A new tale, right from the pot of a leprechaun...

Spectre

     Now I’m going to share a story with the reader from a time when I had been engaged in my favourite pastime: travelling. For me, travelling is a very entertaining pursuit, though I cannot indulge in it as frequently as I would like, due to a fact that I do not wish to detail now.

     I have been to many places and I have seen many things, but I think it isn’t nearly enough. As a European, I prefer my home continent to others. I have travelled around Europe so many times, and I still can’t get enough of it. Although I still wanted a change from my home, I recognized that I hadn’t yet traveled to every nook of Europe.

     Since I’ve used this word ‘nook’ I will apply it to this place as well, especially being that it is an island. And this island is none other than Ireland! The realization struck upon me that I had never been there, though there are many things to see there. Just to mention a few of them: the Giant’s Causeway—the hexagonal-shaped, basaltic marvel, which, according to legend, was built by a giant in love; the Cliffs of Moher, these nearly 200 meter high unfriendly rock faces that have an almost unearthly quietude—sometimes, if you stand on the top of them you can barely hear the roaring, thundering waves of the Atlantic beneath that are constantly sieging Ireland; and there’s the Benbulbin, the odd, steep, 300 meter high rock formation that looks like the hull of an upside-down ship. Even the names themselves betray a fantastic, imaginative and enriched country!

     Thus I fixed my next destination on the map that hung on the wall in my apartment. From a little bowl containing numbered pins with which I mark my impending destination, I took the number 21 and stabbed Ireland with it. After this little ritual of mine I began to prepare for the voyage. I booked my tickets and accommodation. A few days later I was onboard a flying machine above the clouds, en route to the Emerald Isle.

     I wanted to visit the above mentioned places, and if possible, to immortalize these in photographs. Fortunately I was experienced enough to take such pictures with a professional camera, and produce photographs of a quality worthy to be shown in expositions. For this reason I chose a travel route which I hoped would be not only fascinating, but hauntingly beautiful at the same time. The story that I want to tell you started as I was making my way toward the Giant’s Causeway.

I stumbled into a cozy little village halfway to my destination for I had to change trains there. Due to an accident somewhere along the track I was unable to make my connection that day. I was forced to look for lodging due to the approaching nightfall; I inquired from the locals, and soon found the recommended boarding house.

     The homely little inn was quite a jolly place. As soon as I entered my room I put down my luggage, kicked off my shoes and tumbled onto the bed, in order to determine the mattress’ resilience. And I found it excellent. Then I tried in vain to get up, but it was difficult due to the comfortable pose and the way I had fallen into the bed. And so my weariness, the pleasant atmosphere of the inn, and the town’s agreeable air brought on sleep.

     I woke to the inn’s doors and shutters being closed on the ground floor. Sleep almost overcame me again, but then an old pendulum clock started its ding-dong somewhere in the house. As I counted the dings and dongs I learned that the night had grown eleven hours old. Since I was already awake I decided that I may as well go to bed normally. So I undressed and staggered to the bathroom for the usual evening rites of bathing and teeth brushing. By the time I staggered back to my bed I heard the toll of the church bell strike midnight. The bell had a subtle muted sound, and I think the fog that had fallen on the village had a role in that.

     I looked out of the window and saw the dark silhouette of the church’s tower in the night. The bell had just struck its twelfth tone and I was about to turn back from the window when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I looked there and saw a pale figure walking along the street. It had seemed at first glance that the figure was glowing, but later I realized that his or her white dress was reflected ideally in the lamplight. As this apparition slowly passed, floating by under my window, I thought ‘It cannot be human! It looks like a spectre!’

     After a moment of awe and stupefaction I searched for my camera in my bag, but in vain. For by the time I had managed to find it and get back to the window, the spectre—since I was sure that it was a spectre—was gone.

     On the morrow of the next day while I was consuming my breakfast I pondered: had I only dreamt the spectre?

     I decided that I would postpone my travel, and the inn-keeper was glad to hear that. I changed my train ticket, cancelled my reservations, and then set off to explore the little village and its environs. By late afternoon the fog had started to descend again so I returned to the inn and read until night.

     My thoughts still orbited around the spectre, and later on as well while I dined. This preternatural—or preternaturally fancied—occurrence wouldn’t leave my mind. To pass some time and try to forget about it I played some rounds of gin rummy with the inn-keeper’s son.

     At eleven o’clock I was already in my room, and I heard, as I had heard on the previous night, the doors, windows and shutters being closed. Meanwhile I readied my camera: I put on the proper lens and set it up so that I wouldn’t need a flash.

     As I stared out at the foggy streets that were bathed in the orangey light of the streetlamps, I became immersed in the admiration of the late hour: in fascination of the amethyst firmament where the onyx silhouette of the church’s nave appeared to rise out of the milky mist-sea. The still, deadly silence was broken as the bronze bell of the church resounded full-throatedly.

     With my camera in hand I was ready. I believe I have rarely been so excited as in that moment. I so hoped that I would see the spectre again—this would prove that I hadn’t just dreamt it.

The sound of the last strike of the bell crawled along the rooftops like the fog itself, and died in the distance as a trembling cry.

     Several minutes passed, and I was starting to think that the spectre would not appear again….but then its glowing, whitish figure emerged from the murk. Due to its shroud I could barely discern its features, but I took a picture, and then another. I had barely begun when, on the screen of the camera, there appeared a crossed, blinking battery icon. I cursed, hissing at my bad fortune, for I forgotten one of the most important things! I scrambled to find the spare battery in the camera bag, and replaced it quickly. I managed to take two more photos of the occurrence before it disappeared, devoured by the billowing mist.

     On the next day I mentioned the event to the innkeeper, and I even showed him the pictures on the screen of my camera. He didn’t really want to believe it, yet his paleness betrayed his true feelings. Since he was a religious man, he advised me to talk about this with the local minister. I had burst into a loud laugh at this suggestion, but my cackle soon abated when I noticed the absolutely serious look on his face. I apologized for my reaction, then left to consult with the priest.

     The church was ancient: its large dark stones were covered with moss and other green plant life. Its style was completely unknown to me since it looked to have a gothic tower, but rather Romanesque windows. Or perhaps I’m just too much of a dilettante about architecture to describe it well. And yet it seemed to be a Catholic church, though there wasn’t any cross topping its spire.

     As I entered, I paid respect in the house of God, for I am a baptised Catholic, though I’ve never really practiced my religion. I dipped my fingers in the stoup by the door and genuflected as I made the sign of the cross and mumbled the accompanying Latin phrase. Then I stood up and walked toward the altar to look for the priest.

     He appeared behind me from out of nowhere, like a sorcerer; I only missed the smoke. He frightened me though, and when I calmed down I presented him the story of the spectre, and my photographs. After seeing the images he didn’t want to believe his own eyes. We continued our conversation until he offered to join forces and go for a ghost hunt that night. I liked the idea, and even remarked that if we encounter a baleful, foul spirit then at least the loyal servant of the Lord will be within reach. Like the inn-keeper, the priest didn’t appreciate my joke; I found myself apologizing once again.

     I asked him to show me around the church, for I wished to take a few photos of it. The cleric willingly showed me his domain, and then I asked him to take me up to the bell tower. We climbed the stairs, and there the giant bronze bell hung majestically. I took a photo of it too, for I fancied the usual bell inscription’s tortuous letters reading: Vivos voco, mortuos plango, fulgura frango; I call the living, I mourn the dead, I repel the lightning. As we descended I had the chance to hear at very close range the deep resonance of this living-calling, dead-mourning and lightning-repelling object.

     On the way down from the tower, from the window of one of the landings, I noticed a graveyard behind the church. I told the priest that if the village has a real spectre then it might be coming from one of those graves. The cleric smiled at this remark.

     I thanked him, and as we parted we decided we would meet shortly before midnight at the church. I returned to the inn and prepared for the hunt. I charged my batteries, put empty memory cards in the camera, and put two different lenses into the camera bag.

     By half-past eleven I was already in the church and talking with the cleric. This time he was not in his black cassock, but in something more practical for the purposes of ghost hunting.

     We noticed that it was almost midnight, so we gathered our things and set off. I recommended that we check the graveyard first; the priest nodded, and after leaving the church, turned that way. As we stepped out of the building the bell started to sign the beginning of the witching hour. By the time we had rounded the church the bell had just finished tolling. In front of us the silent graveyard lay, with its lopsided, crooked, here and there cracked and mossy tombs. Between the stones, statues and a few sepulchres, a fog billowed, but a weak, thin fog that did not compare to the mists of the previous nights. While we sought to avoid stepping on those mounds that had already lost their stones, we entertained ourselves with reading the epitaphs on the still intact headstones.

     After a few minutes walking, we were suddenly stopped by a sight: from behind one of the tombs stepped a ghastly white-clad figure! By the argent moonlight we could see the spectre well; the cleric crossed himself and began to mumble in prayer. His frightened voice as he milled the words caused me to waken from my shock: I attempted some normal photographs, but my trembling hands didn’t let me.

     The phantom turned back toward us for a brief moment, but we couldn’t see its visage, for still it was covered with a hood or some kind of shroud.

     As we had lost clear sight of it, we ran after it, but of course with the greatest care and respect for the graves. We were almost out of the graveyard when I noticed through the old iron fence that the spectre was heading toward the centre of the village.

     For me it seemed strange and unlikely that I was chasing a wraith through the streets of an Irish village.

The ghastly white phantasm looked more spectral and irrational in the orange light of the streetlamps. Then it turned at a street, and went through a stone wall. The cleric loudly hissed: “This is impossible!” He crossed himself again while I ran to the point where the spectre had gone through the wall, the priest following after me.

     There, what had seemed impassable from afar, between two old, medieval houses, gaped a dark, arched passageway. This passage we went through led out of the village, and we arrived at a road.

     We had once more lost sight of the spectre. The cleric began to speak, but I stopped him, for I spied the phantasm again in the distance, and recommended that we return to the pursuit. As we ran alongside the road we got closer to the ocean. When I looked down from the road I saw the great peaceful waters; this made such a strong and immediate impression on me that for a moment I well-nigh forgot why I was running along the road. The cleric however woke me from my artistic reverie, and we followed the spectre on.

     Soon the phantom left the road and turned onto a path that lead through a scrubland where untamed bushes and weeds proliferated. We followed the path as well, making our way through the tunnel of wild flora. The trail ended on a sloped, grassy glade from which a view opened onto the ocean. An old bench of stone and wood faced the ocean scape, and the cleric and I hid behind it, for there the spectre stood, in the middle of the glade.

     I tried yet again to take a picture of the wraith, but by the time I managed to focus, the spectre had set off once more.

     We followed it again as it descended on the sloped glade. At the bottom of the slope there was another graveyard. The stones were even older than the ones in the churchyard; these were unusual grave markers—not just broken, lopsided and overturned, but large Celtic crosses, some blackened by time, some green with moss.

     The pale full moon shone in the purple velvet sky above the great waters, which reflected back its sickly and unearthly light, giving a fearfully enthralling appearance to the spectre, who stood amongst the broken, ancient ruins. Before us, the ghost stood motionless in front of one of the blackened stones.

I approached furtively, stopping intermittently to take a few more pictures. The priest followed me silently. When I found the perfect spot and angle, I quickly snapped some images. Then I changed the lens to take closer pictures. As I zoomed in on the face of the pursued I saw that it wasn’t wearing a shroud, but rather the hood of the robe which shadowed its features. But now the doubled light of Selene revealed her visage…the spectre was a woman.

     Parchment-like, yellowish skin stretched over her face; her lips turned inwards as do those of the toothless. Her closed eyes lay in their dark, deep sockets; her eyelashes looked like the tiny legs of bugs, as they moved in the subtle breeze that came from the ocean.

     The tension of the fear manifested in perspiration; I felt an icy drop of sweat running down my spine from my nape to my waist. My hand started to tremble again, and as I tried to stabilize the camera I kept my eyes on the spectre. I saw her eyes moving under her eyelids, and that caused my teeth to chatter. I shivered, but I tried to focus to take another good picture of her, when I noticed something.

     I noticed a weak vapour—a breath—rising from her nose. Immediately I realized the truth! I wanted to tell the cleric, and reached behind my back looking for him while I continued to stare at the woman. I turned around, but the priest was nowhere to be found.

     When I turned back to the woman I saw the cleric approaching her. I signaled to him with heavy gestures, but was in vain, for he couldn’t see me in front of the dark bushes. Then I tried to run there.

     “Don’t wake her! She’s a sleepwalker!”

     But this was too late; the old woman opened her glassy, faded grey eyes and looked deeply into the frightened eyes of the cleric. She then collapsed into his shaking, sinewy hands.

     On the following day we, the cleric and I, learned that thankfully no ill had come to the lady, mentally or physically, as a result of us waking her up. Later we told this whole story to the innkeeper and his family, and we all laughed about the whole banal affair.

     Thus we managed to solve the case of the spectre, and on the next day I travelled on. The minister, the innkeeper and the old lady herself escorted me to the train station and bid me goodbye. The innkeeper asked for my email address before I left.

     I continued my planned trip of the natural wonders of Ireland, and I decided that if I ever return to the Emerald Isle I shall visit that village again.

     When I got home after my journey I received my first mail from the innkeeper. From then on, every month or so, he would write me a brief letter. Once he informed me in such an email that the lady had again taken to roaming the streets of the village. I recommended that he advise the old lady’s family to hire a nurse for her.

     Another email came almost immediately, informing me of a fact that he had somehow forgotten to mention in the previous one: the old lady had passed away…