Hello all,

A bit more of an update on things. Today I had a bit of a chat with a Viking re-enactors, which was really fun and it was really nice to make such a bond over common ground. They have their own Viking history blog called Northworthy Sagas and Stories and they're based in Derbyshire. They are telling Viking myths and folklore, as well as history and fighting techniques. There is so much that they have planned.

Also, on another note, my short story that I've tentatively named the Mystics and the Maid - see my last post for a sample of this story - is coming along nicely. A new scene developed today that was totally unexpected and I hope it'll be as much a joy to read as it will be to write. It's a Penny Dreadful style ghost story set at the Old Bell in Derby. Watch out for the ghost of a maligned veteran of The Battle of Culloden.

Hello all,

Yes, I've sort of had a few ups and downs with my writing recently and I just really wanted to share this. Its the introductory part of a short story I've been working on recently. I will point out that it is a first draft, so this won't be near the point I'll feel comfortable sending out, so cue the occasional spelling mistake or cliche, but I felt that I should share something with you, so here it is, the opening part of a penny dreadful ghost story with a Gothic flavour called The Maid and The Mystics:

The Maid and the Mystics

I slumped over the dark wood bar in the Tudor Room, reached the jug down and levered a couple of gobbets of beer into it. I'm sure it would settle by the time that we were ready to drink it. We could always go back for more anyway. We'd a long standing agreement with the landlord. We'd provided a service for him many moons ago and now he had graciously provided us with a safe haven for our little monthly meetings. An undisturbed room, no staff or customers to overhear us and permission to help ourselves to drink. As long as we kept the spirits away from the spirits.

I climbed down, being careful not to slosh the beer everywhere and straightened my shirt front as I returned to our usual table beneath a faux-antique tapestry depicting a medieval hunting scene. Bragi Cartwright had his pocket watch in his stoat fist and stared intently at it through wire rimmed lenses.

“Madame Claire Smythe's late once more,” he stated and dropped the watch back into the unbuttoned scarlet waistcoat to relieve pressure from his huge stomach. “She always does this. Five minutes here. Half an hour there.” His finger started wagging at me like an irate woodpecker as I stood beside him, jug still in hand. “It's not on, I tell you. She'll only give us excuses again and it really cuts into the club meeting's itinerary.”

Bragi's once hyperactive hand reached out and clenched the corner of the dark wood table top just in time for the heavy oak door on the opposite side of the room to creak open and the mourning-dressed figure of a middle aged woman entered. She swept casually passed the maze of tightly packed chairs and tables and delicately eased herself onto the maroon cushioned pew lining one side of our table.

“Ah, I see that everyone's arrived. Once we're all sat comfortably, we can begin,” Madame Smythe said as Bragi gave me a knowing look that Smythe was oblivious to. “A port and lemon for me please Obadiah.”

I placed the jug on the table and as I passed Bragi to the 'staff only' door for access behind the bar, I rolled my eyes. He patted me on one elbow in sympathy.

Behind the bar, I struggled to find the port bottle in such a tight space, but in a handful of moments, I was splashing a dollop into the bottom of the nearest wine glass I could lay my hands on. A few more moments of searching, I found the lemon and a knife and was carving off a slice to drop into the deep liquid that matched the room's wood furnishings and panelling.

I returned to the table, placed the glass down before Madame Smythe and lowered myself into a chair opposite her. She'd raised her veil while I was pouring her drink. She looked at it, grimaced and then looked at me.

“You really must try wearing something other than that tired old black suit, my dear,” she stated. “You look like an undertaker's long deceased assistant. Now look at that.” She pointed at my elbow. “The jacket's completely worn through at the elbows, and my, I daren't even think what that dark stain on the front might be!”

“And the grey shirt front, and the fraying shirt sleeves…” I nodded my head along with each point. “You mentioned those the last time we met, and the time before that. In fact, you've mentioned them every time we've met up over the last three years. They come with my trade. They're the downside of the practical work I'm employed to do.”

Taken aback, Madame Smythe opened her mouth to berate me once more.

“Stop this nonsense at once!” Bragi's voice rumbled about the room. “The pair of you, You both go through this rigmarole every time we meet and I'm sick of it. Now, to business. Or would you both care to provide me with enough refreshments to withstand you're verbal boxing?”

Madame Smythe gulped. “You're right of course Master Cartwright.” Her breath audibly hissed as she let out a calming breath as she backed down from the argument. “We're here to cover any points of outstanding business from last month.”

Salutations All!

He’s a little piece of my researches that I hope you find interesting. It’s a piece taken from a book called Bradwell: Ancient and Modern that was published in 1912 – Bradwell is a village in Derbyshire. A man called Seth Evans wrote about a beast called a Lumb Boggart.

Bradwell, Derbyshire



Old Bradwell, Derbyshire

In the book, Evans entitles this piece ‘an absurd tale which everybody believed even down to half a century ago. A Lumb, you might like to know is the old English word for pool and a Boggart is traditionally a type of rogue hobgoblin that had left their homes because their human co-inhabitants didn’t care for them properly, but by the 1800s, a boggart referred to something different. Where previously a boggart had been a shunned, rogue domestic goblin living in the wilds, living off what it could steal from travellers, it became interchangeable with the word ghost. Many tales from the late 1700s and most of the 1800s including boggarts have a lot of similarities with what we know categorise as cases of poltergeist activity.

Exorcism

I did a little research into what an ousel was. Just for peace of mind and ease of reading, it’s a bird that nests in rocky crevices.

Ousel

Anyway, here’s the extract:

It used to be said that about a century and a half ago (1710 ish) the body of a young girl who was supposed to have been murdered was found buried under the staircase of a house at Hill Head. The ghost of the girl appeared every night until everyone in the neighbourhood were terrified and thrown into a cold sweat. Unable to bear it any longer the people got a well-known individual who belonged to the Baptists… to undertake the task of ‘laying’ the ghost. As this individual professed to be able to rule the planets. Of course, no one doubted his power of getting rid of the ghost.

The time came, and the haunted house was filled with affrighted spectators when the exorcist appeared among them with his paraphernalia, and when he prayed until streams of sweat poured from his face as he knelt within a ring he had chalked on the chamber floor, the lookers-on kneeling around, and later afterwards declared that they “felt the floor move for yards up and down in quick succession.” Then the magician arose and exclaimed, “Arise! Arise! I charge and command thee,” when the spirit appeared, and the man ordered it to depart and assume the body of a fish, and to locate itself in the Lumb Mouth. He also ordered that every Christmas Eve the ghost should assume the form of a white ousel, and fly to Lumbly Pool.

Consequently, the family that lived at Hill Head moved soon after this incident.

Salutations All!

 

Ashford in the Water, Derbyshire



Great Langston, Derbyshire

I have recently found out about a procession of twelve headless men that carry an empty coffin down Shady Lane at dusk. The lane itself runs from Great Longstone to Ashford-in-the-Water in Derbyshire. It is thought that empty coffins in a ghostly funeral procession were an omen of death. The coffin is implied by the spirits to be for the person that witnesses the terrifying event.

Renishaw Hall, Derbyshire

I found this curious, especially as an empty coffin had been found in Renishaw Hall in 1895 between the ground floor and first floor during a stage of remodelling. This coffin had been nailed shut and when curious builders, servants and owners had opened it, they only found the imprint of a body within. Could these strange incidents be related?

Salutations All!

Here’s a Derbyshire fairy tale from SO Addy’s, the collector of local stories. This is a story is said to have originated in the Derbyshire town of Eckington and in true fairy tale tradition it’s thought that this story was a morality tale told to young children.

It tells of a young girl with a golden cup. One day, her mother told her that she was going out and that the girl could while away the time playing with the cup. The girl asked a servant to get the cup for her from a cupboard, but the maid was too busy. The girl kept asking the servant over and over again whether she could have her cup.

But what happened next? The servant, infuriated with the girl’s constant nagging, murdered her and buried the girl’s body under one of the flagstones in the cellar. The mother returned later that day and asked the servant where her daughter was. The servant claimed that she’d not seen the daughter in hours. The mother looked for a while but couldn’t find her.

Now, I’ll let SO Addy finish off the tale in his own words:

Then the mother was deeply grieved, and she sat up all that night and all the next. On the third night as she sat alone and wide awake she heard the voice of her daughter outside the door saying, “Can I have my golden cup?” the mother opened the door, and when her daughter had repeated the question three times she saw her spirit, but the spirit vanished at once, and she never saw it more.