The Angry Ghost and Other Stories

by Peter Spokes

  I laughed and then became quiet as I saw a change of expression on Bryan’s face.

  He was looking up the bank behind us.”

  Scene 3: The Stranger

  I looked back and saw a dark shadow detach itself from the bank and descend. Without a word it crept over to Bryan’s right – the other end of the bank from myself.

  It then proceeded to unpack a fishing rod.

  We were ignored as if we were not there.

  Then the man – for that seemed to be what the shadow was – sat in silence and motionlessly watched his float.

  As I watched, Bryan looked at me. “My father…” he said and looked back, sadly, at the dark cloaked figure.

  This seemed quite ludicrous and I wanted to say so but I sensed something unnatural about the stranger’s aspect.

  Bryan looked back at me. “He can’t see us,” he said sadly. “He’ll sit there for several hours and then pack up and leave – never a word or recognition that I’m here. One of the reasons I come here is that I hope that he might break through that deathly barrier and see me. I never believed in ghosts… until now.”

  I looked back at the motionless dark shadow, barely discernible from its amorphous surroundings.

  There was a mix of emotions in me; a feeling that this was not rational but the look of sadness on Bryan’s face convinced me that he at least was being honest. I felt quite sad for him – there was his father only a few feet away but oblivious to his son’s presence.

  Over the next couple of hours, despite catching a good-sized rudd – and a rather disappointing roach – I had lost that relaxed and feel-good sensation I normally experience while night fishing.

  The dark figure at the other end of the bank continued to stare at his float – as far as I could tell – and caught nothing. Bryan too was having no luck which did not surprise me as it wasn’t his float that held his attention but the dark apparition that he considered his father.

  A further hour only strained my spirit further and so I decided to call it a night – or early morning.

  As I started to pack away my rod and tackle, Bryan wandered over. “Had enough for tonight?” he said. I nodded though I didn’t like to give my reasons.

  “Me too,” he said. “I can’t fish while he sits there unaware I’m so close. Hope to see you again,” he smiled.

  “Me too,” I smiled back.

  Bryan paused and then nodded as he picked up his fishing box and rod and with a backward glance to his father, he walked up the bank and disappeared into the darkness.

  I looked back at the dark shape still motionless at the other end of the bank. A mist had started to creep along the water and the reflected moon animated the water’s surface.

  I was so distracted with the apparent ghost that as I was removing my rod-rest from the edge of the bank, my right foot slipped and I grasped desperately at a nearby branch.

  Unfortunately, the branch did not hold and my balance went, my arms cartwheeling in the air as I hit the water. The sudden cold caused me to inhale suddenly and I started to choke. Though I scrambled with all my strength, I couldn’t reach the surface. I was beginning to feel my muscles relaxing when suddenly I felt something around my neck and I had a sensation of being dragged and then I was free of the water, coughing and spluttering.

  Scene 4: The Fall

  I opened my eyes and looked up at the dark shadow from the other end of the bank.

  I gasped and choked for a few moments before scrambling backwards.

  He raised his head and looked at me. “Are you okay?” he said.

  Through heavy and quick breathing – and not a little choking – I managed to answer him, “Yeah… yes… thank you… but how… can you touch me? … You’re a ghost!” I said somewhat irrationally even to my own waterlogged ears.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? Didn’t hit your head when you fell?”

  “No… no… I’m fine… Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

  “Well, to be honest, before I came down the bank I heard you talking and laughing to yourself and thought it best to keep quiet.”

  “No, I wasn’t talking to myself!” I said desperately.

  “Well, there was only you on the bank,” he said simply. He looked as if he were about to continue but then paused for a long while, his eyes staring out beyond the reeds before “… you know… twenty years ago my son, Bryan, drowned just here on this spot. He slipped on the muddy edge but by the time I got him from the water… he was already gone.”

  “No… no… you saved him,” I said through a muddled brain.

  “No, he drowned…” he said quietly as he looked across the silent lake. “I so wish I could see him again,” he said sadly. Then he took a deep breath and smiled, “But that’s crazy so I come now and again to fish and reminisce.”

  The Case of the Reverend Taplow

  Chapter 1: Shelter

  Scene 1: The Chapel

  Linus pushed himself up onto his knees and back into a standing position. He looked down into the muddy puddles at his reflection. He had again lost his footing and was now caked from head to foot in a wet sludge.

  He looked up at the full moon and then his surroundings trying to remember how he got there.

  His right temple and the side of his head hurt terribly and as he wiped the dirty water and mud from his face he saw fresh blood on the back of his hand but the wiping only succeeded in smearing it further.

  Linus found himself walking beside an old stone wall on the other side of which lay a graveyard and a small chapel. He headed towards the nearby gates and gently pushed them open.

  At first, they resisted, and then with a screech, the rusted hinges did their job and the gates swung inwards.

  Despite the peals of thunder, there was still no rain as he walked uncertainly to the front door of the chapel. Both the doors stood slightly ajar but not wanting to intrude he sat down on a concrete bench just within the porch and attempted to figure out what had happened to him.

  He had no idea if the reverend was home and he certainly did not want to intrude but a bowl of clean water and a towel would be most appreciated. So, after several minutes, he knocked and pushed the large door inwards. It was dim inside, what little light there was provided by several windows that ran along the opposing walls of the nave.

  Linus closed the door behind him and looked around. There were several rows of pews that made up the main part of the chapel. On the other side of a small chancel was an altar with two doors behind it; one to the left and the other to the right.

  For a moment, he stood there, unable to shake the feeling that a malevolence was watching him from a darkened corner or crook.

  “Hello,” he called and then repeated it. He heard no reply and therefore believing the reverend to be away he slowly walked along the left of the pews, his right hand glancing off the end seats as he passed.

  Linus reached the left door and knocked. He tried the handle but it didn’t move – locked.

  So he walked past the altar and to the right door. He knocked and again tried the door. This time it opened and he walked into a small sacristy where the chapel’s worshipping paraphernalia adorned almost every shelf and surface. An oil lamp illuminated a cluttered desk where tomes and manuscripts lay scattered. If there was no one here, why would the lamp be lit, he thought. Linus picked up one of the books and read its title; Observations and Analysis of Longevity through Cannibalistic Rituals by Reverend L. Taplow, he read.

  Opening the book he found it was actually a working diary and proceeded to read:

  The Dark Manuscripts were right; though it appears that it’s the liver that holds the key – but it must be fresh. To accommodate my need, I’ve utilised several vagrants who mistakenly thought my little chapel a place of sanctuary. As I was keen to ensure the liver was fresh, I extracted it whilst they were sti
ll alive, though, of course once their upper abdomens had been ripped open and their intestines on the floor, they soon relinquished the ghost.

  I was a little surprised to find the hot blood quite palatable although it’s a mess to clear up – I must find a more surgical method to extract the organ rather than using my fingers.

  Linus closed the book horrified and disgusted, and looked into the shadows of the room – he still felt he wasn’t alone in the chapel.

  He looked around further and there was a picture. Linus picked up the lamp and held it close – clearly the reverend of this chapel as indicated by the white clerical collar.

  Linus stared at the picture for some time. This was not a man he would like to hear a sermon from. Apart from his generally dark demeanour, there was a purple birthmark covering the lower half of his face as if he had been marked by something unholy.

  Linus then noticed a small sink in the corner and looked into the mirror above it. He was shocked by what he saw; his hair and face were covered with mud and blood which continued down over his shirt.

  Looking down he saw that the sink was red with a bloody residue.

  This reverend’s a madman Linus said to himself.

  Despite his appearance, after looking into the sink, he decided that the wash would have to wait.

  As he was about to turn away from the sink he noticed a key lying beside the tap – maybe to the other door he presupposed.

  All was uncertain and unclear in his head like one who tries to recall a memory of something that has never happened. But he knew he was scared and needed to escape this place quickly.

  Linus looked out of the sacristy doorway into the nave raising the lamp in front of him. He looked from pew to pew expecting a shadow to appear at any time – he was certain he was being watched.

  He decided that although the thought of creeping through the darkness to the chapel exit terrified him, carrying the lamp to illuminate his way would be utter stupidity.

  Leaving the light behind him he closed the door and passed into a world of Erebus.

  Crouching down he crept past the pews towards the exit door.

  Scene 2: Shelter

  After a seemingly endless period of time, Linus reached the door, turned the large iron ring and pulled.

  The door didn’t move.

  Though he knew he was certain to be heard he gripped the ring in both hands and tugged on it but to no consequence.

  Since he had entered, someone had locked it.

  Trying to quieten the blood pounding in his head he turned around and retraced his steps – there must be another way out.

  Then he remembered the key on the sink and headed back to the sacristy.

  Once there he closed the door behind him and put his back to it. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and lunged for the sink – and the key.

  Linus took a deep breath and left the sacristy heading to the door on the other side of the altar. As expected there was a click on turning the key and he pushed the door open.

  As the wind howled outside he followed the stone steps that led downwards and into the crypt. Another door stood before him and as he pushed it open he raised his lamp… onto the dead face of a hanging corpse.

  Linus leapt backwards crashing into some wooden boxes beside the door and the lamp rolled away. He sat there afraid to move until the light rotating across the ceiling from the lamp ceased. He didn’t want to move but needed the lamp and so as quietly as he could he crawled towards it listening out for the slightest sound of something creeping up on him.

  Linus picked up the lamp and taking a deep breath held it up again. A ligature was tied to the man’s neck hanging him up to a ceiling beam. As Linus crept forward and around the corpse he noticed the man’s wrists were tied behind his back.

  As he returned to its front the light picked up a shiny, sticky expanse to the corpse’s middle chest and as Linus moved the light he could see that a large part of the torso cavity was devoid of organs.

  Linus felt sick but he moved forwards and again held the lamp aloft and looked around the crypt. There was an uneasy familiarity about the place. Yes, he had been in here before – and recently.

  Walking along beside a wall there was a crunch under his foot. He lowered the lamp and looked down to discover broken glass. Raising it again he saw that the hinged window high up in the wall had been broken.

  In his mind he remembered escaping from the crypt and then horror took him as he realised that he had just returned to the very place that had almost killed him.

  Was he one of the vagrants?

  Trying to focus his thoughts he found an anger which gave him courage to decide his next course. He could leave through the window – again – and never come back; or he could find this murderous Reverend Taplow and put him to rest.

  Linus took a deep breath, picked up a crowbar blind to the blood on it and slowly crept up the stairs back to the nave and looked around. Somehow Linus had a strong feeling of certainty that before morning came the Reverend Taplow would be dead.

  Though he heard and saw nothing, he knew he was still being watched.

  His head was hurting so much now that he decided to head back into the sacristy – after what he had just seen, the blood in the sink seemed almost trivial.

  Linus needed to clean his head.

  He turned on the tap and cupped both his hands. Again and again he threw the cold water at his face. He felt it run down onto his shirt taking with it the dried mud and blood and then he looked back into the mirror.

  It was then that real horror seized him, but it wasn’t the sight of the man standing right behind him, holding the cleaver that was flashing in an arc towards his neck. In the briefest of moments before the cleaver connected, the mirror showed him a man with a purple birthmark across half his face and a faded but still visible white ring around the neck of his shirt where the water had cleaned away the mud.

  It was his own reflection.

  The scream never left his mouth as his head was separated from his body.

  Scene 3: Retribution

  The vagrant looked down at the dead Reverend Taplow; this time he hoped the reverend would stay dead. It was the second time he had looked down at the body; the first time had been after he had escaped from the crypt by slipping his ropes and breaking the window. He had then returned to the chapel, a crowbar in hand that he had purloined from the crypt and creeping back into the rectory had dealt him a tremendous blow to his head. He had then dragged the presumed dead reverend down into the crypt and locked the door.

  The vagrant had sat for a while wondering what he should do with the body and who, if any, he could tell.

  Deciding simply to leave and get as far away from the chapel as possible, he had just opened the doors when he had seen the reverend walking along the other side of the wall. Clearly the blow from the crowbar had been only enough to stun him.

  He had then turned and hid, remaining hidden and afraid, until his moment to end this for good had arrived.

  The stranger looked down once more at the decapitated corpse of the Reverend Taplow and left the chapel.

  The Red Plains of Vígríðr

  Translations

  Skjolds – Shields

  Svärds – Swords

  Spjuts – Spears

  Völva – Wand-carrier and Seer

  Svärdsskida – Scabbard

  Aesir – Lords of Ásgarðr (Asgard)

  Vanir – Lords of Vanaheimr (Vanaheim)

  Einherjar – Heroes of Valhöll (Valhalla)

  Valkyrja – Valkyrie Shield Maidens

  Ragnarøkkr – Ragnarok (the Doom of the Gods)

  Chapter 1

  Scene 1: Prologue

  My name is Víðarr and I was sired by the Great Lord Odin and the Jötunn Giantess Gríðr.

  All was now quiet;
all was now still… and almost all were dead.

  My brother Váli and I stood staring at the carnage on the red plains – the faces of our skjolds dented – the edges of our svärds dulled.

  I looked on at the aftermath of the battle of battles and watched – and heard – the ravens gorging on the dead. They differentiated not between friend or enemy, hero or monster, Lord or Demon.

  It was all carrion to the scavengers.

  The blood sunrise reflected the carnage below highlighting the hundreds of thousands of corpses littering the plains of Vígríðr.

  I walked over to my brother and once again viewed the red plains of Vígríðr.

  We were all that was left of the Aesir, the Vanir and the Einherjar.

  I remember aeons ago the Völva Seer Heiðr, walking among us and telling of the time of Ragnarøkkr and the end of the Lords. She had told us of much that would happen but then visited many of us individually to explain more.

  All she said to me was that I would have vengeance and survive the conflict.

  But vengeance on what? I’ve never been a vengeful person.

  I remember her speaking to my father, Odin, and my brother, Thor, though I knew not – at the time – what prophecy she passed on to them.

  I would admit that before the battle, I had possessed little in the way of warrior acumen and desired nothing more than spending my time in forested Landvidi with my mother.

  Scene 2: The Calling

  It had started with the echoing around Ásgarðr of the Gjallarhorn – the Horn of Doom.

  The Gjallarhorn called to the Aesir in Ásgarðr; the Vanir in their forested realm of Vanaheimr, and the Einherjar in my father’s Halls of Valhöll.

  I was in my great hall at Landvidi in the presence and love of my mother Gríðr – the only Jötunn Giant allowed within the boundaries of Ásgarðr.