Sanctuary & Other Ghost Stories

by Tom Kasey

  Sanctuary and Other Stories

  Tom Kasey

  © Tom Kasey 2012

  Richard Freeman has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 2012 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Contents

  One: Sanctuary

  Two: Consort of Baal

  Three: Curtain Call

  Four: Spirit of Joy

  Five: The Uninvited Guest

  ONE: SANCTUARY

  ‘Who is she? Does anyone know?’

  The Reverend Samuel Gregson, vicar of Steeple Bayford for a little over seven weeks, paused and looked expectantly at the old churchwarden.

  ‘No, sir. Rev’rend Wilkins, him what you took over from, looked in the records, but he never found out.’

  ‘Did he find anything at all?’

  William Hodges, known around the village as ‘Old Bill’, to the occasional confusion and alarm of some of the wilder young inhabitants, grunted.

  ‘Well, he reckoned he knew when she lived, from her clothes, see. Far as he could tell, it were round about sixteen hundred.’

  Samuel Gregson glanced at his wife, hairs on the back of his neck stirring as he recalled their fleeting glimpse of the grey shape flitting through the graveyard.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting that,’ he murmured. ‘I thought she looked old, but I didn’t realize she could be that old.’

  Old Bill was silent. He had sat through similar conversations with three previous vicars of Steeple Bayford, and was used to the feelings of confusion, sometimes fear, that the sight of ‘Our Meg’, as the spectre was known locally, produced in newcomers.

  ‘What about her name? Why do you call her “Our Meg”?’ Mary Gregson asked.

  Old Bill nodded, treading familiar ground.

  ‘She needed a name, see, otherwise people wouldn’t know who you was talking about. Meg felt about right, somehow.’

  ‘But Reverend Wilkins couldn’t find out who she was or when she lived?’ Mary persisted. ‘He didn’t discover anything about her?’

  The churchwarden scratched his grizzled scalp.

  ‘Well, he did find a mention of her in sixteen fifty seven.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the vicar. ‘What did that say?’

  The churchwarden grinned, displaying a selection of long, yellowing and uneven teeth.

  ‘It were in Latin. I don’t understand Latin,’ he added, somewhat unnecessarily, ‘but the Rev’rend had it changed into English. There’s a copy in Parish Records, but it don’t say much.’

  ‘Right,’ said Gregson, ‘we’ll look at that later.’ He looked slightly embarrassed, then smiled. ‘Tell me, William, have you seen her?’

  The churchwarden nodded.

  ‘Lots of times. Always the same. Always she’s a-running for the church.’

  ‘I wonder why? And why isn’t she heading for the church door?’

  ‘Ah, now Rev’rend Wilkins did reckon he’d solved that. There were a side door, see, right about where she’s a-running for, but it were blocked up in about seventeen ten. That meant,’ he emphasized, ‘that she had to be before seventeen ten if she were trying to get inside the church that way.’

  The vicar nodded, and rubbed his hands briskly.

  ‘Thank you, William. I’ll have a look at the Parish Records, then I think I might talk to the Bishop about an exorcism.’

  But at these words the churchwarden shook his head decisively.

  ‘No, sir. The Rev’rend Wilkins had the same idea, but somethin’ changed his mind. He said on no account should anything like that be done. Never, he said.’

  The vicar looked curiously at Old Bill. The churchwarden had sounded really animated, perhaps for the first time since they had met.

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘No, sir. All he said was we shouldn’t.’

  ‘Well, I only said we’d consider it, and I’d need permission from the Bishop, of course. My only concern,’ Gregson continued, aware as he spoke that he was sounding somewhat pompous, ‘is that she seems to be a tortured soul, and I believe it’s our Christian duty to help her if we can.’

  Not for the first time, Samuel Gregson wished he’d been able to talk to Wilkins, but his predecessor’s untimely death had prevented that. The notes he’d left about the church and some of the parishioners were a help to the new incumbent, but after nearly two months in the post he still had numerous unanswered questions. The real identity of Old Meg was a minor matter, but he did take time to look up the old Parish Records, not that they helped him very much. Wilkins’s translation of the Latin original of 1657 was accurate, but the report was terse and uninformative. It said simply that a ‘spectre or phantasm of a Lady in grey’ had been reported near the church of Steeple Bayford by three parishioners.

  Over the next weeks the Reverend Gregson learned a lot about the history of his new church. He told the Bishop, and perhaps half-believed it himself, that the purpose his research was to update the church guide book. This had last been amended over thirty years previously and had sold so poorly in all its editions that he’d found some copies marked ‘1/9d’. He scoured both the Parish and Abbey archives for information and turned up several titbits which he thought would spice up the guide. He toyed with the idea of enhancing it with a reference to Our Meg, but decided that would be ill-advised: he certainly didn’t want to encourage ghost-hunters.

  But what he didn’t find anywhere, either in the archives or in conversation with the Bishop, was why Wilkins had apparently been so implacably opposed to an exorcism. He worked his way through the records that he believed his predecessor would have studied, but apart from one additional reference – in Latin, of course, which had never been Gregson’s strong suit, unlike Mary, who had been a Classics scholar at Girton – to a sighting in the village in fifteen eighty-two, he found nothing else. This report referred to a ‘Spectre of hideous aspect’, which suggested that the long-dead writer had not viewed Meg with the same indulgence that prevailed in Steeple Bayford in the twenty-first century.

  ‘I do think we should try an exorcism,’ Samuel Gregson remarked to Mary one evening, ‘despite what Old Bill said. I mean, I can’t see what harm it could possibly do, and it might lay our ghost for ever.’

  His wife was less than enthusiastic.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Reverend Wilkins must have had some reason for what he said, surely. I think we should do some more investigating first.’

  Gregson smiled at his wife.

  ‘Mary, you’ve more or less lived with the Parish Records for the last month. How much more do you want to do?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just that – well, obviously Wilkins found something that convinced him an exorcism would be ill-advised. I’ve no idea what that was, but from what Old Bill told us he was adamant about it. Perhaps I should go over to Bury and look in the county archives.’

  Gregson leaned back in his chair.

  ‘I think you’re probably making too many assumptions, Mary. The only person who has actually told us Wilkins opposed an exorcism is Old Bill, and he may have a vested interest in keeping Meg alive – if you see what I mean. Don’t forget that his wife runs the tea-shop opposite the church, and I’m sure a genuine ghost is good for their business.

  ‘And when I mentioned it to the Bishop, he told me he thought Wilkins had been keen on carrying out an exorcism, and he’s certainly enthusiastic. I don’t think,’ he added, chuckling, ‘that he approves of Our Meg at all.’

  Mary Gregson nodded.

  ‘You’re probably right. But I’m going to carry on looking, if you don’t min
d.’

  ‘Of course not. It’s doing you good, exercising your Latin again.’

  Three weeks later, having investigated every avenue of research either of them could imagine might provide any further information, but with a complete lack of success, Gregson approached the Bishop to discuss the possibility of performing an exorcism. And, as he’d told Mary earlier, his superior was not merely supportive, but actually encouraged him. Old Bill, as they’d expected, was very vocal in his objections, but Gregson had already made up his mind.

  ‘In my opinion, William, she’s a soul in torment, and I’m in a position to help her. That’s a part of my job – surely you can see that?’

  ‘That’s as may be, but Rev’rend Wilkins told me ’twas too dangerous. That was his very words.’

  ‘Dangerous?’ Gregson almost laughed. ‘There’s no danger, Bill. Meg’s a discarnate entity, an echo from a past age. All the exorcism will do is allow her to rest at last.’

  He started at eight fifteen, the kind of time Meg usually walked, or rather ran, and proceeded steadily through the ritual. His wife shivered slightly, and he looked curiously at her.

  ‘I just feel a little cold. I suppose,’ she added, ‘that’s what you should feel when you see a ghost.’

  Gregson returned to his task, intoning the solemn words. Almost imperceptibly the electric lights in the church began to dim and flicker. Outside the wind dropped, quite suddenly, and a fleeting shape sped silently through the churchyard. Our Meg was running, perhaps for the last time. Old Bill, watching from the window of his wife’s tea shop, crossed himself and turned away.

  ‘I told them,’ he muttered, ‘I told them.’

  In the church, Mary suddenly clutched at her husband’s arm.

  ‘Look!’ she hissed.

  Across the chancel the shape moved. Swiftly, silently, the long cloak fluttering behind, the face in the shadow of the cowl.

  Samuel Gregson stopped, uncertain.

  ‘Go on,’ Mary murmured, her eyes fixed on the figure. ‘You can’t leave her now.’

  Gregson bent back to his books, and began the final incantation, his voice echoing in the confines of the church. The figure finally stopped moving and turned towards them.

  The cowl slipped back, and for the first and last time Meg’s face was seen by mortals. If the spectre faithfully represented her physical body, dead five hundred years, then in life she had been a beauty. But her lovely features were drawn back in such an expression of stark, searing terror that Mary Gregson stumbled backwards, crying out, and her husband paled.

  ‘Go on. You must.’

  Stumbling slightly over the words, Samuel Gregson continued, raising his arms high.

  And as the sound of the final syllable echoed and died, Meg’s face changed. The look of abject terror vanished, wiped away, and her features took on a look of repose and, Gregson was almost certain, thankfulness. As they watched, the slim dark shape shimmered and flickered and slowly, like a dying flame, disappeared forever.

  The lights in the church returned to their normal level, and there was a sudden, overwhelming, feeling of relief. Mary Gregson shivered, and turned to her husband.

  ‘I feel really good. If ever I’ve seen a tortured spirit, she was, but now she’s at peace, I hope. What on earth do you suppose happened to her – in life, I mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m sure she was seeking sanctuary in here, but I have no idea why.’

  He shook his head and bent to gather his books. Mary suddenly clutched his arm again.

  ‘Samuel. The lights.’

  Gregson looked up, surprised. The perimeter lights were dimming, fading rapidly, and a feeling of dark, malignant evil, so real as to be almost palpable, suddenly filled the church.

  ‘What the devil –’

  Mary ran from him, ran for the window near the chancel, and looked out onto the churchyard.

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ she whispered, despair racking her body. ‘Now I understand.’

  ‘What, Mary? What is it?’

  His wife didn’t answer, just pointed with a shaking hand towards the yew tree by the gate. The outline wasn’t clear, but Gregson gained an impression of a hulking shape, of blazing red eyes, before he turned away.’

  ‘That’s what she was running from, isn’t it?’ he stammered. ‘She was looking for sanctuary in the church, sanctuary from that.’

  Mary nodded.

  ‘That report in the archives from 1582. That wasn’t a sighting of Meg at all – it was that thing outside. Wilkins made the connection, we didn’t. You’ve exorcized Meg, but you’ve released that thing back into the world.’

  The church doors rocked and creaked as some immense weight was applied from the outside. Gregson’s hands shook as he reached for his wife.

  ‘Dear God. Dear God save us all. ‘

  And as the church doors began to splinter and crack he realized, a lifetime too late, that just as the church hadn’t been a sanctuary for Meg, so it would be no sanctuary for them.

  TWO: CONSORT OF BAAL

  It really wasn’t much of a treasure, as treasures go. No gold or silver or precious stones or anything like that. In fact, even the local museum hadn’t seemed all that interested in it. Not at first, anyway, though that was really my fault. If I’d shown them everything I’d found straight away, they’d have known the significance, and I might not be in the state I’m in now.

  I’ve been using a metal detector for months now, spending my weekends walking over likely sites searching for anything at all. I soon learned to be selective in where I went, because if you’re not selective all you find is rubbish. It might be old rubbish, but it’s still rubbish.

  I should never have gone to the barrow, though. Apart from anything else it’s a Scheduled Site, and you’re not supposed to use a metal detector, or dig for that matter, on one of those. This one had never been excavated, as far as I knew, and it’s in a quiet and out of the way place, so I thought I’d take a chance. I wish now I’d never even heard of it.

  A barrow’s supposed to be a burial ground, or a mound built over a tomb, and I thought that as it had never been excavated there was a fair chance of finding something interesting there. I’m no historian, but I do know that ancient peoples were forever burying their richest ornaments with their dead – just look at the Pharaohs – and for all I knew there could have been a fortune in gold just waiting there to be found.

  I parked the car at the edge of the wood, checked I had a spare battery for the detector, put on the headphones, and started working my way round the barrow. It’s a sort of rounded oblong in shape, and I started on the lower slopes, at the end nearest the wood, and just worked steadily round it. It was hot up there, up on the Downs, and a couple of times I went back to the car for a drink.

  By lunchtime I’d found nothing of any real interest, just a few odd bits of metal, and I was getting a bit fed up. I decided to persevere, but I was beginning to think that a metal detector wasn’t really the ideal tool for searching a barrow. The trouble is that the detector’s only got a limited range, and so you can’t search for anything that’s buried really deep, like in the centre of the barrow, for example. And that, of course, is where the burial chamber would be.

  I’d almost given up when I found it. It was right at the end of the barrow, at the end nearest the wood, and I got a really strong signal from the machine, much stronger than the signals I’d received earlier, so I guessed that whatever it was had to be fairly bulky.

  The turf came off easily enough, and then I started digging down. It wasn’t very deep – I struck metal at just over a foot down – and I can’t pretend I wasn’t excited about it. There is a special kind of excitement whenever you dig up anything from the ground, especially if you know it’s old. And this was certainly old.

  It was about eighteen inches long, slightly curved, and about two inches wide in the centre, and it took me a minute or two, once I’d cleaned off most of the earth, to realize what it was, though it
was a familiar enough object – a pick-axe. At first I thought I’d just found another piece of useless rubbish, until I looked at it a little more closely and found that it was made of bronze, not steel. I could just see the remains of the wooden haft in the centre hole and that, together with the metal used, convinced me that it was old. How old I didn’t realize at the time.

  I passed the detector over the hole again, and got another strong signal, so I dug a little deeper and found the hooks. Like two butcher’s hooks, but again in bronze, not steel. That surprised me. I had been more or less expecting, and hoping, to find a sword or a dagger or something like that. Butcher’s hooks I could do without. I looked deeper into the hole, hoping to find something else, and then I saw it.

  It must have been put into the hole first, then the hooks and the pick-axe, because it was just below the level I’d dug down to.

  I saw a bit of dark stone showing in the corner of the hole. I used my spade and dug a little deeper around it, to avoid damaging it, and then got my hand under it and pulled it out. It came free with a peculiar sucking sound, and as I lifted it out into the light a strange thing happened.

  There’s a rookery at that end of the wood, and the rooks had been chattering away most of the day, off and on, as I’d worked my way round the barrow, but as I brought that figure into the daylight they all stopped calling, and a few seconds later the whole lot of them took off. I thought that they’d spotted someone coming through the wood towards the barrow, so I grabbed what I’d dug up, ran to the car, and drove off. What I didn’t want was to be caught digging on a Scheduled Site.

  At home, I cleaned the bronze artefacts as best I could, though there was some corrosion that I wasn’t going to try to shift – bronze requires special handling, I think. The stone figure cleaned up rather easier. It was about a foot high, and obviously represented a woman, or a female anyway, as it had distinct breasts, but I assumed it was a goddess of some sort, as its other features were hardly feminine.