Something Strange in the Cellar

by George Chedzoy

  Chapter 3: A TROUBLING TALE

  ‘As if houses could speak. You’ll be telling me it’s haunted next. And there are no shops. Na, does na dim siopau,’ repeated the voice in Welsh.

  The children span round, wondering where that lilting voice had come from. At first they couldn’t see anyone, then Lou saw a tiny, wizened figure sitting on a stone bench at the side of the garden. It was an old woman with white hair, tied back in a bun with black ribbon. She eyed them scornfully.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,’ spluttered Emily, not sure what to say or indeed, if the woman would understand her. Welsh was clearly her first language and her English was slow and laboured. ‘It must be a lovely place to live out here, gloriously peaceful and such wonderful views.’

  ‘Pah,’ she replied, screwing up her face scornfully. ‘What would you English know, from the big city. You were right the first time, my dear, it is wild, bleak and lonely here. You tourists tramp across when the sun is shining bright but where are you when it’s winter? I’ll tell you – tucked up in your little brick boxes next to the radiator.’

  The old woman pulled her shawl around her and got slowly to her feet, leaning heavily on a stick. She hobbled over to them.

  ‘I’ll talk to you a while if I may,’ she said. ‘Not for the liking of you, mind, but I don’t get to see many folk out here.’

  ‘Have you lived all your life in this cottage?’ asked Emily.

  ‘It’s not a cottage, my dear. It may appear quaint but it’s an old farmhouse and it’s bigger than it looks. I was born here, my child, ninety-five summers ago. This has always been my home and I hope never to leave it.’

  ‘Beth ydy’ch enw chi?’ said Lou, asking in Welsh what her name was.

  ‘Mrs Owen,’ she replied. ‘Cymraes wyt ti? O ble ydy chi’n dod? (Are you Welsh? Where do you come from?’)

  ‘Na, Saesnes ydw i o Sir Amwythig’, said Lou. (No, I’m English, from Shropshire).

  ‘Ah, ond dim yn bell, te,’ said Mrs Owen. (Ah, but not far then).

  Lou, who had learnt Welsh during her many trips to the Welsh seaside, chatted to her, with English mixed in where her Welsh failed her. She could understand the woman’s replies with ease. The others listened in admiration.

  David was astonished and a little envious. He had been painstakingly teaching himself Welsh from books and possibly could write the language with more accuracy than Lou but could never have chatted freely as she did. He was tempted to join in but didn’t have the confidence and he understood only snatches of Mrs Owen’s speech. She used a strong Caernarvonshire accent and dialect which Lou was used to, but David wasn’t.

  Being able to use her native tongue seemed to re-energise the old woman and a smile broke across her aged face. Aware that Lou’s friends did not speak Welsh, however, she switched back to English and asked them if they would join her for a cup of tea.

  They readily agreed. Unlike some youngsters, Lou, Jack, David and Emily were at ease in the company of older people and enjoyed listening to their tales. Mrs Owen beckoned them to sit at a sturdy wooden table in the garden.

  ‘Esgusodwch fi am funud,’ she said, reverting to Welsh. (Excuse me for a minute).

  About five minutes passed before Mrs Owen returned with a tray laden with tasty jam-and-cream scones and a great pot of tea.

  ‘This looks wonderful, Mrs Owen,’ said Lou, sticking with English so that the others could understand. ‘Well if we’re going to eat your scones, it’s only fair we share our sandwiches and snacks.’ She pulled out their picnic lunch.

  The old lady beamed with pleasure. It was a treat for her to have such pleasant, well-mannered children as her guests. As they tucked in, she began to talk to them about what it was like to live in such a remote spot, far away from other people. Lou sensed that something was troubling the kindly old thing, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. It wasn’t the solitude, since she had been used to that all her life.

  ‘Are you happy here, Mrs Owen,’ she asked. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t seem too sure.’

  ‘It’s hard to explain, cariad, (dear)’ said Mrs Owen, hesitantly. ‘There is something that’s bothering me only you’ll probably think I’m stark raving mad if I told you and assume I’m saying it because I’m old.’

  ‘We won’t think any such thing,’ said Lou. ‘Oh come on, tell us, and perhaps we might be able to help you.’

  The children looked in dismay as a tear rolled down Mrs Owen’s wrinkled cheek.

  ‘If I told you that my lovely home might be haunted, what would you say to that.’ Her bright, grey eyes flitted from one child to another gauging their reaction. ‘You’d say it was just a daft fancy of a superstitious old Welshwoman who spends too much time on her own. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I must say, I have never encountered a ghost and I tend to regard ghostly tales as rather the stuff of fiction,’ said David. He didn’t mean to sound pompous but that’s how it came across. He was in one of his mildly sulky moods because he had the perfect opportunity to use his Welsh but didn’t have the confidence to do so.

  ‘Oh be quiet, David,’ reproached Lou. ‘Take no notice, Mrs Owen. I’ve never seen a ghost myself but I always keep an open mind on these things and I know several people around our way who live in centuries-old, half-timbered houses who are convinced they are possessed by some kind of spirit.’

  ‘Well you see, cariad, this house of mine is very old and I’m afraid there was a tragedy here once, long, long ago.’

  A chill autumnal wind chose that moment to blow across the garden, rustling the fallen leaves and rattling the ivy climbing the stone walls. It made Emily shiver. She looked up at Mrs Owen’s unkempt farmhouse. The sun had gone in too, behind a large cloud. Suddenly the place seemed forlorn and full of secrets.

  Lou realised that Emily was getting frightened but she was too curious to hear what Mrs Owen had to say to interrupt her. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  ‘I never found out many details,’ said Mrs Owen, slowly, ‘but there was a little farm girl called Megan living here long before I was born, before the days of cars and lorries, back when Queen Victoria was on the throne. This poor lass died tragically, trampled when a great farm horse which pulled the plough took fright and bolted.

  ‘Since then, it was often said, that her cries could be heard in the dead of night, and the whinnying of the horse which killed her. My grandmother told me the tale – Megan was her older sister. I think the year was 1873 when Megan was seven or eight. She would have been my great aunt I suppose, had she lived.’

  The others listened in silence. What a terrible accident, so long ago and yet so real to Mrs Owen, since it had taken away the life of a close relative – her gran’s own sister.

  ‘That’s farm life for you, see, it is beset with dangers,’ continued Mrs Owen. ‘There have been many other sadnesses befalling this place over the years – and happy times too. But I never thought much to these ghostly tales until recently.’

  ‘Why, Mrs Owen, what’s made you think more of ghosts recently,’ prompted Lou, gently.

  ‘I’ve always felt a spiritual presence around this place,’ said Mrs Owen, pulling her shawl tighter. ‘Sometimes in the past I have thought I heard something – cries in the wind at night, and every now and then I saw orbs of white light dancing through the darkness.

  ‘Of late, it’s been different. It’s got worse. I’ve heard howling, mournful, unearthly wails like nothing I’ve ever experienced before – from inside my house and outside. I’m too scared to go downstairs. I scream “go away, go away”. When I look out of the bedroom window I see lights flashing – and figures – white blobs with holes for eyes dancing about on the hillside you’ve just walked over. I see them under the light of the moon. It is for several nights when the full moon shines bright that the ghosts come, with their shrieks and howls and flashing lights.’

  ‘Surely this must be your imagination,’ said David,
disbelievingly, ignoring the stares from Lou, who would have kicked him under the table had she been close enough. ‘It must be easy to let your mind run away with you when you live in a place like this.’

  ‘There, you see, I told you that you wouldn’t believe me,’ said Mrs Owen, folding her arms over her chest and shaking her head, crossly.

  ‘Please take no notice of David,’ said Lou. ‘Are you sure there can be no rational explanation for all this?’

  ‘Why is it only when the moon is full that it happens?’ asked Mrs Owen. ‘You tell me that! There is something mysterious and unexplainable happening around here. A restless, troubled spirit belongs to that house and it wants rid of me, my dears, it wants rid of me!’

  ‘When is the next full moon?’ asked Lou. ‘It can’t be far away. I seem to recall a bright moon last night flickering across the bay when I drew the curtains.’

  ‘That’s right, cariad, it is nearly a round moon already and will be from tonight,’ said Mrs Owen, pouring herself another cup of tea. ‘I don’t know how much more of it I can take, I fear I shall have to leave this place – my home for the last ninety-five years!’

  ‘Don’t talk like that, Mrs Owen,’ said Jack, ‘we’ll try and find a way to help you and get to the bottom of it all. I’m sure it’s nothing to do with little Megan, why would she want to drive you from this place, it doesn’t make sense. We’re staying her for a few days and we’ll come back and check on you and see how you are.’

  Mrs Owen looked at Jack gratefully, as did Lou. That was a kind and sensitive thing to say.

  ‘Do you have anyone else who checks on you, any friends or family?’ asked Lou.

  ‘Yes, there’s a farmer across the way who pops in on me from time to time and my great nephew Idwal but he’s no help, bless him. He blames it on my age and tells me I’m going gaga. He says I should move into a residential home where folk would care for me properly.’

  The children listened, taken aback. That didn’t sound a nice thing for her great nephew to say. Mrs Owen might be a grand old age but she seemed fit and healthy and capable of looking after herself. Yet was her mind playing tricks on her, all alone in that isolated farmhouse when darkness fell? It was impossible to say.

  After a while longer, Lou could sense that the old lady was growing tired. ‘We’ll leave you in peace, Mrs Owen, but over the next few days we’ll call on you if you’d like and check you’re ok.’

  ‘Basai hynny’n wych!’ (That would be great!), she replied, smiling gratefully.

  ‘Hwyl fawr!’ (goodbye), said David, finally plucking up courage to say something in Welsh. He was pleased he had at least had a go, even if he was too shy to attempt anything more elaborate.

  They waved goodbye to Mrs Owen then resumed their moorland walk, pleased to see that the heather still sported vivid purple flowers. The four of them fell silent for a while, enjoying the beauty of the gently undulating landscape. As they followed the path westwards, they could see the blue sea on both their left, the south side of the Lleyn peninsula and on their right, the north side. Farmland stretched out ahead; a neat patchwork of fields and hedges and white dots of sheep.

  ‘So what do you make of Mrs Owen and her haunted house?’ said Jack eventually. ‘She seems like she’s all there and yet surely her imagination must be getting the better of her.’

  ‘It sounds that way to me,’ said David. ‘Haunted houses don’t exist in real life, only in books. She’s obviously getting a bit dippy. She’s a nice old stick but it’s superstitious nonsense. It’s funny how country folk still cling to old tales. Did you know that in parts of Snowdonia they actually believe in fairies?’

  ‘Have you quite finished?’ said Lou to David, sharply. ‘Be careful what you say about “country folk” since that is what we are, surely? Do any of us live in a town or even go to one very often? The traditions and folklore of the countryside deserve respect. If townspeople have lost touch with their past and the old ways of doing things then they are the ones I feel sorry for.

  ‘It’s true that a lot of country people believe in ghosts of some kind and I for one will keep an open mind on the subject. I’m 12 years old and what do I know – or you for that matter, David, aged 11. That house has been touched by tragedy and maybe an element of its sadness remains, locked in its stone walls.’

  Emily shivered and looked about her. Suddenly the whole landscape appeared melancholy and reaching out to winter. The wind buffeting her face felt like the touch of cold fingers. ‘I could do with a hot drink and something to eat,’ she said. ‘Can we go back fairly soon, Lou?’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to scare you, Emily,’ said Lou. ‘When we get back to our bikes, why don’t we cycle into Abersoch and find a nice warm café? I could do with a hot chocolate and a piece of cake.’

  The others nodded, that sounded a great idea.

  Within an hour, the four were sitting around a table in the café opposite the Vaynol Arms pub where they had gone for a meal on the terrace with Mr and Mrs Johnson in the summer.

  ‘Do you remember, David, how horrified you were when you spotted one of the smugglers coming out of the pub, patting his fat belly?’ said Lou, her eyes flashing mischievously.

  ‘Yes,’ said David, ‘but I also recall being brave enough to follow him up the hill –then I returned to a plate of cold scampi and a telling off from dad.’

  ‘You did very well,’ said Lou. ‘We had cycled over to Whistling Sands that day searching for clues about the smugglers and got nowhere – only for you to get us back on their trail that night. Now, everyone, we have another challenge!’

  The others wondered what she meant exactly.

  ‘Aren’t you curious to find out more about Mrs Owen’s haunted house? Are there really ghosts flitting about it under a full moon, howling and wailing and flashing lights?’

  ‘What do you propose, Lou?’ asked Emily timidly.

  ‘The moon will be full over the next few days,’ said Lou. ‘I’d like to go over when it’s dark and hide in the garden and see what we shall see. The question is, who would like to join me?’

  Jack, David and Emily looked at Lou in surprise. Her green eyes shone in anticipation. But the prospect of lying in wait outside a remote farmhouse in the dark, hoping to see paranormal activity was not one which immediately appealed to the others.

  Emily eyed Lou across the table warily. She liked and respected her greatly but they were different people, there was no doubt about it. Lou was a thrill-seeker with an inquisitive, lively mind which often seemed to know no fear. Yet she was also sensible and practical and able to dig herself out of most holes she found herself in. She also appeared to have an almost telepathic ability to know what was happening around her and what everyone was thinking.

  Lou sensed Emily’s eyes on her and knew that this would be one escapade too far for the quiet ten-year-old.

  ‘Don’t worry, Emily.’ Lou gave her hand a squeeze. ‘Don’t feel under any pressure to come. You stay in your cosy caravan tucked up in bed and I will tell you about it in the morning. Anyway, there will probably be nothing to tell.’

  Emily nodded, grateful that she would be put under no pressure. She had followed Lou into disused manganese mines and limestone caverns and lain in wait for smugglers. But to seek out ghosts in the dead of night was something she did not feel able to do.

  That left Jack and David. They glanced at each other uncomfortably. They did not know what to say. They wanted to go, for the thrill of it and the fun of being with Lou – but this was tempered by an instinctive fear of the unknown. It was one thing taking on smugglers as they had that summer, but ghosts and at night? That was a disquieting prospect to contemplate, even in a warm, bustling café with a mug of hot chocolate in their hands and shafts of sunlight spilling through the windows. How would it feel in the cold and dark?

  ‘I will come, if David comes,’ said Jack.

  David traced his fingers slowly round the rim of his mug. He
was anxious and flustered. ‘I think I ought to stay back with Emily, to make sure she’s ok.’

  ‘Come off it, David, she’ll be in the caravan with mum and dad, you can’t use that as an excuse,’ objected Jack. ‘Please come, with the three of us it won’t be too scary, it will be fun.’

  David wouldn’t be persuaded. Under Lou’s influence, he had evolved from being a stay-at-home mummy’s boy who rarely left the house to someone far more outgoing. However, he was too sensitive a soul for an assignment like this.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll go by myself,’ said Lou, disappointed. ‘I feel I have to go to satisfy my curiosity about these ghostly lights and noises. I also wish to help Mrs Owen whom I’m very fond of. She seemed to take to me as well, especially when I spoke to her in Welsh.’

  ‘You were clever chatting to her like that, Lou,’ said Emily. ‘I admire you being able to do things like that, we all do. I’m sorry that we’re not brave enough to come with you on this one.’

  ‘I will come, Lou,’ said Jack, slowly. ‘I’ll be honest and say I do feel scared but I’ve always felt safe with you at my side and I agree, it would be good to find out what, if anything, is going on. We might be able to report back to Mrs Owen and reassure her. If there is any danger, I don’t want you to face it alone. I won’t be able to sleep for thinking that you are by yourself.’

  Lou smiled warmly at him and gave his arm a rub. ‘Thank you so much, Jack, I promise you we won’t come to any harm. It will be wonderful to have you with me. I would have gone on my own but it will be much better with you as well. We are the original gang members, after all!’

  David looked hard into the bottom of his now empty mug as if seeking the elusive courage he needed to join Lou and Jack. He felt a coward not to go too but he knew that, come the moment, he wouldn’t have it in him. It was best to say so there and then.

  ‘Don’t feel bad about it, David, no-one thinks the worse of you for it,’ Lou reassured him.

  The youngsters chatted a while longer before cycling back. Mr and Mrs Johnson had invited Lou to come round for her tea at the caravan that night – they were serving roast chicken, in her honour. Jack, David and Emily had told them how Lou had fond memories of her first meal in the caravan with them that summer.

  Lou left the others to return to her cottage. She wanted to have a hot bath and get changed. She was also anticipating having her parents’ holiday home to herself for a while and contemplating a pleasant evening and an exciting night ahead.

  At the caravan, Mr and Mrs Johnson listened as Jack, David and Emily animatedly talked through the day’s events. They were pleased that their children had renewed their friendship with Lou, thanks to whom they had become much more outgoing and confident. Perhaps they would have been less pleased, however, had they known what Lou was planning that night with their eldest son. Aware that they would have stopped him going, Jack chose not to tell them.