The Angry Ghost and Other Stories Read online

  The Angry Ghost

  and Other Stories

  Peter Spokes

  Copyright © 2018 Peter Spokes

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador

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  Tel: 0116 279 2299

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  ISBN 9781788034005

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For my parents, wife Helen, and my girls Hayley and Anna, without whose love and support, my existence would be embarrassingly boring.

  Contents

  The Angry Ghost

  A Strange Occurrence

  The Ghosts of Kilronan

  Flowers and Butterflies

  Happy Hallowe’en

  A Dog Needs His Walk

  Back for Him

  Rachel and the Beast

  The Trial of Gerald Blake

  Always April

  The Gift

  Under Isis

  Superheroes

  Number Eight

  The Museum of Fabulous Monsters

  Demosthenes

  Just One Dear Friend

  Thick as Thieves

  Alice and I

  Legend

  The Magic of Seagulls (As if in her Shadow)

  The Corpse

  In Lepșa

  The Twin

  That Difficult Age

  Echoes of Chronus

  Dreams and Maybe Hallucinations

  Chinese Whispers

  Fire and Flames

  Let the Rats Feast

  To Fish and Reminisce

  The Case of the Reverend Taplow

  The Red Plains of Vígríðr

  Terminus

  The Angry Ghost

  Scene 1: Before an Open Fire

  From my wheelchair, I stared into the flames of the open hearth before me and listened to the angry and persistent storm outside, as I waited for the other members of the Ghost Club to arrive.

  I was not generally an impatient man, but I was so excited about the story I wished to tell.

  In my distraction, I looked over at the door of the adjoining room and then pictures of flowers that adorned the walls and mantelpiece – I had always held an interest in botany – before once again returning my gaze to the door I had just looked upon.

  Raising my hand, I grasped the corner of my lapel and looked down at a small yellow flower sitting in my buttonhole.

  I didn’t want to lose it.

  My gaze finally returned again to the hearth and I picked up a poker to stir the embers. But as I leaned forward, I felt a trickle of water from my wet cuff move along my wrist and onto the poker. I quickly stopped for fear of putting out the fire.

  Despite my attire being what could be described quite accurately as drenched, I felt comfortable.

  I listened to the rain thrashing at the windows.

  Then there came the knock on the door announcing the arrival of my friends.

  “It’s open!” I shouted.

  The door opened and my guests practically fell over each other in their haste to leave the stormy night behind.

  They removed their wet coats and progressed to my room.

  “Good God, man! I see you were caught in the storm too!” said a short, portly gentleman looking at me and holding his hands out to the fire. “It’s a deluge out there!”

  “Indeed it is, Maurice,” I said.

  He was closely followed by his wife, Greta.

  “Hello Greta.” I greeted a tall and oddly slim woman. I’m not sure ‘oddly’ should intrude into my narration, but I think that a very short, rotund person and a tall, thin one look odd together. Maybe it displeases my aesthetic perception of how things should be – and perhaps the ‘oddly’ remark should thereby be equally referring to Maurice.

  Then there was Dr Gatra Korpal and his wife, Nisha.

  I still cannot look at Nisha without a mild shudder. She is slim, petite and demure and though those attributes should not in any way preclude her from relating a tale of horror or unease, our expectations were such that we never believed for an instant that she might relate one that would cause poor Greta to suddenly ask for a glass of cold water – and all of us to experience several sleepless nights – with the lights on!

  She was hastily made a member of our Ghost Club.

  I suggested that my guests partake in a drink from my cabinet.

  Dr Korpal hung back. “How are you doing, Michael?… How are the legs?” he asked.

  I smiled and rubbed my thighs. “Actually, not so bad,” I said with all honesty. “And I’ve had quite some improvement in my mobility recently too. The pain has all but gone.”

  “Really?” he said with some obvious surprise and scepticism.

  I smiled some more. “It has been some years since the accident… and I’ve recently undergone a rather radical physiotherapy treatment,” I said.

  Dr Korpal looked up. “I would very much like to hear about it,” he said with intense interest.

  “At the close of this evening, I’ll explain it,” I said.

  Once in care of a glass of brandy for Maurice and Greta and an apple juice for Gatra and Nisha, they returned to the warmth of the hearth.

  Ironically, it had been my accident that had brought us together.

  Some twenty years ago, I had been in a motor accident and while in the hospital I had become sociable with the man in the next bed. We noticed we were both reading H. P. Lovecraft novels.

  His name was Maurice and by association I met Greta.

  Dr Korpal had been my physiotherapist and had shown a surprising interest to my enthusiasm in classical horror stories. He told me that both he and his wife were similarly afflicted with the interest in the genre.

  I had laughed inwardly when he had introduced his fragile and rather innocent-seeming wife but for reasons already explained, her stories were anything but fragile and before each of her stories, we would prepare ourselves mentally for the potential onslaught of horror.

  But let me return to the present.

  Scene 2: The Ghost Club

  The reason for this gathering was thus; many years ago, after realising the commonality between us in our liking for tales of the mysterious and ghostly, we decided to create the rather prosaically entitled ‘Ghost Club’, and at our gathering we would narrate a story to hopefully raise a few hairs.

 
We immodestly likened it to that marvellous conclave beside Lake Geneva in 1816 when Mary and Percy Shelley, Lord Byron, and John Polidori – among others – each created and narrated a ghost story.

  It would be presumptuous of me to intimate that we have narrated anything quite so splendid and eloquent as that that was spoken beside Lake Geneva that spring, and though I’m certain equally convivial, there never was going to be a classic akin to Frankenstein or The Vampyre to emerge from our little meetings to grace the bookcase of a library or other literary establishment of gravitas.

  Still, some stories spoken did raise the old nape hairs – especially Nisha’s.

  I had always been an advocate of the enjoyment of losing oneself in a world of creepy fiction.

  Despite my still dripping form, I snuggled myself further into my well-cushioned wheelchair by the fire and smiled as I once again looked over at the door to the adjoining room.

  Scene 3: My Tale Begins

  “Well, here we are again…” I started, “… to share tales of the macabre; stories of ghostly happenings and narratives of things dark and beyond the grave.”

  I gazed into the burning embers. “I am very excited about my own story and hope for your indulgence in requesting that I be the first in narrating my tale.”

  I was answered with nods of accord as I continued to gaze at the flames licking at the wood.

  “My story is going to be a little… different from the norm…” I started, “… in that it is an actual and honest historical account and as such incorporates no fiction whatsoever; only the true events that yours truly experienced in a most recent visit to a little village in west Cornwall.”

  “A ‘real’ ghost story?” whispered Greta. “And you were actually involved?” she finished excitedly.

  “In a manner of speaking…” I said.

  “Oh, come on, Michael.” Nisha smiled. “We all know that adding the old ‘based on actual events’ phrase gives more gravity and depth to the tale.”

  “Indeed it does, Nisha, but in this case, I will not add anything to give my tale gravity or embellishments, for I feel none is needed.”

  “I hope,” I continued, “to verbalise my thoughts and experiences so that you might become closer to my tale and appreciate what occurred in my visit.

  What prompted me to leave the grey skies of London was an article in a journal. It alluded to various parts of England where apparently actual ghost-sightings had occurred; and I thought it an excellent opportunity to immerse myself in the environment and atmosphere of a supposed ghostly sighting.

  I might contribute better – I thought – to the creation of a story and my telling of the tales by the infusion of greater authenticity.”

  The others nodded sagely but for Dr Korpal. “That sounds like quite an undertaking for someone in a wheelchair…” he said with concern.

  “Indeed,” I said, “but – despite some pain – I feel I took part and concluded my visit successfully. You will agree that my incapacity has never held me back.”

  Maurice nodded. “You are not joking! I remember when you heard of some flower being seen in some field in the middle of nowhere. How you wheeled your chair across that muddy meadow to see it, I don’t know!”

  “Some flower!” I said with feigned pain. “It was a Pulsatilla vulgaris.”

  “Mmm, whatever… it just looked like another flower to me – though it was rather pretty.”

  “Speaking of which…” interjected Greta, “… that’s a very pretty little thing you have in your lapel.”

  “Indeed it is,” I said, looking down at it longer than I intended, before once again looking over at the door to the adjoining room. “It’s called Potentilla canadensis.

  Anyway,” I started, “to get back to my tale; though I was to visit an apparently haunted village to expand my imagination, I would never have thought in a million years that I would actually see … a ghost.”

  Maurice spluttered into his brandy, “… A ghost? … You actually saw… a ghost? Like… a spectre?”

  “I don’t believe you,” smiled Nisha.

  “It’s nonsense… surely,” uttered Greta.

  “Indeed I did!” I protested, “… but I’m getting ahead of myself and wish not to give anything away prematurely.

  I will now recount in complete honesty a tale that I will call, The Angry Ghost.”

  I sensed the others getting comfortable in preparation.

  I have always felt that there is something inherent in all of us, whether we are a child snuggled up in bed, peering with frightened and yet expectant eyes over the top of a tightly gripped bedsheet, and listening to a Grimm tale; or an adult sitting in his favourite armchair – or wheelchair – in front of a blazing hearth as the thunder and lightning crashes down outside (as it was doing in copious amounts at this very moment),, that we like to hear something scary or mildly disturbing…

  But ultimately, the storyteller weaves his tale of dark possibilities to coax out and into the light creatures that may occasionally intrude upon the living, but never encroach upon or broach the shield of safety of the listener.

  For the listener is always safe from ghosts… almost always.

  And so, I set my scene.

  Scene 4: The Lynn Leys

  After much reading of the national ghostly happenings, I decided to visit the village of Penberth in west Cornwall where – apparently – a ghost is seen. I must confess to an ulterior motive that drew me to this particular destination. A certain small yellow flower – the Potentilla canadensis – resides there.”

  “Ah,” said Maurice, “the one in your lapel?”

  “Yes…” I said.

  “Well, I researched the village briefly and found it to consist of spurious groups of farms, residences and a public house – and a large lake. I had the strong impression that Penberth had few visitors as it served no obvious consequence, located as it was off the main routes from Cornwall and the coastal destinations.

  I took the Paddington to St Ives train and a taxi to Penberth.

  I reached the Lynn Leys – the old public house – in the evening, and settled myself into a ground-floor room to better enable my disablement.

  The hour was late but the proprietor was obliging in providing me with a hot supper.

  As all the other clients had gone to bed he joined me in some conversation or maybe he was being sympathetic as I sat there in my wheelchair.

  I made a passing reference to the motor accident.

  He then asked as to the reason for my visit as it seemed that I was correct in my assumption that few people visited Penberth, and certainly it was rare for them to book rooms for several nights. ‘Penberth,’ he said, ‘was a place that people passed through or stopped off at before moving on to somewhere else.’”

  “Well actually,” I started, “I have an interest in botany and understand that the Potentilla canadensis is endemic to this part of Cornwall.”

  He stared at me blankly.

  “… It’s a small yellow flower… it’s unusual in having five petals to its flower…” I said watching the man’s eyes start to glaze over.

  Okay, here goes, I thought. “Also, I like ghost stories and read in an edition of my local journal about a ghost being seen around these parts… ‘The Angry Ghost’?”

  “Ah yes, the Angry Ghost,” the proprietor nodded.

  “Have you seen it?”

  “No. Of course, not. There’s no such thing,” he said laughing. “You’re wasting your time if ghosts are what you seek. Stick to your flowers… I’m sure they are real.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Do you know anyone who has seen it?”

  “… Well…there is an old man who swears he has seen her… on the Old Coach Road that passes this inn, and close to the lake. He says she stands there at the water’s edge – her long black hair lying fl
at to her face and shoulders – her wedding dress dripping from her drowning; and with her fists clenched as if all the hate in the world is pent up inside her…”

  Just then the door opened and a young couple wandered in. “… But it’s all nonsense and no one should tell you otherwise.”

  And with that, the proprietor excused himself to attend them.

  I finished my supper and wheeled myself to my rooms.

  Scene 5: The Old Man

  The following morning, I woke early and wheeled myself to the breakfast room and a modest breakfast.

  It was as I sipped my coffee that I noticed, over my cup, an old man standing – and swaying slightly at the doorway.

  He was staring at me.

  For distraction, I stared at the paper menu that lay on the table. He continued to glare at me for several minutes before he approached.

  Without a word – and with some difficulty due to his obvious dotage and clearly inebriated state – he pulled up a chair and sat down.

  He continued to stare at me.

  “Can I… help you?” I said looking up and trying to give the impression I had seen him for the first time.

  The old man simply stared at me, though I was certain I saw some accusatory look on his countenance.

  Then he opened his mouth, “She… waited… for you…” he slurred.

  “Erm… I’m sorry… who…?” I asked.

  “She was so beautiful…” he said before looking down at his fidgeting fingers. “You said so yourself…” He looked around and then leaned closer. I could smell alcohol and tooth decay.

  He continued with sudden enthusiasm and excitement, “… Though angry, she still waits for you. I’ve seen her… but it’s not too late… she is no longer of this world… she is no longer real… but her love is…” he finished.

  I wasn’t sure what to say but clearly, I was a victim of mistaken identity, and this guy wasn’t firing on all cylinders, though I was curious as to who he thought I was.