The Angry Ghost and Other Stories

by Peter Spokes

  She then turned from him and continued across the room and looked up at some books on the top shelf and began to reach up…

  “… Here we are; the coffee’s not great quality but it’s… Are you okay?”

  Luther looked at the father entering the room with two mugs of coffee. He then looked back again but the woman had gone.

  The father looked over. “Luther?”

  “Oh yes… fine…” Luther replied clearly distracted.

  Father Bremmer raised his eyebrows. “An interesting choice. I didn’t know that you held an interest in the witch trials?”

  “What…” Luther took some deep breaths and looked up surprised and then realised he was still touching a book. “I… I’m sorry… I… don’t…” He read the spine. “What does ‘Malleus Maleficarum’ mean?” he said absently still looking around for the woman.

  Scene 6: The Malleus Maleficarum

  The father paused a moment. “It means ‘Hammer of the Witches’ and was written to explain and confirm the presence of witchcraft and to discredit any belief that witchcraft didn’t exist. It was written in the late 1400s and was seen as an instruction manual for magistrates to recognise witches, which it explained were largely female, and punish them accordingly.”

  Luther shook his head. “Many thousands of people died because of this nonsense and the church’s intolerance of other people’s beliefs. I’m sure these ‘witches’ were simply healers or women that simply gave advice and comfort to people!”

  He stopped suddenly wondering where this sudden heated diatribe had come from. He didn’t know why he said it and certainly surprised himself with the vitriol that came with it but, somehow, he knew he meant it.

  The father looked strangely at Luther. “Many believed, and still do, that those who do not follow Christ are vulnerable to Satan’s temptations,” he said.

  “And so thousands were tortured and killed – to protect or educate them?” Luther spat. “These people were not evil; their beliefs – their ways – were simply different to those of the Catholic Church; different, not evil! How could the church believe that witchcraft was evil?”

  Luther paused surprised by his own words.

  “People were and are superstitious,” the father said placatingly. “But you are preaching to the converted. I certainly share your sentiments; and sadly, I am all too aware of the strength and loyalty that can be attributed to discovering a common enemy.”

  Luther knew he should feel acquiesced, but still heard his own voice rising. “But today’s religion is tomorrow’s superstition; perhaps people will look back one day and ridicule your religion as superstition as people do mine!”

  “What is yours, Luther?” the father said leaning forward interested.

  There was awkward silence and then the father said gently but oddly assertively, “Though I wear the vestments of the Catholic Church, it doesn’t preclude me from an empathy towards others. There was an unforgivably puritanical period in the church’s history. But, do you feel you understand my religion, Luther… and do you understand yours?”

  Luther stared at him; he was breathing hard, and after a pause, “I really don’t know; I don’t know why I said that. I am not a religious person and have never held any strong beliefs on anything.”

  “Well, it sounds like you do now… but it’s all in the past.”

  “The foundation of the past is what the present is built on,” Luther said quietly trying unsuccessfully to let it go.

  Luther took another deep breath and took a drink from his mug. He really did not want to be antagonistic but only in the father’s presence did he feel that way. Why did he feel like a Doberman straining at a leash?

  “This coffee is nice,” Luther said finally – and a little lamely. “I don’t know why I have such a bee in my bonnet about this; the only witch I know is Mary – the heroine in my books.”

  “Ah yes,” the father said visibly relaxing. “You must make a visit to the local school. They have apparently just ordered a dozen or so of your latest novels but, due to the high demand, are having problems obtaining them.”

  “That could be fun,” Luther replied.

  “Mmm, up until the point that they discover that the motherly sounding Jenny Blessing is actually the very unmotherly six-foot-five Luther Blaides.”

  “How did you know that Ms Blessing was me?” Luther inquired.

  The father chuckled; “It’s prudent to find out about a prospective neighbour.”

  Scene 7: Someone in the Chapel

  Luther was well aware that he had seen two people this evening disappear practically before his eyes, and so – after a pause where Luther was looking for the right words and the sensibility of saying them – he finally offered, “By the way, I thought you were the only person living in this chapel?”

  “I am,” he replied.

  “So, you have maybe a housekeeper?” Luther started “… Who comes in occasionally? … It’s just that just before you brought the coffees in, a young woman was in the room, and she was… well… quite a beauty.”

  The father’s expression looked suddenly careful as he looked at Luther for several moments. “No one lives here except me – I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on my studies if I wasn’t alone.”

  But then he added “What did she look like?”

  “About five-foot, auburn hair and a garland of flowers on her head.”

  The father looked aside. “I’ve seen no one,” he said quickly – a little too quickly, Luther thought.

  Again, Luther felt a moment’s lack of sincerity in the father’s voice as if he were trying to deny something.

  Luther decided he had no reason to doubt his sight or his sanity and so told the father: “Well, she was here – an exceptionally pretty woman. I thought she seemed familiar but now I’m not so sure. It’s silly but her scent reminded me of my mother. She walked over to that bookcase over there and was touching the small black book there.”

  “Hyacinth?” the father whispered.

  Luther stared at the father. “How did you know?”

  “I… often smell the scent of hyacinth when I walk in the woods – which is odd as they don’t grow there.”

  Luther felt the father needed to sort out a few things mentally and so looked over to where the woman had disappeared. There was only a bookcase.

  The father gave Luther a concerned look. “There are no other exits to this room other than the one we entered and the window over yonder.” Then after a pause, “Please don’t think me rude but you have been working very hard recently with your writing and the setting up of your new house. Perhaps some rest and sleep are in order. I’ve got to be honest that I’m becoming quite concerned with your current mental state. You’ve mentioned two people that only you have seen in unlikely circumstances.”

  Luther made an effort to concentrate and find a rational argument. But then the father spoke: “The man in the graveyard must have been a vagrant and the young woman… well, I’m certain that there is simply no way she could have been here…”

  “Maybe we need to entertain the possibility of… spirits or ghosts?” Luther suggested carefully.

  “Oh, come now, Luther – you are an educated man after all,” the father said unable to suppress a smile.

  “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio?”

  “Yes, thank you, Hamlet,” the father replied drily.

  “Anyway, the journals…” Luther prompted.

  “Ah yes,” said Father Bremmer getting up from his chair. “What was it specifically that you wanted to know about?”

  “The Morthaven Woods,” Luther replied, “and the deaths that occurred there.”

  Father Bremmer raised his eyebrows slightly and moved his fingers almost lovingly along the spines of several tomes before removing one.

  “I don’t sup
pose you… lost someone here many years ago?” the father said quietly.

  “Actually, yes…” Luther said feeling a little guarded.

  The father looked up. “Now that’s a coincidence… I did too,” he said.

  Scene 8: The Report

  The father gently lay a tome before the seated Luther. “This is a collection of reports written by consecutive heads of Morthaven’s meagre police presence between the mid-1800s and the mid-1900s.”

  The father turned several pages muttering to himself, and then picked out some pertinent passages.

  “Ah, here we are; this may be of some interest. A gentleman of dubious character by the name of James Mann esquire… known pickpocket and thoroughly disreputable, ran into Morthaven Woods… wasn’t pursued… following day the constable and a dozen farm hands entered the woods and close to the area known as the Witch’s Grave, his body parts were discovered tangled in roots and foliage…”

  “Sorry… Parts? … Body parts?” Luther interrupted.

  “Apparently so,” the father continued. “… The conclusion to his fate was that he tripped and knocked himself unconscious or dead and was then subjected to the many woodland carrion creatures that proceeded to displace several parts of Mr Mann’s corpse. It says that many villagers had other thoughts regarding dark spirits and ghostly beasts, but is recorded as clear speculation by superstitious minds and therefore not taken seriously… A side note hints as to how strange it was that each body part was gripped or bound with surprising firmness by the foliage and considerably hindered the constable’s efforts to retrieve them.”

  Father Bremmer continued, “Another report… curiously…” the father looked between pages, “… it appears that exactly one hundred years later to the day an article recounts a tale of a simple individual by the name of Dean Cowling who chased a Miss Kathryn Clemons and George Hope – a betrothed pair – into Morthaven Woods. As before, a dozen or so villagers accompanied the constable but only the headless corpse of Dean Cowling was discovered, again in the vicinity of the Witch’s Grave.

  The body was formally identified by a Mr Victor Barlow who recognised some tattoos – of a satanic premise – on the unfortunate’s arm. No solution – or conjecture – was put forward to explain the nature of Mr Cowling’s demise.”

  “What happened to the pair he chased?” Luther said.

  The father looked down at the book. “Ah yes, this is interesting. There were two partial witnesses to this account; the aforementioned Miss Clemons and Mr Hope, latterly Mr and Mrs Hope, apparently saw Mr Cowling enter the clearing but they said that they heard something behind them and although they saw nothing, the fact that the sound came from both behind and above them intimated of something quite large.

  They were… they are on record as saying… quite suddenly, seized from behind by what felt like ropes and pulled with terrific force backwards regaining consciousness a few hours later and eventually found their way out of the woods. Little of their testimony was considered useful to the investigation as their mental state was regarded as spurious and likely to be explained by the understandably traumatic nature of the events.”

  “Interesting,” Luther said. “I’ve been in the woods many times and seen nothing odd or malevolent. I wonder if it actually exists or just something added to make an accident more interesting… or for the tourists. But then wasn’t this part of the country once rife with stories of witches?”

  “Certainly, but ‘stories’ are all they were. I doubt that the Witch’s Grave ever existed. I, too, have spent many a time walking through the woods and felt nothing but a peaceable calmness. It really shouldn’t be taken seriously, Luther,” he added.

  “I believe it exists; does it say in your pages where the grave is actually located?”

  The father looked thoughtful. “According to the report, the Witch’s Grave was a clearing about fifty feet in diameter with a small mound at its centre. It is said that back in the mid-1700s, a witch was hung from a tree and buried at that very spot.”

  “Then that’s my next port of call,” Luther said rising and placing his empty coffee mug on a nearby table.

  “Could I trouble you for an oil lamp?” he said to the surprised father still halfway through his coffee.

  “Well… yes… certainly… but maybe tomorrow morning may be more prudent. I’ve heard of people getting lost in that wood in the daytime. You really must take care now that night is falling.”

  Scene 9: Mary in the Woods

  Luther marched out of the chapel and down the path between disorderly undergrowth constantly looking right and left for the man he saw earlier.

  As Luther had no idea where to start looking for the Witch’s Grave, he decided he would try and keep to as straight a line as possible which should take him through to the wood’s centre.

  He entered the woods and after several minutes noticed a trail approximating the direction he felt he should be taking.

  Although Luther could see the last vestiges of daylight above him through some of the trees, the forest’s canopy kept most of the light at bay such that Luther found himself using the oil lamp earlier than expected.

  After a while, he looked down at his watch surprised. For thirty minutes he had been walking in virtually a straight line but now, the only route appeared to be to his left – there were no other openings in the dark and green expanse before him.

  After a couple of minutes another change of direction, and then another and each time he had only a single option to his progression.

  Luther turned to look behind him and raised the lamp; he couldn’t even see the path he had just taken. It was as if the forest had swallowed him up.

  He began to wonder the sagaciousness of his plight, but despite the rapidly darkening light, he felt no evil or malice but was beginning to feel concerned as to his location and was beginning to think he might end up spending the night here.

  Luther was truly lost.

  He could not see where he had come from or which way to go.

  He was slowly turning around and thinking about his options when he heard the snap of a twig immediately behind him and turned quickly but saw no one.

  Then he looked down to see Jenny and Lizzie looking up at him.

  The presence of the cats was welcomed. He knelt and scratched behind Jenny’s – or Lizzie’s – ears before they both turned away suddenly and marched off into the darkness.

  Luther followed.

  They appeared to take a convoluted but unerring path through the woods and though part of Luther’s mind questioned the method, another part found it quite reasonable.

  And so, he continued to follow; each time they got too far ahead, they would stop and wait for him.

  As Luther moved several branches aside he became aware of the fragrance of hyacinth.

  He broke into a clearing recognisable as the description in the report and raised the lamp higher. Its light didn’t pierce far into the now complete darkness but as he walked further what it did reveal caused Luther to stop suddenly. Jenny and Lizzie circled around a figure sitting on a small hillock in the clearing’s centre and delicate vines moved gently around her, caressing like diaphanous fingers.

  Luther had always prided himself on his ability in finding the appropriate understanding and therefore acceptance of occurrences no matter how odd or unexpected they may be. In fact, he considered his mind open to – some might say – unorthodox concepts.

  But in this instance, he simply stared – struck dumb – as the light revealed a young woman sitting on the hillock smiling at the cats that purred as they walked around her legs.

  The feminine form rested her chin on her knees as her arms hugged her legs and looked up with emerald eyes – that glowed in the lamp’s light – surrounded by waist-long auburn hair held by a garland of blue hyacinth flowers.

  Scene 10: The Witch’s Grave
>
  Luther walked closer. The vines and fronds parted admitting Luther seemingly into her realm.

  “Hello, Luther,” she said simply.

  It was ludicrous but Luther felt certain he knew who she was and why she seemed familiar. He had not only seen her earlier in the father’s study but also several years before in his class – though on that occasion she had looked much younger.

  “Hello, Mary,” he said surprised by the composure in his newly found voice.

  Mary smiled. “I’m so glad that you took up my suggestion on getting our stories published – you are now a wealthy man.”

  “‘Our’ stories?” Luther said after a pause.

  “Of course.”

  “You made those ‘adventures’ pop into my head, I suppose?”

  “In a way.”

  “I find that a little hard to believe.”

  “I put the material into your mind but it was you who wove it into a coherent and believable story to draw in and intrigue the listener.”

  Luther felt sure he must be dreaming as he watched – distracted – the cats continue to circle Mary.

  “I have… I had… two sisters,” she continued; “Jenny and Lizzie… and we were witches – sound familiar?”

  Luther felt like he was in one of his stories… or was it ‘her’ stories? He smiled and wondered that soon he would wake up.

  Then Luther understood and smiled. “Oh, come on now. You read that from my book. Why don’t you let me take you home? You must be cold.”

  He looked around to see if anyone was beyond the lamplight ready to jump out at the obvious jape to the new owner.

  “So… witches…?” he said, still looking around. “Even my characters were your invention, I suppose?” Luther said, playing along.