by Brian Hughes
Plaster fell from the walls onto the moss-covered floors.
Roof tiles were torn from their moorings and shattered on the weed-infested lawns.
Greyminster Manor was a dismal place in which to be forever confined.
At first it was just tedious. The months became seasons. The years became decades.
In an attempt to relieve his loneliness, Chisslewit set about learning the language of the mice. After nine years it transpired he was trying to communicate with rats. (Quite a different language, according to Bray’s Encyclopaedia. And if it’s written in such an authoritative work, then it’s bound to be true.)
Then one day in 1914, the Great War started.
Suddenly the hall was bustling once more.
Turgid officers with waxed moustaches pinched secretaries bottoms, pushed lead soldiers about maps with broom handles and generally made a d— nuisance of themselves.
“Time,” thought Chisslewit “...for a spot of haunting!”
(After all, where’s the sport in being a ghost if not to scare people?)
Unfortunately matters didn’t quite go according to plan.
Unlike Scrooge, the chinless members of the hierarchy weren’t perturbed by anything other than coming into contact with the lower orders.
Rattle, clang, chink went the pantomime chain that Chisslewit had dragged from the attic. (There were certain skeletons in the Rostrum family closet that were perhaps best left undisturbed.)
A night-cap sporting a grubby pom-pom poked out from beneath the duvet. It was accompanied by a pair of Shredded Wheat eyebrows.
“Whooooo....” Chisslewit raised his hands above his head, allowing his bottom jaw to drop onto the floorboards. “General Smythe Cornwall, I’ve come to gobble you up!”
“Don’t be such a silly arse!”
There was clang, followed by a slosh.
“Now bugger orf an’ let me get me beauty sleep.”
The rattle of chains through the bedroom door.
Chisslewit Rostrum lurched back to the loft with a chamber pot jammed on his head.
“I wonder ’ow long I’ve ’ad that mole?” Cedric Plum studied the minute blemish from various angles in the mirror. “’Ave y’ nearly finished? I’ll be openin’ up in four hours time and I still ’aven’t decided whether t’ flush y’ down the toilet or not!”
“I’m getting there!” Chisslewit’s ghost haughtily folded his arms across his see-through chest. “Anyhow after the War...”
November the 10th, 1953. The nights were long at this time of year. Unbearably cold and miserably damp. Especially when all that was left of your home was a brick in the middle of a bomb site.
Greyminster Manor had survived the blitz. Then General Cornwall had gone to bed one night having consumed one too many bourbons and left the chip pan on.
For several months afterwards there’d still been a burnt out shell for Chisslewit to call home. Roof joists, blackened and spent like matchstalks, stretched from wall to tumble-down wall.
But then the builders, their bottom cracks winking in the sunlight, had borrowed what was left to complete the war memorial at West Wattling Lane. With his big toe anchored into the one remaining brick, Chisslewit hugged his frozen torso and watched the sleet slanting down. It was bloody awful haunting a field. Occasionally a cow would wander up, chew the cud with him, deposit a pat and then amble off again. Terminally depressing.
The squeak of boots across damp grass, followed by the muttered oaths of a child. “Buggerin’ Nora, Tommy! It’s all that old bag’s fault for not lettin’ us have ar ball back!”
“I know! We was only playin’. There was no call for stickin’ it through with a knife!” A cloud of steam climbed over the rise. “Now what are we s’posed t’ do for the rest of the evenin’...”
“Eh up, Tommy! A brick!”
Suddenly a grubby, snot-encrusted palm was manhandling Chisslewit’s home. He was lifted from the damp grass, several hibernating insects scurrying off into the weeds.
“I’ve got an idea!”
10.36 p.m. A holler rose from the brow of Sedgemore Hill and proceeded noisily down the Drum Crevice Towpath. Orange sparks flew out from the schoolboy’s segues as they clattered onwards at full pelt.
Tommy Giggleswick clutched the brick above his head. Trailing at its rear, resembling a scarf, was Chisslewit Rostrum. He had been stretched to almost four times his normal length by the G force.
Suddenly the brick was loosed, Chisslewit’s home travelling in one direction whilst the boys continued in the other.
A smash! The shriek of an overweight cat being disturbed from its slumbers, and the painful howl of a frightened old biddy.
Chisslewit blinked, shook the confusion from his head and surveyed his new panorama. Directly in front of him, partially unravelled across the rug, sat a ball of knitting, a hissing cat, a deflated football and two furry boots.
Outside in the distance Tommy Gigglewick’s whoops of delight could be heard accompanied by the words, “Stick that in your pipe an’ smoke it, y’ nasty old cow!”
Haunting the Sixth: The Ghost of Christmas Past
“All right,” said Cedric, scratching his chin. “Y’ve got fifteen minutes t’ complete this increasingly dull tale or else it’s the sock basket!”
The ghost glanced at the steaming hamper and shivered. “I’ll try me best...”
Christmas Eve, 1979. There was Mrs Bickerstaffe’s outside lavatory, covered with cobwebs as though ironically celebrating the festive season.
The bowl itself had developed a green overcoat. Around the U bend came the sound of cards being shuffled.
“A pair for two an’ one for ’is knob!” The bulbous toilet monster that Mrs Bickerstaffe’s grandchildren had invented one afternoon and then left to it’s own devices (Editor: Sometimes children’s imaginations are strong enough to accomplish this, apparently) moved its matchstalk up the cribbage board. “Your deal, Chisslewit.”
How could one best describe this creature? Well, imagine a toad of the warty, brown variety that looks as though it’s wearing a poloneck sweater. Now turn it inside out, add a pair of eyeballs towards one end and you’ve got something approximating the Greyminster Toilet Monster. (Or Aunt Clarissa as the children had named it.)
From somewhere outside the shuffle of furry boots along the icy path grew in volume. Any moment now Mrs Bickerstaffe would be emptying her po.
The two colleagues shuffled to the edge of the pipe, as they had done on many previous occasions. Without another word they picked up their cards. Suddenly the world turned black. Four eyes blinked in the gloom.
“She’s stoppin’...” whispered the toilet monster, almost reverentially. “’Er commode must be bust. ’Appy Christmas, Chisslewit. ’Ere’s your chance!”
Mrs Bickerstaffe perched on the bowl, her palms on her knees, her knickers unravelled and determination on her face. She thrust her jaw forward resolutely. Around the U bend Chisslewit lifted his arms and took a lunge. There was a thunk. A dull, unpleasant, clammy thunk!
Mrs Bickerstaffe screamed, leapt a whole eight feet into the air and smashed through the ceiling. Trailing behind her was Chisslewit Rostrum, his hands pushing against her wrinkled buttocks, trying to force his ghostly head free from her sphincter.
“Of course, after that, Mrs Bickerstaffe was taken away to a home.”
The ghost chewed the corners of his memories contemplatively.
“Just over a year ago the outhouse was pulled down and the bricks were used in the construction of your new Smoking Lounge.”
Cedric Plum snorted. “Bloody builders! Told me the bricks were so bloomin’ expensive ’cos they were specially designed t’ look antique!”
After a moment he added, “So now I’m stuck with y’, am I? ’Ow the ’ell am I s’posed to mek a livin’? No, you’re goin’ to ’ave to go!”
“Well...” Chisslewit nibbled his ethereal moustache. “I could leave this mortal realm if I was to make a proper wo
man of poor old Jemima. It’s possible that me curse would be lifted!”
“Y’ can’t be suggestin’ that...” Cedric’s features crumpled up in disgust. “That we dig ’er out of the ground and marry ’er off to a ghost? What are we s’pose t’ do? Drag a corpse into the pub?”
“Oh, she’s not shuffled off this mortal coil yet.” A grin spread across Chisslewit’s ghastly features. “She was in here the other night, on the Glee Club’s Jamboree. And, yes, that’s exactly what I am suggesting Mr Plum...”
Haunting the Seventh: The Cricket on the Hearth
9.15 p.m. December 28th. A blustery midwinter’s evening. Wrapped up in their overcoats the Gasworks Yuletide Singers stumbled their way through Silent Night. The out-of-tune words floated out across the snowy car-park as Father Edward Wordsmith sprinted towards the Old Bull and Duck.
Seconds later he crashed through the front door clutching a bible to his chest. He reached a halt against Mrs Wainthrop. Several old dears behind her started to tumble like dominos.
“I’m sorry I’m late...” He mopped his brow with a damp handkerchief. “I was administering the last rites to Mrs Crabbapple. That’s the third time this week. Now, exorcism was it?”
“Not quite...” Cedric Plum took the clergyman by one elbow. “Exercise is a bit out o’ the question in this case. I’d like y’ t’ meet Jemima Scrag.”
The biddies parted. Silhouetted against the hearth was the tiniest woman that Father Wordsmith had ever seen. Four foot six and a similar shape to an upside-down coat hook.
By her side, floating mournfully, was the ghost of Chisslewit Rostrum. The old woman grinned. (Or rather, she gummed. It would be difficult to call two teeth a grin.)
“To be ’onest,” muttered Cedric. “We’d better get this over with as quickly as possible. Judging by the looks of ’er, there may not be much time...”
Haunting the Eighth: A Christmas Carol
10.45 p.m. The blue light of the ambulance lit up the Old Bull and Duck. The occasional flurry of snow was caught up in the strobe. Around the porch the pensioners stood in deathly silence as the two fat medics carried the stretcher across the cobbles.
With a miserable thud the doors to the wagon slammed shut.
“Ah well, at least she doid happy.” Father Wordsmith shook the snow from his hat. “At least, Oi think she was happy. It was hard t’ tell with her face being so wrinkled an’ all.”
The engine started with a shudder, the mournful wail of the siren echoing off the inn walls.
“And at least they finally got married and lifted the curse!”
Cedric Plum gave Dorothy a knowing nod.
She unfolded her arms and turned back to the Smoking Lounge. Time to get back to the bar. There were a lot of biddies around tonight who needed drinks to steady the nerves.
“I ’ope the two of ’em ’ull be ’appy together, wherever they are...”
Heaven is many things to many different people. Every religion puts its own spin on the afterlife. Vikings, for example, believe in Valhalla, where the souls of those slain in battle feast until their eyeballs bulge. It would therefore be politically incorrect of me to assume that ‘Angels on Clouds’ was the genuine article.
Nonetheless, high above the Lancashire fells, a cumuli nimbus was being feathered along in the wind.
Considerably younger than on our last meeting with her, a pair of wings sprouting from her shoulders and a rolling pin clutched against her bosom, Jemima Rostrum (nee Scrag) stood over her kneeling husband.
On the edge of the cloud a large grubby oven consumed the photographer’s head.
From inside faint Brillo Pad noises could be heard.
“An’ when y’ve finished that, there’s the ornaments need attendin’ to, and mother’s commode needs scouring out...”
Jemima rattled the wooden weapon against the grate, just to remind him that she was there. “C’mon, no slackin’ y’ bone idle b--!”
“Yes, dear...” came Chisslewit’s whimper from the oven. “I’m goin’ as fast as I can...”
Outroduction
“Right,” said Lucy. “Now I really do have to be going...not that the last story was an improvement on any of the others.”
She reached the door and looked back over her shoulder.
“Go on then...” said the stranger. “Although I suspect you’ll never manage to leave this cafe.”
Lucy frowned.
“Is that some sort of threat?” she asked, very slowly.
“Not at all,” the stranger replied. “It’s just that you haven’t figured all of this out yet, have you?”
“Figured what out?”
The traveller pulled his hat down over his eyes and put his boots up on the table. His front chair legs left the floor as he rocked backwards.
“You bought an Eccles’ cake earlier on and yet...” Pause for drama. “...where’s the waitress?”
“I don’t quite follow you,” said Lucy, suddenly feeling cold. She fumbled for the security of the door handle.
“You see, the waitress wasn’t important. So she wasn’t written into our little chorus.” The stranger pulled a clay pipe from his pocket and stuffed it with tobacco. “You can’t even remember her serving you, can you?”
Oddly enough, try as she might, Lucy couldn’t.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“You’re not meant to understand,” said the stranger, lighting his pipe bowl. “You’re just a character in a book, designed to suit a purpose. Just a link tying my tales together for the sake of continuity. If you leave this cafe then the book has ended. And with it, your whole existence.”
Thoughtfully Lucy crossed back to the table and stood staring at him for a while in silence.
“That’s nonsense!” she said at length. “Besides which, you’ve run out of objects now. If we were just characters from someone else’s imagination then the book would be over anyhow.”
“Yeah...tragic isn’t it?” The stranger took a puff and sent a cottonwool-ball of smoke towards the ceiling. “Until of course somebody picks the book up again and brings us back into existence.”
“Judging by your tales that’s not very likely,” said Lucy, looking glum. “Suddenly I don’t want to be a character in a novel any more.”
“Not when you look at it like that. It’s somewhat fatalistic, isn’t it?”
“Okay...” Lucy pulled back her chair and sat down again. “So how’s it going to end then?”
“Dunno...” said the stranger. “It might be a tragic ending.”
“I doubt that,” said Lucy. “We’re not deep enough characters for that sort of thing. People need to associate with characters to warrant tragedy.”
“It could be romantic...” said the stranger.
“Over my dead body!”
“That’s one possibility.” The stranger sat up and pushed his hat back across his forehead. “Although I suspect, from the way the rest of this book has gone, the ending is going to be something a little more cult.”
“What do you mean?” asked Lucy, suddenly getting scared.
“Well, like the way they ended ‘The Prisoner.’ Something ridiculous and non-committal. Something that’ll stick in the reader’s mind for a while.”
“What sort of thing, do you reckon?” asked Lucy, hesitantly.
“I don’t know...” said the stranger. “Probably something like ending halfway through a sen