Cumbrian Ghost Stories

by Tony Walker

  It was a man. I think it was a man. The figure stood tall and dark with snow flurries blowing round his hooded face. ‘Thanks,’ he said. His voice was deep and the accent local. That reassured me. He was a mortal man after all, one of my own people.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked, wishing he’d either get in or leave me to my journey.

  ‘Just up the road.’

  ‘Further on than the pass?’

  He nodded. I could hardly see the gesture with the dark and the hood of his coat up. I was getting cold and keen to be on my way. ‘Get in if you’re getting in.’

  The dark figure walked round the front of the car, his legs lit up by each beam in turn. Then the door opened, and he sat in, bringing chill with him.

  I set off, pulling the car slowly back into the main carriageway, not that you could see it now, the snow was so deep. Nothing had passed me while I sat pulled up waiting for the stranger. And it was weird too how he knocked on my window, as if he was expecting to get in and drive.

  I got up to maybe twenty miles an hour. It would take me all night to get home at this speed.

  ‘You live locally?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. Not far away.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Then he was quiet. As we progressed slowly up to the start of the pass, he said nothing and I began to feel there was something very odd about him.

  After ten minutes, when we were climbing, and the wheels had already slipped and shifted once, he said, ‘Would you do me a favour?’

  I hesitated, cleared my throat and said. ‘Sure.’ Then I laughed. ‘Depends what it is.’

  ‘Would you take a message to someone for me?’

  ‘Well. I need to get back home, really. Sorry.’

  He paused. ‘You’re going there, anyway.’

  ‘What?’

  Despite the intensity of my concentration on the road ahead, I twisted my head. ‘What?’

  He was staring straight ahead, his hood still up. ‘It’s just a card. A Christmas card.’

  I directed my stare back to the road. I couldn’t lose concentration on this high, windy road or I’d wreck the car.

  ‘What do you mean I’ll be going there, anyway? I have to get home.’

  I felt him stuff the card into the pocket of my coat, uninvited with a muffled ‘thank you.’ Then a minute later, he said, ‘When you see him, tell him I miss him.’

  ‘See who?’

  ‘Can you let me out here, please?’

  I look at the whirling snow and the dark outside the car. ‘Here? You’ll freeze to death.’

  ‘Here please. I can’t go where you’re going. Sorry.’

  The guy was clearly crazy. I was glad to be rid of him. I thought he was foolish, but I wasn’t going to fight to stop him. How could I? He would have to bear the consequences of his action.

  I started to brake. ‘Okay. I don’t think…’

  He interrupted me. ‘Thank you, stranger. I’m sorry it has to be you. You’re kind.’

  I really needed him out of the car now. He was starting to freak me out. He might even murder me out here if I didn’t let him go. I would stop, let him out then set off again. Home for Christmas.

  The door thunked shut, and he was gone, vanished into the blizzard. Maybe he’d get a lift from someone else. Maybe I should call the police? Not that I had any mobile signal among these hills. Best I just get home. That would be enough of a struggle.

  And so I drove on. The snow lessened slightly, but it was dark. I saw the entrance tracks to lonely farmhouses set way back down their drives, but then even they grew less frequent as I climbed up into the truly wild country. I crested the pass top, went by the cairn I knew was there from previous journeys but couldn’t see now. Then I started to descend. If anything, this was the more dangerous part of the journey. The bends looked unfamiliar and I couldn’t tell where I was. Then a sudden curve in the road loomed in my headlights and I stamped on the brakes.

  The car slid and swerved like a bronco as I tried to get control back. It gathered pace and fear shot through me. If I went over the edge here, it would be the end of me. The car began a lateral slide and there was an enormous bang.

  The next thing I knew was silence. The engine had died, and it was cold. I must have lost consciousness briefly. I blinked and shook my head to clear it. I couldn’t stay in the car; I’d freeze to death, so I struggled to get out. I unbuckled the seat belt and shoved the door. It opened easily, and that was amazing because when I stood outside, With my fingers in the dark, I felt how buckled the metal was. It was a miracle I’d survived at all. I pulled my coat in tight and turned up the collar. But weirdly, I didn’t feel cold.

  My plan was to walk down the road until a car came. So I walked. I walked for a long time and the night was so dark it was as if I was the only person in the world, alone in a realm of snow and shadow. And then I saw a lane leading off to the left. The sign on it needed painting, but it said, ‘Greensyke Farm.’ It was incredible I could see to read because there was no obvious light source.

  I figured I could keep walking on the road, but to be honest, who would be out driving in this weather? Or, I could walk down this lonning to Greensyke Farm. Farmers were bound to be in. And so I left the road and walked the stony path. My feet didn’t slip on the snow-covered rocks and soon I saw a lone farmhouse ahead. There was a light in the window. No Christmas decorations but a light there as if to guide travellers.

  It took me a further five minutes to get to the farmhouse and once there; the snow blowing round my ears and face; I knocked on the door.

  No one came. I thought maybe no one was in, despite the light. Then I reasoned that they wouldn’t really be expecting visitors, so I rapped again and this time there was the sound of movement deep within the house.

  The rattling of bolts and opening of latches came muffled from behind the front door, then it was thrown open, not cautiously, but as if in welcome.

  An old man stood there. ‘You’re here. I knew he’d send someone. He always does.’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he said. He looked and sounded like a normal farmer. They’re so down to earth normally but this guy sounded as crazy as the man I’d given a lift to.

  ‘Look,’ I said, still standing at the door with the weather behind me. ‘I just need to use your phone and then I’ll be gone as soon as the rescue people come to tow my car.’

  The farmer looked at me sadly. ‘The phone won’t be any use to you. But come on. The cold’s getting into the house, even if it doesn’t bother you.’

  And he was right. The cold didn’t bother me. But at his request I stepped in.

  The house was old-fashioned. It looked like it came from years ago. I scanned around for the phone. I’d persuade him to let me use it. I’d pay him if I had to.

  ‘Do you have the card?’ he said.

  My hand went to the pocket of my coat. I did have the card. He saw me move to it and said, ‘Could I have it, please?’

  Without speaking, I took the card out of my pocket and gave it to him. It said, ‘dad’ on the front in rough, male looking handwriting.

  Fear rose through my throat and mouth and eyes like a cold flower. I heard my voice falter. ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘My son David sent you. He always knows who it will happen to. That’s why he gave you the card. He’s never forgotten me even after all these years.’

  My mind whirled. I remembered stories about the myth of the ghostly hitchhiker. Maybe this was what this was. Except the guy hadn’t vanished, he’d got out like a normal person.

  I heard my voice waver. I couldn’t ask this; it was too weird.

  But the farmer smiled. He looked kind and at the same time sorrowful. His card was in his hand. I saw tears in his eyes. ‘It’s lovely,’ he said. ‘Was there any other message?’

  I brushed back my hair with my hand, knocking the remaining snow out. I remembered what the hitcher had said. ‘He said he missed you.
’

  The farmer nodded. ‘And I miss him too. But it’s just for a while. Until then he must use you and people like you to deliver messages.’

  I finally worked up my courage. I had to know. I asked, ‘Your son…’

  The farmer kept smiling.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Is he…’ I felt weird, but I finished my sentence. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘No, lad.’

  ‘What then?’

  The farmer looked at me with a sad smile. ‘We are.’

  6

  The Highest Inn in England

  It styles itself the highest pub in England - the place we went. Whether that’s true I don’t know, but it’s certainly high. You are right among the mountains, rising ruggedly on all sides. The road is narrow, coming up passes from Patterdale one side and from Ambleside the other. Yes, England’s Lake District — the most beautiful part of the country they say. It’s very beautiful, of that there’s no doubt.

  I won’t go back, though. Ever.

  This all happened several years ago now. I had gone on holiday with my wife Margaret and my daughters Ellie and Hazel. We live in Manchester and I work as a project manager in the IT department of a medium-sized company.

  I remember we were happy the day we arrived. The sun was shining. We’d enjoyed the drive through the beautiful scenery and then when we got to the Inn, we were impressed by its setting. Who wouldn’t be?

  “Man, this is beautiful,” I said, stepping out of the car on that fine summer day. Down below I saw the lake glittering, while above birds of prey circled on the warm updrafts.

  “I’m surprised it’s not raining,” said Margaret. The Lake District is famous for its rain.

  “Yep, we’re lucky.” I grinned. ‘Born lucky.’

  The girls being teenagers, Ellie 14 and Hazel 16, were less than ecstatic at the grandeur of the scenery. I knew they would rather have spent time chilling with their friends back home - sitting in each other’s bedrooms talking about boys and makeup. But I’d dragged them out here for their own good. That’s what I thought, anyway.

  As I opened the car door, I looked at Ellie, slight and fair-haired; she was the more biddable of the two. Hazel had her mother’s dark colouring and her stubborn temperament, made worse by teenage hormones. Ellie hopped out, but Hazel hadn’t got out of the car yet and was sitting with her earphones on - Listening to some LA rapper as if this present earth and air were less to do with her than drive-by shootings in Compton.

  “What do you think, Ellie?” I said pointing around.

  Standing by the car, Ellie looked up from her iPhone and smiled. “Yeah, dad. It’s lovely.”

  Margaret nodded too. “Yep, stunning. What a view!”

  I bent down to speak to Hazel through the open car door. “What do you think?” I said it loud and purposefully. She was being deliberately rude. She pretended she hadn’t heard, so I repeated myself.

  “What?” she said, scowling, pulling out the earphones.

  “Beautiful view!” I said.

  “Whatever,” she said and went back to deliberately doing nothing. I felt a flash of anger. Margaret saw it and placed her hand on my arm. “I’ll get her out,” she said.

  I walked away to where Ellie was admiring the landscape. “It’s nice, but it’s pretty remote. I wouldn’t like to be here at night!” she said.

  “You are going to be here at night, you doughnut.” I ruffled her hair. “We’re staying here!”

  “Oh,” she said. She paid no attention to anything I told her, but she was a lovely sweet girl.

  Margaret had got Hazel out of the car and all four of us went into the dark bar. There was a low murmur from the tourists sitting round eating their Cumberland sausage and drinking their Jennings ale. There was no official reception - the guy at the bar doubled as meeter and greeter. I said hi. “Got a room here tonight. Name’s Rogers.”

  He got down his big handwritten book and by running his finger along the entries, found my name.

  “Two rooms?” he said.

  I nodded. “One for my wife and myself, and one for my daughters.”

  “Fine,” he said. He showed us up. We creaked our way up the dark wooden stairs. The doors were all different, nothing machine made. They looked as if they’d been there for donkeys’ years. The rooms were old and quirky too, with low dark beams and rugged plastered walls. The place looked ancient, but luckily there was an en-suite bathroom in both the rooms.

  “Nice,” said Margaret.

  “Lots of character,” I said.

  Ellie came round the door from her bedroom just down the short uneven corridor.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  She pulled a face. “I don’t like it. It’s spooky.”

  Margaret laughed. “That’s just your imagination. Just because it’s old.”

  Hazel appeared. “I don’t like it either.”

  I groaned. “What a surprise.”

  “It’s got no WiFi. I’ve got no Internet. What am I supposed to do?”

  “You’re not supposed to be on the Internet; you’re supposed to be enjoying the natural beauty and the company of your family.”

  She shrugged ill-temperedly.

  “Anyway, let’s go out.”

  We got back in the car and took the precipitous, narrow road down to Ambleside - the call it The Struggle; I’d hate to go down in the ice. From there we parked beside the lake and went on a walk.

  The weather had cooled, but it was still pleasant. We three walked ahead with Hazel trudging moodily behind. Then we took a rowing boat and went out on the lake. It was truly beautiful. I felt calm and relaxed - a million miles from work and my stupid boss.

  We went back to the Inn and freshened up. Margaret is a very tidy woman, and she made sure we bagged our muddy boots and no dirt got on the wooden floor and its rugs. After my shower, I went down to the bar. I had a pint of Cumberland Ale and waited for my family.

  The place was quieter now. There were still some tourists. The barman/manager was called Alf. I asked him how many bedrooms they had.

  “Just four. We do most of our trade from meals and day tourists.”

  “Anyone staying here but us?”

  He shook his head. “No, you’re the only guests tonight. This lot will go around eleven.” He gestured to the bar and its drinkers.

  Then the girls and their mother came down. They had dressed for dinner and they looked nice. We decided to eat there and then. I ordered according to Alf’s recommendations. I had local salmon which was fresh and good. Margaret had something with quails’ eggs. Ellie had a burger. Hazel didn’t eat; she just sat with her earbuds in.

  “I’m going to rip those out of your ears if you don’t stop being so rude,” I snapped at her. Grumpily she took them out and sat with her arms crossed, not speaking.

  Soon the customers began to leave. Alf came and joined us.

  “Want a photo?” he said. “I’ll take one so you can remember the nice time you had.”

  “Sure,” said Margaret. She delved into her bag and pulled out her digital camera. We arranged ourselves to be photographed. Hazel didn’t want to be in it but Margaret sternly told her to grow up and get over herself. That didn’t go down well, but we all managed to sit in a line, three of us smiling at least.

  “Say cheese!” Alf said. The camera flashed, and he handed it back to Margaret.

  “Let me see,” I said. Margaret passed me the photograph. It was a great one of us all. Even Hazel who looked moody but pretty with her unsmiling face.

  “Oh, you could have smiled,” said Margaret.

  “Didn’t want to. What’s to smile about?” snapped Hazel.

  I touched Margaret’s arm. “Leave her. No point starting a fight.”

  Ellie looked around the bar with its stuffed foxes’ heads, brass hunting horns and old pictures of hunters in red coats walking across the fells. “This is a spooky place,” she said.

  “It can be,” Alf replied. “Especially in the
winter when the fog’s down and you can’t see your hand in front of your face.”

  “Do you get snowed in much?” I asked.

  “Well, I don’t live here. Me and the wife have a cottage about two miles along the road. When the snow hits, I can’t even get to the Inn, so we shut up.”

  “Does anyone live in?” asked Margaret.

  “No, the chef lives in Ambleside. The bar staff are all local so they just travel. You’re here on your own tonight!” he laughed.

  “What if there’s an emergency?” I said.

  He said, “You’ve got my phone number? It’s a landline, because mobiles don’t work up here - no signal. My number is in the book in your room. I can be here in minutes.”

  “Ok,” I said reassured. I couldn’t see we’d need him, anyway.

  “But I’m here by seven thirty each morning. Either me or the wife when I have a lie in on Sunday.”

  “Is it haunted?” asked Ellie.

  “Of course!” Alf grinned.

  Margaret looked up. “Don’t be scaring her. She’s got a vivid imagination.”

  He sounded apologetic. “It’s all made up. Just a story. But the place is very old.”

  “Tell me!” said Ellie, laughing.

  Margaret said, “You won’t sleep. Let’s talk about what we’re doing tomorrow.”

  “No, please,” she beseeched Alf. “Tell me, please!”

  I shrugged. “If she has nightmares, it’s her own fault.”

  “We’re only next door, John,” said Margaret.

  Alf, seeing he had permission, went on. “Well, though this building is 200 or so years old. It’s built on the site of an older house. It’s said it was the house of Adam Scot who was a warlock. He had to live up here because he’d been driven out of the town by the folk who he terrified with his so-called magic. Apparently, he always picked on outsiders. People who felt different and were unhappy. They said he killed them and ate their livers to give him strength.”

  “Eew, that’s gross!” said Ellie. Margaret laughed. I saw that even Hazel was listening now.