The Angry Ghost and Other Stories

by Peter Spokes

  Luther picked the letter out of his breast pocket;

  Dear Mr Blaides/Miss Jenny Blessing,

  Thank you for your most recent manuscript: ‘The Creature in the Attic’.

  Though we all enjoyed its story and twists – particularly the bit where the alien werewolf turns out to be the reincarnation of the protagonist’s grandfather, we all really feel that there is a glut of (budding) authors out there writing about werewolves, vampires and their ilk.

  I’m sorry to say, therefore, that we cannot put this manuscript forward for publication at this time.

  However, we look forward to receiving the next adventures of ‘Magic Mary and her Coven of Mystery’; and please accept – as promised – an advance of £200,000 for its publication with Ragnarok House.

  Yours Faithfully,

  Jean Ogilvy

  Senior Publication Editor

  Ragnarok House

  Despite another large cheque, he had been disappointed. He had hoped he could expand into a more ‘adult’ story type but it looked like Magic Mary by Miss Jenny Blessing – the pseudonym proposed by a friend after telling him that Luther Blaides sounded too much like a comic superhero – was going to need another series of adventures.

  He didn’t even know where the idea had come from but he knew he wanted something more grown-up; more serious than a bunch of made-up witches.

  Scene 5: Father Bremmer

  Luther had always been a lover of the natural, unspoilt land, whether open moorland or forests, and would often go trekking through the forests of southern and middle England for weeks at a time, marvelling at the probable age of the largest trees. Other times he would walk around stone circles and henges wondering what rituals they had been spectators to.

  It also gave him some time to ruminate and gain inspiration on Mary’s potential adventures.

  He snuggled his back further against the rough bark of the tree and looked once again at the acres of forest newly bought thanks to Magic Mary and her Coven of Mystery.

  The land had belonged to several farmers but, oddly, they had all been very keen to sell it and had moved abroad once the contract of sale had gone through.

  A property developer had shown an enormous amount of interest but was not popular with the people of the village. Luther had made a quick and legal purchase.

  He had been most welcomed by the populous of Morthaven who had understandably been concerned with the prospect of a thousand or so houses built on their doorstep – although there were a few that thought it would be for the best if the whole forest was burnt to the ground – an opinion some were reticent to explain.

  But while his house on the hill overlooking the forest and Morthaven was being built, he had taken up residence in a local pub called the Green Man and had learned how over the last couple of centuries or so, some strange occurrences had happened actually involving some disappearances and deaths.

  The most informative person had been the local priest who lived in an old Winnebago, just beside the chapel which sat to the east of the woods and on the track up to Luther’s house. He had told Luther of his extensive library containing diaries belonging to historians that had passed through Morthaven and reports from what had once been the local police station.

  On occasions that Luther had walked the path past the chapel, he had noted something odd or incongruous, but so far could not put his finger on it.

  Up until Luther had been made aware of the forest’s dubious history, he had taken many pleasant and enjoyable walks through the woods and it took about one hour less than if he were to take the path beside the chapel on the way. He certainly felt completely safe and relaxed in the woods and, despite lacking a compass, had never had problems with navigation.

  Luther had spent several evenings in the chapel discussing Morthaven and its history and yet he had a problem with the father – something currently undefinable.

  Father Bremmer was not what he had expected. Rather than a garrulous grey-haired grandfather type, he was a pleasantly affable man in his early thirties and clearly a gentle and likeable man; one in whose presence all seemed relaxed and comfortable – except that is – for Luther. If Luther felt he had to criticise then it would be with regard to the father’s rather fixed understandings of the world. Luther accepted he was in no position to judge others – but it was a human thing to do nonetheless.

  The father was popular in town and seemed to be regarded like a favourite son. And yet each time Luther visited the father, he always felt uneasy and ‘hot under the collar’ as they say, and several times felt an unnecessary and unexpected moment of anger bordering on combatant. It was as much to understand this irrational feeling as it was to learn about Morthaven that he spent so many evenings with the father.

  Maybe it was simply a distaste for organised religion that Luther had always felt.

  Chapter 3

  Scene 1: The Neckband

  Back once again to the present, Jenny and Lizzie pounced onto Luther’s boots and shook the laces in their teeth once again. They had both been lurking around since the commencement of the building work and Luther had found it difficult to elude them. They were both midnight black with bright emerald eyes. Despite several months in their company he still couldn’t tell them apart.

  He had named them after the witches in his books but as he was never quite sure which was which, it made the naming rather pointless.

  Luther had arranged another meeting with the father and rose to walk down the hill to the chapel.

  As he progressed down the path, he kept looking behind him. Jenny and Lizzie still followed. It was a little like a game he remembered playing at school; each time he looked around the cats were stationary, sitting on their haunches. But as he moved off again they would rise and follow – or at least he assumed they did for he never saw them move but they would always be sitting closer when Luther turned around again.

  Maybe he was spending too much time in the company of cats instead of humans, he thought.

  Luther was approaching the small graveyard wall that ran along to his left to the gate when he heard a sudden hiss behind him. But as he turned, he stumbled, falling hard. He rolled over onto his back and was about to get up when he noticed something glinting in the highest branches of the tree; it flashed and flickered as it caught the light. He stood and dusted the soil from his palms and the knees of his jeans remembering another reason why he seldom took this path – roots, presumably from the large oaks that ran along the other side of the path, were insinuated into it. They emerged just before the wall where they appeared to snake along as if looking for a way into the graveyard.

  Looking over the wall he noticed that the roots didn’t appear to intrude into the graveyard, although it was difficult to tell as a large area between the wall and the chapel, some one hundred feet away, had been taken over with a variety of stinging and prickly shrubbery; brambles, nettles and Pyracanthas bushes grew all the way to a clearing before the chapel.

  Clearly, this part of the graveyard had never been used, or had been abandoned long ago.

  Then he realised why it had appeared so odd; there were no gravestones. He was certain there had been some when he first considered buying the land.

  He gazed first at Jenny and Lizzie who simply sat licking their paws – must be from the same litter, he thought – and then looked again towards the object in the tree, which strangely no longer appeared so high up; indeed, he found that simply standing on tiptoe enabled him to gently unhook it from its place.

  Luther inspected it closely. It appeared to be a neckband made from a vine with some kind of crystal or gemstone threaded onto it. As Luther turned the crystal with his fingertips, its facets refracted the sunlight onto his palm with a myriad of colours.

  Luther held it up; it was quite exquisite. Then he tied it around his neck and tucked it under the collar of his shi
rt.

  “What do you think, girls? Finders, keepers?” he said to the cats who were once again by his side and wondering a little as to his assuming of them as female – but he had after all given them female names.

  He felt they concurred as they began to purr loudly in response and then appeared to nod in unison.

  Luther stared at them and decided that maybe he had been working too hard in recent weeks.

  Scene 2: The Thin Man

  Luther proceeded to walk more carefully, with his eyes on the ground a few paces ahead.

  On reaching the gate to the graveyard, he unlatched it and began to walk along the path towards the chapel entrance beyond. He looked back at the cats who were now sitting on their haunches at the gate. Luther smiled and began enticing them with clicking noises.

  Just then they started snarling and spitting; their luminous green eyes narrowed. Luther stepped back a pace by their sudden hostility.

  Luther turned and found himself staring into the face of a tall, thin clergyman. Where he had appeared from Luther had no idea, unless he had been lurking in the nettles which, judging by the condition of his vestments, seemed probable.

  Though dirty and worn, Luther could still make out what had once been a white collar, partly obscured by a grey beard, above which a hawk-nose protruded.

  But it was the scarred flesh on his face and hands that stopped Luther in his tracks. He also observed angry red lesions around the man’s neck where his beard had thinned.

  The man stared at the cats with intense hatred. Then he looked at Luther and he was certain he saw a look of something bordering on recognition on the clergyman’s face as his eyes grew wide for a moment.

  Then the man’s blackened lips pulled back into a snarl and his sunken dark eyes shone with an inner malice.

  Without warning the man lunged forwards, his arms outstretched. The sudden movement was so unexpected that though Luther jumped back it was too late to avoid the man’s disfigured clawed hands as they grasped Luther’s throat.

  The strength in the man’s grip was unbelievable but then he let out a sudden cry of pain and snatched back his hands as he stared at Luther.

  Luther’s discomfort for Father Bremmer was nothing compared to the raw, violent emotion he felt for this man – and yet, he knew he didn’t know him.

  And then the man spoke as he cradled his hands, “Heretic!” he spat. “… Spawn of evil… you think you will free her?… You will never free her… I WILL NOT LET YOU!” he screamed.

  Suddenly, behind him, and in unison, the cats let out an unearthly screech and Luther looked back quickly. When he returned his gaze, the tall, thin man was no longer there. Luther was certain he had not looked away for more than two seconds but the man had simply vanished.

  Luther looked again at Jenny and Lizzie who were now licking their paws as if nothing had happened.

  As Luther walked along the path towards the chapel he kept looking behind him.

  The cats remained at the gate.

  Scene 3: The Chapel

  Luther stopped at the chapel’s large front door and looked around once more. His hand shook slightly as he raised it to his neck where he could still feel the clawed hands.

  Finally, he knocked on the door.

  He was already feeling an underlining nuance of antagonism. After several moments the door opened.

  “Hello, Luther,” said the face that appeared around the open door. “You really should pace yourself, you know,” the father said noticing the flush on Luther’s cheeks and then the dirt on his trousers. “Did you fall over?”

  “Erh… Good evening,” Luther said. “Yes, I tripped on one of those roots on the path…” Turning around he looked again at the graveyard and continued, “Do you have a verger working in the yard? I’ve just had a slight… altercation… with… someone.”

  Father Bremmer stared at him for several moments before looking over Luther’s shoulder. “Why, no.”

  Luther rubbed his neck. “I could speak to the constable if you would like me to?” the father continued.

  “No, I’m fine. I’m sure it’s nothing…”

  “Did you see where he went?” the father asked.

  Luther thought for a moment. “No… that’s just it, he… disappeared.”

  The father said nothing but looked at Luther with some concern.

  Luther continued for a moment to massage his neck – it felt bruised under the neckband.

  “Anyway, come inside, we can talk over a coffee,” the father said.

  Clearly distracted, Luther grunted and turned to follow the father.

  “I guess you’ve come about the journals on Morthaven we discussed a while ago; let’s see what we can find for you.”

  Luther entered the chapel and was surprised by the surrounding dust and decay. He walked through a hall, cold and dark, before he was led into a modestly sized, and rather clean and tidy room at the rear. Its appearance was in stark contrast to the other parts of the chapel that he had glanced.

  “I understand you don’t actually live here,” Luther asked. The father smiled, “Good Lord, no… I would never sleep in the chapel.”

  Luther was about to ask why when the father continued, “This used to be the sacristy. Make yourself comfortable; I’ll just get some coffee going.”

  “Used to be… the sacristy?” Luther asked interrupting the father’s departure and looking around the room.

  The father halted, turned and smiled. “Yes. Once upon a time it would have been full of liturgical garments, and church furnishings such as sacred vessels, missals and parish records; only the latter now inhabit the room. This is the only room I use and I sleep in the Winnebago just outside the walls… I would not spend a night under this roof…” he repeated.

  “Oh, why?” Luther asked.

  The father looked at him for several moments. “I’m not sure,” he said finally. “There’s something… very wrong… here…”

  He then looked up. “I know we don’t know each other very well but…”

  Luther waited.

  “… I sense… or feel… things…” he said.

  Then he shook his head and smiled ruefully. “I’m sure it’s nothing; it makes no logical sense.”

  “Not everything can be explained in terms of logic,” Luther said quietly.

  Scene 4: Fall from Grace

  The father continued, “It’s like walking in the dark but aware that there is something near…”

  “What do you sense… feel?”

  “Waiting… anticipation… an acute enmity… and… longing.”

  “I certainly felt a good deal of hate from the man outside,” Luther offered.

  The father nodded, “… It’s actually the anticipation that scares me; something is coming and I don’t know what it is.”

  He then looked closely at Luther. “Please don’t take this the wrong way… and I apologise if I’m wrong… but I sense in you a kindred soul.”

  Luther wasn’t sure how to respond; kindred to what? he thought.

  But then the father suddenly smiled and shaking his head changed the subject by explaining how the once busy chapel had been demoted to an annex and therefore no longer possessed the religious focus it once held.

  It seemed that with the building of a much larger church in the nearby village of Enbridge, Morthaven Church had effectively been demoted to a ‘chapel of ease’ as they were apparently called.

  There were no longer services held on Sunday or any religious celebration anymore and the Angelus Bell remained silent. Most of the religious paraphernalia had been taken away from the chapel and relocated to the new church.

  And of course, that’s why there were no longer any gravestones.

  Although the father seemed disappointed by its ‘fall from grace’ as he put it, it did give him the time a
nd solitude he delighted in, to follow his studies in the history of Morthaven and time to walk in the woods; a pastime he apparently enjoyed and indulged in quite frequently.

  Luther found it oddly rather satisfying that a building’s prestige and influence could be reduced in this way. The father had noticed Luther’s amusement and rather than seem offended, he had smiled and simply said, “Things change”. He was such a nice guy, so why did his presence inflame something deep inside Luther?

  Father Bremmer disappeared to procure the coffee leaving Luther to gaze around the room.

  Scene 5: Mary

  Luther looked around still feeling uncomfortable.

  The room was airy and light and yet despite the warm welcome and the soft furnishings around him he somehow felt claustrophobic and edgy – very uncharacteristic for Luther. Maybe it’s a religious thing, he thought. Luther had never held religious beliefs and you only had to look at the news to see the incessant line of deaths caused in the name of one religion or another. Maybe that was the answer but no one with religious persuasions had ever harmed or persecuted him – and certainly the father was not trying to drive religious doctrine down his throat.

  Luther looked around a large room with bookshelves floor to ceiling on each wall but for one where a window introduced the outside world to what would otherwise have been a dark vault.

  There was a single desk and chair.

  Luther walked towards one of the bookcases and began idly moving his fingers along the books on one of the myriad of shelves.

  It was then that he smelt hyacinth. Not only did he now recognise it as from his mother’s rooms when he was a child, but it was the same fragrance he had noticed in the classroom that time.

  He turned around to see a remarkably handsome woman.

  There seemed something familiar about her. She was perhaps in her early thirties and barely five feet tall. The eyes that looked at him under long lashes were an emerald green. Then she smiled and Luther was transfixed. Her long auburn hair hung down, just beyond her slim waist. She was barefoot and wore a garland of blue hyacinth on her head.