“I am a man of God.”
“You’re a filthy disgrace. You disgrace the clothes you wear, you insult the almighty with your stinking fawning words.”
“I repented,” said the vicar, falling to his knees. “I have sought forgiveness and given myself to the Lord.”
“You’re a liar and a coward! And you don’t deserve forgiveness.”
Lightning struck, thunder rolled amongst the clouds.
“I give you one chance to redeem yourself,” roared the boy in the well. “The life you chose for me has been agony. It has been lonely, it has been cold, it has been full of pain; but you can help me now Father. You can redeem yourself by giving yourself to me. Come into my world; join me in my unhappy home in the well so that we can be together forever…
Or else I take the boy. I will not be alone any longer.”
The vicar was speechless. He looked to the ground open-mouthed.
“No. No!” he roared, as he rose to his feet. He pulled his cross from beneath his clothing; he raised the silver icon out in front of him: “I will fight you evil spirit, be gone! I cast you out, be gone!”
The boy merely laughed at him. Struggling to go forward, the vicar began to chant, “Our Father” – he struggled to be heard against the wind – “who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name...” He tried so hard to shout out the words that he did not even notice Benjamin’s father come up behind him and grab him by the back of his cassock. He dragged him forward and flung him towards the stone wall, with the vicar landing just a few feet from it.
Before he could get back on his feet, Mr Morris had grabbed him once again and forced him up against the wall, his chest and head now hanging over the darkness within.
The vicar screamed; as Benjamin’s father tried to force him over, he could see his son, hanging over them, lifeless and limp, as if with the slightest movement he would topple down into the abyss.
The vicar got his grip on the wall and pushed himself up, forcing Mr Morris off him. Benjamin’s father fought back; as the vicar turned to move away he charged him back against the stones again, the two now face to face in their struggle. Benjamin’s father raised his fist and hit him once, twice, three times. The vicar’s feet scraped against the ground; he was losing his footing. Mr Morris grabbed his cassock with one hand and reached down with the other, hoping to sweep the vicar’s legs from under him and push him over.
The vicar cried out; trying to strike back at him. Benjamin’s father roared; he swept up the vicar’s legs. The vicar screamed as he felt his centre of gravity tip – he grabbed desperately at Mr Morris’ shirt sleeve, pulling Morris towards him and against the wall. But it wasn’t enough to save him. He felt himself slip and fall.
The sleeve tore. With an almighty scream, the vicar disappeared into the darkness of the well; his screams echoing until ceasing, abruptly, leaving only silence. A sound of impact was never heard. He just disappeared.
Benjamin’s father fell on his back, gasping for air.
“You should not have done that,” said the boy, with almost a hint of regret. “I would have had him give himself to me.”
“You got what you wanted,” cried Mr Morris, rising back to his feet. “Now give me back my son.”
“I wish you had been my father,” the boy said. “You were the only innocent amongst them. But I would have had him give himself to me of his own free will; now you too have sinned.”
“I just want my son,” Benjamin’s father was in tears. “Take whatever you want, just please, don’t take my son!”
The wind roared and the boy was silent.
“I have no wish to harm the innocent. But there will be a price to pay.”
There was a flash of thunder. Benjamin fell. His father cried out…
…But he did not fall – he leapt! His father caught him as flew from one side of the well to the other.
Mr Morris fell to the ground with his boy in his arms. With the wind so fierce, they were forced down the hillside, falling and rolling down the grass. The roar was incessant; Mr Morris could not get to his feet. Yet amongst the noise, he managed to hear, for one last time, the voice of the boy in the well.
And it said: “Father, I’m coming for you. Time to play…”
There was the most tremendous crash of thunder. Benjamin’s father held his son to his chest, afraid to move.
They waited there, on the hillside, hidden in the long grass, waiting for the maelstrom to pass.
But as fast as it had come on, so did it go away.
It seemed after only a few moments, Mr Morris was able to lift his head and found that the sky was clearing. That there was little or no wind, and most importantly, that the sun was beginning to shine on the hillside again.
Benjamin was out cold. His father felt his pulse, placed his hand on his forehead, felt his breath. He was alive, but unresponsive. His father spoke to him and shook him a little; he stirred but he did not wake up.
He was about to race down the hillside, get away from there and find help as soon as possible, when he suddenly thought to look back. He scanned his eyes over the landscape. Where the well had once stood was now just a pile of stone. The walls had caved in; the well was now sealed.
He started off down towards the woods, moving as quickly as his battered body would allow. Benjamin seemed unharmed, but he would not feel safe until he was back within the walls of his home.
He was dripping with sweat when he finally made it back home. The front door was lying open as he had left it. He struggled upstairs and placed his son down softly on the bed and pulled his blankets over him
Exhausted, his father let out an almighty sigh of relief. Despite the most extraordinary of circumstances his son was going to be all right.
“Emily,” he cried.
There was no answer.
He walked slowly into their bedroom, expecting to see her still lying in a drug-induced sleep. She was not there. Suddenly he panicked – the writing on the wall. It was still there, what if she had seen it!
“Emily,” he shouted, dashing down the stairs and into the living room, where the message remained.
He cried for her again and dashed into the kitchen where he found the back door wide open.
He ran out into the garden – and that’s where he found her. Strung up and hung, from the old apple tree.
…Sounds wild doesn’t it? When I tell people the story, they don’t believe it. Why would they? Yet, when they see the police report, the transcripts from the inquests, the photograph of the writing on the wall – yes there’s a photograph – then suddenly it doesn’t seem quite so crazy.
The reports that do survive, they make for interesting reading. The authorities were dumbfounded; they didn’t believe the man’s story, yet where was the vicar? What about the words on the wall? The cuts on Benjamin’s arms and the baby… yes, with some investigation they found out the truth; that Emily Morris did indeed have another child. It could well have been a real scandal, perfect food for the growing tabloids. But it was kept quiet, probably because of the involvement of the vicar. I daresay even my ancestor did what he could to keep it quiet, for a time at least.
So they see the proof and then people ask me, well how do you know how this happened or that happened? They question the detail. What they forget is that Benjamin Morris did not die that day and neither did his father. They both lived many years more and they both told the tale more than once, Benjamin especially.
They left Bullham Brook – understandably. His father died working at the docks in Bristol, trying to start a new life. As for Benjamin, we believe he grew up into a rogue, a drunk and a thief. He spent time in prison for theft, public disturbance and vagrancy. But he also tried to profit from his misfortune; he began to tell the story of what happened that day for profit, performing on-stage recitals of the terrifying tale. That’s where the legend comes from, his performances, his scripts and notes, and the words passed from one person to another over the years.
; It was never a popular act, people didn’t believe him or worse, they ostracised him for the inclusion of a man from the cloth and the acts of murder and incest. The people of Bullham Brook didn’t take much kindly from it either – he never performed it in the village. In the end he would tell it just for coins in the street or just for a pint. He was last known to be in Portsmouth, arrested for vagrancy about the time the war broke out. Perhaps he died in the war, no one knows. Such an unfortunate boy; fate was forever cruel to him.
WRONG NUMBER
I moved because she left me. Modest two bedroom place in Croydon, only a mile and a half from my new surgery. I wasn’t sad to leave Shoreditch; it was no surprise to find that my friends were really her friends. Can’t say as I liked many of them anyway; unexceptional people trying so desperately to seem exceptional.
I knew it wouldn’t last. She a guitarist: “What do you do mate?”; “I’m a vet”; “Oh right,” and then move on. If you’re not part of their world, you’re no one. She was more beautiful and talented than I had any right to be with. Should’ve stuck with the slightly chubby girls. The smiling round-faced lasses; the ones who spend most of their life behind counters, at front desks or bars; who crave the Sex and the City life while stuffing their faces with pizza and chocolate.
My girlfriend, my ex, ended up fucking a singer from another band; a pretentious prick with no ideas of his own, but oh my, what a really interesting haircut he had.
Whatever; if someone surrounds themself with twats, you can only expect them to adapt.
So I moved into the upstairs of a converted house and paid £675 (bit of a bargain) to Mr and Mrs Sodha each month. I shifted all my stuff in and discovered how little I owned. So I went out and bought a new TV, stereo, Blu-ray and some other stuff. I couldn’t afford it, but I didn’t really care. My salary as a new vet wasn’t great, but it would do. And at least I didn’t have to commute.
There wasn’t much decent to look at there, but I did my best to leer at the occasional young mum with a wounded puppy, or college student with a sick bunny rabbit. I was not very good at it, at least not without a couple of pints down me.
I got the place hooked up with a phone line and the net pretty quick; about a week after I moved in I think. It happened the very first time after that. Eight-thirty Thursday night, I was sat on my sofa, pizza on my lap, can in my hand, when the phone rang. I put everything down and got up to answer it. When I picked up, I couldn’t hear much except static:
“Hello,” I repeated.
Out of all the fuzz and buzzing came a voice. “Hello,” it said. “Mum?”
“What?” I shouted. I could barely hear. It was a girl’s voice, youngish I guessed.
“Mum, I need you to pick me up.”
It sounded like she was holding the phone a few feet from her face. What I could tell was that she was upset. She had the cracked, dry tone of someone who’d been crying.
“I think you’ve got the wrong number,” I said. Felt a bit cruel, but what could I do for her?
“I can’t do it anymore Mum,” she went on.
“Hello?” I said loudly. “Can – you – hear – me?”
“You were right, he’s a lost cause,” – she broke into tears.
“You’ve got the wrong number, love!” I shouted.
“I only wanted to help him...” She was definitely crying. “Come get me please, I’m on the corner of Saxon.”
Then the line went dead.
It shook me a little bit, but she obviously couldn’t hear me. So there wasn’t exactly anything I could do about it.
I went on with my happy little life as usual. Working during the day, drinking alone at night. I didn’t give the call any more thought, but then, a few nights later, at around half-past eight, the phone went again.
I had no clue it would be the same call again, so I just picked it up expecting it to be a survey call, or my mum, the only other person I had given the number to.
“Hello,” said the same girl’s voice, from way far-off, like before, half-covered by static.
My first thought was that somehow, she had the wrong number programmed into her phone. Or that maybe my number was really close to her mum’s number.
But that wasn’t what was so strange about it. What was so strange was that it was exactly the same message:
“I can’t do it any more Mum.” I was becoming a bit freaked out. I said again: “I think you’ve got the wrong number.”
There was a pause, a moment of silence.
“You were right, he’s a lost cause. I only wanted to help him.”
She wasn’t ignoring me; she was having a conversation with someone else. It was like a recording, but a conversation I could only hear one side of.
I put the phone down. I was a bit unnerved, maybe a bit unsettled, but I just thought of it as one of those strange things, some kind of bug in the phone network. It was just weird.
So I just went on with things as normal. Got up, went to work, had some lunch, went back again, and then either home or down the pub for a drink or two. Or more if I felt like it, which at the time, I usually did. I’d put some distance between myself and my friends, the ones that cared at least, not that I appreciated it at the time. I was looking back at my whole life with disappointment and wasn’t interested in seeing anyone or really doing anything.
Of course, most of my existing friends lived in or around London, so the world had to revolve around them. Always must go into London, no chance of them straying from their precious city life. So I thought, fuck ’em, and couldn’t be arsed going to see them when they couldn’t be arsed to come see me.
And then a few nights later, the phone rang again. I had just got home from doing some shopping, so it wasn’t until I was just about to pick up did I realise it was eight-thirty again. And there was the sound of the crackling and the static, and the far-off voice again, calling for her mother.
“I can’t do it anymore Mum.”
I listened quietly, not saying a word; feeling very unsettled now. I listened to her talk for a moment, until I said: “Is this some kind of joke?”
After a brief silence she said again: “You were right, he’s a lost cause.”
“Fuck off!”
I slammed the phone down and went to put my shopping away. She’d definitely taken longer to say the next line after I swore at her, I was sure of it.
It happened again the next night. I was in the bath that time, so I didn’t answer it. But it happened at around eight-thirty; I heard the time on the radio. When I was out, and still dripping wet, I went to the phone and tried to get the number back from 1471. The automated voice said that the last call was on the 18th of April. I sat down and thought about it; that date was almost two weeks ago, and it was my mum. This was at least the fourth time the phone had rung in that time.
I came home during my lunch hour and rang up the phone company to ask them what the hell was going on. Well, what I asked was if there was something wrong on the line, because I kept getting strange missed-calls. I didn’t go into detail because when I tried to explain I kept feeling like I was a nutcase, and didn’t want to seem like one.
They said they’d have a look at it. I don’t know whether they ever did or not, but it didn’t change anything.
I was caught off-guard the next time. I was just finishing a mundane chat with my dad and put the phone down for just a moment when it rang again. I picked it up thinking it would be him, having forgotten to tell me something. But instead I got...
“Hello. Mum?”
Now was when I started to become frightened. I felt shivers race up my spine, the voice was so much clearer this time, it was the same words, but they were different.
“Mum, I need you to pick me up.”
They were more anguished, almost harsh, angry. As if – now stay with me – because I ignored the last call, I had somehow upset her, even though each word, each breath, was just as it was before.
I slammed the phone down and
tore out the phone line.
I couldn’t get the words out of my head, the way she had said them. Who was she? Why was she calling me? What the hell was going on? I left the phone unplugged, but the call left me tense all evening.
I was off work the next day, and when I was coming home I got caught out in the corridor by Mr and Mrs Sodha. You know the type: very chatty, very friendly, very nice. But too nice; you smile and you chat, and get away as soon as possible because they’ll talk at you for ages if you don’t and not about anything remotely interesting.
But I got sucked–in, in part because I needed to sign something to do with the deposit scheme. They made me a cup of coffee, gave me a slice of cake and I ended up trapped out of politeness. I don’t know why, but after a while of them jabbering on, I asked:
“Who lived up there before me?”
No one apparently. Of course, as they had said to me when I moved in, I was the first person to occupy the flat since the conversion. But their tone was awkward; they didn’t like me asking these questions. I could tell they knew something that I didn’t; it became more obvious the more questions I asked and I wasn’t going to let them get away with it.
“Who lived here before you?” I asked. And when they avoided answering I told them I had been getting some strange phone calls, implying that they had been for the previous tenant.
Mr and Mrs Sodha looked at each other, wondering what to say to me. They assured me quickly that they had not lied to me, or misled me. There had been no previous tenant in my flat.
But awkwardly, they conceded that someone who had lived in the house previously had actually been killed.
They were quick to point out that the accident had not happened in the house. A woman had lived there before; her husband had left her and she was forced to bring up the three children alone. The eldest left school at 16 to help her mother look after the two youngest. She was described in near angelic terms; a self-sacrificing girl who got her family through the toughest of times and put herself second.
Eleven New Ghost Stories Page 24