The Book of English Folk Tales

by Sybil Marshall

  ‘Gold, Ezekiel! Gold!’

  That the love of money is the root of evil is the moral behind the story of the spectre of Rosewarne, in Cornwall. There is also a suggestion of poetic justice, of making the punishment fit the crime, that would find favour in the mind of many a sturdy countryman in the past.

  Ezekiel Grosse was a lawyer, to whom money meant more than the love of wife and family, more than his own health and strength, or the lasting honour of a good name. Money obsessed him waking and sleeping, and to gain more wealth was the sole object of his life. Being an attorney, to him for help came many well-to-do people who were already in great distress; and by dealing with them as only a dishonest lawyer knows how, he usually managed to filch from them what security they had left, often robbing them of everything they possessed, including their ancestral homes. It was in this way that he acquired a great house called Rosewarne, near Camborne in South Cornwall.

  When he had made Rosewarne his own, he took possession of it and went to live there himself. One night, as he sat locked in his room studying some deeds by which he hoped to acquire even more property, he was aware of something standing beside him. Looking up, he saw a strange old man, shrunken and wizened, with a queer unearthly look, making signs to him as if inviting him to follow.

  Ezekiel at first had only one fear, which was that he might lose some of his money. So he took little notice, except to order the old man off at once. But the strange figure remained where he was, still gesturing that he wanted Ezekiel to follow. By now, the miser had realized it was no flesh and blood robber standing there, but an apparition, and in spite of himself he began to experience a bit of superstitious dread. He nerved himself to speak to the spectre. ‘What is it you want with me?’ he asked.

  The ghost replied, ‘To lead you to where a great deal of gold lies buried!’

  The miser’s heart leapt within him at the words, but there was something so coldly grim and repellent about the visitor that the dread that stole over Ezekiel robbed him of the power to rise.

  The spectre beckoned again. ‘Come!’ it said, in a voice of command. ‘Gold, Ezekiel! Gold!’

  The man was now trembling with dread, but at the word ‘gold’ he forced himself to get up, and to follow the shambling ghost, though with quaking heart and stumbling feet.

  They passed out of the room, through the house, and into the garden, and from there into the wider grounds of Rosewarne. It was a long walk, but they came at last to a little dell set in the midst of trees surrounded by high banks. In the middle of the dell was a small cairn made of granite boulders.

  The trees and the banks kept out any light from the sky, and indeed it was a very dark night; but Ezekiel was now all the more terrified to see that his ghostly companion was lit, as if from within, with a horrid phosphorescent glow that made the trees and rocks seem objects of fear in their own right.

  The spectre turned to face the lawyer, and pointing with a ghastly gleaming finger to the cairn, said,

  ‘You long for gold, Ezekiel, just as I once did! Never could I enjoy what I had. Let us see if you can! Beneath these stones lies gold in abundance, so dig, Ezekiel, dig. It is all yours. Take it and enjoy it; and when you are at your happiest, look for me again!’

  Then the spectre gave a hollow, spine-chilling chuckle, and the light from him blazed white and terrible for a moment before beginning to die away again. As Ezekiel watched, frightened but fascinated, it faded till he could see only a faint, blurred outline of his visitor, and in another moment that, too, had gone, and the miserly attorney was alone in the pitch-black dell.

  After a few minutes, Ezekiel recovered his faculties, and full of excitement found his way back to the house for tools. He began feverishly to dig beneath the stones, working till the sweat poured from him, because he was afraid daylight would come before he could unearth the treasure he now believed to be there. Finally, to his great joy, his spade struck against a solid object, and kneeling down he carefully loosened the soil around it, to feel what it was: a huge earthenware pot, filled to the brim with ancient, solid gold coins!

  It took him seven nightly trips to remove it all in secret, to restore the cairn, and to dispose of his hoard in new, more accessible hiding places. There was now no doubt about it; he was rich even beyond his wildest dreams. He had enough gold hidden to disperse the secret dread of every miser that one day he would be poor again, and at last he began to spend a little. As the years passed, he lived more and more lavishly, till people began to realize what a wealthy man he was, especially when he also started to entertain in a most luxurious fashion. His feasts, banquets and entertainments became the talk of the countryside. His miserly reputation and dishonest tricks of the past were all forgotten, and people who had once despised him now felt honoured to be his guests. He became one of the most respected and important men of the neighbourhood. Of his spectral visitor he saw and heard nothing.

  There came a night when Rosewarne was the scene of the most lavish, luxuriant entertainment that had ever been. The feast was such that nobody present could recall anything like it; and when the eating was over, the hall rang with the gayest of music to which lords and ladies dressed in magnificent finery danced with deft-footed energy, and the sound of joyous laughter filled the room and made the rafters ring with echoes of the revelry. Then, suddenly, in the space of time it takes to draw in a breath, it all ceased. The noise died away to a profound, chilling silence, and a feeling of utter dread descended, as if from nowhere, upon the company. In the middle of the dancing floor stood the same spectre who had visited Ezekiel once before.

  The host tried to make light of the occurrence, begging his guests to resume their merrymaking, for the ghost was only one of his old acquaintances, and meant them no harm. But fear and dread suffused them all, and one by one they made excuses to leave the party, until at last Ezekiel was left alone with no one but his least desired companion, the uninvited guest.

  Thereafter, Ezekiel could hold no party, no ball, no revel of any kind at which the wizened little figure with its strange, unearthly glow did not appear. It would slide into a vacant chair at the banqueting table, and sit glum and silent till the other guests turned cold with fear and choked on their rich food. It would appear as an extra figure in the long line of dancers, shuffling up the middle of the set as they joined hands on each side, peering silently into each face until it reached Ezekiel, when it would burst into horrid laughter and disappear before their astonished eyes. As the reports of these disturbing events travelled round the countryside, more and more of his former friends provided themselves with excuses for not accepting Ezekiel’s invitations. Before long, he found himself utterly deserted, a miserable wretch who had but one friend and companion, his clerk, John Call; and his only guest was the one he never wished to see again, but who came more and more frequently, uninvited though he was.

  At last Ezekiel tried to bargain with the spectre, willing to do anything to get rid of his ghostly presence. The spectre was adamant; there was only one way to achieve this end. It was to dispose of every last piece of wealth or property that he possessed.

  ‘That would take years!’ moaned Ezekiel, silently reviewing in his mind the vast acres, the great houses, Rosewarne itself, and all the gold and jewels he had amassed.

  The spectre gave its horrid chuckle. ‘A mere stroke of the pen,’ it said, ‘if you make over everything you possess to John Call!’

  It was a suggestion that Ezekiel Grosse felt beyond his power to put into practice, for his avaricious spirit had not changed, though he lived a less miserly life. He prevaricated as long as he could, but the hauntings became more and more frequent, and the pressure from the spectre more insistent, till at last Ezekiel gave in, and consented to give up all his worldy goods to his clerk. The deeds were drawn up, and brought to Ezekiel to sign. At the crucial moment, the ghost appeared at his side, an extra witness to his signature. In rage and despair, the miser seized the quill, and scrawled his name – Ezekiel
Grosse. The spectre gave a loud, demoniacal cackle of laughter as he signed, and then disappeared, never to be seen again.

  But Ezekiel had now nothing whatever to live for, and began to pine away, a bitter, lonely, sick old man without a single thing to look forward to, and nothing but evil deeds to look back upon. One morning John Call found him dead, and arranged the funeral with joy. All the country folk round about attended, to see the last of the hated miser; and they have told, ever since, how a crowd of dreadful grinning demons followed Ezekiel’s coffin, and how, when it was being lowered into the grave, they suddenly flew up and away over Carn Brea, as if carrying something among them; and how there rose from them, as they disappeared, the sound of the awful laughter heard so often before among the guests at Rosewarne.

  Unquiet Spirits and Spectral Beasts

  It is difficult to separate unquiet spirits from ghosts, or spectral beasts from either, but there does seem to be a slight distinction between the ghost whose appearances, though continual, are spasmodic, and those like John Tregeagle, doomed never to find rest, even for an hour. Tales concerning severed heads, screaming skulls and skulls that refuse to be buried or moved can be found in the folklore of many countries.

  John Tregeagle

  Jahn Tergagle (or John Tregeagle) has the unhappy distinction of being a ghost who has had one spell in hell long enough to teach him that any punishment on earth is better than having to return there. Like so many other of the more spectacular yarns, his story comes from the West Country.

  When darkness swoops and hovers low over the moor, it is a desolate, eerie place, especially in the weatherworn hours of long winter nights. With the passing of the comfortable daylight comes a dread, an uneasy trembling of the heart that knows not what it fears. Then doors are barred and bolts rammed home, lamps are lit and fires mended; and children huddle together on the hearthrug, within close reach of their mother’s skirts and their father’s outstretched legs. The wind whistles and wails as it winds up the valley and sweeps over the moor, and the long fingers of the driving rain beat a ghastly tattoo against the tiny black square that is the window, its fragile pane being all there is to keep the wild elements at bay. But what good are bolts and bars, windows and doors, even lights and warmth and human contact, against a restless spirit that manifests itself only in sound?

  Louder than the roaring wind it is, piercing through the drumming of the rain, a spine-thrilling cry of anguish shot through and through with terror, a crescendo of sound that rises to a shriek before dwindling again to a long wail of misery and despair.

  The children look up as their father stirs uneasily, and their mother pokes the fire to make a brighter blaze.

  ‘ ’Tis only Tergagle,’ she says, intending to comfort; but what comfort can there be in having fear put into words? All children on the moor know about Tregeagle, and dread to meet his restless spirit even in broad daylight, doomed as he is never to pause for a single second in the impossible tasks that he attempts, lest he fall into even greater torment; and his agony is made all the worse by memory of that torment, for Tregeagle’s is a spirit that has already endured once the limitless pangs of hell.

  In life John Tregeagle was steward to Lord Robartes, and though he came of an ancient and respected Cornish family himself, he had no love for the peasants over whom he ruled in his lord’s stead. A bitter, cruel man he was, with a heart as hard as the granite, and eyes as bleak and cold as the waters of Dozmary Pool in the midst of winter. Many a hardworking peasant lost his all at the word of John Tregeagle, and many a widow and orphan had cause to curse his grasping, avaricious spirit; but while he lived no one dared gainsay him, and his pockets were more than filled with riches filched from his own folk in the parish of St Breward and others nearby.

  Time, however, had no more respect for Tregeagle than for any of his less fortunate neighbours, and in the course of it he died. Then a new steward was appointed, and the first thing he did was to go over his lord’s accounts. It seemed that one poor peasant farmer had failed to pay his rent to John Tregeagle. When the rent was demanded, the farmer declared in vain that he had paid up when asked. He had to, surely, for everyone knew that Tregeagle had no mercy. Why then, had Tregeagle not recorded the payment? Had the farmer any proof that what he said was true? None at all. What man had ever dared to ask John Tregeagle for such a thing!

  Without proof, the peasant was at the mercy of the law. He must pay again, or face the harsh penalties laid upon a debtor. The one he could not do, the other he dared not contemplate. In his despair he sought advice from the only available source, the parson at St Breward, who had a curious reputation himself among his flock, for it was rumoured that he was a powerful wizard.

  So the accused man went to the wizard in his parsonage on the lonely moor, and there poured out his tale of woe. The parson listened in silence and then spoke.

  ‘Do you have faith in the Lord?’ he asked. ‘Is it strong enough to carry you through against the Powers Unknown?’

  The farmer was bewildered by the question, and at a loss how to answer. His frail hopes of assistance came crashing down around him, for it was plain to him that such a question could only be answered by absolute truth; and the truth was that his faith was not strong enough to uphold him.

  ‘Then there is nothing I can do,’ said the wizard, and he turned away to more profitable tasks. The farmer plodded home in disappointed and despairing sorrow, for he now had nowhere else to turn for succour. However, as the days drew on, every dawn and dusk bringing him nearer and nearer to the time appointed for his trial, his thoughts returned again and again to the one loophole the strange parson wizard had shown him, so that he began more and more to examine the doubtful strength of his faith. To his surprise, the more he relied upon that faith to save him, the stronger it seemed to grow. When only hours remained before he was to appear in court, he set off again to the lonely vicarage of St Breward, way out across the moor. There he declared to the parson that he now had faith enough for anything, and begged the wizard to believe him and put him to the test.

  ‘Bide still, then,’ said the wizard, taking a stick in his hands. ‘We will see what can be done.’

  He reached out his arm, and with his stick drew a circle on the floor, and afterwards he stood motionless pointing with his stick to the centre of the circle. Then he raised his voice, and called out commandingly, ‘Jahn Tergagle! Jahn Tergagle! Jahn Tergagle! Come you here!’ And before the terrified eyes of the farmer, there stood his old enemy, as large as life, in the middle of the circle.

  Now John Tregeagle had already endured the torments of hell long enough to repent heartily every misdeed he had ever committed, and this brief respite afforded him was made all the sweeter by the knowledge that hundreds of devils were already waiting eagerly to seize him and drag him back again to continue his everlasting punishment as soon as it was at an end.

  ‘Did this man pay you his rent?’ asked the parson.

  ‘He did,’ answered Tregeagle.

  ‘Will you swear to that in court tomorrow?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘So be it.’ said the wizard. ‘Bide you there.’

  While the farmer went home, wondering but rejoicing, the good parson by his holy magic bound the spirit of John Tregeagle fast within the circle on the floor.

  Next day, at the assizes. Lord Robartes and his steward made their depositions against the accused man, who declared once again that he had already paid his dues, when asked, to John Tregeagle.

  ‘Have you proof?’ asked the judge. The farmer shook his head.

  ‘Nought but the word of Jahn Tergagle,’ he replied, and the laughter that rose to everybody’s lips froze there as the ghost of John Tregeagle stood suddenly amongst them, in full view of everybody; and in a voice that many of them had good cause to remember, the man returned from hell gave evidence that set the farmer free.

  Then the judge, and the jury, and the officers of the court were all dumbfounded, and gazed in sil
ence on the ghost, and on the lordly accuser and his new steward, who, as the story says, ‘was real cast’ by this turn of events. But the long silence in the court was broken by the most dreadful, unholy row coming from outside the building; and when an usher looked out, he fell back in fear and dismay. Gathering outside the courthouse were hordes and hordes of demons, horned and tailed and cloven-hoofed, uttering shrieks and cries of raucous excitement as they waited now for the Church to shatter the frail barrier that was holding John Tregeagle from their clutches, and keeping him in the land of the living, out of reach of their torment.

  Now the judge and the jury, and all the other people present, were put in great perplexity. Before them stood a spirit released from hell, who had so far repented of his sins as to tell the truth at last and by so doing save an innocent man from cruel punishment. It was a member of the Church – indeed, one of its priests, who had brought the sinner back to give his evidence. Could Christian men now condemn the sinner to return for ever and a day to the limitless, unimaginable torturing of the Devil and his hellions? A long and anxious debate took place, while the officers of the court guarded doors and windows against the shrieking demons pressing ever nearer and howling in frustration as they waited for their victim. John Tregeagle stood silent, awaiting his fate, while the argument swayed first to one side, and then to the other. There were those who remembered his evil record while alive, and dreaded what his spirit could do if he were allowed to remain again amongst the living; but there were those who could not bear to contemplate his sufferings, or face with equanimity the awful possibility that they one day might have to answer for their lack of charity to a poor soul released from purgatory.