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I was asked today why people are so interested in the paranormal and why ghosts are said to haunt places where terrible acts of violence have occurred. It’s a question I get asked often and after listening to one of our big radio stations it’s easy to understand why people want to believe in something beyond our mortal world. The host was speaking to people who had been attacked for no reason other than the attacker or attackers was out for blood. In most cases the attacker got off with a slap on the wrist or the victim was too traumatised to pursue the case through the courts. Is it any wonder, when the arm of the law is so short, that we want to believe in some sort of justice, even if it does comes from beyond the grave?
frightened
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It’s been a busy, but productive week. My new novel Whispers went on sale at Amazon on Wednesday in ebooks and jumped millions of places overnight. The paperback edition will be available in about two weeks time. A big thank you to all my faithful readers and I look forward to reading your reviews on this. I will have a new ghost story for you on Friday next the 6 Th and the title above is a hint to its content. I’ll keep you guessing until then. Have a great week.
The room was icy cold, as cold as the body lying in the open coffin. Jeffery Power glanced at the prone figure before walking over to the window. The rain had stopped hours before, but there was no let up in the weather as the first flakes of snow stuck to the glass. Jeffery’s hands were numb, the skin on his fingers split and sore, but he smiled despite the pain. In fact, he rather enjoyed it, peeling back the dead skin and shuddering when he drew blood. Few things gave him much pleasure these days and his body was too frail for the pursuits of his youth. Still, I’m doing better than you; he sneered and walked over to the coffin. His grand-aunt Milly’s body resembled that of some ancient mummy. She had never been robust in life, but death had reduced her to a mere husk, as though her very essence had been sucked from her and she might, at any moment, dissolve into dust. Her cheeks were sunken in, as were her eye sockets, the only thing about her that resembled anything human, was the slight, secret smile on her thin lips.
“You think you’ve escaped me, don’t you old girl,” Jeffrey’s voice echoed in the stillness of the empty house. “But I’ll find a way. I’ll follow you into the grave and continue with our little game.”
He walked back to the window, his footsteps hallow on the bare floorboards. He had never depended on another human being before, but he had to admit he would miss the old bat. She had supplied him with endless years of fun and the games they played kept him amused, but that was now in the past and he would need someone else to help him pass the hours; someone stronger than his aunt, someone who did not scare as easily as she had. Milly stayed with him because she had no where else to go. A dried up old spinster, Jeffery called her and he was right. She was plain and stick-thin, one leg shrunken from the effects of polio and not a penny to her name, other than the old age pension, she had remained under his roof believing it was better the devil you know, but there were none worse than Jeffery Power. Had she the courage, she would have left years before, but instead she remained to endure his cruelty until in her ninety-second year death had released her.
Jeffery rubbed the grime from the inside of the glass and peered out into the gloom. His new secretary was due to arrive at any moment and he expected to see the headlights of Ross’s old car appearing in the distance. Frank O Connor, his solicitor, had told him everything he needed to know about the man and Jeffery licked his lips at the memory of his words.
“He’s suffered a lot over the past two years,” O Connor said. “His nerves are not the best. He’s taking medication and he’s otherwise sound, so I think he might suit you.”
“Indeed he will, Mr Wallace” Jeffery spoke aloud. “I think he will suit me very well. What do you think old girl?”
He didn’t bother to turn to look at the corpse.
“I may have found your successor already. I think there is fun to be had.” 
A noise from behind made him spin round. The room was wreath in deepening shadows that crept along the walls and took shelter in the dark corners. He felt his pulse quicken, as he walked over to the wall and turned on the overhead light. The bulbs in the chandelier were too weak to dispel the gloom, but they lit the centre of the room and threw the coffin into stark relief. He prowled around the walls, his eyes darting along the floor, ears straining, waiting for the sound to come again. He stopped and stood frozen, but the only sounds came from the crying of the wind and the humming of his blood in his ears. Perhaps, I made a mistake after all, he thought. Father Bob, the local priest, had fallen and broken his leg. It needed a small operation to repair the bone and he wouldn’t be back for three days. It seemed pointless to send for someone to replace him as the church only opened on Sunday’s now that the congregation had dwindled down to a handful.
“Send you’re aunt’s body to Burke’s Funeral Home,” the old priest suggested, before the ambulance carried him off. “I’ll be back in no time and I can perform the burial then. Your aunt was a good, god-fearing woman and I’d like to do this one last thing for her.”
Burke’s Funeral Home indeed, Jeffery huffed. Did the old man have any idea what those places charged just to have a body lying in state? No, he would keep the old bat at home, but only after choosing the cheapest coffin and the most basic of the undertaker’s services.
The taxi’s headlight lit the room as it drove into the courtyard. Jeffrey, forgetting his uneasiness, hurried down the hallway to the front door. Mike Wallace stepped out of the car and stared open-mouthed at the house. Frank mentioned it was a manor, but this was much more impressing than he had imagined. The main, three story house was vast with numerous small building flanking either side of the courtyard. A fountain, dried up now, but nonetheless awe inspiring stood at the centre, but the overall impression was one of faded grandeur. Flurries of snow blew against his face, but the cold was beyond him as he walked up the steps to the front door.
“Mike Wallace, I take it?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Mike held out his hand, but his greeting was rebuffed.
“I’m Jeffrey Price,” his new boss stepped back to allow him to enter. “I’ll show you to your room and we can get down to business as soon as you’re settled in.”
The hallway was a vast cavern, the walls lined with mahogany wainscoting that flowed down to a wooden floor pitted with the imprint of passing feet. Mike’s mouth felt dry, but this was an effect of the pills he took and his tongue felt like sandpaper when he licked his parched lips. If his welcome at the manor was not all he had expected nothing could have prepared him for the sight that met him when they passed the door of one of rooms on the ground floor. Mike stopped his eyes wide as he gazed at the scene before him. His employer, sensing he was no longer following, stopped and walked back to where he stood.
“That’s old aunt Milly,” the voice made the hairs on Mike’s neck stand. “She’ll be with us for another few days, I fear. The parish priest was careless enough to injure his leg and we must wait for him to return before we can plant the old dear. Until then we are forced to live with the smell of coffin varnish and the musky scent of death.”
Mike turned to look at the man in horror. He thought back to Frank’s words about the man standing before him being evil. Was it possible, he wondered? There was a glint of something not quite right in his employer’s ashen face, a sort of gloating at his discomfort. As though sensing this, Jeffrey smiled.
“Not a very hospitable welcome I know, but I am in mourning and not quite myself.”
“Of course,” Mike tried to control the chattering of his teeth. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Jeffrey held out his hand. “Shall we proceed?”
If it were not for the stout banister, Mike doubted he would have managed the climb up the once ornate staircase. The upper hallway was a dark and forbidding as the one below and the dim bulbs lining the walls did little to light the way.
“You’re in here,” Jeffrey opened the door to one of the rooms and walked inside.
Mike followed and saw the room was much like he’d seen of the house so far, neglected and in need of a loving touch. He dumped his holdall on the bed and its impact on the blankets dislodged a layer of dust that floating into the air and caused Jeffrey to wave his hand in front of his face.
“Old aunt Milly was never one for housekeeping,” he smiled. “But it’s clean and I’m sure you will soon settle in. Come downstairs when you’re ready. I’ll be in the library; it’s the room opposite the one housing the coffin.”
There was a door in the wall leading to an adjoining room.
“Where is your room?” Mike asked.
“I’m at the opposite end of the house,” Jeffrey said. “Through there is old aunt Milly’s room. We didn’t like to live in one another’s pockets, so we stayed as far apart as possible. By the way, I would prefer we keep our working relationship on a formal level. You will address me as Mr Price and I will do you the same courtesy”
Mike was still staring at the wall dividing him from the dead woman’s room, when his door closed and he was left alone in the silence. His host was kind enough to have placed a water jug and glass on a table beside the bed and Mike’s hand shook as he poured the water. His throat was so dry he almost choked as he tried to swallow the two tranquilisers and he gagged as he gulped more of the cold liquid. I can do this, he thought; it’s only for a week. He had always had a terrible fear of the dead. Even as a little boy he would run and hide if he saw a hearse coming and now here he was in the middle of nowhere, in a strange house with a corpse.
Jeffrey managed to contain his laughter until he reached the library. Throwing himself down on the couch, he buried his face in a cushion as his body shook and tears rolled down his face. He had hoped that his new secretary would be easy to manipulate, but this was much more than he’d hoped for. The man was a bag of nerves; one could almost feel the thin strings holding his last shred of sanity to a failing mind. How long would he last? It was a challenge to imagine, but not very long, that was for sure.
Jeffrey had composed himself by the time Mike tentative knock sounded on the door.
“Have you settled in all right?” Jeffrey asked.
“Yes, I’m ready to begin when you are,” Mike was unaware of his glazed expression as the pills did their work, but it was not lost on Jeffrey.
“I have been remiss,” Jeffrey said. “In my sadness I have forgotten my manners,” he walked to the door and beckoned Mike to follow. “You’ll no doubt want to pay your respects?”
Mike felt sick as he followed his employer into the room opposite. Jeffrey stopped when he reached the coffin and waited. Mike stayed as far back as he could and averted his eyes.
“Come closer man,” Jeffrey’s voice boomed.
Mike edged neared, but kept his eyes on the floor.
“Can you see the family resemblance?” Jeffrey taunted.
Mike’s eyes were filled with tears of dread as he looked at the body in the coffin. Despite his terror and the corpse’s fearful features, there was something terrible sad about the still figure, something that touched his soul and allowed the tears to run unaided.
“Come, come now old chap,” Jeffrey smiled. “There’s no need for such sentiment. Old Milly wouldn’t like it and we don’t want to upset her.”
Was he mad, Mike wondered; why would he worry about upsetting the dead woman?
“She loved this old house you see?” Jeffrey noticed his frown. “Vowed she would never leave it,” he leaned over the coffin and brushed a stray, grey hair from the old lady’s forehead. “I swear, I’ve heard her footsteps, but it was probably my mind playing tricks. Come, we have work to do.”
The next few hours flew as Mike kept his mind on the multitude of papers and bills that need filing and placed in order. His employer had placed a small desk opposite his own and Mike was aware of his constant presence. No matter how hard he tried to concentrate his mind kept drifting back to opposite room and the cold, still form of the old lady. She resembled her nephew in many ways, Mike thought. They were both petite, almost bird-like in both height and stature. This may have been becoming in a woman, but it gave Jeffrey a rather effeminate look and this perhaps, went a long way to explaining his strange character. It was close tomidnightwhen Jeffrey finally decided they were done for the day. He had left the room only once during those long hours and that was to return with a tray baring a meagre repast that was to serve as their dinner. A small tray of ham, its edges curling from age or exposure, Mike didn’t like to think of either and some bread, its crust showing the first sign of mould. Mike pleaded an upset stomach and settled for the weak brew Jeffrey called tea. His stomach revolted as he watched his employer wolf down the stale food as though it was prepared by the finest chef and he was glad when he was able to retreat to the sanctuary of his room. He lay on top of the dusty covers and considered his options. The bus to the nearest town ran once a day and the main road was miles away from the manor. He could call for the taxi, but he’s seen no sign of a phone in the house. His finances meant he could no longer afford a mobile phone, but his employer must have one; how else could he communicate with the outside world? Tiny fingers tapped against the window rousing him from his thoughts. He walked over, pushed aside the heavy, brocade curtains and stared out into the snow-covered courtyard. Beyond the house and the white, carpeted fields, there was nothing other than black, endless night. The wind howled and threw small flurries of snow against the glass. Unlike the city, there was nothing to break its onslaught and he imagined it tearing across the barren landscape like of giant beast; pushing aside the pointed rocks and ripping the withered trees from their roots. Allowing the curtains to fall back into place, he went back to the bed. His sleeping pills sat waited and he decided to take two rather than his usual one, but not before making sure his room became a bastion of safety. He had locked the door leading to the hallway, but there was none in the lock to the adjoining room. It might be on the other side, he thought, but did he dare enter the room of the recently dead? If the key was there it would be easy enough to tell, so he knelt down and placed his eye against the keyhole. For a moment he froze his mouth open in a silent scream at the eye staring back at him. Scrambling across the worn carpet on his hands and knees, he reached up for the bottles of pills on the bedside table hoping to find sanctuary in their promise of oblivion. When he woke some hours later he was lying on the bed.
Jeffrey stifled a giggle as he donned his aunt’s wig. This was more fun than he ever imagined. The top button of her ankle-length dress was open and he buttoned this in a false display of modesty. His feet were too big for her shoes, but he doubted his intended victim would notice. Creeping out into the hallway, he tip-toed to Mike’s door and tapped on it.
“Who is it?” The terror was evident in Mike’s voice.
The tapping came again, more insistent this time. Mike slid off the bed and his legs felt like jelly as he stumbled to the door. The dim lights in the hallway were on and lit upon the figure of the woman descending the stairs. It was the same figure he’d seen lying in the coffin. He became a child again as he ran for the refuge of his bed and scurried under it. Curling into a ball, he was unaware of the warmth of the urine staining his pants or the sound of his own sobbing.
“What a lot of fuss about nothing,” the voice was kind. “Come out from there young man.”
Mike peeped through is fingers at the legs just visible below the blankets. They seemed real enough and there was certainly nothing threatening in her words.
“I know this is all very frightening,” she continued,” But if you come out, I can explain it all to you. Come on now, like a good boy.”
Mike stretched and crawled from beneath the bed. The old lady was sitting in one of the chairs beside the dead fire. She looked a little in feature like the woman in the coffin, but there the resemblance ended, as this old lady was pink-cheeked and bright eyed.
“You have no idea how often I’ve prayed for someone to come and help me,” she gestured to the chair opposite hers.
Mike sat and waited wide-eyed for her to continue.
“He’s an evil man, my nephew,” she said. “It’s he who tried to frighten you just now and it’s a game he’s played many times in the past.”
“I thought he had only one aunt?” Mike managed to find his voice.
“He has, the dreadful boy,” she said.
“Then who are you?”
“I’m Millicent of course, though he calls me Milly to annoy.”
“But you’re supposed to be dead.”
“I am dead, young man,” her smile was kind, as she held up a hand to stay his flight. “Now there’s no use rushing for those pills. They’ve done their work”
“I don’t understand,” Mike felt the tears threatening again and he swore his heart had stopped beating.
“Look,” she nodded at the bed.
He turned and looked over at the bed. The empty pill bottles told their own story as his eyes scanned the prone figure on the bed.
“I killed myself?” He tore his gaze away from the flames.
“Yes, I’m afraid life proved too hard for you,” she said.
Mike stared down at his hands. He ran his fingers over his face and the skin felt cold and hard.
“It was my prayers that called you back,” Millicent said. “With your help I can destroy the evil in this house.”
“What will become of me afterwards?” Mike asked.
“I hope you will choose to stay here with me, but if not, you are free to move on. There is none of the restriction we once knew, but this was a happy house once and it can be again.”
Footsteps sounded on the wooden floor below and the listeners heard each footfall as they started to ascend the stairs. They both stood as the sound drew closer.
He meant to frighten you to death,” Millicent said. “He tortured me in that way for decades. This time his plan will not work.”
Mike nodded and offered her his arm. She smiled and linked one small arm in his as they turned towards the door.
Outside in the hallway, Jeffrey did a little dance. His excitement had reached a fever pitch and he was sure he would wet himself. There wasn’t a sound from inside the room and he imagined Mike’s terror as he waited for what was to come next. Jeffrey rattled the doorknob, before slowly starting to turn it. This was going to be the best fun ever; he could feel it in his bones.
Busy working on my new novel for teenagers. There’s no vampires or werewolves, but it promises to be dark, very dark.
Hi Everybody
It’s been a very busy few months and I haven’t had much time to write my blog, but fear not. I will be posting Part One of my latest ghost story, on Thursday morning 22nd. I hope you enjoy reading it and may I take this opportunity to wish all my readers a very happy Christmas and let’s hope 2012 is kinder to all.
Ghost Story (The Wailing Wood)
There were still a couple of hours of daylight left when we set off for the wood. I was wrapped up against the chill in a heavy coat and gloves, but Bill wore only his threadbare jacket. I’ve bought him gloves and hats in the past, but he refuses to wear them. He says he’s used to the cold, though the state of his skin belies this, as his cheeks are red and threaded with veins and his hands dry and sore-looking.
“I can’t understand how it’s gotten so cold,” I shivered, as we stepped out from the warmth of his cottage.
“It’ll snow before long,” Bill looked up at the sky. “Mark my words; we’ll have snowfall before the month is out.”
“So early in the year?” I asked. 
“The seasons are changing,” he said. “The earth is rebelling against the misuse and don’t bother telling me that you recycle, it’ll take a lot more than that to heal the damage that’s been done.”
I hate it when Bill speaks like this, because I know he’s right and it frightens me more than any ghost.
“We’ll go by the bog,” he changed the subject. “It’s quicker that way.”
Bill had mentioned the Wailing Wood in passing and I’ve heard stories about it since I was a child. I’ve seen it in the distance, but never thought anything about it, until now. It’s a strange group of trees, more copse than wood and stranger still; it grows on the edge of the bog. Since I’ve started to record Bill’s stories, I’ve grown wiser and now wear a pants and flat shoes when I go out with him. The land we trek across is uneven and dangerous to those it catches unawares. We crossed a few fields, the earth bare, and the land shorn of its crops, in hibernation until the spring. The sun sank a little as we walked and its dying rays were blinding. The leafless branches of the trees offered no protection from its light, but the beauty of their skeleton forms would gladden the eye of any artist. As we moved closer to the bog, the land turned harsher and its neglect was obvious, as no crop would grow in the marshy earth and the farmer wasted no time in its upkeep. We climbed over barred gates, the bolts rusted into place. Bill pulled back the thorny bushes and it was hard to imagine these barren, brown branches would hang with heavy fruits once the winter had passed.
The bog spread out before us, and we stood panting from our last climb in order to get our breath back and admire the beauty. Purple moor grass vies with gold and brown heathers in a vast array of autumn colours. Other plants grow on the hummocks, the higher, drier parts of the bog, and Bill named each one as we passed.
“Stay beside me and don’t go wandering off,” he still thinks of me as a child who needs warning.
I know the bog well, but not in the way Bill does, and despite its beauty, it can be treacherous. In the numerous hallows, deep pools have formed, some of them bottomless, according to my guide, and the white bog cotton surrounding them masks their danger. Other than the small hummocks, the land is flat and there are no trees to welcome the nesting of birds. To the untrained eye, it seems a dead place, but it is, in fact, teeming with life and Bill calls out the names of every bird we come across. Imagine the thrill of a city dweller like me, to see the Red Grouse foraging among the heather, its gold and crimson coat making the other plants look faded. The bobbing Snipe hops from place to place and takes no notice of the human invasion. It looked up at us and decided we were no threat, before going about its daily business. In the distance the call of the curlew echoes over the bog, its notes haunting in the silent air. Bill says he’s seen Kestrels hunting here and I would love to see one swooping over the ground in search of prey, but my luck was out.
“Look,” Bill whispered.
A red streak ran across the mosses, the fox’s body so lithe, that his movements seemed fluid. I was so taken by all this wonder around me, I had lost track of our reason for being there, and it wasn’t until Bill nodded at the dark shape ahead, that I was jolted back to reality.
The Wailing Wood stood like a dark shadow against the sky and not even the setting sun could pierce its denseness. It is a small growth of trees that overlook bushes and wild undergrowth. Though many of the branches are bare, some leaves still remain and hang like sleeping, black bats. While the trees in the more fertile fields have been stripped bare by the wind, they nevertheless stand proud against the sky. Here, in this veritable, almost petrified forest, they droop limp and drained of life. I started to move closer, but Bill’s hand on my arm stopped me.
“Don’t try to go inside,” he said. “There are thorns big enough to tear through your skin.”
“What is it?” I wasn’t aware that I was whispering.
It’s difficult to explain the wood. It had a hallowed ground feeling, like walking into a church, or a place of the dead.
“I wanted you to see it for yourself,” Bill said. “Before I tell you the story behind it.”
“Can’t you tell me now?” My eyes scanned the undergrowth, looking for signs of life.
“It’s not a story that wants telling in the cold and dark,” Bill said. “I’ll tell you all about it when we get back to the cottage. I wanted you have a look at it first. The bones of a young mother and her children are buried in there,” Bill pointed a quivering finger into the darkness. “I want you to search them out and feel their despair, go on,” he nudged me with his shoulder, as though pushing me into the arms of those waiting trees.
The wood is dark and I saw in my minds eye the centre, the place housing the mass grave. The branches of the overhead trees have tangled together to form an arch, so the grave is always in shadow. Despite its solitude, no birds sing and the usual black shapes of crows’ nests are missing from the branches, but it’s the sadness of the place that makes me catch my breath. For the first time, I am aware of the sun sinking below the horizon and I am totally alone and lost within the tangle of trees and bushes. Everything is lost, I have no one left, all those I love are dead and I’m trapped in a maze of thorns. No, my mind screams for release from these terrible memories and it is the feel of Bill’s arm around my shoulders that pull me back and turn me towards home.
I don’t speak, because I can’t. My throat hurts from the tears I’m trying to hold back.
“I’m sorry, girl,” Bill’s breath is warm on my chilled cheek. “I forget sometimes how strong the power is in you.”
“That’s OK,” I managed to whisper. “I just got a bit carried away.”
I knew by his next sentence that Bill was trying to change the mood and it worked. He’s said the same thing to me a thousand times.
“You know, in the olden days you’d have been burned as a witch.”
“And I know who’d be wielding the first flaming torch,” I said.
“Best thing really,” I sensed his smile. “Put you out of your misery.”
“You’re just pure evil, aren’t you?” I looked at him out of the corner of my eye and saw his face crease up with laughter.
We better get you inside,” he said. “You’re pale as death. A drop of brandy will bring the colour back, and you’ll need it when you hear the story attached to the wood.”
“I can’t drink, I’m driving,” I reminded him.
“Phone home,” he suggested. “Tell them you’re staying the night here. Get yourself a bit of a reputation.”
We were still laughing, when we reached the cottage and saw the welcoming light of the fire inside.
That’s it for this week, dear reader. I can tell you that our laughter soon ceased, as Bill retold his tale. I now understand the sadness of the wood and next week, you will too. Oh, by the way, my reputation remains intact.
Copyright © 2011 Gemma Mawdsley
The world has never been kind to lovers. Those who have fallen in love unwisely have often met with the most horrifying acts of cruelty, even death. From the middle ages and right up to the present day, we read of those who have suffered at the hands of disapproving parents, whose anger has spurred them to terrible acts of violence and murder. My story this week concerns two such lovers, but it is not the classic boy meets girl tale. I first heard the story many years ago from a school friend who swore she had an encounter with one of the ghosts. It was only when I met her last week, that the memory of it came flooding back and I asked her to tell me about it again. She was slow to do so, because when she told it to us, a group of silly teenagers all those years ago, we laughed at it. Still. I managed with some gentle persuasion to get the story out, and I promise you, not one word has changed in the telling. I’ve noticed that stories such as this get added to over the passage of time, and it is only the truthful ones that remain the same. The stories I bring to you every week are those I believe in and are not something I write to fill a page. To start I will give you a brief outline of her tale and the rest I have managed to fill in by going to this most haunted place and walking it grounds.
It is one of the oldest remaining convents inIrelandand it was here that my friend Jane was sent for a year as a boarder, while her father took a job abroad. It is situated on the edge of the sea in the most remote spot imaginable and over a hundred miles from the nearest town. Jane’s face grew pale as she recalled her first glimpse of the place, with it medieval spires and dark, forbidding façade. The nuns were kindness itself, she says, and she soon settled in, despite her fears. It had become the custom of the other girls, to tell ghost stories after lights out, and Jane was introduced to these almost from the beginning. Being a young and enlightened young woman, she laughed them off and no matter how frightening the tale, she refused to believe a word she heard, imagining the stories were planted by the nuns to keep them in their beds at night. The only other buildings near the convent were a small group of cottages about a mile away and a pub. It was here that the girls liked to sneak off to at the weekend. They pooled their pocket money to buy cider, and cigarettes for those who smoked. A hunting party of sorts set out every Friday night, while the girls who stayed behind covered for them and waited impatiently for them to return with the goods. Jane was there over ten months when it came to her turn to go to the pub. Six of them set out that night, but Jane forgot her money and had to go back to the dorm. The others were already outside as she crept down the back stairs and tip-toed along the dark corridor to the back door.
“It was then that I saw her,” Jane said. “The figure of the nun was standing by the door and there was no way I could get past her without being seen. Neither could I turn around, so I decided to face the music and take what punishment was coming to me. I remember wondering, as I walked towards her, why the habit she wore was white. There were no novices in the convent. My legs felt like lead as I moved closer and goose pimples rose on my arms as the air seemed colder the nearer I got. She was looking around her, as though searching for something and it wasn’t until I stood in front of her that she became aware of my presence. I cursed my bad luck for not realising how distracted she seemed. If I’d kept my head I could have made it safely back to the dorm.”
Jane paused a moment and took a deep breath. I knew the next part of the story still affected her, but some memories are like that. They become etched on your brain and can never be eradicated. 
“She looked up at me,” Jane said.
I waited for her to continue.
“I have never seen such sadness in a face,” Jane’s eyes filled with tears and she was forced to clear her throat. “I know it’s silly,” she brushed away a tear. “But even after all this time, I can see her as plainly as I see you. She was about my age, but very pale. The few strands of hair that peeped from beneath her wimple were blond, but it was her eyes I will remember forever. It’s hard to describe the pain I saw there. It was a look of hopelessness; of a loss so great it could never be imagined. Tears sprang to my eyes, as they have now,” Jane smiled. “Even I, a gawky, teenager felt her pain and I forgot my worry about being caught, in my need to help her. I put out my hand to touch her arm and she vanished. Just like that, can you believe it? I must have screamed, as the next thing I remember was being led back to bed by the nuns who tutted about sleepwalking and my overactive imagination. I had two months left at the convent, but I was sent home earlier to stay with my aunt. My nerves were very bad after the encounter and the nuns thought it best that I leave. It took me a while to recover, remember I was late starting the autumn term?”
I nodded; I did remember Jane coming to school well after the term started.
“I was very ill for a while and even now, no matter where I travel, I make sure the hotel is not a former convent or monastery. I’m afraid of seeing something like that again. I don’t think my nerves could take it and I wouldn’t ever want to see the vision of hopelessness I once saw. I switch off the TV when those adverts come on about famine, because I know I will see reflected in those starving children’s eyes the same look.”
This, my friends is her story and one I believe. So last Monday I set off for the convent to try and find out the full story of the ghostly nun and the reason for her endless quest. The journey would take me over a hundred and sixty mile from my home and through some of the most ravaged land inIreland. I had to stay overnight at a hotel a few miles from the convent, as I couldn’t possibly make it there and back in one day, not if I wanted to find out the truth. The first part of the drive was pleasant, with wide roads and very little traffic. I stopped at a bustling seaside town and took a short stroll along the beach to stretch my legs. I knew once I left this place that the roads would become narrower, and I would have to be on my guard for stray sheep and chugging tractors. I also knew the landscape I would encounter as the miles spread by and was not looking forward to it. Don’t get me wrong, I love the countryside, especially in summer when the grass is lush and springy underfoot, but there is something depressing about the land in this place. Like most parts ofIrelandit was once ravaged by famine, but here, in this dark place, it has never recovered. I turned the car radio up and tried to ignore the endless fields of giant rocks marred with green lichen.
Once I had checked into the hotel I set out for the convent. I found it strange that it wasn’t mentioned on any of the leaflets available to tourists, but thought it was down to the fact that it isn’t open to the public. It was late afternoon when I reached the small village Jane told me about. It is, as she said, no more than a cluster of cottages that huddle together in a small hollow to avoid the harsh breeze from the sea. It’s the smell that hits you as you step out of the car; the salty, briny scent of seaweed drying on the rocks that sticks to the back of your throat. I went in to the pub. It was empty and the barman polishing glasses seemed glad to see me. We made the usual small talk and I told him why I was there. I found that it’s easier to tell the truth and appearing furtive tends to make people wary.
“Ah, poor sister Theresa,” he said. “Sure everyone round here knows about her.”
“Really, I thought it was supposed to be a secret?” I was surprised by his answer.
“Oh, yes, it is, the worst kept secret ever,” he laughed, took my offer of a drink and I sat down on a bar stool.
“It’s a well-known story,” he continued. “I don’t know the full thing, something about her falling in love. The person you want to talk to is old Ma Cusack. She lives in one of the cottages across the way. Today’s the day she goes to town to visit the doctor, but she’ll be back this evening. I’ll show you her cottage on your way out. Call back about eight. I’ll tell her you’re calling and she’ll be glad of the company. She knows all the old ghost stories from hereabout, and she likes the odd glass of stout.”
“Great,” I asked for six of the half pint bottles from behind the bar.
They would serve as a peace offering, if it turned out she didn’t like strangers calling. John, the barman walked me to the door and pointed out her cottage. Since it was still late afternoon, I decided to drive up to the convent and have a look. I can now understand Jane’s sense of foreboding the first time she saw it. It is perched on a large rock formation and stand shadowing the land like some huge beast of prey, ready to pounce. As I stood looking up at it, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if it lurched forward and tried to devour me. The building itself is 17th century. I know this because I read what little information is available on the place, but there is evidence of other styles. Stout buttresses have been added to strengthen the walls and the windows are of the usual Gothic arch one comes to expect of churches and the like. There is a balcony that runs the length of the first floor and beneath it a large wooden door. A small mesh grill at eye level is covered now, but it can be drawn back to view the visitor, and a large old-fashioned bell with a rope pulley. I was tempted to pull on it, but decided against it.
As I walked back to the car, I was aware of eyes watching me from inside and turned round. The setting sun made it difficult to make out anything other than shadowy forms. I had noticed a small graveyard to the side of the building and pretending to drive away, I moved the car until it was hidden by the trees lining the road and got out. The silence made me catch my breath. Once I stepped inside the rusting railing, it seemed that all sound ceased. I’m sure the birds were still singing somewhere and I think it is the overall landscape that I find depressing and so imagined the loss of sound. It is obvious that the graveyard is still in use, as the new headstones gleamed among the older, grey, forgotten ones. There are three tombs, the lettering faded and unreadable, but they stand out as a reminded of richer times. Large oak trees dot the grounds and cast gloomy shadows over the graves. The silence still seemed eerie and I felt removed from ordinary life. On my return to the hotel, I appreciated the sound of car doors slamming and the excited chatter of children’s voices.
I had enough of the dead for one day.
After a nice dinner, I set off for the village. A lamp shone through a gap in the curtains of Ma Cusack’s cottage and I saw her small figure hunched in a chair by the fire. It took her a few moments to answer my knock and I waited with growing trepidation, unsure of my welcome. I needn’t have worried as she turned out to be the sweetest old lady you can imagine and she invited me in as though I were a long lost cousin. Soon I was seated by the fire and my gift of six bottles of stout accepted graciously. After I refused a drink, she poured one for herself and sat opposite me.
“John told me all about your work,” she said. “I think it must be fascinating. I didn’t think young people were interested in ghost stories any more.”
After assuring her that they were, I asked about the convent and its ghosts.
“There are two ghosts,” she explained. “One is Sister Theresa and the other Johnny, her eighteen-year-old boyfriend.”
I told her Jane’s story and how she had seen the nun, but I had not heard about the boy before.
“Ah, it was a long time ago,” she said. “And the nuns would prefer it forgotten.”
This is how the story begins.
Over a hundred and fifty years ago, a young girl called Doris Wilson was left orphaned at the age of twelve. Her only living relative was an aunt, her mother’s sister andDoriswas left in her care.Doris’s father was a very rich man and on coming of age at eighteen, she would be a very wealthy young woman. Her aunt hated the child, as her husband had once been in love with her sister,Doris’s mother, and she didn’t want the girl to be a constant reminder to him as to what might have been. It was decided thatDoriswould be put into the care of the nuns at the convent, who accepted her gladly, when the aunt whispered about her wealth. IfDorisremained with them, they would be entitled to all of her money. So Doris, a sad and lonely child was packed off. One can only wonder at the terror she felt been driven miles away from home to this desolate place. The nuns were kind to her and she fit in well with her unassuming manner and quiet grace. She was fascinated by the young novices, who floating around the dark corridors in their white habits, like pretty little ghosts. The girls were set different tasks and asDorisseemed to have green fingers, she was sent to work in the gardens, planting the vegetables and tending the flowers for the altar. The next four years passed uneventfully and at sixteen she became a novice, taking the name of Sister Theresa. By this time her aunt’s husband had died and there was no one who cared what she did. It was a lonely life for a young woman and as the months passed, she became aware of her blossoming womanhood and started to question her calling to the church.
Towards the end of summer that year, the sisters decided to expand the gardens and hired a young man to assist the aging gardener. Johnny was eighteen-years-old and the moment he and the little novice met; it was love at first sight. Like Theresa, he was an orphan and his life had been a hard one. He made the shy sixteen-year-old girl laugh, and as they worked side by side every day, the bond between them strengthened. For the first time Sister Theresa knew what it was to be love and be loved. Their meeting had to be kept private and the only place safe and out of prying eyes was in the graveyard. One of the tombs has steps that lead down to the door and it was here they met each evening at twilight. It was here also that consumed by passion, they made the mistake that was to be the death of them.
When her stomach started to swell, Theresa, at first, had no idea what was wrong with her. The sickness that sent her rushing for the toilet every morning made the older nuns suspicious and they had her examined. One can only imagine their outrage when they learned that the novice was pregnant, and it didn’t take much detective work to figure out who the father was. Theresa was confined to her room, but managed to get word to Johnny about her condition. There was a small rock outside the church door that they used to conceal their love notes to one another. Having bribed one of the boarders, Theresa kept him updated on events within the convent and her fears for their unborn child. Since the discovery of her pregnancy, the nuns’ attitude had changed towards her. Her inheritance was due in two years time and already they felt the gold slipping through their fingers. They became cruel, starving the young woman and beating her. When Johnny heard this he vowed they would run away together, and told her to be waiting outside by the tomb in the graveyard that night. His note was intercepted by the watching nuns’ and Theresa had no idea that as she read what was her ticket to freedom and happiness, dark deeds were being plotted against them and her happiness would be short lived.
Copyright © 2011 Gemma Mawdsley
That’s it for this week, my friends. The story will conclude next Friday.
As hauntings go, the story I’m about to tell you is a fairly recent one. It began in the 1940s, so those of you who remember halfpennies and sixpences, can cast your minds eye back to the time. I first heard about the ghost a week ago and started my investigations right away. You know from reading my blog that it’s set in a country pub and I will start by telling you a little about the place. It is in the midlands, in a rather remote spot, just outside a village. I will call it Morris’s Pub, not the real name, but you know by now, that I never divulge a name or break the confidence of the storytellers. It is over seventy miles from my home, so I set off atnoonlast Sunday. It was a miserable, overcast day and I hadn’t gone a few miles before it began to deluge, making the drive along the narrow, country roads daunting at times. The rain stopped before I arrived at the pub, a little after lunch time. The sky was dark with leaded clouds and the promised of further rain. Thunder rumbled in the distance and the air fizzed with the electricity of sheet lightening. The pub itself is tiny and was I soon learned, once the sitting room of a house. I have never seen a place that looked more dismal and unwelcoming. There were no cars parked outside and for a moment I wondered if it was closed. Flakes of paint came off on my fingers as I pushed against the door. It groaned open and alerted those inside to my presence. The interior was dim, the gloom broken only by a small lamp on a shelf behind the bar. There were four old men seated round one of the five small tables in the room and I knew from their expressions that women were not welcome here. The lone toilet off the hallway made it obvious that this was a male only pub and I won’t try, dear reader, to describe the condition of this stinking pit, as the story of the haunting is disturbing enough. As I made my way to the bar at the top of the room, every eye was on me and I wondered for a moment if the barman would refuse to serve me, but he was gentleman enough to be civil and when I ordered a drink for those present their hostility towards me lifted. It’s surprising how five pints of stout can do that. I sat down at the table next to the drinkers and sipped my coke. This gave me a chance to look around. The walls were full of old, framed photographs and tin plate signs advertising food and drinks that are now obsolete. High shelves lined the room and these were filled with jugs etched with the familiar names of whiskeys. Layers of dust marred every surface and even in the gloom, I saw the cobwebs in the corners. I bit my lip and prayed the inhabitants were sleeping and I would not have to watch anything crawl out. The smell within the room was a combination of pipe tobacco and wet dog. One of the men made a remark about the weather and we fell into conversation. I was grilled thoroughly as to who I was; what I work at and when they heard my family was from that area, smiles creased their lined faces and I was in. They showed a great interest in my writing and I was delighted when one of them said.
“We have our own ghost here.”
“Really,” I said, hoping it sounded casual.
“Indeed, we have,” our host came out from behind the bar and sat down. “There’s not a man here who hasn’t seen her.”
“Her?” I asked.
“It’s a woman,” another of the men offered. “Catherine Maloney, she was.”
“You’re not going to write about this are you?” our host asked suspiciously.
“I probably am,” I said, as I didn’t want to lie to him. “But if I do, I’ll change the name of the pub and won’t tell anyone where it is.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any harm in it so,” he looked at the men, who confirmed this with a nod.
So this is his story. The Maloney family owned the house that now houses the pub. They had two daughters, Catherine, the eldest and Laura who was five years younger. Their father was a business man and they lived a comfortable lifestyle, until an outbreak of measles killed both parents and it was left to Catherine to look after her sister. Money was not a problem as they were left well provided for, but there was never any peace after the deaths and this all came down the Catherine’s jealousy of her sister. Laura was the beauty, this was obvious from an early age and as she grew so did her sister’s hatred of her. I saw an old faded photograph of the two and Catherine was very different to her sister. Laura was blond and buxom, while her sister was extremely thin, with a hooked nose and dark hair, pulled severely back behind her ears. There was a young farmer who lived close by and Catherine was determined he would be hers. After all, she considered herself the best prospect as the eldest she had inherited her father’s estate and in those hard times many marriages were based on the dowry that came with the wife. But, Richard, the young man, was unlike the others and when he fell in love with Laura, nothing would stand in his way. One can only imagine Catherine’s fury when he proposed to her sister, but she managed to keep her feeling in check. The wedding was planned for October. The harvesting would be done by then and Richard wouldn’t be under as much pressure. In the run up to the wedding, Catherine was charm itself and helped her sister in every way possible, but she was plotting her revenge. The next piece is mostly conjecture and there is no evidence that it happened the way I heard it, other than the restless spirit.
One night, a week before the wedding, when Laura was out with her intended, Catherine staged a break in at the house. Word of the outrage spread through the small community and everyone was aghast when they heard her story of a strange man who she’d seen a few times spying on the house. Laura was a nervous wreck and begged her sister to move in with her and her new husband after the wedding. Catherine promised that she would do so. Three nights later, Catherine knocked on her sister’s bedroom door. She had made her some cocoa to help her sleep, she said. Laura had no idea as she drank the sweet drink that it would be her last. The heavy drug within the liquid worked in minutes and when her sister was insensible, Catherine dragged her from her bed, out onto the landing and down the stairs. There is a small river that runs at the end of the field behind the house and it was her intention to drown Laura there. Her plan worked. She returned to her bed and feigned shock and distress when the news was brought to her next morning about the discovery of her sister’s body. Her cunning was beyond belief as she had torn her sister’s nightgown, exposing her flesh and this made her cries about the strange man she’d seen more plausible. Richard was beyond consolation at his loss and if Catherine thought he would turn to her in his hour of need, she was very much mistaken. He was a broken man and died a bachelor. There were many in the district who whispered about the murder, but in those days before DNA and the like, it wasn’t easy to prove who it might be. The idea that a woman would have committed such an atrocity was never considered and Catherine remained free. Rumours ran riot and there was a story of a young man, who on his way home late the night of the murder, swore he saw Catherine going into the house. He remembered it because he said the end of her skirts were soaking wet. He had taken a few drinks that night and those closest to him thought it wiser to say nothing to the law. Catherine became a recluse, which was easy enough, as her neighbours started to avoid her and she died four years after her sister. Some say she starved to death, other she went mad and poisoned her herself, either way, her body now lies in a grave beside her sister.
“I knew all about the story of the ghost, when it bought the place over twenty years ago” my host, Tim said. “The last owner was too old to run the place. I didn’t believe the story at first, but I soon learned, didn’t I lads?” He looked round the little group of men.
They mumbled their assent and I had to wait as he got up to refill their glasses. No one spoke until he came back and the silence seemed to wrap itself around me.
“I took over the place at the beginning of April and laughed off any suggestion of a ghost,” he placed the creamy pints in front of the men and sat down. “The last owner was a bachelor like me and I thought if she hadn’t troubled him then she wouldn’t me. I’ll never forget the first time it happened.”
He stopped and stared into the gloom, as though the memory of that first time was still as fresh as ever.
“It was October, the anniversary of the murder. I was in here,” he paused, and looked over at one of the men. “You were here that same night, Tommy.”
“I was indeed,” the man wiped a moustache of white foam from his upper lip. “I’ll never forget it.”
“It was late,” Tim went on with his tale. “Just after twelve and I was washing up the glasses when it started. I remember looking up when I heard the sound of a thump on the bedroom floor overhead. Then the dragging started, we could trace it with our eyes as it moved along the landing. I’ll tell you, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as the bump, bump, bump started on the stairs. There was no doubt in my mind that it was the sound of a body being dragged down one step at a time. We heard the back door open and felt the cold air enter the room. I don’t think either of us wanted to let on how frightened we were, did we Tommy? So we followed the sound. There was nothing to see once we got outside and I remember how we stood there in the dark for a few minutes. We were just about to go back inside when there was a cry of distress followed by the most terrible scream from the direction of the river. I remember running towards the sound and hearing the splash as a body hit the water, but when we got there, all was quiet. We searched the riverbank, but there wasn’t even a ripple on the water. The same thing was repeated for the next week and everyone here is a witness to this. We’ve all seen her from time to time, the ghost I mean. It happens fast, it’s a sort of out of the corner of your eye affair, but there no denying her presence. Doors slam of their own accord and not just in October, oh no. She tends to come and go as she pleases.”
“How can you live with that?” I asked.
“I’m used to it now,” Tim shrugged. “As I said, she never bothers me.”
“Still, it can’t be easy,” I said.
“It gets me down at times,” he agreed. “I’d like to have a dog for company, but I can’t get one to stay in the place. They turn on their heels the minute they come through the door.”
It had rained again while I’d been inside the pub, but the air felt good after the stuffy interior. I couldn’t help, but wonder why Tim didn’t leave. I don’t think I’d have his courage. It made me smile to see they had all come outside and were waving to me as I drove off; I am no longer a stranger. I would be back on Tuesday to speak to a former customer, who was so frightened by what he witnessed that he has never gone back there. He is away on holiday at the moment, but I’m looking forward to what he has to say.
Tuesday 9th August.
I’m back from the haunted pub. I got there just after seven this evening and met the man I told you about. We will call him John. He was parked a good distance away from the pub, as though getting too close would taint him in some way. He’s a man in his sixties and I knew the moment he started to speak, that he wasn’t a man given to strange fancies. His story started twelve years ago and according to him, he’s still not over the fright. It was around Christmas time, he knows the exact date, but I didn’t push him on it. There were carols being sung on the old radio behind the bar.
“Tim went out to change a barrel,” he said. “They’re kept in the shed attached to the house, so I was alone for about ten minutes. It was too early in the evening for the regulars and pitch dark outside. I was reading my paper and not paying much attention to anything, when I had the most awful sensation. At first, it felt like someone was watching me and I looked up. I’d heard the stories about the place, but never paid the any attention. I heard the thump from overhead and imagined someone had broken in to the place. Then the banging started on the stairs. I was frozen in my seat,” he blushed as he admitted this. “I’m not easily frightened, but I’ll never forget that night. The hallway outside the bar was dark and I heard the shuffling of feet coming closer. I saw her standing in the doorway, I swear to you, I saw her and for the first time in my life I knew what it felt like to be in the company of pure evil.”
“Did she look real?” I asked.
“Not as real as you or I,” he said. “It was more like looking at someone through a rain-spotted window, sort of hazy, you know what I mean?”
“What did you do?”
“I don’t know how long she stood there. It seemed like hours, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. I heard the back door open and Tim coming back in. I don’t know if I blinked or what, but the next second she was gone. I didn’t wait for Tim to come into the room. I was off and out that door as frightened as a small child. Since I had intended having a few drinks, I’d left the car at home, so I’d no choice, but to walk. As I said it was pitch black outside and the twenty minute walk home seemed to take forever. I was looking over my shoulder all the way and my heart was thumping from the fright. I would step inside that place,” he nodded at the pub in the distance. “For any money.”
His terror, even after all these years is obvious and I chose not to go back inside, but take refuge in the safety of my car. As the image of the pub faded in my rear view mirror, I was glad it was still bright and I didn’t have to face the winding roads in the dark.
Copyright © 2011 Gemma Mawdsley
Until next week, sleep tight.
Well, my friends, the weekend will soon be upon us and it’s time for another ghost story. I have just finished writing the tale about the haunted pub and I don’t think you will be disappointed. I am already researching another story for next week, but I’m not going to tell you about it until I’m sure the stories are true. I might, as the week unfolds, give you little teasers to keep you guessing and in between all this I still have to write my daily chapter of Erebus, which is coming along nicely. Thanks to all our you for your kind reviews on Death Cry and those anxious to know when my next book is coming out. Might have some exciting news on that soon, so watch this space. Until tomorrow morning, have a great Thursday.
Like many of you who are interested in ghost stories and the paranormal, I have seen all the programmes on TV like TAPS, Ghost Adventures, Most haunted etc and I’ve seen people talk about haunting and give first hand experiences on these things, but I’ve never seen anyone as frightened as the man I talked to last night. Remember I went to the haunted pub to meet him? Well, he told me about his encounter with the ghost and it was obvious it has had a lasting effect. This was not some weak, nervous person who lets his imagination run wild, but someone who has encountered an evil force and lives in dread of seeing it again. I will start writing the story of the haunted pub tonight and post it on Friday morning, as those of you with a nervous disposition have requested.
gemmamawdsley 