The Angry Ghost and Other Stories Page 2

  But just then the proprietor hove into view and lay a gentle hand on the old man’s shoulder.

  “Come on, old man,” he said gently and with feeling. “Let the man enjoy his breakfast.”

  The old man looked up at the proprietor and then once again at me before standing and – with the help of the proprietor – he shuffled to the exit.

  I watched them both conversing at the door before the old man took a final look and jabbed a finger in my direction, before leaving.

  The proprietor returned to the table. “I’m sorry about that; he’s a confused old man.”

  I nodded feeling a little shaken as I looked at the exit door.

  “He said…” I started, “… someone was waiting for me… and she was so beautiful… and no longer of this world. I guess this is the ‘old man’ you mentioned to me last night.”

  “Yeah…” He paused. He seemed oddly anxious.

  “It’s curious that you are seeking ghosts and within hours of your arrival, the old man speaks to you. It is his daughter that haunts the lake… apparently; and for the past – God knows how many years – he has lived inside a whisky bottle.”

  “Oh dear. What happened to her? You said she drowned… but the circumstances?” I asked intrigued and not a little excited. I felt I was within my very own ghost story.

  The proprietor paused before taking a deep breath and sitting down.

  Scene 6: Layla

  Her name was Layla and the story goes that some years ago, a man came to the village. He clearly had base desires on the girl for despite a great show of love, a deep romance and intention of marriage, he abandoned her – but not before he took her money.

  He had made promises to return for the wedding and pay her back then.

  It never happened.

  On her wedding day, he did not appear. She waited four days and nights – still in her wedding dress – never thinking for a moment that her man may not return. All had been taken in by his seemingly sincere persona though some had sensed something too good to be true about him.

  She ignored others’ words of sense and better judgement, for she felt certain that his words of affection were real; his professed love, genuine.

  Finally, she realised the truth; she was devastated and heartbroken; he had never loved her, for if he had, he would never have abandoned and humiliated her so.

  There was not so much as a letter or phone call.

  She was last seen – still in her wedding dress and fists clenched – walking into the lake.”

  “Until now?” I said.

  “Well, to be perfectly honest, no one around here has seen her – except her father, and the liquor he has imbibed over the years would qualify him to see St Peter himself!”

  “I guess,” I started, “he can’t put it to rest.”

  “Well, he says that since then, each year and on the anniversary of her wedding, for the four nights she waited, she appears beside the lake once again awaiting her man. But I really think the old man’s grey cells dried up long ago. It’s nothing but nonsense…”

  I looked up as the proprietor continued,

  “It is said that her ghost waits at the water’s edge, as she waits for her suitor to return, her hands still clenched in anger, her hair and wedding dress dripping from the drowning.”

  I was intrigued. “I don’t believe in ghosts but enjoy tales of them,” I said.

  He shrugged his shoulders but paused for a while. “I don’t… believe in ghosts either but…”

  He looked very awkward for a moment.

  I paused to give him some time to think before saying, “You have seen her too… haven’t you?” I pressed gently.

  He stared at me for a while before answering, “… Maybe… It was late and I was putting out the evening’s rubbish when I would swear I saw… something… glowing beside the lake; I would swear it was a woman but… it was late and I was tired.”

  “When was this?” I asked.

  “Last night.”

  “Do you always put out the rubbish at the same time each evening?” I asked.

  “Indeed, and I’ve never seen her… it… before,” he said quietly.

  “So, she has three more nights left.”

  He looked up. “You’re really going with this, aren’t you?”

  “As I said, I love a ghost story,” I said smiling.

  The proprietor looked embarrassed.

  “Of course,” I said trying to put the proprietor at rest, “I see you as an educated man not to be frightened by shadows and shades… and though some things cannot be explained, it doesn’t mean that they were not seen,” I said.

  He moved close and in a more conspiratorial tone he said softly, “The old man says she stands there at night when the lake’s mist drifts over the Coach Road, her long black hair plastered to her head and her white wedding dress sodden. I thought him crazy but after what I saw last night…”

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t suppose he – and you – may have been… fooled?” I said with some delicacy. “I mean, it would be easy for someone to dress up in a wedding dress and with a bit of make-up imitate the ghost of the woman.”

  “But for what purpose?”

  “Maybe a jape or prank?” I said.

  He shook his head and leaned closer. “But to what benefit? It would indeed be a cruel thing to do that to the old man considering his tremendous loss, and I can honestly say that no one hereabouts would have such a notion. Despite his… ways… he’s a respected gentleman in Penberth.”

  It now occurred to me how interesting it might be if I could track down the man who reneged on his promise – and took her money. I was certainly gaining a distinct dislike for the fellow.

  “Do you know anything about the man that left?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t remember his name or much else I’m afraid. The old man may remember more. He spent some time with him and thought him a most amiable fellow. Which is why it hit him so hard when he realised he – as well as his daughter – had been so taken in by him.”

  “Sounds like a complete bastard!” I said feeling suddenly quite hot as I thought of how this man had clearly insinuated himself into the woman’s desires, only to take off once they were met; and as for taking her money too!

  “I’d like to wring his neck!” I said, feeling incensed. “Maybe,” I continued, “it was her money he was after from the beginning, and to leave the poor woman standing there holding tightly onto her yellow flowers…” I finished my diatribe, trying unsuccessfully to regain some composure.

  “I… I don’t know that she was holding any yellow flowers… what makes you say that?”

  I looked up. “What?… oh, the old man must have mentioned it earlier…”

  He smiled, “Ah, that must be it,” he said.

  “There’s nothing else you remember?” I said disappointed.

  “He was apparently average height, light-brown hair and unremarkable. I believe he would have been in his late twenties, so late forties now… oh!”

  “Yes; what is it?”

  The proprietor wrinkled his already wrinkled forehead. “Good Lord! I’ve just remembered; I’ve heard tell of a tattoo… on his upper right arm.”

  “A tattoo?” I said.

  “Yes; it was of a… hound… I think…”

  I nodded, “Okay…”

  Scene 7: A Dream

  That night, despite my tiredness, it took a while for me to fall asleep. The talk of the ghost and the hound tattoo crept into and encroached onto my subconsciousness – more so than I would have believed – and the humidity and absence of any movement of air only made it all the closer and claustrophobic.

  I was also concerned about the mention of the yellow flowers. I knew that the old man had made no comment of any ‘yellow flowers�
� so where did I get it from?

  I knew I was keen to find specimens of the yellow flower Potentilla canadensis, but it was certainly odd to somehow insinuate it into my current ghost-hunting theme – while conscious.

  When finally I found myself succumbing to the arms of Morpheus, I found myself clearly affected by my present discussions.

  I dreamed of a lady with large, dark eyes and midnight hair. We were beside a lake and I looked down to find she was holding a small yellow flower.

  For some reason, I wanted that flower – and she knew it – so I began to chase her, but she retreated, facing me with her hands behind her back.

  “You will not have this until we are wed,” she said smiling and laughing.

  “But I want it for my collection,” I said with unconvincing seriousness and menace.

  “Then you must catch me,” she replied, trying to emulate my serious tone through her laughter.

  “I could – of course – simply pick another one,” I said to the retreating lady.

  “But it won’t be this one – the one I picked for you.”

  “Very well,” I said. But each time I tried to get to the hand that grasped the flower, she would twist out of reach and I was confronted with a smile of such radiance and allure… and ruby lips.

  I smiled and was so happy… for I was in love.

  I spoke passionately though knew not what I was saying, and I was answered with a light intonation, though I felt, rather than heard, her words. She leaned closer and tilted her head before kissing my lips.

  Then the dream began to fade and I felt a familiar wrench inside of such a great loss. I awoke and she was gone and perhaps never was, but in my mind and heart, she had existed, and I so wished – as often happens in dreams – she would again…

  I sat up into the unforgiving light of day and wiped away tears.

  I would swear that there was a floral fragrance in the air.

  Though the hour was early, I had the sudden urge to escape my rooms. I dressed and after heaving myself – with pain – into my wheelchair, I left the Lynn Leys.

  Scene 8: The Ghost

  As happens, the dream became distant and less distressing to the point that once awake, you wonder why it had affected you so. Dreams can seem so real but once the gentle subconscious is subdued and otherwise beaten by the stronger conscious, another, more hardened perspective materialises, though – I felt in this case – not always for the better. I so felt I loved my dream lady and was devastated by my loss.

  I reached into my jacket pocket and removed an old picture from my wallet. It depicted a lady with dark eyes and long black hair. I did not know who she was or where the picture came from but it was clearly obvious that the picture was encroaching into my subconscious. I guessed that the picture and the ghost scenario were affecting me more than I would have thought.

  I looked – as I had done so many times – at the large, dark eyes and long midnight hair. She was smiling and seemed so happy. I had shown the picture to all my friends and acquaintances, but none could help me.

  Pulling the inn door closed behind me I turned and wheeled myself towards the dark road.

  And that was when I saw her.

  I sat unbelieving and unable to move – my hands floating above my wheels. She stood on the far side of the road with the lake behind her.

  There was a soft incandescence about her. She was looking directly at me and though her fists appeared clenched, she was smiling – and oh, what a smile; the most hardened heart would soften and their countenance melt from her beauty. Despite the lack of any rain, I could see her black hair plastered to her face and neck.

  I tried to hold on to a fragile rationality that this was not entirely possible – for otherwise I must entertain the possibility of some insanity. Not only was it what appeared to be an apparition, but it was the lady in my dream – and my photograph.

  I stared – how could it be? Was I hallucinating the lady in my photograph? Perhaps there was still some residual afterimage going on in my brain from my earlier dream, or perhaps I simply yearned for an answer to my unnamed dream lady in my wallet.

  Then she spoke and despite the distance, I heard her soft cadence:

  “I knew my waiting was not for nothing,” she said. “I was so certain that you would return to me … I told them that you loved me but they didn’t believe me. I knew they were wrong…”

  I said nothing. This could not be real; maybe I had not woken – yes; that made the most sense.

  I looked down at my legs which were aching like the Devil. She didn’t seem to notice my incapacity.

  I paused to carefully choose my words.

  “You are… familiar… to me and yet… my memory knows you not…” I whispered confused.

  Her eyes sparkled as if from an inner fire as she tilted her head to one side.

  “Why do you not remember me?… I am your betrothed… my love,” she said, though her hands were still clenched tightly at her side.

  She – like her father – clearly thought I was someone else, but her allure made me want to simply go with it.

  She was so goddamn beautiful.

  I began to push my wheels and awkwardly crossed the road towards her.

  I feared that she would laugh and run away; an actress having some fun on a naive, disabled and lonely middle-aged man, and so was surprised to see her still standing there.

  Without conscious thought, I reached for her hand and just for a moment I touched her fingertips; how could that be if she were a ghost?

  But any doubt I had as to her probable materialistic form – or lack of – was soon dispelled for suddenly she receded. She didn’t disappear or walk away but appeared to ‘diminish’. But before she did she whispered almost sadly, “Your memory is… unforgiving, my love.”

  I must have stared after her and the dark and silent lake for an hour or so before I turned my wheelchair around and returned to the Lynn Leys and my rooms.

  Though I felt so tired, I sat close to the window and stared out at the dark lake until the dawn broke.

  As I looked out into the darkness and listened to the water lapping against the bank, I dwelled on two things; another feeling of immeasurable loss… and ghosts really do exist.

  Scene 9: The Old Man 2

  The following morning, I could not lose the image of the smiling face, the ruby lips, or the large, dark eyes from my mind.

  Despite having had her picture in my wallet for such a long time, I was amazed how the seemingly ‘real thing’ affected me. My dreams gave me the feeling of actually knowing her. But then with my need to seek a solution to the brunette in my dreams maybe I was starting to believe that I was simply wanting to think that any pretty brunette was her – even a dead one.

  I was starting to wonder what was real and what was not. Did my accident affect me mentally as well as physically? I had now seen the girl in my dreams and in reality – if a ghost can be regarded as ‘in reality’.

  Was it real or was I afflicted by something as a consequence of my accident?

  At breakfast, I sat despondent, staring down at my coffee. I did not feel like I wanted to eat and the pain in my legs was unusually acute.

  I so wanted it to go away.

  I looked up at the proprietor. I was so distracted that I was unaware that he had been talking to me.

  “I’m sorry…?” I said looking up.

  “I was just saying that you don’t look like you had a good night’s sleep,” he said.

  I was so tired, and so without preamble I said wearily, “I saw her… earlier this morning… beside the lake.”

  “What?” the proprietor said with a half-smile clearly trying to gauge the honesty of my statement.

  “I saw her… and what’s more, I know her,” I said, watching the coffee swirling in my cup.

  “I
’m sure that’s not possible,” he said smiling insincerely.

  My eyes left the mug and locked onto those of the proprietor. I was tired and wasn’t up for gentle chit-chat.

  “I know her,” I said quietly as I raised the right sleeve of my shirt to reveal a tattoo of a wolf.

  “Jesus! …” he nodded awkwardly before backing off quickly to the kitchen.

  Moments later I left the inn and noticed the old man across the street standing as if waiting for me. He looked both agitated and sadly pathetic as he gripped his whisky bottle.

  I wheeled myself over to him.

  “Hello… sir… you spoke to me yesterday,” I started. “Though I have no wish for you to revisit the agony of loss, could you tell me more about your daughter?”

  He stared around for a few moments before shaking his head, and I wondered if he was indeed not completely compos mentis. But then, “Why? You seem a pleasant chap and so not the man I thought you were; but it was a long time ago and my memory is not… forgiving,” he said.

  I blinked, ‘not forgiving’ had curiously cropped up quite recently.

  Very slowly I reached into my breast pocket and brought out the old polaroid photograph. I stared at it for several moments before passing it over. It meant something and now I was beginning to understand just what.

  I showed it to him.

  He looked at it for a long time before he actually started to cry. “My Layla… it was you… how could you take her money and leave like that!”

  He moved forward and stood impotently in front of me, his hands clenched. At least he was sane enough not to strike a cripple.

  “… and why tear your face from the picture?” he said.

  “What?” I said.

  “I took this picture of the two of you a week or so before you… deserted her.”

  I shook my head and looked more closely at the edging on the picture. Sure enough, one side was rough and not quite perpendicular to the top and bottom. How had I never noticed that before?