The Angry Ghost and Other Stories

by Peter Spokes

  Then I saw a small headless doll in a red dress and recognised its owner.

  She stood beside a taller child that I couldn’t see as clearly.

  “Siobhan,” I shouted and began to press through the throng to join her. Strangely, this was easier than expected as none of the forms had any substance and I moved through them like a hand through smoke. When I reached her, her friend had gone but I saw Siobhan look up – she didn’t seem surprised to see me – but she looked so sad and my heart went out to her.

  “We want to go home,” she said, her lower lip quivering.

  It was then that I heard laughing, or cackling might be more accurate, and turned to see an old crone – is there any other kind? I thought. She was wearing a black cowl and she squatted before a bubbling cauldron. I was so mesmerised that it took several moments to realise that someone was tugging my sleeve.

  I looked down to see Siobhan pulling frantically. “Don’t look at her – it’s not her – it’s the cart!”

  I woke up suddenly, confused and unsure as to what was real and what was not.

  The curtain flew wildly for a moment and then became still. I stared at it a while wondering how it could move in the absence of any stirring of the air.

  I moved to the window as fast as my tired, unaccommodating body would allow and looked outside but all I saw was rolling mist, though for a moment I thought I saw a small figure in it, and then it was gone.

  I felt a moment’s epiphany closely followed by confusion; but it wasn’t the echoes in my head from Siobhan’s words, ‘it’s the cart,’ but the doll in my dream, which had no head; while the one sitting against the gravestone the previous evening… had.

  Scene 2: Mairead in the Graveyard

  Eventually, the confusion left me and after a breakfast of salty meat and bread, I determined to take a trip to speak to the Devil Worshippers.

  As the small girl in my dream had been real and the cart too, I felt the crone could be also. I was, of course, aware that I had seen the former the day before so it was not unreasonable for them to enter into my dreams, and though tenuous, I was intrigued by the witch thing. The woman who had saved me from the cart was certainly no crone.

  I left the inn and walked along Main Street towards the hill and the arboretum, and – again – was almost bowled over by Finbarr’s cart.

  I shouted one or two colourful expletives and proceeded along the road.

  It was while I was passing the graveyard that I happened to glance over, and saw an old woman wearing a black coat and scarf, walking along beside the gravestones.

  I stopped. She was not too dissimilar to the crone in my dream. The fact alone that she was wearing such attire on a hot day was indicative of something perhaps unnatural. She was hunched over and carrying something small in her hand; something red.

  All of a sudden, I recognised the object and without thought, started running towards her.

  As I reached her, I tapped her not too lightly on the shoulder. “What are you doing with that?” I said pointing at the doll in her hand – my voice raised – while trying to return my breathing back to normality.

  She turned and stared at me in horror – as best she was able considering the milky cataracts that stared at me through a face of dried parchment – and I looked down at the little red doll hanging in her fingerless glove.

  “Please don’t hurt me. It’s my sister’s,” she said quickly.

  “That’s absurd; I happen to know that it belongs to a little girl,” I said, now with better control.

  “I’m very sorry, sir, but you are mistaken. It was a present for my sister on her third birthday.”

  I looked closely at her and relaxed a little. She must have been approaching ninety and carried herself with extreme care, aided by a walking stick that shook slightly from a trembling hand. Her hair was long and white and lay tangled over one shoulder. She stared unblinking.

  I immediately regretted my outburst. She was obviously confused and – I guessed – she had found the doll and was probably enjoying some comfort from it; besides, I thought – a little embarrassed – perhaps I was mistaken, for this doll had a head, but then, maybe it had been repaired.

  It must have been the one I saw the previous evening leaning against the gravestone with the same name as the young girl.

  I felt it should be returned to Siobhan as I had seen the love she held for the doll and must be distraught from losing it.

  In a softer tone, I continued. “I’m sorry, but I really think it belongs to my friend – though it seems to have gained a head. You may have seen her; she’s about six years old with blonde hair tied into plaits – over one shoulder… a bit like yourself,” I said as an afterthought.

  She looked up at me and stared with such an intensity and strength of will, that I involuntarily took a step backwards.

  “What did you say, young man?” she said.

  “Erm… she’s about six years old with blonde…”

  “No; the head.”

  “Erh… her doll had no head, but it’s probably been repaired,” I said, but she wasn’t listening.

  She looked to one side and her brow furrowed in thought for a moment and then she stared at me closely.

  “You are different,” she said before looking down again at the doll with such a look of love. When she looked up again, her eyes were moist but her face was lit by a radiance such that might be seen on someone for whom a very long and difficult journey was coming to an end and a respite most welcomed.

  Still looking into my eyes, she passed the doll to me. “Yes, I have seen her… but it was a very long time ago… and despite your lack of years, young man, I believe you when you say you have seen her recently.”

  An odd remark, I thought – why would I lie? But she continued. “… When you give it to her, say Mairead will see her again very soon, and we’ll play together once again.”

  She turned to leave but then stopped and turned back. “I will see you again, young man, and then you will see that I no longer need it.”

  I seriously felt that her ‘playing’ days were over, but with some pity – for from her last confused words, it was clear that the cheese had fallen from her cracker – I nodded and proceeded slowly towards the gate.

  Strangely, I felt quite uplifted. On entering the graveyard, I had met a hunched-over and sad old lady. But on exiting it, was leaving a woman many years younger – though still clearly confused.

  It was obvious that there was no way that she could have known Siobhan from ‘a long time ago’.

  I could even hear her singing lightly to herself.

  And of course, we now had another name from the note:

  Mairead.

  Shaking my head, I smiled; it was no wonder the easily influenced were vulnerable when a concurrence as this presented itself.

  I tucked the doll into my pocket and continued up along the road finally leaving the village and headed into a wooded area towards the hill’s peak and the standing stones.

  Scene 3: Breahna at the Stones

  The stone circle consisted of about twenty stones, some upright and others lying as if discarded. They formed a circle approximately sixty-foot in diameter. They seemed much larger when I was here last.

  There appeared to be a gathering in its centre consisting of a dozen or so people; the men wearing rather dull cloaks or wraps while the women wore colourful diaphanous scarves and sashes.

  I saw no sign of the crone in my dream. On the contrary, I saw the brunette lady who had rescued me from the horse’s hooves the other day. She seemed to be gesticulating wildly and I increased my pace in concern that something untoward was occurring.

  Then as I drew closer I heard laughter and good-humoured banter.

  “I hope you’re going to lower that broomstick; I’ll never jump over it!” I heard an elderly gentleman ex
claim to someone within the gathering.

  The midnight-haired woman laughed over her shoulder and continued with her gesticulations. I could see now that she was drawing in the air a star within a circle. She then repeated this, three more times, facing south, east and west.

  I stopped several paces back and waited – curious.

  They were clearly aware of my presence but seemed unconcerned. I watched the elderly gentleman and a lady of a similar age jump over a broomstick held close to the ground several times. I had recognised the pentacle being drawn in the air earlier and so was anticipating the arrival of a lamb or cock for slaughter – its throat cut and the blood collected into an ornately carved flagon for later consumption with a side prayer to Satan – but here I go again.

  At the end of the ‘ritual’ I saw a bottle uncorked and a red fluid emptied into several small cups and passed around the small throng.

  Finally, the last drops of each cup were dripped onto the earth while my rescuer chanted or prayed. I heard ‘goddess’ and ‘blessed be’ and almost felt disappointed at the sight of the red wine – blood does not look like that.

  The circle was broken and the lady approached me.

  “I bet you thought we were going to sacrifice a lamb and manifest the Devil,” she said smiling.

  “Not at all,” I half lied. “You disappeared rather quickly yesterday.”

  “Yes, it’s a busy time for us. It was a full moon last night and it is now Litha, and so there are many rituals to perform.”

  “Litha?” I inquired puzzled.

  “It’s the summer solstice.”

  I said nothing.

  “The longest day?”

  “Ah,” I said.

  She looked back over her shoulder. “Would you like to join us?”

  “Uh no, not just at the moment,” I replied. “Oh, by the way, I’m Monty Rhodes,” I said somewhat belatedly removing my glove and proffering my hand.

  “I’m pleased to meet you again, Monty,” she said taking it.

  “I’m Breahna,” she said smiling with her eyes as well as her mouth. As I looked on her black crown and the deep emerald eyes, I completely lost my train of thought and my mind became unfocussed. Maybe there was something in this ‘witching’ business after all, I thought.

  Feeling I needed a way out of my sudden mental fog, I said, somewhat tactlessly, “I suppose you believe in ghosts?” I said it, unintentionally making the statement a question.

  “‘Ghosts’ is an extremely generic and abstract word and tends to relate to dead people. If you mean as in ‘shades’, then no, but if you mean as in ‘spirits’ then of course; there are spirits all around us all the time.”

  “Have you actually ‘seen’ any?” I pressed.

  “All the time, and so have you; the wind, fire, earth, water and spirit that align symbiotically within the whole and signified by the five-pointed star within a circle that we call the pentacle.”

  “No, I mean…”

  “I know what you mean,” she interjected but then looked away and seemed to be having trouble finding her words. “There is something… strange… in the village. I think I see a shape… a person … something, but when I look directly at it, there is nothing there.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to this and so continued. “I too have heard there are strange things happening though I’ve certainly not seen anything,” I replied, “though the local father thinks you might have something to do with it,” I said cringing slightly.

  “The priests have their altars too, remember,” she said, “but they ‘worship’, which is perfectly acceptable. We do the same thing but call it ‘ritual’ and we are labelled as Satanists.”

  “But do you not worship the ‘Horned One’?” I asked wincing.

  “The ‘Horned One’ is not Satan, but Pan or Fauna, the male spirit of nature that balances with the female Isis; but curiously, it was the Christian Church that came up with the concept of Satan, and then accused us of worshipping their creation,” she said with some unsuccessfully suppressed anger.

  Breahna took a deep breath. “We respect nature,” she continued, “we have no feelings of good and evil. Only what is.”

  She looked down thoughtfully for a moment and then…

  “We will hold ritual with the aim to give succour to those that are lost that they may find their peace.” She looked up at the sky. “We will ask for rain; it has not rained for many weeks and water is a purifier.”

  “Thank you, Breahna,” I said turning to leave and then I turned back. “By the way, do you or any of your… followers have a daughter by any chance – about six years old with plaited blonde hair over one shoulder held in red bows?”

  Breahna shook her head. “No, why do you ask?”

  “It’s nothing really, but I think there may be a stray orphan in the village.”

  Chapter 5: Resolution

  Scene 1: Father to Pray!

  “Hello, Monty; how’s things?” the father greeted me on my return to the inn.

  “Not too bad,” I confessed, “but for almost being knocked over – again – by that idiot on the cart this morning,” I said a little resigned.

  The father seemed not to have heard me.

  “Oh, I see… I heard you went to talk to that Devil-worshipping sect this afternoon. What were you thinking, Monty?” he said.

  My disbelief in the father’s faith was matched by that in Breahna’s but I still didn’t like his ignorant evaluation and labelling that often comes with intolerant – or maybe that’s insecure – groups whose beliefs differ from others.

  At least Breahna’s tenet that you should ‘do as you will as long as it harms none’ seemed quite sensible considering the vast numbers of innocent people persecuted, victimised and murdered in the name of one religion or another.

  “They seemed quite friendly,” I said nonchalantly and perhaps a little intentionally provoking.

  “But that’s just how the servants of the Great Deceiver trick you.”

  “By being pleasant and welcoming?”

  “Of course.”

  “So how does your approach differ?”

  “Oh, that is totally different; after all, we are in the service of the Lord.”

  “O… kay,” I said slowly.

  “Anyway,” the father continued, “I wanted to tell you of something that I’ve been thinking about; it is time for action and I know what must be done.”

  “What’s that?” I said becoming interested by the father’s excitement despite myself.

  “Prayer,” he said as my moment’s increased heartbeat quickly returned to sluggish normality.

  The father continued, “Though I say it myself I have composed a rather powerful sermon about lost souls finding rest and the need for us all to pray that they will find their path to the Lord and eternal rest.”

  “Don’t you think,” I said slowly, “that the village needs an activity to distract them from this whole business? Perhaps repairing the damage caused by that landslide, for instance; I really believe the village will be much safer once Finbarr no longer detours through here – and it will distract them from this ghost nonsense.”

  “Excellent idea, Monty, but I believe Dermot and a dozen or so of the more able-bodied chaps have been working on it today,” he said. “Dermot’s a good lad and he’s already spoken to Finbarr so you should be safer crossing the street from now on.”

  “That is indeed good news,” I said with genuine interest. “That horse and cart was an accident waiting to happen.”

  Scene 2: Unable to Sleep

  That evening, I stared out of my window at the gathering clouds. The biggest thunderhead I had ever seen dominated the gradually darkening sky. The humidity was unbearable; if only the cloud would release its ocean and bathe the village.

  I felt it probable that Br
eahna was at this moment arms lifted towards the heavens, flowers in her hair and light blessings on her lips whilst dancing within a ring of her associates of the craft.

  Meanwhile, the father was preaching his sermons in the hope of helping the lost souls that he and other villagers thought they were seeing and helping them to move on to their final destination.

  Each seemed to believe that what they were doing would help.

  Both efforts seemed pointless and misguided to me as there clearly was no practical or rational reasoning to the basis or subject on which to work.

  I remembered once long ago taking the ‘Rorschach Test’ where different people see disparate images in an abstract ink-blot depending on their own psychological and cognitive make-up. To my mind there was an anomalous and certainly unusual mist pervading the village which was acting – not unlike the Rorschach tests – upon the minds of the villagers causing them to think they were seeing things that were not there. I was certain too, that once it had been announced that there were ghosts in the fog, everyone had started to believe they were really seeing them and so hysteria reigned with perhaps a little religious fervour thrown in.

  Meanwhile, Breahna was hoping to invoke rain to put the perceived ghosts to rest while the father’s sermon was his tool to vanquish them.

  I shook my head and climbed into bed and lay there staring at the ceiling.

  After hours in sweating, restless agitation, I leaned across from my bed, lit my lamp and raised my pocket watch.

  It was 3.30 am. I sighed and rose thinking that maybe I could get myself a coffee from the kitchen before a night-time walk.

  I dressed, picked up my coat and then returned it to the back of the chair. It was still much too hot and humid to wear – and there was still no rain.

  On opening my door, I jumped back, suddenly startled, as the pallid face of ‘Gale’ appeared close – an oil lamp raised before her. She certainly looked more sinister than Gale Sondergaard ever did.

  “Hello… fancy… seeing you here,” I said after several moments of awkward silence and once I got my voice back, trying to sound as if we were greeting each other in a sunny park, instead of a dark corridor in the early hours.