Cumbrian Ghost Stories

by Tony Walker

  ‘A magic egg.’

  I threw back my head and laughed. He was surely jesting with me for there is no such thing as a magic egg. ‘And what will it give hatch to?’ said I.

  ‘Your fortune.’

  I laughed. ‘My fortune?’

  ‘Riches beyond your dreams. Are you interested?’

  I looked at the egg. It might even be made of gold and if he was foolish enough to trust me with something obviously valuable, then that was his loss.

  I tilted my head. ‘So, what’s the catch?’

  He looked innocent. ‘No catch. Why would there be a catch?’

  ‘Because strangers don’t normally give me golden eggs for nothing in return.’

  He said, ‘I didn’t say for nothing. But it’s for almost nothing.’

  ‘What is the cost?’ said I.

  ‘Just a tiny thing,’ said he.

  ‘A tiny thing? What tiny thing?’

  ‘Just a drop.’

  ‘A drop of what?’ I felt he had something to hide.

  He smiled a crooked smile. ‘Just a tiny drop of your blood. It’ll be easy enough to get. Just a scratch.’

  ‘That’s a most extraordinary request.’

  ‘It’s a most extraordinary egg.’

  ‘And it will give me riches?’ It would give me a few shillings at least if I sold it, that’s for sure.

  ‘Whatever you want.’

  ‘And all this for a drop of blood.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Just a tiny drop too.’

  I thought this man to be a fool. I stared at the golden egg in his outstretched palm. ‘Can I feel it?’ I asked.

  ‘Certainly.’ He handed me the egg. It was heavy and smooth and cool in my hand. It certainly felt heavy enough to be gold, though I’d never handled such an amount of gold before. ‘It’s really gold? I asked.

  He nodded briskly.

  ‘And you’ll give me this in exchange for a drop of blood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why do you want blood?’

  ‘To make sure you return the egg. I want it back a year and a day from today.’

  ‘So St Stephen’s Day next year?’

  ‘I don’t like to call it that, but yes.’

  I shrugged. I kept the egg in my right hand and extended my left arm. The sleeve of my coat rode up exposing my hairy forearm. ‘Take your drop.’

  His grin broadened. He took out a little crystal phial, fiddled with the stopper and, when he had removed the stopper, he went towards my forearm with the fingers of his left hand. For the first time I noticed his fingernails. They were long and sharp, each one extending from his finger-ends like the claws of a chicken and it struck me that there was something exceedingly birdlike about him.

  He darted forward and pierced my arm with the pointed nail of his index finger. I drew my arm back with a yelp, but he said, ‘Arm.’

  A stream of blood ran from where he’d pricked me. It was nothing really, so I extended my arm towards him again. He took his little crystal bottle and placed it under my arm to catch the drips.

  ‘That’s more than a drop,’ said I.

  ‘What’s a drop or two between friends?’ said he, grinning and showing me his sharp little teeth.

  And then his crystal bottle was full. He pushed the stopper back in it.

  ‘So that’s it?’ I asked.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said he.

  ‘Give me the egg.’

  ‘Of course.’ He was still smiling. It was obvious I had the better part of the deal because all he had was blood and I had a golden egg. Even if it was brass, I’d still get a shilling or so for it in Carlisle. I had no intention of returning to this spot next St Stephen’s Day. None whatsoever, despite what Mr Spindledrift Goodfellow might think.

  ‘I can leave now?’ I asked.

  ‘You can. But be back next St Stephen’s Day with my egg.’

  I took the egg. Slipped it in my pocket. The weight was reassuringly heavy. It might even be gold. It might even be. I smiled.

  As I turned Jenny to leave Mr Goodfellow, he said, ‘Think of this as an act of philanthropy, Mr Armstrong, but remember this is merely a loan. Once it has given you a year of riches.’

  ‘Yis, yis, aye,’ said I as I trotted off on Jenny.

  Soon, like a curtain falling, I was back in the snow and the golden glow was a memory. In fact, it felt like a dream. So much so, that I tapped the pocket of my overcoat but found the heavy egg reassuringly present.

  I got home. Got my goose, drank my ale and fell asleep by the fire while Jane and the girls cleared up. The lads had gone courting to their fancy pieces. Christmas came and went. And New Year. I had a fine New Year, made even better when my uncle Joseph from Lanercost died and left me £5.

  When I heard that, I took the egg from the hidey-hole I’d found for it in a hole in the byre wall and I swivelled it round in my fingers, talking to it like it was a child. ‘So did you do this, oh egg?’ said I, but the egg didn’t reply, just glistened in the light of my lantern. ‘Did you bring me £5? If so, I thank you.’

  And in January, five cattle strayed onto my land. So I kept them. Andrew Hetherington from over Gillalees turned up at my gate saying they were his, but I saw him off at the tip of my sword. They maybe were, but he couldn’t prove it. Silly fool hadn’t marked them.

  In February, my daughter Mary got a wedding arrangement and me a generous dowry from Tom Greenhow from Triermain’s father for him to take her off my hands.

  I had thought of taking the egg to Carlisle to sell it. It seemed hard to believe that my good fortune was tied to this thing. But I smiled when I held the egg, turning it over and over in my fingers. Maybe it really was magic.

  In March, the weather still didn’t improve, but my Jane took ill and died, which was a blow, for I had no one to cook and clean for me. The children were mortally upset at the death of their mother, but they were always soft.

  So, I had to hire a maidservant to do the work that Jane had done for nothing, especially with Mary going soon. The cost of it grieved me, though I did drive down the price from the ridiculous sum the girl first asked.

  She was a comely one, the new maid Sarah Morton. Very comely, dark-haired and young. With a few drinks taken, one night, I grabbed her firm arse, and that was that. She agreed for me to be her husband. I am an attractive man, if I say so myself. My animal deals were going well, and I prospered. Now, I had a lithe young thing in my bed at night, and because she was to marry me, I didn’t have to pay her now for the housework. So, Jane’s death worked out well. After I took Sarah Morton to my bed, the children refused to speak to me, and left. Another cost removed.

  In April, the weather improved, and I decided to take my trip to Carlisle. I got Jenny out and took the egg to get it valued. It took me all day to get there, but I stayed in the Crown and Mitre. Then I walked round to see John Walker, who was a jeweller and silversmith who had a shop on English Street. Walker was a Scotchman, originally from Kirkcudbright, though I didn’t hold that against him.

  He knew his stuff and as he sat there with his eye-glass and the egg up close. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘Here and there.’

  He snorted.

  I asked, ‘Is it gold?’

  He nodded and said in his Scotch brogue, ‘Aye, it is. Pure too. Honestly Mr Armstrong, this is a most uncommon thing. It’s worth a fortune.’

  He was foolish to tell me that. ‘How much would you give me for it?’

  ‘Well,’ he began to mutter. I knew his brain would be calculating his profit. ‘Really...’ He mumbled on.

  I grew tired with him. ‘How much Mr Walker?’

  He stuttered. ‘I’ll give you £200 pounds for it.’

  ‘Scotch or English?’

  ‘Scots.’

  ‘Make it English.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘It’s worth more than that,’ said I and he remained tight-lipped. It might be worth more than that, but I’d have to travel to Yor
k or London to get more. £200 was a fortune indeed. So I agreed. ‘£200 pounds English then. When can I have the money?’

  ‘Tuesday.’

  It was Saturday. ‘Too long.’ I said. ‘Make it Sunday.’

  ‘I don’t trade on the Lord’s Day.’

  I snorted. ‘You trade any day.’

  ‘No, sir; I do not.’

  Idiot that he was. ‘Monday then,’ I said.

  He looked pained. ‘Monday it is.’

  ‘Grand’. I shook his hand. I don’t think he was too pleased with me from the limpness of the grip. He said, ‘Can I keep the egg, to raise money against?’

  I laughed, taking the egg back from his feeble paw. ‘I think not, Walker. I think not. How do I know you’re an honest man?’

  He looked taken aback. ‘I assure you, sir. I am. A good Christian too.’

  ‘Aye, well, you’ll have the egg when I have my money. I’ll see you Monday, midday sharp.’

  And that was that. I extended my stay at the Crown and Mitre and enjoyed myself with chops and ale. Monday came, Walker gave me the money, and I him the egg.

  My journey home was uneventful, but when I got back, Sarah Morton was gone. And before we had officially married too. Never mind, thought I, I’d had the use of her. I hired a new maid at a less wage; she was not as handsome as Sarah, but she did. I had he use of her too, but didn’t marry her.

  I had no more strokes of luck or windfalls, but it didn’t matter as I had my £200 and that did me well.

  The year went by and winter came. I lived by myself, with yet another maid; it seemed they didn’t tolerate me too well, or my roving hands, but there were always more. And I liked the variety.

  Christmas found me at the King’s Head in Bewcastle, sinking Christmas pints with Ned. The weather was bad; rain rather than snow, but sleety cold rain. I took rather too much ale in my leather tankard and stayed overlong. Ned’s wife put me up in the rude hovel they call an inn-room, and it was St Stephen’s Day by the time I’d had a hair of the dog that bit me, and was ready to saddle my Jenny and make my way home.

  The rain swept across the moor as I rode. I got to the trees again and saw a familiar golden glow. Mr Spindledrift Goodfellow. I’d forgotten about him and his egg since I’d sold it in Carlisle. But I didn’t intend to make his acquaintance again. No, sir, I did not.

  I rode through the wood, head down. The glow persisted. It was to my right. I knew a rough track. It would be a bad in this weather, but my Jenny could manage it, so I took the reins and steered her up towards the fell.

  The light shifted until it was right in front of me. That was odd. I steered right, back towards the main road. And the light shifted in front of me again.

  The weirdness of this unnerved me. I decided I did not want to meet Mr Spindledrift Goodfellow at all that day, so I turned right round and headed back to Bewcastle. I’d spend another night at the King’s Head and come back when it was no longer St Stephen’s Day.

  But the light grew in front of me, some yards ahead, and then suddenly a dome of light appeared above and on all sides. The rain vanished, and I sat on horseback on what to all appearances was a mild Spring day.

  Mr Spindledrift Goodfellow stood there in a blue coat, brocaded in gold. His long white hair hung down his back. His bone white skin shone with a strange pallor. His violet eyes fixed me and he licked his lips showing his tongue and rows of sharp white teeth. I was no longer sure he was French.

  ‘Good day, Mr Armstrong,’ said he. ‘I hope you weren’t trying to avoid me?’

  I coughed. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘You didn’t forget our appointment?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Good,’ said he. ‘I trust my egg brought you fortune.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Then,’ said he further. ‘The year is done. One year and one day, just like in the old bargains. And now I’d like my egg back.’

  ‘I don’t have it,’ said I, bold as brass. That’s the way to face down these mountebanks and charlatans.

  He cocked his head. ‘You don’t have it?’

  ‘No. And what will you do about that?’

  I thought him being so thin and spindly, what could he do against a man like me in the prime of health? Gone a little to corpulence I admit, but still strong in the arm, like my name. I thought, once I put my fists up, he would bluster and bluster, and fuss and fuss like a woman, then go.

  ‘What will I do?’ he smiled. He seemed amused.

  He reached into his coat and pulled out the little crystal bottle. I saw it held a filament of red. He took off the top, turned the bottle upside down and dabbed it on his index finger. Then he licked it. He grinned. ‘Very tasty, I think I’ll have some more.’

  Still with the bottle in hand, he said, ‘And don’t worry about the egg. Mr Walker sold it to me for £300. It’s more your lack of honesty that is of interest to me.’

  I swallowed hard. My throat was dry. ‘Of interest to you?’

  He laughed again; his tiny sharp teeth were wet with spit and stained with my blood. ‘Of interest,’ said he. ‘Because I can’t touch an honest man. Luckily, you’re not.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I decided not to turn to fisticuffs. I’d just go home. I turned Jenny and began to trot off, but every way I went, the dome of golden light followed me, imprisoning me. And he was always there. He neither went further away, nor did he come closer.

  I went this way and that and he followed me, laughing as if my panic was a jest. I had to get away and clicked and spurred Jenny, kicking her with my heels. But I couldn’t get away from that infernal Mr Spindledrift Goodfellow.

  After half an hour, my heart was in my throat. My blood pulsed in my ears, both Jenny and I were lathered with sweat.

  He grinned. ‘Try as you might, Mr Armstrong, you can’t escape your fate.’

  ‘My fate! My fate! I’ll have nowt to do with you.’ But I stopped. There must be some other way. He stood in front of me now.

  And then I was on the soft tussocky turf, lying on my back. Jenny stood over me, then started grazing. It was as if she was glad to have me off her back, and didn’t care I was laid low, the callous, faithless animal.

  And Spindledrift Goodfellow had my head cradled on his lap, stroking my jugular vein with his sharp fingernail. I felt my artery bound under his firm touch. He tapped the blood vessel, as if testing its pressure.

  ‘Who are you?’ I said hoarsely.

  ‘Mr Spindledrift Goodfellow.’

  ‘But who is that?’

  ‘They call me many names: The Light Bringer, the Prince of the Air.’

  ‘You confuse me, sir. Indeed you do.’

  He whispered more names. ‘The Adversary, the Lord of the Flies and the Serpent.’

  It’s long since I’ve read the Bible or gone to church, but I was beginning to realise into whose arms I’d fallen.

  And Spindlethrift Goodfellow continued in a sing-song voice, light as thistledown. ‘Or Old Nick,’ he laughed. ‘They sometimes call me that.’

  He gazed down with violet eyes, his needle-like nail on the pulse of my neck. ‘But you can call me the Devil.’

  8

  The Croglin Vampire

  To find Croglin Low Hall, go through Croglin and take the first left. When you come to the crossroads turn left again. You will pass by the farmhouse known as Croglin High Hall to your left. Croglin Low Hall lies a little further on, to the right. Croglin Low Hall is where we are going. There is no public right of access to Croglin Low Hall and tourists are not encouraged to visit. No one is. Not any more.

  The area is wild now, but in the 17th Century, it was almost inaccessible. It’s strange then that a family should come from the South of England to farm here when there were much more fertile farms to be had much closer to where they came from. They arrived in Croglin just after the English Civil War, when the country was devastated and hardly recovering from the ravages of conflict. The Fishers, whose f
amily owned Croglin Low Hall had moved out for reasons of their own quite a while before. The Fishers weren’t the first inhabitants of Croglin Low Hall. The Hall was originally owned by the Howards, who also owned Greystoke, Corby and Naworth castles and were Dukes of Norfolk and Earls of Carlisle at various times.

  The circumstances of why the Howards gave the hall up are obscure and lost in the mists of time.

  The Howards renovated the original medieval hall and built a chapel, but by the 17th Century the chapel was tumbledown and disused. It is said there was a crypt in the chapel, but more of that later.

  Somehow the Fishers obtained Croglin from the Howards. Apparently, they got it at a good price, but they only stayed a while there. They moved to a smaller farm some miles away at Cumrew. The living was harder on the new farm, because it took in more fell land, but still they wouldn’t move back to Croglin. There was a story in the locality that the Fishers left Croglin because they were frightened. What they were frightened of nobody said, or if folk said, they weren’t believed, because the story sounded too outlandish.

  Whatever the truth of it, Croglin Low Hall remained empty for years. Old Augustus Fisher died and his son Joseph inherited, but he wouldn’t move back either. It was a chance conversation with his solicitor in Carlisle about another matter entirely that led to the suggestion of renting out the empty Croglin Hall.

  They could get no local people to take the lease and so, Fisher took to advertising the lease further afield and somehow it got to the attention of the Cranswell family. The Cranswells originated from Suffolk and were two brothers and a sister. They had been orphaned, though the circumstances of how that happened, are no longer clear. They were also Catholic, which meant the good protestant folk of the Eden Valley shunned them and were suspicious of their loyalties.

  Why the Cranswells fled so far from Suffolk to Cumberland is lost, but there must have been some reason to travel so far over such poor roads. They travelled at the end of August by stage-coach, first from London to York, then from York to Carlisle and then they came by horse to the wilds of Croglin.

  August that year was very rainy, with only a few days of sun here and there. The Cranswells were gentry rather than farmers and sub-let the land to local farmers. They had independent means and intended to spend the time in leisure, reading, writing and walking the countryside.