?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The name.’

  ‘Oh, Belatucadros. An odd name. It seems to mean Decorated by Death.’

  That shook me. I put the glass down and squinted at him. ‘But this Bela — what’s his name — was local to us?’

  He laughed. ‘Yes, once upon a time.’

  I thought of the ouija board, but Jonesey was in full flight.