Ghosts and Hauntings

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  Reluctant to antagonise the man with a lecture about his place in the arrangement of things King kept his tongue and they both walked over to the rectory where Mrs Folkes, as if a mind reader, had prepared and laid out a fine supper of sole and potatoes with fruit and enough beer to assuage any uncertainties they may have harboured.

  “So,” King said, as they settled in the drawing room with two fine cigars and a fresh flagon of ale. “What did we just experience?”

  Folkes drew on his cigar long and hard and blew smoke into the air where it hovered like a judge’s sentence. Tongue and resolve loosened with the aid of the beer it was as the man was unburdening his soul, and perhaps he was.

  “We had no troubles for decades, centuries if my reading of the parish records is accurate. Restoration work was carried out at intervals, of course it was, repairs to the graveyard, some damp, and the work on the tower, but never the removal of the north wall.

  “You’ll have noticed that we are not unusual in that the main entrance, the porch, is in the south wall, and indeed it aligns with the lych gate and has been used for hundreds of years.

  “Reverend Evans was a busy man. His parishioners saw a lot of him in the community, some perhaps a little too much. All the villages and hamlets around were familiar with his clerical calls, his ‘missions of mercy’ as he called them. He was a good man but he had too much time on his hands. He perhaps should not have been overlooked when appointing at a larger…but no matter, here he was and here he stayed, getting more and more embroiled in the business of the parish.

  “It was almost as if he needed a fresh challenge. The story of the whispering wall was made for his restless nature. He enjoyed a drink in the Boar’s Head and there are some old timers who drink in there that can find an ear for their tales if the drinks flow readily enough. One night he was told the old stories, stronger than rumours, but so old that what is myth and what was truth has become as blurred as a drinkers vision at the end of the long evening.”

  “What stories are these?”

  They both refilled their glasses and enjoyed a draw of their cigars. “Suffice it to say that the poor vicar got it into his head that the north wall should be opened up, as it was in the 16th century, and act as an ideal exit from the church, providing a new route that would take the exiting parishioners through the slightly newer part of the churchyard and out into the meadows beyond. An altogether more pleasant route back to the village than through the south porch and the woods.”

  “It sounds a reasonable plan.”

  “And so thought Evans, to such an extent that it became an obsession with him. He drew up plans, had them approved by an architect from the town, and commissioned the firm of builders all within the first ten days.”

  “And yet the wall remains intact, albeit somewhat damaged.”

  “Work was plagued from the very start. A workman broke his leg when a pile of bricks fell on him. The architect suffered a heart attack and was hospitalised. The talk was of the site being possessed…”

  “Norman Folkes we’ll have no more of that un-Godly talk.”

  Neither of them had seen or heard Mrs Folkes creep up upon them and her harsh rebuke to her husband caused them both to stand guiltily as if they were caught talking of unsavoury matters.

  “I was just explaining…”

  Mrs Folkes bristled. “I know full well what you were just…and that’s an end to it. This is Reverend King’s first night here and he’s tired. He doesn’t need any of your fanciful speculation.”

  “On the contrary,” said King, attempting to wrestle back some control of the situation. “This is fascinating. I intend to review Evans’ plans and continue them.”

  “I don’t think…” Folkes began but King cut him off.

  “Superstitious nonsense it may be but it will not form part of this parish life while I am here. Evans had a good idea and it is a pity he was unable to see it through.”

  Folkes stood and went over to his wife who hovered at the door waiting to leave. “Before you take any action I would ask myself what killed Reverend Evans.”

  “He was…I…” King hesitated as he stammered out a poor response. He realised he had no idea how Evans had died as he had not thought to ask the question.

  Before he could ask it of the Folkes’ they had left for the evening.

  In the morning, having investigated the appropriate files in his predecessors’ desk, he contacted a bemused builder and instructed re-commencement of the opening of the north wall exit.

  Neither of the Folkes couple could dissuade him though both tried repeatedly.

  Work began on the third day of his incumbency and by the third day after that the work was drawing quite a crowd of onlookers. Unlike previously, when the excavation had begun inside the wall and was intended to work outwards, King asked them to begin outside and work inwards. This they did and because their work was now plainly visible, people began to flock to see what the outcome was likely to be. There was an air of a mob at a public hanging, King remarked at one time, but admonished himself for such uncharitable thoughts.

  The third day of work caused the first occurrence that tempted him to the idea that he had been far too hasty in ordering walls to be demolished and all that it entailed.

  A builder was using a pickaxe to draw away stones and cobbles from the plaster when a cavity was revealed. Believing the church walls to be solid this discovery was both surprising and alarming. The alarm came from the stench within. The man wielding the pickaxe flung it to the ground and covered his mouth and nose as best he could and retreated as far away as he could.

  King was summoned by the foreman and what should be done as the men were all for refusing to continue.

  “Let me see the cavity,” King said.

  “Best take this,” the foreman said as he offered a red cloth. “The smell is awful.”

  King took the proffered cloth and with it adorning his face he put his hands either side of the hole in the wall and peered in as far as his head and shoulders would enter. At first he could see very little but as his eyes adjusted to the dusty gloom he was able to notice some small bundles of ragged cloth placed at short intervals within the wall. Before he could investigate further he was repelled by the sudden onset of the vilest stench he had ever encountered.

  He fell away from the wall, gagging, and was helped to his feet by the foreman.

  “What should we do?”

  King composed himself, acutely aware of the gaggling hordes witnessing proceedings. “Secure the site the best you can. We shall re-commence tomorrow and by then I shall have decided what is to be done.”

  There were shouts from the crowd as they heard his words and King caught only fragments such as ‘close it up’, ‘seal the poor…’, and, ‘watch out for the grey…’

  That evening was a rare night off for Mrs Folkes, and her husband had been conspicuous by his absence for most of the day. After a light supper and with cigar and brandy in hand King retired to his library where he pulled from the shelves several books that seemed to him to relate to the history of the village and to the church in particular.

  He read into the night hours, replenishing both smoke and drink. At length he must have dozed off because he was awoken, cigar thankfully extinguished, by a creaking sound.

  Conscious that he had not locked up the house he immediately suspected someone had entered. Taking a poker from the grate and raising it in what he hoped was at least some semblance of menace he opened the library door and called out along the lines of ‘who’s there?’

  Naturally there was no audible reply but there was a continuation of the creaking floorboards that had woken him.

  He deduced it was coming from the floor above, where only bedrooms, including his own, were situated.

  The stairs were reached without incident and he took each tread with care, listening out continually for more sound. It was hard to judge the location of the noises but they seemed now to have a focus in a small end ro
om that King had not yet had cause to enter.

  When immediately outside the room he put an ear to the wooden door and listened. He was almost certain he could hear a low voice from within, a crooning sound, as if a person who was not quite confident in the act was comforting a small child.

  With a burst of bravery that he did not know he possessed he pulled open the door and rushed in. The room was in semi darkness, lit only by the light of a half moon through the sole window. In the corner was a tall gaunt grey figure hunched over several smaller shapes that did not appear to be moving.

  As King entered the room the gust of air caused by the opening of the door shifted the curtains and disturbed the grey figure. With a wail of disappointment the figure surged to the window, seemed to lean against it and then folded in on itself and melted through the glass and was gone.

  King went nervously to the window and felt the glass, solid and smooth. He looked on the floor but apart from dust and some marks on the carpet where furniture had stood at some time past there was nothing there.

  He went to bed but slept only fitfully and with the lights turned on. At some point he must have drifted into a deep slumber because he either dreamed or did actually wake. He was drawn to the window and looking out he saw the grey figure, surrounded by several smaller but indistinct shapes. The tall figure was dragging a man behind it, physically pulling him along the ground, heading for the church. King could barely distinguish fully the face of the man but, dreaming as he must have been, it looked remarkably like his own features.

  King ran from the rectory to the church. Ignoring the south porch he knew instinctively where he must go.

  The north wall still bore the disfigurement of the builders’ assault but the tarpaulin they had erected over the hole was being ripped to shreds by the grey figure. When the cavity was revealed the figure stepped inside, and then a long skeletal arm reached out and grabbed the man who sat shivering on the ground.

  King could not prevent himself from leaping forwards and propelling his body into the cavity.

  Pulford hesitated and if Priestley was not mistaken his friend was overcome with emotion.

  In an attempt to allow him some privacy Priestley left the room to inquire of Mahoney when dinner might be served. Satisfied with the response Priestley took two fresh cigars from his humidor, prepared one and lit it before handing it to Pulford who nodded his appreciation.

  “I have already taken the liberty of refilling our glasses with this excellent malt.”

  “I would expect no less,” Priestley said as he prepared his own cigar.

  “I am afraid that was King’s last act of this earth. In the morning Folkes, the verger, found poor King lying besides the cavity in the north wall, stone cold but with a fixed grimace of his face that spoke, if one were being fanciful, of being frightened to death.”

  “I think it harsh in these circumstances to label it as ‘fanciful’.”

  Pulford drew on his cigar long and hard. “I looked into the reasons behind the death of the previous vicar, Evans.”

  “Similar?”

  “Quite so.”

  “No coincidence then?”

  “Again, quite so. It appears that whatever Evans disturbed with the work on the north wall proved fatal for both him and the innocent who followed.”

  “So you blame Evans?”

  “I suppose you will also consider me harsh to adopt that view but my research shows conclusively that Evans was warned on more than one occasion of the dangers involved but he ignored them. He employed an architect from outside then area who would be unaware of the myths and the builders he paid so highly they were scared but greed overcame their fears.”

  A plume of smoke had almost reached the ceiling when Priestley said, “And what were these myths and rumours?”

  Pulford swallowed a large amount of Malt whisky and held it in his mouth while he considered the question. “No myth, no rumour. There lived in and around the area in the 1560’s a family that were apart from society, such as existed in those dark days. For some reason these people were devout in their attendance at the church. St Andrews was not overwhelmed with nor overflowing with congregation so they were tolerated.

  “The crux came when they asked for a stillborn baby to be buried in the churchyard. Permission was refused. This happened, apparently, time and again, for children of all ages, for these outsiders were not of a civilised manner. Eventually the villagers tired of the intrusion, as they saw it, into the life and their church.

  “With pitchfork, flames and whatever weapons they could muster they attacked the squalid settlement in the woods and drove out those they did not kill. The last to be killed was the patriarch, the one the vicar of the time suspected was the father of most of the poor deceased children and babies. Tall, gaunt, grey of visage due to a hatred of sunshine, he fought long and hard before finally he capitulated.”

  “So it is he that…”

  “We must hope that the sealing of the wall and the correct and proper burial within sanctified ground will suffice.”

  Priestley nodded. “And what of those gargoyles placed rather absurdly onto the rectory roof?”

  Pulford smiled grimly but without humour. He seemed drained. “Evans was desperate towards the end. He was visited nightly by the grey apparition and thought the protection the gargoyles lend to the church might afford the same barrier for his house.”

  Priestley stood. “I think our dinner awaits.”

  Pulford walked to the door with him and as they entered the dimly lit dining room, Priestley gently asked. “When did your brother change his name to King?’

  “Christopher, no one ever did call him Chris you know, took it very badly when our parents separated and then divorced. It was not so much a scandal as it was an embarrassment, but Christopher sided strongly with mother and took her maiden name.”

  “While you maintained your father’s family name.”

  They sat and Mahoney served before departing elegantly.

  “This sole looks superb.” Pulford said. “I seem to have worked up quite an appetite.”

  THE HOUSE WITH TOO MANY WINDOWS

  Clouds of steam gathered like swirling nostalgia around the dark green engine as the train shuddered to a halt at the country station. The platform was politely full, mainly holiday makers making the trip to the seaside for the day, and, as the passengers boarded, excited voices proclaimed anticipation at the joys ahead, ice cream and Punch and Judy, paddling and sand castles.

  The noises of the engine as it cooled in readiness for the final leg of the journey sounded like the weary death throes of a wounded beast, or perhaps the groans an old person makes when they move, but it was a sturdy enough engine that had traversed the West Country tracks for decades. The green and cream carriages wound behind obediently as if it was the train following a wedding dress, a gaggle of school children playing follow my leader.

  The boiler was stoked with fresh coal, the water was refilled, and the driver pulled the whistle to indicate they were ready for departure. The station master looked left and he looked right, ensuring all was well before he raised his flag, blew his whistle and they were off. The wheels of the engine began slowly to turn and as they gained traction the train moved gently out of the station until it passed out into the distance and gradually disappeared from sight as if it had never existed.

  The two passengers who had alighted were testament at least to the existence of the train, and each gathered their own small bag as they approached the station master, who viewed their approach with some concern. He was a large man with a moustache that suggested he might have served in the military. His upright stature gave further credibility to his position as a former member of the armed forces and both passengers found him a little forbidding.

  His tone was warm enough though. “Good afternoon, ladies. It’s a welcome sight to greet visitors to these parts.”

  The two women looked at one another as if uncertain what to say. “We’re o
n a walking holiday,” Mary said. “We love the South Hams…”

  “Love it,” Sally said.

  “Walking you say,” he said as he scratched his head, easing back his cap as he did so. “Well, you’ve got some fine weather for it and no mistake.”

  “We’ve been coming down here for years,” Sally said.

  “Though not for a while…” Mary said.

  Sally shook her head sadly. “Not for some time truth be told.”

  The station master took their tickets, examined them and, satisfied, he directed them towards the exit. The station was a reflection of his efficiency and love of the position he occupied. The seats for passengers to use while they waited for their train were freshly painted and rust free. The tubs of flowers dotted at even intervals along the platform were like bursts of laughter.

  “You’ll not find too much has changed since your last visit,” the man said.

  Sally and Mary looked about them as they reached the gate from the station to the lane outside.

  “We’ve never actually been to this place before,” Mary said.

  “Not this actual place,” Sally said.

  The station master puffed out his chest with pride. “I think I can safely say that our little part of the world is as beautiful as you can get. We’re far enough away from the English Riviera as they like to call it and yet the village has a pub and a lovely little shop. I dare say you’d be interested in the pub…”

  “We’re not really drinkers…”

  “No, I meant for accommodation, unless you’ve already made arrangements.”

  “We haven’t.”

  He opened the gate and allowed them through. He stayed platform side and shut it firmly. The two women looked ahead down the lane that bordered the train station and when they looked back to thank the man, he had gone.

  “Do you think he was there at all?” Sally said.

  “We’ve just been speaking with him.”

  “I mean, are things, people, still there when we can’t see them or do they only exist when we can…”