by Brian Hughes
A pensioner charged through the hearth with her hair on fire.
Cedric turned to the plump barmaid with her arms folded across her bosom.
“Dorothy, if you’d like t’ do the ’onours?”
“Right you are, Mr Plum...”
Clang, rattle, chime!
“Time please, ladies and gentlemen!”
The commotion stopped. It was almost as though everybody’s eardrums had burst at once. In the centre of it all the unruffled ghost continued to juggle its eyes above its head.
“Right, my lad!” Cedric clambered back down.
Moments later his hand clamped one ghostly shoulder. With a squeeze he forced the apparition into the neck of his jar.
“’Ere, what’s goin’ on? Unhand me you roughian!”
Cedric pounded the last few inches inside, then screwed down the lid. Two pale eyes blinked through the glass, magnified into jellyfish. Deep inside the wraith’s transparent body the candle spluttered.
“You’ve no right t’ do this to me. Have you no respect for the dead?”
“Sorry, Pal!” The word ‘Pal’ was pronounced in a manner that suggested the ghost was anything but. “We don’t serve spirits after hours.”
(Editor: That’s the last dreadful pun you’re getting away with in this story.)
Haunting the Second: Hard Times
At just turned midnight the kitchen door creaked open. A ribbon of light fluttered across the room. It was enough to startle the ghost from its fitful slumbers. Moments later its eyes forced themselves against the glass, watching Cedric shuffle across the carpet.
“Erm, excuse me!” Its voice was muffled. “I don’t suppose you’d like to let me out?”
No response. Cedric set about a muffin with a knob of butter. For several moments it seemed as though he was about to go back to bed. Then, unexpectedly, the jar was lifted from the shelf and the world moved in front of the ghost’s eyes.
Three seconds later his vista was filled by an HP Sauce bottle. (Editor: Definitely sounds like the do I was at the other night!)
“Hello?”
Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.
“You’re not going to spread me on a piece of toast, are y’? I wouldn’t taste very nice, y’ know? I’m rather old and I’ve gone a bit stale.”
The butter knife clattered into the sink.
“Besides, I’ve had a bit of a dickey tummy of late and I wouldn’t want t’...”
The bottle vanished. Cedric’s distorted features filled the gap.
One fingertip tapped the jar experimentally.
“What am I going t’ do with you?” The landlord wrinkled his nose. “Can’t ’ave y’ frightenin’ me customers off, can I? I wonder what ’ud ’appen if I tipped y’ down the disposal unit?”
The eyes shot open.
“’Old on! Just let me out and I’ll try to explain!” A sadness crept into the ghost’s voice. “I have a terrible story t’ tell. And I’m sure, being a man of some intelligence, y’ wouldn’t want to pour me away without hearing it.”
Haunting the Third: Great Expectations
Shadows flickered round the kitchen, with one exception. Ghosts don’t cast shadows, just greasy smears.
(Editor: Incidentally, if you’re wondering, it wasn’t that the Old Bull and Duck’s electricity had been cut off. It was just that Cedric thought the candle more conducive for his guest. Thought I’d better point that out!)
“Mine is a tragic tale,” said the ghost. “Full of treachery and deceit.”
He hung his head and pouted. The manacle that Cedric had brought up from the cellar clanked around his neck.
Cedric tugged one asbestos finger, making it plain that his visitor couldn’t vanish into the stove. (Editor: I knew a customs officer like that once.)
“My name is Chisslewit Rostrum.” Chisslewit snuffled, sucking in his cheeks until his face resembled an empty Cumberland sausage. “That’s the tragic part. Now, where to begin?”
April 14th, 1893. It was raining. The sort of rain that, regardless of its discretion, weighs down people’s coats. The bells of St. Oliver’s rang out around Greyminster. Cheerful bells, full of hypocrisy and veiled contempt.
Chisslewit Rostrum emerged from the foyer. Jemima Rostrum (nee Scrag) was holding his arm.
The two of them walked along the gravestones that constituted the church path, now made slippery by wet confetti.
A flash from the photographer’s Hassleblad lit up the underbelly of the clouds.
Let’s pan back on this sepia photograph of wedded bliss.
Chisslewit Rostrum stared at the spectral daguerreotype.
A crowd of thoughts weighed down his memory like some marble ball-cock.
Then he snuffled and the photograph vanished.
“Poor old Jemima.” There was the trace of a tear on his cheekbone. (Editor: Either that, or it was condensation on the window behind him.) “Of course, the wedding never actually took place. That was just Jemima’s hopes. It was all a sham. I wasn’t able to commit meself, and what with the political attitude at the time towards such matters...”
“Er, just one thing?” Cedric raised a finger to Chisslewit’s nose. “If y’ was born in Victorian times, ’ow come you’re wearing Elizabethan clothes?” (Editor: I must admit, the same thought had crossed my mind.)
“Mmm...oh this?” The ghost tugged the grubby ruff. “It’s to do with accessories. Chains and skulls don’t exactly go with top hats and cravats.”
He straightened smartly.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with me story...”
Greyminster Manor wasn’t exactly grand.
At least, not in the way that most manor houses built on the toil of peasants are grand. (Editor: It’s always entertaining to work out how you’re going to squeeze your socialist principles into each story!)
It wasn’t shaped like a capital ‘E’ for a start. In fact it didn’t even have wings, an apparent must for self-reliant women.
It rooms were poky and its corridors dusty. Cramped affairs that seemed to be saying, ‘Watch out. We’re going to collapse on top of you.’ (Editor: One can hope.)
But it was home.
And it had the word ‘Manor’ in its title, which, as far as Chisslewit was concerned, made him a lord and Jemima a lady. Even if not by the law of England.
Unfortunately Jemima wasn’t a lady at all. And she didn’t see matters in the same rose-tinted light as her husband. Bills needed to be met. Cupboards needed to be polished. And all the while Chisslewit seemed content to bustle about in the potting shed. (Editor: Sounds familiar.)
The door slammed shut in a draft, nudging Jemima inside.
“One day, Jemima...” Chisslewit poured a purple chemical from a flask. “Photography ’ull be regarded as a profession. And there’ll be money in it.”
“One day, p’raps!” Jemima placed her fists on her hips. “But that day’ll never be in our lifetime. It’s high time y’ got y’rself a proper job y’ bone idle b--!”
June 10th 1897. It was a dark night. The summer storm had been gathering across the fells for an eternity. In the bedroom, the humpbacked whale of the eiderdown rustled suggestively.
“Jemima...?” Rustle, crumple, shuffle. The leviathan moved, its blowhole opening at one end allowing ten toes to peer out into the bedroom. “Jemima dearest...?”
“Keep your filthy great ’ands off me, Chisslewit!”
The mammal froze.
Then, rustle, grope, THUNK!
“I said, get your filthy great hands off me!” One arm emerged from the duvet and replaced the commode beneath the bed. It appeared to be cracked along one side.
The whale’s humped spine began to shuffle back to its own side of the four poster. (Editor: It must have been an extremely crowded bed!) “You’re not gettin’ so much as another peck until you either marry me or give up photography!”
“’Ow come y’ remember the date so clearly?” Cedric spread the butter
across his teacake with the dexterity of a plasterer. “Seein’ as it was such a long time ago...”
“It was a night I’ll never forget...” (Editor: Incidentally, for the less observant amongst you, our adventure has now moved forwards again.) “That was the night I decided that Jemima would have to go...”
The ghost of Chisslewit snuffled, watching as the landlord took a bite from his toast.
“That was the night I first thought of murderin’ me miserable partner!”
Haunting the Fourth: The Old Curiosity Shop
Oddman’s Antique Emporium at that point in our history dealt with more than just antiques. (Editor: For further information about this establishment, see ‘Eavesdropping, Chapter One.’)
It provided its customers with all sorts of junk from the four corners of the Globe. Naughty postcards for the local civic dignitaries. (Editor: Another socialist comment?) Herbs from Thailand and India. Crude statues with huge genitalia, brought back from the dark continent to reinforce the belief that the English were superior. (These artefacts also made débutantes blush and were as good a method of introducing them to the upper classes as any other.) (Editor: Enough said!)
Currently Oddman’s was also playing host to several crates of Chinese Gunpowder.
The shop doorbell tinked. Oddman senior heard the curtailed noise and made a mental note that he’d have to fix the d— thing at some point. (Editor: Just because you’re writing a story about more conservative times doesn’t mean you’ve got to blot out swear words in the same f— manner!)
He turned his most disarming grin on his client.
“Arh, good morning, Lord Rostrum...” Oddman’s forelocks polished the floorboards. “We’ve got some very interesting photographs in this week.”
He placed his hand against the corner of his mouth conspiratorially.
“Taken by a missionary in Africa. A study of native tribes an’ their barbaric ways. Very revealing, if y’ get me drift, Sir?”
“Actually, Oddman, I wasn’t after photographs.” Chisslewit’s eyes wandered round the clutter. “I believe you’ve got a consignment in from China...”
“The worry balls, Sir?” Oddman coughed. “I’m sure Lady Rostrum ’ull find ’em worrying any’ow...”
An elbow nudged the photographer suggestively.
“I was thinkin’ more along the lines of...” Suddenly the word caught in Chisslewit’s throat. “Gunpowder...thought I’d try some...experiments with my pictures.”
Mr Oddman was a discreet man. (Editor: Not terribly subtle, but discreet nonetheless.)
He disappeared into the back room and re-emerged moments later with a box.
“That’ll be one and six, Sir.”
“Thank you, Oddman. Put it on my account.”
Jemima stirred the stew, her sleeves rolled up.
Sat in the corner of the poky kitchen, clutching her handbag against her lap, was Jemima’s mother. Every so often Agnes would sneeze as the pepper became too much for her nostrils to cope with.
“I told y’ before, y’ should never ’ave married ’im, Jemima!” Mrs Scrag tucked her elbows beneath her bosoms and hoisted them upwards sanctimoniously.
She was somewhat vague about their illegitimate living arrangements.
“Good for nothin’ bone idle s— of a b-- !” (Editor: We’re at it again!)
“Y’ never said owt of the sort, Mother.” A bubble of air reached the surface and popped. “What you actually said was, ‘Marry ’im quickly, Jemima. ’Ee’s a lord!’”
“Yes well...” The udders were haughtily readjusted. “Y’ know what I meant! So don’t say I didn’t warn y’!”
At that moment the kitchen door crashed open.
“Quickly, my dear. You simply must see this!”
Chisslewit grabbed his girlfriend by her shoulders. The wooden spoon fell into the rasping concoction.
“Geddoff me, Rostrum! I ’aven’t got time for your stupid games!”
A narrow object struck Chisslewit hard between the shoulders.
It felt like a walking stick.
“If you’ve got somethin’ important t’ show ’er, you’d better share it wi’ me!”
The potting shed was dank and filled with contrasting aromas.
Some ran up sharply and bit the hairs in your nostrils, (Editor: They didn’t bite mine!) whilst other sauntered across the tastebuds stirring up memories of old school dinners.
The crack of light at one end of the room widened and the three argumentative characters stumbled inside.
“C’mon on then, Lord Stupid!” (Editor: The standard of wit was obviously less developed in Victorian times.) “What ’ave y’ got t’ show us then?” (Editor: Reminds me of an event from my childhood this!)
“It’s over there, beneath the tarpaulin.”
Chisslewit pointed in the general direction of an innocuous mound behind the garden shears.
“You’ll have to move in a bit to see it properly.”
Shuffle, shuffle, THUD!
The door slammed shut and was locked from outside.
Chisslewit’s demented laugh echoed up.
Sprinting along the cable that ran from the window ledge, he jumped the dahlias and crouched down beside the bright red plunger.
Inside the shed Agnes Scrag picked up her end of the wire and shoved it angrily beneath her daughter’s nose.
“What’s that stupid, no good b— ’usband o’ yours think ’ee’s up to then?”
“Poor Jemima never answered.” (Editor: How would you know? You weren’t even in there with them?)
Chisslewit’s ghost toyed with the spectral plunger, then watched it vanish.
Cedric snuffled and patiently waited for his guest to continue.
“The explosion blew the washing pole out of the ground. Jemima’s knickerbockers ended up forty-odd miles away on Lancaster town hall roof.”
He platted his fingers and studied the HP Sauce bottle with circumspection. (Editor: Have you got a product placement Agreement with Heinz or something?) “Of course, that wasn’t the end of the matter...” (Editor: I didn’t think it would be somehow.)
Fire engines rumbled, horses whinnied, glistening helmets refracted the disappearing sunlight. At the end of the garden two overweight policemen stumbled beneath a sagging stretcher. As it pulled up alongside Chisslewit Rostrum the normally jolly Sgt. Holdsworth wrapped one arm around his shoulder. With the other hand he tugged back the blanket.
A tiny charcoaled head with fearsome eyes stared up at the primrose sky.
“That’s me mother-in-law, Sergeant!” Chisslewit buried his face in his hands, the smell of pork scratchings filling his nose.
“I ain’t quite dead yet!” Mrs Scrag tried to sit up. “A curse on your ’ead, Chisslewit Rostrum! A curse on your ’ead for the foul, deprived thing what you did ’ere today!”
Then with a sad, dispirited wheeze the pensioner’s lights were finally snuffed out, a smudge of smoke drifting up from her gums.
“Don’t worry y’r lordship...” grinned Sgt. Holdsworth as the constables struggled on towards the meat wagon. “Me own mother used t’ talk nonsense before she kicked the bucket!”
Haunting the Fifth: Bleak House
Snores sawed through the atmosphere of the kitchen. The ghostly candle put up a valiant fight against the lightening room, but ultimately failed.
“Here!” One transparent finger prodded the landlord’s head. It had just enough substance to lift a few hairs. “I haven’t got to the best bit yet!” (Editor: Thank God for that!)
Smacking his lips together Cedric looked at his unwanted guest. “Hmmm? Sorry. Must’ve nodded off!” (Editor: I know how he feels.)
“Anyhow!” Chisslewit’s ghost steepled its fingers and leant back in its chair. “Jemima survived but she never forgave me. She packed her bags and buggered off sharpish. And it was shortly after this evil deed that I met me own doom!”
August 19th, 1897. Down the winding back lanes crickets chirruped
in the afternoon heat. The lazy warmth made frying pans of the cobblestones, the occasional breeze spitting leaves into Chisslewit’s face.
He had just walked through the gates of Greyminster Manor when the sky turned dark. Inky whorls of pyroclastic vapours groaned beneath their own weight.
It didn’t take much to realise that all was not well.
Tucking his camera beneath his arm he took to his heels and ran.
Moments later he approached the front door, only to discover a localised hurricane above the step.
Unable to stop, Chisslewit skewered into its vortex.
With a shred a bolt of lightning struck him on the chin.
A flash of silver! A splatter of red! And just as suddenly the maelstrom vanished.
“What happened?” Chisslewit shook the concussion from his head and looked around.
A crowd had suddenly gathered. (Editor: This always happens whenever something gruesome occurs!) Actually, it’s about time the Editor of this story stopped interrupting me, before I lose my temper! (Editor: Only doing my job.) Somewhat overzealously, don’t you think? In fact, if I hear any more from you I might tell the readers what you were doing with that pickled gherkin and that hamster last weekend. (Editor: Fair enough! My lips are now sealed.) Now, where was I? Oh yes...
Chisslewit struggled into the gathering, his curiosity overpowering his dread.
There was something ominous in the middle of the townsfolk.
“What the buggering Hell’s that?” the photographer thought.
“You were dead!” Cedric threw his teaspoon into the sink and stumbled back to the table. “An’ your ghost was watching it, right?”
“How did you know?” said Chisslewit’s spectre.
“Lucky guess! Now would y’ like t’ get on with the story before I end up joinin’ y’?”
“Very well...” Chisslewit thought for a moment before continuing. “So you see, because of Agnes’ curse, I was doomed to spend the rest of eternity haunting Greyminster Manor...”