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This little story I wrote years ago is one of my favorites,
for it reminds me of holidays my husband and I spent in Devon and Cornwall in
the early days of our marriage. I loved those dear little cottages with a
staircase hidden in the corner of a tiny living room. I so enjoyed walking
along a beach with the wind blowing a gale, or horse riding in the surrounding
countryside. But most of all I loved the ghost stories the locals enjoyed
regaling us with.
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| The Blue Ball Inn |
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| A typical Cornish Cottage |
We spent quite a few holidays in Lynton/Lynmouth and also
stayed at a farmhouse owned by friends. All I recall is that we drove past the
Blue Ball Inn on Countisbury Hill (an old coaching inn), which still thrives,
to reach it set in a vale. I saw one of my first ghosts in the bedroom of that
farmhouse while my husband slept blissfully at my side. I loved the landscape that
inspired R.D. Blackmore’s Lorna Doone. I had one of the first editions of the
book, so small I could barely read it, but unfortunately it has been lost
somewhere along the way.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/devon/outdoors/walks/lorna_doone.shtml
I hope you enjoy this small tale. It’s far from the romance I
usually write. And I would love to hear from you if you know any of the places
above or are lucky enough to live in that area.
The Ghost
On this gusty windswept day, the trees along the shore
bowed in the southerly blowing in off the ocean. Mavis strode along the sands,
pausing now and then to pick up a shell that caught her eye. At 84 Mavis didn't
look her age, for she was spritely, always on the move. "No time to
dawdle," she claimed.
Mavis enjoyed her single state. Jilted
years ago by a salesman passing through who offered her marriage before
skipping off, and taking her savings with him, she chose to be a spinster.
Mavis’s coat was the black one she'd worn for her mother's funeral twenty years
ago to this day.
"Evening Vicar," she said
to the tall man who stopped and raised his hat in greeting. "Bit blowy
today, eh?" The parish priest was one of the only two men in town she ever
deigned to pass the time of day with. The doctor was the other one. They were
fun to argue with.
"Have to expect it now Mavis,
with winter on us." He smiled benevolently.
Mavis pushed the hair escaping from
her bun out of her eyes, and grinned. "Best time of the year. No tourists.
Darned tourists are enough to make you sick." She waved a bony hand,
grimacing. She hated the streams of visitors who flocked to their little
Cornish town every summer.
"If it wasn't for them the town
would be in poor shape, Mavis. We need them to keep our heads above
water," he said wryly.
"Make an awful mess and chase
the wildlife away, and drive about like lunatics," she told him in
disdain. "Must be off, lots to do." She gave him a wave and marched
on along the sands. The wind grew stronger, blowing grains into her eyes. She
squinted and scowled at a group of local children running her way.
"Here comes the old
witch," she heard one of them say, and she laughed to herself. Good. If
they thought her a witch they'd keep well away from her.
"Snips and snaps and frogs and
old bones," she wailed, turning off into the bushes that shielded the main
street from the sea. The branches of the smaller trees were bent low and one
caught her on the cheek as she ducked under it.
"How d'ya know she's a witch?"
one child asked, as Mavis leaned against the trunk of a gnarled tree to catch
her breath.
"She's got a mole on her face
with hairs sticking out of it, and a pointed nose, like the witch in the Wizard
of Oz. And did you ever look at her eyes? They're like rat's eyes—all beady and
glassy. Of course she's a witch."
Mavis cackled and pulled a butterscotch
out of her pocket, popping it into her mouth as she made her way home to her
cottage on the outskirts of town. With its four rooms, two up and two down, it
was a bit cramped while her mother and father were alive, but now she was on
her own it suited her nicely.
After hanging her coat on the hall-stand she went to the tiny kitchen off the living room and put the kettle
on. It was getting dark. She shivered. That was the only trouble with winter.
It was coming up to the time she dreaded. The time when the ghost was reportedly
seen walking the streets, seeking revenge.
She made her tea and sat with a
contented sigh on the armchair by the fire, poking at the coals until she got
it glowing nicely. A loud thump brought her out of the chair with such a start
that she knocked her cup of tea over. "What in heaven was that?" she
whispered, brandishing the poker as she moved to stand at the base of the
narrow enclosed staircase in a corner of the room. Another loud bump was
followed by a strange sliding noise. The hairs all over Mavis's body stood to
attention.
"Who's there?" Despite
trying to sound fierce, she only managed to sound as scared as she felt.
"Come on down and show yourself," she ordered, pulling the edges of
her old cardigan together as if it would give her protection.
She heard a low moan and cringed
back in fear. "Come on down this minute." She took a few paces back,
when the top stair creaked as it always did when someone stepped on it. Her
teeth began to knock together and her knees shook.
Whoever was up there was coming down. She counted the
stairs. One two three... right up to twelve, but still no one showed their face.
Mavis bit back a scream as she moved slowly forward. Peering round the edge of
the wall encasing the stairs, she prodded with her poker.
"Ouch," a voice close by
said, and Mavis jumped a foot in the air, then raced to the far side of the
room to hide behind the sofa, every inch of her shaking. The wind knocked at
the windows and howled down the chimney, sending sparks from the fire onto the
bricks in front of it.
"Where are you?" she
moaned like a frightened child. "What sort of trick are you playing?"
"No trick madam." The
voice came from the other side of her sofa. Mavis peered over the top. The sofa
was empty, but one of the cushions moved slightly and then a dent appeared in
its middle. "I'm sorry if I scared you, but I was looking for my ring. I
lost it last winter as I was passing through, and I thought I may have left it
here."
"Here?" Mavis squeaked.
What was she doing talking to nothing?
"Yes, I've been staying here
for the last hundred years or so on my way up north. Nice lodgings you have
here."
"Lodgings?" She bristled
indignantly. "What are you doing coming into my home like this and
thinking you can stay when you feel like it." Holding the poker in front
of her defensively she walked round to the front of the sofa and began to wave
it about.
"Careful where you put that,
madam," the voice warned. "I died by the sword, so I don't wish to be
marked again by a poker." The voice guffawed and Mavis couldn't believe
her ears.
"I don't believe this,"
she declared, sure it was all her imagination playing tricks. "If you were
a real ghost I'd be able to see you." She reached forward with a hand and
moved it about where she estimated the voice came from.
"You wouldn't want to do that
madam, believe me. I'm not a pretty sight. Who would be after the death I went
through? At least I haven't got to carry my head around like some I know, for
they didn't chop it off." He laughed again, quite cheerfully.
"They? Who's they?" Mavis
was interested, in spite of herself.
"The King's guards. I was a
trader. Pirate, I believe you call it these days. Oh what fun we had, smuggling
in wine and perfume and fine silks and goods. I was betrayed by a woman. One I
thought cared." He sighed long and sadly, then cheered up as he declared,
"I'll show you where my stuff is all cached away if you like."
Mavis sat beside the dent in the
cushion, intrigued now. "How can you show me if I can't see you. I can
hardly follow you, can I?"
"Why ever not, madam. Come
follow my voice." The cushion moved and then the voice said from somewhere
near the door, "Let's go, follow me up to the large cave near the castle
wall and I'll show you a way into the secret cellars."
Without thought, Mavis did as he
bade.
* * *
They found her next morning, sitting in the cave where
the ghost was said to haunt each mid-winter. Her eyes were unseeing, her
clothes soaked by sea water, and her mind gone.
"So sad," said the vicar.
"It's not like Mavis to go out without a coat at this time of the year."
There were scratches on her hands
and her nails were all broken. They found marks on the back wall of the cave as
if someone had tried to claw their way through. On the third finger of her left
hand was a huge emerald set in a thick gold band. Mavis smiled as she touched
it when they gently carried her away.
