The Golden Leg

by Dale Jarvis

  The man drew back his hand, quickly. As he did so, the woman lowered her gaze. She folded her hands in her lap, and was still.

  “Come on, come on,” called his friends, pulling the man away, “let’s go find your ghost!” The friends all bustled out, and the young man searched his pockets for some money to leave the fortune teller. He left a few crinkled bills on the small wooden table, but the old woman did not look up. Then he left and rejoined his friends.

  Laughing and joking, the group hurried their young friend down Dragon Alley. Just before they reached the end of the lane, a man appeared from around the corner. The figure was old, dressed in a long white shirt that hung almost to his knees, and he used a wooden cane to help himself along. The crowd of young men had to part, moving up against the wall to let the old man pass.

  As he went to move by them, the old man caught sight of the friend who had just had his fortune told. The man stretched out a bony finger and jabbed it in his direction.

  “You!” he exclaimed. “This is not a good night for you! Come, I will tell your fortune.”

  The old man hobbled back up the alleyway, tapping along with his cane. He looked back and beckoned the younger man to follow. The friends all thought this was a great joke, and teasing him, they pushed their companion back down Dragon Alley in the direction they had come.

  Much to their surprise, the old man took them back to the shop that they had just left. The old man eased himself down onto the cushions, and directed the young man to sit across from him. The few crinkled banknotes were still on the corner of the table where they had been left.

  “But we were just here,” said the young man. “The old woman already told my fortune.”

  The old man was puzzled.

  “There is no woman here,” he said, with a confused look. Then, the look of puzzlement on his face changed into something very different. His gaze shifted, out past the young man’s shoulder. His eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped open in amazement.

  The young man turned around to see what had shocked the shopkeeper. There, just outside the stall, was the figure of the old woman, walking down the alley. But it was obvious that she was no ordinary woman. It was quite clear that she had no feet.

  She moved with a smooth, hovering motion, down the alleyway to where it ended at a brick wall. When it reached the dead end, the ghostly form did not stop or slow down. Instead she moved directly through the brick wall, and vanished, leaving behind only a few wisps of mist that soon vanished into the night air.

  The old woman’s prediction had been correct. The young man had indeed met a ghost that night.

  Once, in what we call olden times, there was a young man and his wife, who lived in a small house. The young man’s father and mother lived with them. One night they sat around the fire with some other young men from the village, telling stories.

  All of a sudden, there came three loud knocks at the front door of the house. Before anyone could move, the door burst open, and four men, dressed all in green, walked into the house, carrying a small coffin between them. They walked to the middle of the room and set down their burden. All of the four men were strangers, not known to anyone in the room. Without a word, all four turned and filed out the door, closing it behind them, and vanishing as quickly and mysteriously as they had appeared.

  All conversation had died at the sound of the three knocks, and none had dared speak to the four men clothed all in green. Now, the family and assembled guests sat there in amazement, staring at the coffin before them. For a moment, the only sound was the crackling and snapping of the logs in the fireplace.

  “Well,” said the young man. “I guess we better open it up, and see what lies within.”

  He went out of the room, and returned with a hammer and crowbar. The men pried up the nails holding down the lid, and the nails screeched like living things as they were eased out of the dry wood. When the nails were removed, the man looked around at the faces of those gathered about the coffin. His wife nodded, and the young man raised up the lid.

  There, inside the coffin, resting on a cushion of the purest white silk, lay the still figure of a little girl. She was only about eight or nine years old and was dressed in a simple white nightgown. She looked completely at peace, her hands folded across her breast.

  “She isn’t dead,” exclaimed the young man’s mother, pointing out the colour in the girl’s cheeks and the way her chest rose and fell with each slow breath. “Take her up out of that coffin, and we’ll put her to bed.”

  The men did as they were told, lifting the sleeping girl up out of the pine box and carrying her to the daybed in the kitchen. The mother spread a homemade quilt over her body, and they all stood around her, silent, watching her sleep.

  After a little while, the girl stretched and yawned. Her eyes fluttered open, and she woke up, just like you or I would, waking from a deep sleep. When she found herself in a strange place, surrounded by strange people, she became very frightened. The mother and the young man’s wife shooed the men from the kitchen, and comforted the girl.

  The mother gave the girl some warm milk to drink, and some bread to eat, and eventually coaxed a story out of her. The girl said she was from a town that was about half a day’s journey away, and that she had gone to sleep in her own bed, same as every night, and then woke up in a strange house.

  The next morning, the young man and his father hitched their horse up to the wagon so they could take her home. By then, word had spread about the little girl who had appeared the night before. A neighbour with a daughter about the same age brought over some clothes for her, and before they left, the mother pinned a few coins into the hem of the girl’s dress. Off they set, curious eyes following them as they made their way from the village.

  By afternoon, they arrived at the girl’s own village. When they got to the girl’s house, they found it in a state of great sorrow, with all the family dressed in the black clothing of mourning. When her family saw the little girl, they were terrified, thinking her to be a ghost.

  Three days before, the family had woken to find that their daughter had died in her sleep, a cold corpse at rest in the bed where the night before there had been a lively girl. A funeral had already been held, and the body of their daughter had been buried in the churchyard. But when they looked at the girl, talked to her, and held her in their arms, they knew that she was their true daughter, and they wept with joy at her return.

  A group of men were sent to the graveyard, armed with shovels, to see what exactly they had buried. They dug up the fresh grave, and together they hauled the small wooden coffin up out of the stony earth. The people of the village gathered around, and half afraid of what they might find within, the men pried off the lid.

  There, inside the coffin, resting on a cushion of the purest white silk, lay an old birch broom, and nothing else.

  Two British sailors were heading back to their ship, which lay at anchor in the protected harbour. They were returning from a dance, having spent the night flirting with local girls, and enjoying their first shore leave in some time. The walked along, joking with each other,

  The streets of the old city were dark, with houses built right out onto the narrow sidewalks, but the moon peeped out from between the buildings, doing her best to light their way.

  As they walked through the shadowy streets, they noticed a woman standing in their path. She was dressed in a beautiful, long, flowing black dress with beadwork across the front. She wore an elegant if slightly old-fashioned hat, and her face was hidden behind a veil of black lace.

  The young men tipped their hats to her as they approached. As they made to pass by her, much to their surprise, she called out to them.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, in a low, warm voice, “I have somehow found myself locked out of my own home. Would you be able to help me?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, the two men offered their assistance, saying they would do whatever they could. The woman in black nodded, and beckoned
them to follow her with one elegantly gloved hand. She set off through the darkened streets, the men keeping pace alongside her, her heels clicking on the cobblestones.

  The street ran down the hill toward the water, and as was typical for that part of the town, the houses were built side by side, adjoined in a row. Eventually the woman stopped in front of one door.

  “Number 16,” she said, pointing to the house.

  It was a grand old house, large and stately. It had a great wooden door, painted green, with a brass knocker that gleamed in the moonlight. At either side of the door were two great bay windows than ran from the ground up to the second storey. Heavy wooden shutters barred the windows on the main floor, so nothing could be seen inside, though looking up, the men could see lights shining in the rooms above.

  One of the sailors reached into his pocket, and took out a folding knife which he always carried with him. He undid the latch on one of the shutters, opening it up. His friend hoisted him up, then sliding the blade of the knife up between the sashes of the window, he was able to trip the latch, and slide the window open. The sailor climbed in through the window, pushing aside the rich velvet curtains, and found himself standing in a most remarkable room.

  The sailor’s jaw dropped, as he looked about him. The lady, or her family, was obviously very well off indeed. The room was decorated with antique furniture, and the walls were covered with fine paintings. It was lit with candles which burned in ornate holders, and everywhere was the gleam of gold, silver, and crystal. He quickly made his way to the front door, finding it locked from the inside with a heavy iron key. He turned the key to the lock, and opened the door to admit the lady of the house and his shipmate.

  The woman thanked the two men most graciously, and asked if they would come in for a drink. Again, they did not hesitate, more than happy for the opportunity of a both a drink and the company of a young woman.

  Once inside, the woman stopped in the hallway where there was a hat stand and large mirror. Carefully, she removed the long pins from her hat, and lifted the hat and veil from her head. Looking into the mirror, she patted back her hair, and turned to face the two men.

  She was, quite simply, the most beautiful woman either of the men had ever seen, or even dreamed of seeing. Her skin was as pale as alabaster, her lips as red as blood, and her hair as long and black as a winter’s night without stars. She ushered the two men into the parlour, and bade them to be seated.

  The raven-haired beauty told them to make themselves comfortable while she prepared their refreshment, and left them alone for a moment. The two men looked at each other, hardly daring to speak. They looked around the room, taking in the richness of the furnishings and artwork. Around them, the flickering flames of the candles danced and were reflected back.

  Before long, the woman returned with a silver platter on which was a decanter of wine and two crystal goblets. She served the men, but did not take a drink herself. The three of them talked for some time, the woman asking many questions about their stay in the town.

  When they had finished the wine, which was the best they had ever tasted, one of the sailors asked if she minded if they smoked. She assured them she did not. He took out a silver cigarette case, offering the lady a cigarette first. She smiled, but declined the offer. He and his companion each took a cigarette, lit them and smoked, conversing for a while longer. When they were finished, they thanked her for the drink, and she in turn thanked them once more for coming to her aid. She showed them to the door, and shook their hands, blessing each of them with a heartbreakingly beautiful smile.

  The two men wished her a good night, and as they stepped out onto the street, they heard the click of the heavy iron key turning in the lock behind them. They followed the street downward toward the harbour, and before too long they found themselves by the gangplank leading to their ship.

  Before they boarded, they decided they would have another quick smoke. The sailor with the cigarettes reached down into his pocket, but found it empty.

  “Blast!” he exclaimed to his mate. “I’ve left my cigarette case behind.”

  His friend readily agreed to go back with him, so the two men walked back up the hill, retracing their steps, and made their way to the house of the woman in black.

  When they arrived at Number 16, they looked at the house in some confusion. It was the same house, but looked dramatically different from the stately home they had visited earlier that evening. The front door was weathered, with peeling paint, and the brass door knocker was old and tarnished. The shutters were gone completely from the windows on the main floor, and the windows themselves had been boarded over. No lights could be seen through the broken panes of the glass in the windows up above. The house looked completely abandoned.

  Mystified, the men knocked on the door, but though the sounds of their banging echoed through the street, no one answered their call. They went to the windows, and peered through the cracks in the boards, but saw nothing. Noticing that a few of the boards were loose, they pried them off. Once more, one of the sailors used his knife to jimmy open the window latch. He pushed open the sash, and climbed through.

  This time, the sailor found himself in pitch darkness. He struck a match, and looking around, saw that the room was completely empty. The antique furniture, the fine paintings, everything was gone, and in their place were only shadows and long cobwebs. He hastened to the front entrance, found the old iron key still in the lock, turned it, and pushed open the door with a rusty screech.

  The two men found the stub of an old candle on the floor near the doorway, and lighting it, they made their way back to the parlour where the woman had served them wine. It was empty as well. With a quaking hand, one of them pointed down. The floor was thick with dust, but the dust had clearly been disturbed recently, as there were two distinct sets of footprints that led into the room, and back. The men stepped into the room, and comparing the footprints to their own, they saw that they were exactly identical.

  Both men could feel the hair rising on the backs of their necks. They immediately turned to leave the room, and as they did so, one of them kicked something with his foot, and it skittered across the floor with a metallic clang. He reached down, and picked up the object. It was his own cigarette case.

  The men had no desire to remain a minute longer in the house. Quickly, they fled the property, hurrying back to the safety of their bunks on board ship. Later, they asked some of the local people if anyone lived in the old house at Number 16, and were told that it had been abandoned for as long as anyone could remember. Eventually, they were directed to a very old man who had lived on the street as a boy.

  The old man said that he too had never known anyone to live in the house at Number 16, and that he was sorry he could not help them in their quest for answers. He told them that as children, they had been directed to stay away from the house, as it was believed to be haunted by the ghost of a young woman, who had died in the property many years before he was born.

  “I ofttimes looked at that house, hoping to see the ghost,” said the old man with a slightly wistful expression, “but I never did. No one remembers her name, but she was said to be heartbreakingly beautiful, with skin as pale as alabaster, lips as red as blood, and hair as long and black as a winter’s night without stars.”

  If there was ever a man who could shoot, hunt, or trap, that man was Thomas Conway. Tom, as he was known to his family and friends, was a sturdy man, and an excellent hunter. He was the eldest of the Conway sons, and the Conway family never wanted for fresh meat when Tom was around.

  Tom was a legendary shot, and it was rare for him to miss his target. Every winter his sharp eye and steady hand would help supplement the family income with a steady supply of fox pelts, which always fetched a good price.

  St. Bride’s was the community that Tom called home, and his father lived about fourteen miles down the road in a spot called Point Lance. One fine winter day in 1804, Tom hitched his horse to the sleigh, packed up s
ome provisions for his father, and set off.

  About seven miles out, a magnificent black stag stepped out onto the road and stopped there, proud and tall. Tom had kept his rifle handy in case he spotted any game. He stopped the horse, reached for his loaded gun, raised it to his shoulder, and fired.

  Much to Tom’s dismay, the shot seemed to have no effect on the great black stag. He kept one eye on the beast and reloaded his gun. The stag barely moved as Tom stepped down out of the sleigh. Tom raised the rifle and fired. Again it seemed to have no effect, and the stag just stood there, not in the slightest bit concerned.

  Cursing at himself for missing twice, Tom muttered that he would fix that stag with the next shot. He poured out his gunpowder, doubling the power of his shot. He took slow, careful aim and fired once more.

  When he looked, the stag was still standing, unhurt and unmoved. Indeed, the stag stood staring back at Tom, with a very peculiar look in its eyes.

  Tom grew alarmed at this strange behaviour, and even the horse seem unnaturally restless. Deciding there was something uncanny about the black beast, he got back into the sleigh, and urged the horse onward. The horse needed no encouragement, and they covered the remaining seven miles to Tom’s father’s house faster than they ever had before.

  Laughter greeted Tom when he shared his story about the black stag.

  “Your aim must be getting bad,” joked his father.

  After a short visit, Tom said that he must be heading back toward his home. His wife was soon to give birth to their child, and he did not want to leave her alone too long. The horse started to trot along the road as a light snow started to fall, and Tom waved goodbye to his father. It was the last time that his father was to see him alive.

  Hours passed.

  Tom’s wife and brother were anxiously awaiting his return home. It was dark by this time, and Tom had been gone much longer than had been expected. Imagine their surprise when the horse galloped up to the door of Tom’s house. The horse was covered with sweat and trembling in terror. The harness was broken, and there was no sign of Tom, nor of the sleigh.