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Ascriber / Writers Eyes Workshop - 12
Ghosts
Skip the Workshop take me straight to the submissions
We all like a ghost story this time of the year and that is what this workshop is all about.
Have you seen a ghost? Do you believe in them or are they just a figment of a warped imagination?
Story writers,
whatever you think, we want a really imaginative piece of writing from you.
So what sort of angle are you going to take?
Is it the ghost of a young or old person? Male or female?
Where is it set? An old castle, house country lane or modern residential
estate? It might be on a train or even in your car.
Who is the central character? It could even be the ghost.
When is it set? Night or day, in the present, in the past or in the future?
We hope that has given you some ideas, so a short story please of less than 2500 words.
Article Writers , we want an article based on either of the following:
Have you seen a Ghost? Do you believe in them or not?
Research your area. Are there any haunted houses or tales of haunting in your area? A factual account please.
Research ghost stories. A number of well known writers have written ghost stories or included ghosts in their stories. Who are they and are there any similarities between the ghosts.
Limitation: Up to 2000 words please.
And last but certainly not least. Poets
Write a poem about a ghost or ghost? It can be any style and any genre, we
don’t even mind if you send in a Limerick in fact to start you off we’ve
included one ourselves.
Perhaps it is a poem of ones own imagination or feelings of guilt.
So a poem of no more than 50 lines please.
And our offering to help get those minds working:
An aspiring young author named Ben
said I never move my own pen,
for to make my work lighter
I've got a ghost writer
and by ouiji it does it its sen
So there you are, e-mail your submissions to our writing group submissions address and we don't mind if you attempt both prose or poetry.
Submissions are from:
The Contact by Steve Britain
(Short Story)
Delayed Exposure by John Williams
(Short Story)
A Need for Light by Jonathon Nessler
(Short Story)
A Strange Reunion by John Ryley (Short Story)
Our Village Voices by John Williams (Short Story)
The Truth about Ghosts by Dorothy Spry
(Article)
Unhapy House of Memories by Vivienne Allen
(Poem)
Prose Submissions
Steve Britain
The Contact
Sudden death, life extinguished as a candle flame caught in an unexpected
draught. The body lifeless on the carpet. Then the emptiness and the
questioning, why should this happen to me?
by
The funeral, a dull day with old family standing by the open grave. They all looked sombre now but some had been laughing minutes before and would be laughing again in a few minutes time. She knew, she'd seen them. How could they be so callous, she couldn't laugh, she didn't think she'd ever laugh again. She'd lost him.
The coffin hit the rough floor and the first handful of stones and dirt fell against the top, echoing and dislodging some of the flowers. "Please be more careful, don't knock them off, for his sake."
She looked around her, it was surprising how many had come, so many friends and relations that she hadn't seen for years. She somehow felt less lonely. It was then that she saw again that old school friend of so long ago, leaning against a memorial slab only yards away from the open grave. What was her name. Something fanciful, she was sure of that. The woman gave a wide, open smile, a smile that showed both love and tenderness, nobody else had seemed to notice. The mourners were now leaving and she turned to go with them, an old aunt comforting, an arm around her shoulder.
"You're with friends now Rose," the old lady said. "I know just how you feel, It always comes hard."
Rose looked back for her old friend, Annabelle, that was her name. She'd gone, the slab where she'd been standing was deserted. "Damn," she thought. "She really seemed sympathetic, not like all of these." She looked at the faces around her, ghouls every one. No one really cared. She bit hard to stop it but the tears had to come. For the first time since that day she sobbed.
Her aunt pulled her over to her body, sideways, uncomfortable. "Now, now dear. It'll be alright. just you see."
It must have been six months later, a sunny summer day, she was sitting on the grass by the grave. It was now trim with a neat border of small plants, regimented in rows, the way she remembered Bill had always liked to see them. Not like her, jumbled up, a mass of differing colour. A sudden movement caught her eye, a figure walking past.
"Annabelle!"
The woman looked over, that smile as ready as before. "Rose, at last. I've tried so hard to find you, but it's so difficult to get about now, I had a car accident you know."
"Yes I heard, I'm sorry." It somehow sounded empty. "Thank you for coming to the funeral. It was very kind."
"Darling, I wanted to." She kissed her briefly on the cheek.
Rose had forgotten how Annabelle had always called her darling. "I wanted to thank you that day but you'd disappeared."
"I thought you'd rather be with your family, darling. After all it's twenty years since I left."
"But we always got on so well together and you looked so understanding."
"Well I'm here now and we've a lot to talk about haven't we. Are you getting used to it yet?"
"I thought so, but I do miss him."
"I know just how you feel, I still miss my Tom even after all these years. I even tried to get in touch. You know," she looked a little embarrassed. "With a medium."
"Did it work." Rose blurted out the words quickly, almost impatiently.
"I, I'm not sure darling. I think so."
"What do you mean?"
"There was somebody else by this time and it might've made things difficult. At least that's what Mrs. Dunnelli said."
"Mrs. Dunnelli, who's she?"
"She was the medium darling, at least that's what she said." She thought for a few moments then, "I say, do you remember Doreen Masgood, that was. She said Mrs. Dunnelli helped her find her hubby. She said she felt a lot better about things after."
"Would she help me?" Rose said it hurriedly as if frightened she might change her mind.
"I expect so darling, providing you don't expect too much. After all it's a long way between here and the other side."
"Will you ask her for me?"
"I'll try, I'll be going her way later. I'll see if she's in."
"But how shall I know?"
"Don't worry darling, I'll do my best. Just be here tomorrow about this time and we'll see."
It was an old lady that came down the path towards her, her long black dress and white bonnet reminded Rose so much of a character from a Charles Dickens novel that she found it difficult to keep a straight face.
"Are you Rose, m'dear?"
Oh gosh she was speaking to her. "Yes," a thought. "Are you Mrs...."
"Dunnelli." The old woman finished for her. "Yes m'dear." She leant forward, resting her weight on the gnarled stick in her hand. "Annabelle said you wanted my help." She looked about her almost furtively, as though frightened she might be overheard. "Now my dear, what me to do for you?"
"I want to talk to Bill, I had so much to tell him... It was so sudden."
"I presume Bill was your husband?"
Rose nodded, "It happened six months ago, there was no warning, nothing. We didn't even have chance to say goodbye."
"I'm sure I can help but there are certain things that must be done first and it may take a little time, spirit guides need a few favours you know, they're not always as helpful as they might be. They can even turn nasty at times."
"I'll do anything.."
"I expect you will but that's not the way. I'll contact you when everything is ready."
"How?" Rose started.
"You'll see m'dear, you'll see." The old lady turned away and hobbled back along the path.
"Wait. Oh please wait, you haven't told me when." Rose cried after her.
There was no reply, just the stick lifted skywards and shaken slightly.
For the next week, Rose regularly attended the grave side, waiting, praying for the old lady to return. There was no sign. Annabelle told her to be patient, that it could be months before everything was arranged but how could she possibly wait that long.
The signs of autumn had appeared, birds were congregating in readiness for their long migration. She remembered how she and Bill had always watched them as they gathered around their little cottage. Filling the trees and spilling over onto the telegraph wires until with some secret signal, they took to the sky in one enormous cloud, disappearing southward.
Then it happened. It was evening, the first frost of winter had formed across the grass and crunched underfoot as Rose visited the grave side. She didn't even know what had made her come up here tonight. She would normally have stayed in, another quiet evening. Something clamped hard on her shoulder. A hand, forcing her forward.
"Who is it!" Then she screamed a tight strangled sound.
There was no answer, just a directing pressure.
"Help me!" Her voice was so distorted with fear she couldn't recognise it.
"Quiet," the sound rasped, almost inhuman, "Mrs. Dunnelli wants you."
Clammy things brushed her face, an icy cold blast of wind chilled right through her, a tremendous force pushed her forward. She tried to fight it but it was too strong and she felt her whole body go limp. A low glimmer of light, then..
"You came then m'dear."
"Thank God, it is you. Where am I?"
"You wanted to speak to your husband. He's here m'dear."
"Where? I can't see him."
"You will, just wait till your eyes get used to the gloom."
She felt the old lady pushing her forward, her long fingers gripping and squeezing her shoulders till it hurt. A table took shape, four or five huddled figures sat around it, then a head turned. Bill, his hands pressing firmly down and a sad but jubilant look on his face.
Comments will be displayed here
I've enjoyed this very much - quite scary as well. I read it several times and on each occasion it conjures up some aspect I missed previously.
John Williams
John Williams
Delayed Exposure
'It's our Sunday school picture. Can't you tell by the way we are dressed
in our Sunday clothes, all smart and washed for the occasion?'
by
Maggie was furious to think that this stranger had mistaken a perfectly innocent picture of her Sunday school class for that of a Reform school.
'Where are you from then?' Maggie asked, very annoyed with the man. He had stopped her, and on a Sunday, and asked to see the picture she was taking home to show her mother. The cheek she thought, but what do you expect from these summer visitors. He wasn't even dressed for Chapel, with trousers tucked into long woollen stockings to his knees with little tabs of red flannel peering out on each leg. A 'looking both ways hat' of Harris Tweed, on his head with a string bow on top. He carried a shepherds crook though he, probably, had only seen sheep from the train; my God he looks silly she thought. Shame about his eye, he wore a monocle which hung on a long narrow silk string around his neck, which he kept adjusting on to his right eye. Probably lost the other in Flanders where my father lost his leg.
'I'm from England,' he replied, 'have you ever been to England at all?'
'Is that the other side of London, where the king lives? '
He did not to pursue the matter. He pointed to the picture and asked, 'Can you
tell me about these friends of yours in the picture?'
'Look,' she said, after some thought and still a little upset, 'that's our Minister in the front row. Does he not look Holy and good, shame about his trouser front being open. He is only human after all. Fair play for God's sake. Not at all like the one before him, he used to fondle all the girls. Said it was natural and Christian to suffer little children to come to him. He was promoted and is now a prison padre, they say, in Liverpool.'
'Exactly where are you in this picture my dear, can you show me?' he smiled at her.'
'That's me standing in the second row behind the Sunday school Superintendent. A good man - buried three weeks ago he was.'
'Poor chap, I am sorry.'
'Yes, a shame really, that's what happens when you try to help people – his heart - he overdid it with Mrs Evans River View, I heard my Mam say. He used to give her singing lessons in preparation for the chapel Eisteddfod. Some say, he failed to develop her breathing as he would have wished, and lost the will to live, being a professional. She has other talents, that's what people say.'
'I'm sure she has' he replied.
He stared at the picture for a while and then pointing to a rather attractive
blonde, he asked,
'And is this lady here?'
'That is Mrs Davies the ministers' wife, a lovely woman.'
'What do you know of her my dear?'
'I can only tell you what I've heard.'
'Of course.'
She lowered her voice conspiratorially and said, 'The Reverend left it a bit late to get wed; he's over twenty years older than her. He married on impulse, he said, after he had stayed at Mrs Davies's home one Sunday. He had been invited to preach at her place of worship. The moment he saw Mrs. Davies he received the call. It's not clear who it was that called but Mrs Davies' mother is suspect. It was not long afterwards they were married. The woman next door said there is a problem, what sort of problem I have no idea and no one will tell me. It is because of her problem that Mrs Davies has become our village redeemer.'
'Really?'
'Yes. When she addressed the Womens' Guild she told them that her one great ambition was to become a truly Welsh Christian woman and to be a shining example to us all. A lot of good it will do the poor woman in this village; we are all sinners thank God. Just imagine living day in and day out as a saint, God it must be awful. Do you know - I heard her pray once; it was last summer, her kitchen window was open. I'll tell you.' He was going to protest but decided against.
'Lord,' she shouted, 'can you help me please? I have tried my best to be a good Welsh Christian woman. I'm devout in chapel; I am shrewd in the market place; why am I denied the third great attribute, the chance to be frantic in bed? Many a good woman would settle for two out of three Lord, but does it have to be the first two? I am your obedient servant in great anticipation. P.S. I have signed the pledge.'
'When I told my Mam, what I had heard, she said the price of purity was high, and I should take heed.' He coughed with embarrassment.
She continued, 'The Good Lord was listening, oh yes, he never lets his faithful servants down in case they turn to the Church of England. The Lord sent the angel Gabriel disguised as a policeman, the crafty devil. He called, when the Reverend was out, on the pretence he was investigating something or other. They got talking and as he had plenty of time on his hands he introduced Mrs Davies to the unspeakable joys of heaven. Mrs. Davies is now euphoric, Mam says, whatever that means.
I heard her shout, “Hallelujah! The ways of the Lord are truly wonderful; I am now a truly Welsh Christian woman.” The Reverend was over-joyed, he fell on his knees and gave thanks to the Lord. The village W.I., not to be out-done, gave praise, their voices rising to a crescendo, as they sang 'Jerusalem'. Their lady chairman carried away with emotion, tears pouring down her cheeks, shouted.'
'One of us in this Branch is saved unto the Lord. Yes! Those feet are still walking in this green and pleasant land. This is our road to Damascus. Praise the Lord.'
'What happened then?'
'We had a religious revival, it's a funny world.'
Turning to Maggie and still clutching her sepia photograph he said,
'I must not keep you, I'm sure your mother will be wondering where you are. Before you go however, who is that lad on the end of the first row?'
'That's the boy who ran away to London; no one knows where he is now. He was called Tomos.' She looked up at the stranger and to her surprise tears streamed down his cheeks.
He stood motionless his mind in another world.
'Tomos Hughes, is it? I'm glad to see you after all these years,' an old
childhood friend had recognised him and was moving forward to take him, warmly,
by the hand.
Startled he looked around him, Maggie and her sepia picture had disappeared.
He turned to his old friend and asked, 'Did you see that girl with the
photograph?'
'You must have met Maggie; she sometimes appears on this road in the summer
months. She was run over and killed, you know, on her way from Sunday school. A
horse bolted, poor girl, it must be fifty years or more since.'
Visibly shaken and still upset by his experience he turned to an approaching
cyclist and asked, ' Have you ever seen the girl with a photograph on this road?
The man passed without even an acknowledgement.
'Don't tell me he was a ghost also.'
'No Tomos Huws we are, you passed away yesterday. Now come and meet the rest of your old childhood friends in the picture.
Comments
John made comments that this story wasn't in the same class as that of Steve Britain and so I passed it on to him for his comments. This is what he said. (Roger)
Excellent tale John, don't cast yourself down! It moves well and you are
'showing' the story, not telling.
Steve Britain
Jonathon Nessler
A Need for Light
by
"Why do I see things that way? Why is it if I see something that is obviously right you persist in trying to prove me wrong?" She noticed herself pleading for the answer now. "You always did think you were clever. Too clever for anything to ever harm you.
"By the way," she said, noticing she left him no time to respond. It had been a very long time since she had allowed him time to respond. "Did you remember to clip your nails? You have always been forgetful of doing so.
Tears filled her eyes as she went on. "Sometimes I still dream about us. Did you know that? I don't think about the present, though. Today isn't something I would ever want to think of, even if in a dream." Her tears began to flow freely, and she wondered if he noticed. "You know, I have heard that people can die while dreaming. That is, if they dream of falling from a cliff, and they hit the ground their mind gives up hope on life." Her mind shuttered at the ideas she was about to put into words. "Well, imagine this, if just for a moment; my most glorious dream was the flight to the top of that cliff." A smile cracked her sadness for a moment, before: "I made that same flight up every single time I closed my eyes to sleep. I dreamed of that flight until I knew it by heart; until I had flown it a million times over."
Her eyes sank into darkness as she went on. "I have given up hope on the thought of that flight now. I haven't given up like most people give up the hope of ever rich, or living forever, but instead I have given what few people give. I gave until I couldn't give anymore. I gave so much that, now, the fall is the happiest of my dreams. So now you know why I can't dream of today. It would be as if I hit the bottom as I started dreaming. My mind would finally realize how dead I already am.
The woman stood there, as though she was waiting for something. "Nothing to say for yourself? Then once again I will leave here angry. Angry at you, and everything you have done to me." Tears poured out of her eyes. She seemed to be begging. "All you need to do is ask me to stop being angry. I don't want to feel like this anymore.
Hatred filled the woman's voice. Not real hatred, but at least the mask of hatred. "I don't love you anymore, you know. I can't lie to you about never loving you, because you know that I did. But what do you know now? Nothing. You know nothing of the love I have for you. I don't need to lie anymore. You have made me so I can't even control my own emotions. I am tired of this control you have. I'll be able to change my love to hate one day, but until then, I will see you tomorrow, my one true love."
Oliver watched the young lady set her roses near the tombstone, and watched her walk away. He noticed a sadness about her, and an unexplainable darkness in her movements. He didn't wonder why she was sad, or why there seemed to be a darkness to her, after he heard her speak to her lost love, but he did notice.
As Oliver made his short walk home he thought of his own life. Everything seemed clearer somehow. He noticed for the first time that a light seemed to be shining on everything he knew, a light that had always been there, but one he had never thought to notice. Oliver found himself hoping that the light would never leave.
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A Need For Light is a good title as Oliver`s need is fulfilled. I suggest, Jonathon, that you start your story with "Oliver watched the young lady set her roses near the tombstone and walk away." Then ask the questions: Why was she sad? and so on. You need to revise the number of times you have repeated a word, e.g. noticed(3) notice(2) noticing(1). Don`t give up!
Dorothy Spry
I wish Oliver had been introduced earlier than he has in this story. I'm left a little confused over the third paragraph from the end - I feel there is contradiction here. Otherwise the story is very readable and I liked it.
John Williams
John Ryley
A Strange Reunion
by
Edward was dead, that was for sure. Hadn't I dragged him out of the sea and up the pebbly beach? My shoes and fishing clothes still bore testimony to that fact. I'd promised to meet him for our weekly fishing trip, but had been delayed by an hour, and he'd gone out by himself.
Now, two weeks later, here he was, as large as life, leaning against the bar in the "Vicar's Arms" as if nothing had happened!
Oh! There you are!" he greeted me as I hesitated in the doorway. "Come on, I've just ordered you a large whisky."
I thought to myself, I'll need a few of them before I can sort this one out. I sidled up to the bar, taking care not to come too close to him - I had never had any dealings with a ghost before!
He looked pretty substantial, much as he'd always been, big and brash, a trifle drunk, and in general just Edward.
We had buried him a week ago, a moving service it was too. The Reverend Peabody talked about Edward's love of fishing, and the way he used to help the local pensioners with their gardens (in return for beer money of course, but the vicar didn't mention that!)
Edward carried our drinks over to the inglenook window and sat down in one of the comfortable armchairs. He stared at me but said nothing for quite a while. Then he started to regale me with all his news. He said he and his ex-wife had been at the hotel they'd spent their honeymoon in, for the last two weeks and they'd had a wonderful time together. "No ties y'see," he laughed. "We were just like a courting couple!"
"So you're getting together again?" I asked, as if in a dream.
"No fear of that!" He grimaced, " I couldn't face all that trauma again." He looked into his beer, by this time the glass was nearly empty. "Have a refill?" I asked, putting my hand out as he replied, "I don't mind if I do!" With that he downed the dregs and passed the now empty glass to me.
By this time I had almost forgotten that he was dead, but Fred, the barman, said, "If I didn't know better I'd say that was Edward." I made no reply and so he continued, "That his twin brother then?"
Now there was a thought, maybe it was his brother, come to claim his inheritance, such as it was, a two up two down terraced house in the rough area of town. Not much money either I shouldn't think, Edward had lived on social security for as long as I could remember.
I've not seem Beryl since you and she got divorced," I said as I sunk back into the comfortable chair I'd been sitting in. This subterfuge should convince me that I'm not seeing a ghost, I thought. "No I guess not," he mused. "When we split up she went to work in Sheffield." He straightened and continued, "Strange how we met up in the same hotel at Torquay isn't it?" He took a good swig of his beer, no ghost could drink like that I thought, it would run out at the bottom or something, but Beryl was his Ex. so that ploy hadn't worked had it?
Perhaps it was Edward's twin that I had pulled from the sea. That didn't seem likely though, Edward had the same clothes on in which he had drowned. I looked more closely at him - he was somewhat more dishevelled than usual, and come to think of it, there was a definite smell of seaweed in the air. It had been getting gradually stronger, and now even I noticed it.
Then I remembered a bit of gossip I'd overheard at his funeral. Two old women had been chatting. "Sent her to an early grave he did, soon as they parted she jumped off a bridge near Sheffield - she went under an express train."
Before I could ask him if he'd heard this, he started to shout at me, "You were never a good timekeeper were you?" His body seemed to slump and tears came to his eyes. I'd never seen him in such a state. Then he straightened up and glared at me, genuine anger amongst the tears, which still flowed. "You were bloody well too late for our fishing trip! Too bloody late as usual!"
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by
John Williams
'A necklace of five shells on the steps of the disused church, are you sure?'
'Arranged in the five points of Venus our morning star, they were.'
There was a deathly silence, Tommy Two Herrings was thinking, the pain was obvious, 'I wonder who could have placed them there?' he said.
'It's a sign,' Huw six months ventured, 'and a bad sign too, no one would ever go near that place it's haunted by a Holy Ghost.'
'Tommy Two Herrings nodded. 'You are right, our village is in great danger - the Evangelicals are coming. Let's go and ask Huws the shop, he'll know what to do.'
Our village, south facing, a dilapidated cluster of once upon a time painted dwellings nestled snugly between gorse covered dunes and the sea. The houses with low thick walls and small windows were herded together defensively and clearly reflected our introspection. It was rumoured the County Council had no record of us and for that we gave thanks. The only road to and from the village was a narrow rough winding track hemmed in on both sides by gorse bushes where rabbits thrived. The obliquity of our development resulting from our isolation exited those intrepid English ramblers who accidentally stumbled on our village as a discovery of great anthropological importance.
Huws' Emporium, however, built about 1810, was modern and out of keeping with its surroundings. Above the Emporiums door a small narrow sign, its paint peeling, and written in English said, 'Licensed to sell Tobacco.' Licensed by whom was a mystery. Above the wooden latch on the door's top half, a blue enamel sign with white lettering advertising Brook Bond tea had been nailed over a hole in the door. Someone of fundamentalist vacuity and suffering withdrawals caused by total abstention had feverishly scratched underneath, 'Strong drink mocketh' but left out the letter k.
They arrived during Huws' morning devotions to ask about the shells.
'Just once before I go,' they heard him pray to Lleu our God.
'Let me hear the peal of the till bells ringing in my ears, more beautiful it would be than the rendering of the 'Last Great Amen.' Replete with joyful anticipation he raised his arms above his head and shouted, 'Alleluia' on top of his voice. A mouse scampered from the cheese counter in fright as glass funnels for oil lamps rocked precariously on the top shelf of the Emporium's 'household' section as the rush of silence filled the shop.
'A necklace of five shells, and laid out in the five points of Venus? No, I did not sell them from my Emporium,' he frowned at the thought of the profit lost. 'Five sea shells you say, I wonder?'
Tommy two herrings placed the necklace carefully on the counter for Huws to look at. Huws, his mind was in overdrive, stared as he busily sharpened an indelible pencil and skilfully slid it behind his ear in readiness for the day's business. Their discussion was interrupted as the Reverend Samuel Luther Jones came in as he did on each day of opening.
'Have you the latest version of the Bible Mr Huws?' he asked, to be told as on each and every day of asking,
'Don't deal in rare books Reverend Jones, no call you see, have these cigarettes instead, sliding a packet across the polished counter as he skilfully slipped the Reverends money into his waistcoat pocket. He pressed the no sales button, the till drawer shot out disturbing a fine layer of dust, only to be pushed in again, just in case.
'He'll give them away as inducements to get our people into his chapel,' he said. He laughed, ' inducements indeed, the only way to get this lot to chapel is for old Samuel to pray for another miracle so the fish would jump into the nets and surrender like they did somewhere in England.' Suddenly he remembered.
'It's them,' he said pointing to the beached wreck of an old fishing boat where Dai Deep Sea it's owner had left it one night after a romantic encounter with a mermaid of dubious character.
'Lovely she is, warm and pure as the Gulf Stream,' Dai shouted from his wheel house, 'love has opened my eyes, I have seen the Light.'
One dark but not so stormy night fortified by the spirits, egged on by his lovely, he took to walking upon the waters just like Lloyd George once did. On the first Thursday following the full moon those who walk the old ways and have the 'sight' tell how Dai and his mermaid bride, no longer of ill repute, are sometimes seen hand in hand by the old wreck, their love brimming over in it's ecstasy that would last unto eternity.
'No need to worry lads,' Huws said after some thought, 'trying to renew their vows they were, I'm sure of it. We'd better ask the Reverend if he will officiate, tell him it's the first Thursday night following the full moon. Tell him, also, Dai's bride has left her necklace as advance payment; a very thoughtful gesture of her part.'
'Not much for turning out at night, a shell necklace as payment.' Tommy Two Herrings said.
'It's certainly beautiful gesture, O yes, remind the Reverend that Dai does not smoke.'
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Dorothy Spry
The Truth About Ghosts
by
The reported number of sightings of big, black, cat-like creatures all over Devon and Cornwall have gathered ground over the past thirty years. Although there have been alleged findings of paw-prints, no other leavings of any kind have been produced to substantiate the existence of such beasts. So are these sightings real or spectres? What sort of people have claimed to have seen the outsized phantom black cat? The writer has done some investigating to try to track down "the beast of the moors" that has been seen everywhere in the Westcountry but has never been verified.
One of the first claimants was a playwright and scriptwriter who was driving home on a dark night after seeing a performance of one of his theatrical productions, a musical that was light-hearted and not in the least dark and foreboding. His powers of imagination must be unquestionable but he insisted that the something he saw on the road ahead that was not a figment of his mind`s eye. In his headlights was a large, black beast with glassy yellow slits for eyes. It was there at one moment and gone the next. Because it disappeared so quickly, he stopped his car and bravely got out to have a look but there was nothing to indicate that an animal had crossed that country road. His story was printed in the local paper.
A break of several years and then a farmer reported that one of his sheep had been found dead with terrible wounds on its body, in fact it was as if it had been killed by a beast of prey. What bestial brute had attacked that harmless sheep? A dog? A fox? A huge cat? Everyone agreed that it was inhuman whatever it was and definitely not a phantom. After that, many landowners murmured about strange findings, not all rational except perhaps the injured horse with terrible wounds that might not have been made by barbed wire. What spooked the animal?
Then there was a bout of pictures purporting to be photographic images of the black beast that lingered just long enough for someone behind a camera to make a snapshot. No close-ups but surroundings fuzzy and outline indistinct, just an impression of a distant, lone, furry, black cat-shape with a rather long tail. People began assuming it must be a puma or a black panther though no animal keeper had admitted to losing one. The conviction that a Big Cat was at large grew to amazing proportions and this month a poster was printed in the Western Morning News showing where the thing had been seen in 2000 and 2001. If all the findings were correct there must be a drove of them but why no reported cadavers or leavings or young? Lately, however, even wildlife writers have supposed that there must be something in the story, that far from being a dark wraith it is probably flesh and blood and extremely dangerous of course.
Can corporate imagination fabricate a phantom? What constitutes a ghost? Perhaps the following story might help to explain. Recently, a young man dug up a piece of land at the bottom of his newly acquired garden and planted rose trees. One night, or rather early morning, almost dawn, he felt someone or something tweak his bedclothes. Thinking it was a dream he turned over, went to sleep and forgot all about it. However, at dawn two nights following it happened again. On the third morning the scent of roses wafted around him and the tang of wine was on his lips so he got out of bed and walked to the window. He heard a voice telling him that the plot of land where he had made the rose garden had once been part of the graveyard. He was found dead next morning. But how did anyone know what happened before he died?
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