Tag Archives: ghosts

October 4, 2012

The Other Side: Isabelle’s Story (Part 1)

(This story was written as the companion and sequel to one of my previous stories, Isabelle’s Island. However, this one turned out to be much longer, so I had to break it into four parts, which I will be posting over the next four days.)

Isabelle Stapleton hated the ship that had been the home of her and her family for the last four months. Life was hard and tedious and she was the only female on board besides her mother.

She would not have cared except for the crew. They were rough and uncouth and her skin crawled at the way they leered at her when she walked past on deck. She was never allowed outside of their cabin without her father or one of her two older brothers, David and Humphrey, there to guide her. Her mother never said why this had to be, only that it was not fit for a fourteen-year-old girl to be seen alone in public. This had been in the case in their home in England, but Isabelle could guess the reason as the looks from the crew became more open and obscene the longer they were at sea.

Each day followed the same routine. Get up to a breakfast of hard bread and tea, tidy up their small cabin and then do arithmetic, French and Latin lessons until lunch. More lessons in the afternoon and then supper and bed as soon as it was dark.

Life was stifling and isolated, but even within the walls of the tiny cabin and on her briefs visit to the deck, Isabelle could tell something was changing. The crew was angry. There were shouts and sounds of arguments. More crew members were flogged on deck for small infractions. Isabelle was always bustled inside during these punishments, but Humphrey would come later and describe them to her, how the sailor had cried out and how the man later had to scrub the blood of his punishment from the deck.

Then came the night when Isabelle and her family were awakened by gunshots. Her father barred the door while more shots were fired and people pounded on the door. Isabelle hid under the covers with her head pressed into her mother’s lap.

The door opened and then closed. “They’re going to let us go,” her father said. “Gather up everything you can carry. Come on, we cannot count on this rabble staying civil for long.”

“Up, Isabelle!” her mother said. They rushed around, gathering clothes into trunks, until her father said they could only bring one trunk. A minute later and David opened the door and they filed out onto the deck.

It was a chilling sight. They walked out into a circle of torchlight. The whole crew was there, surrounding them. Their looks were terrible. The leers and lascivious winks were now replaced with open lust and Isabelle almost expected them to all rush down on her at once.

But none of them moved. Isabelle and her family were instructed to climb down over the railing into a small boat below. There were already two men in it: the captain and the first mate. Both had been shot and the captain was not moving. Once they were all in, the ladder was pulled up and they were set adrift.

Isabelle dozed, but woke up in the middle of the night to hear her parents speaking softly.

“It had nothing to do with us, Mary,” her father was saying. “The captain was a cruel despot. We were just caught in the middle. They wanted Isabelle, and you too, but the second mate would not let them. Let us thank God for that.”

“What will we do now though?” her mother asked, her voice on the edge of panic. “We are set adrift with no food or water. They may as well have shot us and gotten it over with quickly.”

“God will provide,” her father said.

The captain died during the night. Isabelle’s father said a short prayer over him just as the eastern horizon was lightening and then they consigned his body to the ocean’s care. As his body sank into the depths, Isabelle looked up and saw land rising just above the waves on the eastern horizon.

That day was the hardest of Isabelle’s life. The sun was hot and there was no food or water for the six of them in the small boat. The first mate had been shot in the leg but was still able to row. He and Isabelle’s father and brothers took turns rowing towards the low island that refused to grow any bigger all through the long, torturous day. Finally, after the sun had gone down and the black sky was crowded with stars, Isabelle felt the boat’s keel grate on stones and she knew they had made it.

“We must thank God for this miracle,” her father said the next day as they surveyed the island that had become their new home. “We set out from England to find new places and share God’s word with unreached people and we can do that here just as easily as Tahiti or Fiji. We can a make a life here for ourselves.”

David and Humphrey helped their father build a lean-to while Isabelle and her mother collected fruit and firewood. They camped that night on the beach and the first mate entertained them with tales and myths from the sea. For the first time since they left England, Isabelle felt happy.

But then…

Continued in Part 2

7 Comments | tags: fantasy, fiction, ghosts, historical, Isabelle, island, mutiny, ship | posted in Dusk

September 23, 2012

Isabelle’s Island

By David Stewart

Louis Grillon woke up to find himself on an island roughly half the size of the now-shipwrecked frigate that had placed him there. It was a barren slip of black rock devoid of any life, save a few barnacles.

What was worse, in a way, was the huge lush island that lay next to his sea-splashed rock, a mere fifty feet of swirling white water away. The trees there were tall and shady and he could see little streams of water trickling down to the shore from the high interior. It looked like a paradise.

It was late afternoon and the sun sat just above the highest peak of the island. Louis lay down and closed his eyes, listening to the crash of the waves and smelling the distinctive brine and sea-rot smell of the shoreline.

“Hello? Who are you?” Louis heard a tremulous female voice calling in English. He looked across the narrow channel and saw a young girl kneeling on the rocks on the far side, leaning towards him.

“Who are you?” Louis asked in French, and he heard a muffled gasp and a sob.

“Oh, thank God! Thank the Lord you’ve come. I’ve been so lonely and scared here. You’ve come to rescue me at last,” the girl said, switching to French.

“I am afraid I am not in the position to rescue anyone. I have been shipwrecked here myself,” Louis said.

“It is no matter,” the girl said. “You are here, at least, and can protect me and keep me company. What is your name, sir?”

“I am Louis Grillon, a sailor in the French navy. I was shipwrecked last night and floated for hours before I found myself here. And who are you, little girl?”

“My name is Isabelle. I—” She suddenly broke down in tears and could not continue speaking for several minutes.

Through scattered words forced out between sobs, Louis learned that Isabelle had been shipwrecked with her family some time ago, but they had all disappeared and she had been left on her own. She had no idea how long ago it had been. Louis could see that she was wearing an old-fashioned style of dress; when he asked about it, Isabelle thought that she had gotten it from her mother.

“I am so glad you have come, Louis,” Isabelle said some time later, when she had composed herself. “You have no idea what it is like, to be young and alone on a wild island like this. But why do you stay over there, on that little piece of rock? Will you come over here, with me?”

Louis looked at the water crashing on the barely-submerged rocks in the channel. It would be suicide to cross it at that time, in his condition. “I cannot now,” he said. “Perhaps at low tide.”

Isabelle nodded vaguely. “You know, there is a monster on this island,” she said. “It stalks me every night. I usually sleep in the trees where it cannot find me, but once I could not find a tree before sunset and I ran all night, hearing its heavy footprints right behind me. If you came over here, could you defend me against the monster? You are so much stronger than me.”

Louis’ throat was burning from thirst and the dehydration was beginning to creep into his brain, making it hard to think. “Yes, yes of course I would defend you from anything, if I could,” he said. “How can I get there though?”

“You must swim,” she said. “Look, the sun has just gone down behind the top ridge of the island. It will be dark very soon and then the monster will come out to hunt. You must hurry.”

“Water . . . I need water before I can try. I floated for so long.” His head was beginning to swim.

“There is plenty of water over here, Louis. Once you are here, you can have as much as you want. Look, it is not far. A minute of work and you will be here and can relax.”

Louis nodded. He knew she was right. A small struggle and he would be there. Still, he sat there as the light continued to fade, unable to force his aching muscles to move.

“Louis, you must hurry,” Isabelle said. “Please, come quickly. I need you here; I am so lonely, with no one to talk to and no one to play with. Come to me, Louis. Please, come.”

“I—I am coming,” he said. He slid a foot into the water, grimacing at the cold shock. He felt a rock below the surface and used it as a foothold. Internally, he prepared himself for the ordeal and frantic swim.

“Louis?” Isabelle asked. He looked up. “You won’t leave me, right? You’ll stay with me?”

“Yes, I’ll stay with you, Isabelle. Don’t worry,” he said.

“Do you promise?”

He nodded. “I promise. It will be okay.” The sound of the rushing water was filling his ears and he looked at the swirling water. I can’t do this, he told himself. I will be killed. I can’t do this, but I have to.

Twilight had fallen and the upper ridges and treetops of the island glowed pink with the last rays of the setting sun. Suddenly, Isabelle screamed.

Louis looked up and saw a large shape coming towards them down the beach. It was a large as a horse, with what looked like long fur and horns. It walked with a shambling gait.

“Louis, please! It’s the monster. Louis, help me. Help!”

Louis threw himself into the water. He did not know how he was going to defend this girl against a huge beast like that, but he did not wait to contemplate it. The water closed around him and he flailed his weak limbs, trying to move forward and stay above the surface.

The water took him, spun him with its terrible strength, and sent him slamming against the rocks. There was no pain, just a sickening concussion that shook his whole body. Even as he was pulled down by the undertow, he kept swimming feebly, like a mouse batting at a tornado with its paws.

The monster on the beach stopped walking and then, slowly faded from view. Isabelle sat staring at the place where Louis had disappeared, a look of anger and disbelief on her face. Then, slowly, she too faded from sight.

* * *

It was 1996 and Tom Nedimyer was sailing his yacht solo through French Polynesia. It was about noon when he saw an island appear on the horizon, off to the right. The chart showed it as uninhabited, so he steered towards it and took the inflatable in to the beach. It would be good to get on land again and maybe hunt some wild game.

He was pulling the boat up onto the beach when he saw movement among the trees. It was a little girl wearing an old-fashioned dress. He waved at her and she took a step towards him.

“Où est Louis? Est-ce que vous le connaissez?” she asked.

“Sorry, miss. My French isn’t too good,” Tom said. “Do you know English?”

“Where is Louis? Do you know him?” she asked again.

“I don’t know any Louis, sorry. I’m alone and I haven’t seen any other ships today.”

“He promised he would come be with me and protect me,” she said. “He promised and then he just left. Will you stay with me? I’m so lonely and afraid.”

Tom put up a hand. “I can’t stay more than a couple hours, I’m afraid. I’m expected in Fiji in a week or so. I can send out a radio bulletin to look for him, if you’d like.”

“There is a monster on this island, you know,” she said. “It stalks me at night if I don’t climb up into the trees. Can you please stay with me and defend me. I’m so afraid here by myself.”

“I’m sorry, I need to get back to my boat,” Tom said, moving back towards the inflatable. “I’ll be sure to put out a bulletin to look for your friend Louis and I’ll get someone to send a rescue vessel to pick you up.”

From behind him, he heard a sudden cracking noise and whirled around. Something large and hairy had risen out of the sea and was clinging to the side of his small yacht. As he watched in horror, it grasped the gunwale with a clawed limb and tore a huge section from the hull. It did this again and again until the ship listed and capsized.

“I told you there was a monster,” the girl said. “It broke your ship. But now you can stay with me here and keep me company. I’m so lonely here by myself. What’s your name? My name is Isabelle.”

17 Comments | tags: creepy, fantasy, fear, fiction, ghosts, historical, Isabelle, island | posted in Dusk

August 30, 2012

I Was on Trial Once…

By David Stewart

“What is your name, sir?” the magistrate demanded. I stood facing him, in front of a packed courtroom of people who seemed very curious in my fate.

“My name is Horus Vere,” I replied proudly. It is a name to be proud of.

“And what is your profession?”

“My family are traditionally glaziers, but I am more of a merchant. I find things here and there and sell them, in order to pay for my travels.”

“Ah, so a thief then?”

“Put down salvager, if you please, if there is a box marked ‘Profession’ that must be filled in,” I said. “Now, if I might ask a question, why am I here, instead of being on the road to Hatavass, as I had planned?”

“You are charged, sir, with spooking a horse and causing a thousand crowns of damage to a load of expensive pottery. Do you deny it?”

“I do not deny being there,” I said, “but it was the red poltergeist that spooked the horse.”

“A poltergeist!” The magistrate looked outraged. “You are saying you saw a poltergeist in the road?”

“No, your honor. It was invisible.”

“Then, how do you know it was there? And how can you call it red?”

“For both those questions, I have only the word of Brokker.”

“And who is he?” The magistrate’s tone was soft and dangerous.

“He called himself a spirit sage. I only met him that day. It was he that told me that a poltergeist was stealing my shoe.”

The magistrate threw up his hands. “I have no idea what you are talking about. Please start this whole mess of an account from the beginning.”

“I am afraid I have just told you everything,” I said. “I was just about to break camp when I could not find my shoe. Brokker came along and told me he had seen a poltergeist taking off with it. A red one.”

“Yes, you mentioned that detail already,” the magistrate said. The crowd tittered with delight. “Tell me then, how the horse came to be spooked?”

“Well, for a crown Brokker offered to show me where the poltergeist had gone. My shoe was hardly worth that much, but I had never seen an invisible red poltergeist before, and since having only one shoe is as good as being barefoot, I agreed. We were running along, when I banged into the fox.”

“The fox?”

“Well, it was in a cage,” I said, “obviously. It was in a pile of other wild animals in cages, all headed to circuses and menageries. You should have heard the racket.”

“Yes, I see,” the magistrate said, wrinkling his forehead. The crowd was entranced. Even if admission to the courtroom had not been free, this would be money well spent.

“So, I knocked over the fox cage, which was fine, except it broke open and the fox ran into a group of schoolchildren being led by two nuns . . .”

“Whatever are you talking about?” the magistrate asked, exploding suddenly with anger. “Why were there foxes in cages and nuns with schoolchildren wandering around in the forest?”

“This was not in the forest—it was here in the city. I camped in Fountain Square last night. Did they not tell you?” The look on the magistrate’s face showed that they had not.

“Get to the horse,” he said.

“Well,” I continued, “the fox was darting here and there, and nuns and children were screaming and crashing around when Brokker suddenly said he saw the poltergeist. It had dropped my shoe but Brokker said he could find out where it had dropped it. So we took off running through the square, dodging screaming nuns and vaulting over children. ‘It’s going for that horse!’ Brokker said and he jumped for it. I tried to follow, but I had been running with only one shoe and I tripped and fell at the horse’s feet. It reared up and started charging around the square too. Brokker said that the poltergeist had jumped on its back. The wagon wheel hit a small anvil that I had been planning to trade and the whole load of pottery slid off and smashed on the street.”

“That was quite a story, Mr. Vere,” the magistrate said, although he did not sound impressed. “Do you have anything to add?”

“Yes, your honor. I got my shoe back. Brokker produced it and said the poltergeist had given it to him, so I was obliged to pay him the crown. In any case, all’s well that ends well, right?”

* * *

That night, I told the story to a group of eager bar patrons at the renowned establishment, the Feathered Pork Chop.

“What happened then?” they asked. “Did they make you pay for the pottery?”

“No, I was acquitted on that charge,” I said, “although I did get fined half a crown for illegally sleeping in Fountain Square. I don’t mind though: it’s not every day you get to see an invisible, red poltergeist.”

12 Comments | tags: crime, fantasy, fiction, ghosts, Horus Vere, quirky | posted in Light

August 27, 2012

The Mermaid’s Kiss

By David Stewart

This story was inspired by the song, Turn Loose the Mermaids, by Nightwish. I recommend it for reading music.

It was the kite that I saw first as I hurried along the dusky road in search of a place to camp for the night. It was a small square of dark blue that bobbed and swayed in the upper breezes, far above the hedgerows that bordered the road closely on both sides. I came to a gap and saw the world suddenly open in front of me.

I was standing on the top of a slope that descended several stone’s throws to the edge of a firth, an arm of the ocean that stretched inland to the mouth of a fast-flowing river. On the slope was a cemetery and in the twilight, each etched stone had its identical shadow that stretched back towards the east. On one of these stones, close to the water’s edge, I saw a hunched figure sitting and holding the string of the kite.

I went down to talk to the person and perhaps find a place to stay the night. When I got closer, I saw that the figure was an old man dressed in a tattered grey jacket. He was staring out towards the firth, but looked up at me when I approached.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said without preamble. “This is not the place for your sort.”

“And what sort is that?” I asked.

“The uncursed sort.”

This intrigued me immensely. “My name is Horus Vere,” I said. “I collect many things in my travels but mostly I love stories. Tell me, is this cursed ground?” I sat down on the gravestone of a Mr. Archibald Duggan (1550-1623) and waited for his reply.

“Why else would an old man be flying a kite alone in a graveyard at sunset, if he were not cursed?” he asked. I had no response to this feat of logic, so I waited patiently for him to continue.

“I used to come here every day when I young, to fly kites with my friends,” he said. “One day, we arranged to meet here in the afternoon, but the wind was strong that day and the others decided not to come. I launched my kite as I waited and it tugged fiercely on the string. A sudden gust snapped the string and it fell into the firth, about a score yards from shore.

“I should have left it—any sane person would have—but it was my favorite kite and I hated to lose it. So, I took off my jacket, tunic and trousers and waded into the frigid water. I was a fair swimmer, but the wind was blowing from the land and quickly pushed the kite further from me. When I finally reached it, I looked back to see that I was far from land and the wind was pushing me even further towards the middle of the firth.

“The swim back was a nightmare. I made very slow progress and I could not rest or I would be pushed out and lose what distance I had gained. My head slipped beneath the surface, but I pulled myself up. I went down again, and again I thrashed to the surface. But I was exhausted and I knew that I was about to drown.

“Finally I sank down into the darkness of the firth, too exhausted to struggle anymore. I breathed in a gulp of water and my consciousness was just starting to fade, when I felt something brush my arm. I thought it was a fish at first, but then it grasped me. Something pressed against my lips and air was forced into my lungs. I opened my eyes and saw a woman swimming in front of me, her skin a greenish tinge from the water.

“Several moments later, I pulled myself, coughing, onto the shore. The woman was beside me, and I could see now that even in the air, her skin had a greenish cast. She was naked and beautiful.”

“A mermaid?” I asked. I was beginning to think this man was either mad or toying with me.

“Do you believe in mermaids?” he asked.

“I have never had any reason to.”

“Neither did I,” the old man said. “She did not have a fish’s tail, as they do in the stories, but she was no ordinary woman.

“‘Thank you for saving me,’ I said to her and she nodded. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’ she asked. ‘Kiss me again,’ I said.

“I had not been meaning to say that and I was embarrassed, but she crawled carefully up to me, keeping one foot in the water, and kissed me again. Then she told me her name and slipped back into the water.”

“What was her name?” I asked.

“I cannot tell you.”

“You have forgotten it?”

“No,” he said. “It is a name I could never forget. As soon as I heard it, it crept into every corner of my mind and I could keep my mind on nothing else. I would not tell it to you, lest the same thing happen to you.

“For several years after that I would come here and meet with her. Sometimes I would summon her by flying the kite, but sometimes she would call to me with her singing. She had a high, whispering song that floated on the breeze and drew me irresistibly to her.

“When I was seventeen, the town found out that I was meeting with someone here most every day. I heard the word ‘monster’ and ‘succubus’ whispered about. They came to kill her, but I saw them coming up the road, my father leading the way. She begged me to go with her, but I was afraid.

“‘I will wait for you here,’ I said. ‘But I cannot return,’ she replied. I was still afraid and did not believe her fully. She gave me one last, long kiss and then dove into the water as the people reached the top of the hill.

“I was sent away to the southern counties by my father, but I returned and stayed here, tending the graves and flying my kite. I have waited years for my lost mermaid. I could not have stopped even if I wanted to. The memory of her last kiss still burns on my lips and her name is as fresh in my memory as always.”

The old man stopped. I wondered if he told this story to everyone who stopped by or if I were privileged somehow. The sun went down and the golden color drained out of the landscape. Soon the darkness would be complete.

“You may stay in the old cottage by the woods,” he said. “I will stay here.”

I would have argued with him, but the memorial stone of Mr. Archbald Duggan was none too comfortable and I gratefully moved to the cottage. It was shabby and dank, but when I got a fire going, it cheered up immensely.

I awoke in the middle of the night to hear the wind sighing in the branches outside. With a start, I thought I could catch words in it. I jumped up and looked out the window.

The moonlight was shining brightly on the cemetery and the black water of the firth. The old man was gone from his gravestone perch. I put my hand on the door latch, but something stopped me, perhaps my oft-unused common sense. I went back to my bedroll on the floor and lay listening to the melodic breeze playing through the trees.

The next day dawned sunny and clear. I packed up my things and went to see if the old man had returned. His seat was empty. I stood for a while, and was just about to leave when I noticed something buried in the grass by the gravestone. After digging in the tangled grass, I pulled out a rotted cross of wood with several scraps of dark-blue cloth still clinging to it. Nearby was a spool of twine that fell apart when I picked it up. It must have lain there for years.

I thought of taking a piece of the cloth to remember this place with, but I knew it was not for me. The wind was singing in the trees again as I left, but I dared not look back at the water for fear of what I might see and what I might do then.

11 Comments | tags: fantasy, fiction, ghosts, Horus Vere, mermaid | posted in Dusk

August 23, 2012

Dead Switch

By David Stewart

“I think my house is haunted,” Frederick said. He shifted nervously, glancing up at the hall chandelier.

“Yes, so you said on the phone,” the psychic investigator said, frowning slightly. This was just a preliminary visit. No point in rolling out the TV cameras just yet.

“You see, the chandelier flickers on and off sometimes, just on its own. Usually at night.”

“I see. Like a short in the wires?”

“No, I’ve had it checked out three times by electricians. They say everything is normal.”

At that moment, the chandelier flickered on and then immediately went off. It flickered on and off a few more times, then nothing.

“You see?” Frederick cried. “It’s haunted.”

“I see,” the psychic investigator said. His demeanor had changed completely. “You may be right. In my expert opinion, I would say this is strong evidence of poltergeist activity.”

* * *

At that moment, eight hundred miles away, Jon Tagg stood in his brother-in-law’s bathroom, flicking the useless switch up and down.

“Hey, Dave, I think your light’s broken,” he called.

“You gotta use the one on the right,” Dave called from the kitchen. “Don’t use the switch on the left. I don’t know what it’s for.”

14 Comments | tags: fantasy, fiction, ghosts, house | posted in Light

July 26, 2012

Living with Fear

By David Stewart

This was based on a story prompt by my good friend, Sharmistha, on her post, Who Was That? Check out her blog and write your own version if you wish.

Source

I walked out onto the crushed gravel of the driveway, the only light coming from a window high up on the third floor. It was my bedroom, and the only inhabited room in the whole dreary pile. The rest of the manor, with its long corridors and sepulchral parlors was in the hands of another, at least during the night. It was a place where fear was as plentiful as the dark through which it flowed.

The mist was rising up off the lake, slowly taking the grounds for its own. I could feel its chilling caress as it flowed past me. My heart was pounding and my knees were shaking, but I swung the flashlight beam around, looking for the reason I had come. But the fog diffused the light and I could see nothing but the white mist.

Never look out your window after dark. That was my rule, which I obeyed faithfully for all those months I had lived alone in that gloomy mansion. But that night, as I drew the curtains fully closed, I happened to glance out and saw the flicker of a light below in the courtyard: not the bright beam of a flashlight from a lost hiker or a deliveryman, but the dim flicker of a lantern that had no place in the present age.

Never let the fear master you. That was my other rule, and so I ventured out to investigate, against the cries of common sense. I felt my neck prickle with premonition and I looked quickly back at the house. My eyes were drawn irresistibly to the roof and I saw it, the dark, cloaked figure looking down at me, so black that I saw its silhouette clearly, even against the night sky.

It could only be he, the long-dead master of the estate that I had usurped. For a moment, my will failed me and I ran inside, barring the door with futile bolts of steel.

Later, in my room I sat in dread anticipation by the glowing embers on the hearth. I had broken his truce and I did not know what would come. The darkness closed around me, pressing on me, until I did not dare move to build up the fire or find refuge in bed.

I heard the door creak softly and then a soft, almost inaudible whine as it opened, slowly but inexorably.

I tried to control my rapid breathing. Never let fear master you, my mind screamed, but the words were lost in the whirling shriek of the blood rushing in my ears. The floorboards creaked, one by one, coming ever closer. I heard that quiet tread, back and forth, just out of sight. I needed to build up the fire, but I could not move. Just as the panic overcame my senses and darkness began to cloud my eyes, I groped for a piece of wood and pushed it forward onto the embers.

The fire flared up and I heard a hiss from the darkness next to my chair. Then my mind slipped into darkness.

I awoke, still in the armchair, with a sliver of daylight slipping between the heavy curtains. When I pulled them open, I found blackened footprints leading to and from the door. Whatever had made them had paced back and forth in a circle, just outside the light of the fire.

From that day on, I never looked outside after dark and I kept the fire built high, especially on foggy nights.