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…