The Case of the Green-Dressed Ghost

by Lucy Banks

  “It’s important people remain unaware!” Serena said earnestly. “Imagine what chaos there would be if people realised they were sharing their planet with spirits from another world?”

  “Yes, I suppose it would be mad,” Kester said, eyeing his satchel with desire. His stomach had started to rumble, and his thoughts wandered to the cheese and pickle sandwich nestled inside his bag.

  “Not if the situation was handled correctly, and people learned to live with spirits,” Miss Wellbeloved tutted. “Like they used to in the old days.”

  “The problem is spirits and technology,” Mike said. “Ghosts and tech don’t mix.”

  “What do you mean?” Kester asked.

  “They bugger the electrics up,” Mike explained. “They mess around with the lights. They distort mobile phone signals. And when they slip inside a WiFi signal by mistake—carnage. All the computers in the near vicinity crash. It’s an absolute bloody nuisance, I can tell you.”

  “It’s true, the modern world and the world of spirits is a problematic mix,” Miss Wellbeloved acknowledged with a rueful smile. She glanced up at the clock on the wall. “When do you think we need to head over? Now?”

  “Yeah, but let’s eat lunch on the way,” Mike agreed. “I don’t want to spend too much time there. I need to get back to work looking at that sonar machine again. It’s still emitting completely the wrong pitch.”

  “Will you be joining us today?” Dr Ribero asked Kester. “It might be a little better in the daytime, yes? Not so scary.”

  Kester frowned. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said. “For some reason, she seems to pick on me. I don’t know why. But I don’t think I help much when I’m there.”

  “You need to keep trying until you get used to it,” Dr Ribero argued with narrowed eyes. “Do you not imagine that we were all scared when we went on our first jobs?”

  “Yeah, I actually broke my ankle the first time I went out on an observation,” Mike said. “I was so busy sprinting out the front door, I forgot about the steps, and ended up falling down them all.”

  “Wish I’d been there to see that,” Serena said, smirking. “Bet you looked a right prat.”

  “Yes, but the point Kester is trying to make,” Miss Wellbeloved interrupted, “is that this spirit latches on to him. If he’s inexperienced, he simply hasn’t got the skills to deal with it. I’m not sure I’d have the skills to deal with it either, to be honest.”

  “Okay, okay,” Ribero said crossly, his hands up in defeat. “But we will get you back on the job soon. In the meantime, you keep looking for things on the internet. You have done a good job so far.”

  Kester sighed. “Thanks. If only I could work out what’s bothering me about that Lake Garda ghost story, I’d be a lot happier.”

  He left with the others, but instead of clambering into the van, he strolled along the street towards the cathedral. There was a nice green space directly outside, and it was the perfect place to not only eat his sandwich, but muse about the things he’d discovered.

  Firstly, he called his estate agent back in Cambridge, only to find that the one viewing on the house hadn’t been a positive one. The house had been too old-fashioned, apparently. Kester bristled a bit at the comment. He liked his house the way it was, outdated décor and all.

  Then, he settled down by a tree, unwrapping his lunch with anticipation. Pamela had cut the bread as thickly as possible, creating an almighty brick of a sandwich that only just fitted into his mouth, which was exactly the way he liked it. He began to eat, idly scrolling through the notes on his phone as he did so.

  When he reviewed everything he’d discovered so far, there wasn’t much to go on. As far as he could see, the artist had been born in 1819, had travelled to Italy when he was twenty-two, stayed there for four years, where he presumably painted the haunted picture, then returned to get married. Judging by his date of death, he hadn’t experienced any major problems on his return to England, and had lived there perfectly happily for several years.

  Hmm, he thought, tapping his phone. There’s a lot of questions that haven’t been answered. What did Ransome do when he got back to the UK? We know he got married, but what about his wife? Was it a happy marriage? We know he still had the painting, as it was found in the attic of 10 Coleton Crescent by our diary-writing Emmeline. Did the painting continue to haunt him? Why? Why would it want to? And, who is this Mary person anyway?

  There were so many mysteries, and frustratingly limited ways of uncovering the truth. The name Mary was an intriguing discovery, but also an irritating one. He was fairly sure that in the early 1800s, it must have been one of the most common names around, which made researching it fairly pointless.

  There was also something about the Lake Garda story that unsettled him, firing some distant alarm in his brain, which he couldn’t quite access. Opening the internet browser on his phone, he visited the Italian haunting site again, clicking through to Ransome’s tale. However, after reading it through twice again, he felt none the wiser, though if anything, the unsettling sense that he was missing something had grown.

  What are you trying to tell me? he wondered, shutting the browser down with a sigh. He stuffed the last piece of sandwich into his mouth, still pondering. There’s a message here, and for some reason, I’m missing it.

  He sat in the sun for a while, enjoying the laid-back atmosphere. Students laughed and chatted on the lawns, and toddlers scurried away from their mothers. It was an idyllic scene. On a day like this, it was almost impossible to believe that the supernatural existed—that just across town, a vicious spirit haunted someone’s home.

  Should I bother going back to the office? he wondered, plucking at a clump of daisies beside him. There didn’t seem much point. The internet was painfully slow, and the room unnervingly silent without the others there. Not to mention the fact that there were all manner of spirits locked away in the storeroom, and he didn’t much fancy the prospect of being there alone with them.

  He decided to return to the library instead, to see if he could uncover anything else interesting there. Not that I have any idea where to start looking. It was unlikely that there would be any further art books on Robert Ransome, and trying to track down a spirit called Mary seemed completely hopeless. Still, he thought, trundling down an alleyway and looking longingly into a pub window at people eating huge, steaming jacket potatoes, at least the library internet is a bit quicker.

  Pausing to purchase a Cornish pasty from a local bakery, he continued on his way, making the most of the sunny day before arriving at the library. He wolfed down the last remaining piece of pasty, then felt a bit ashamed. It probably had been a bit excessive. But he always needed food when he was thinking hard. His brain simply couldn’t function unless his stomach was completely full.

  The electric doors of the library slid open with a hiss, permitting him entry into the cool haven inside. He lingered for a moment by the café counter in the entrance hall, then swiftly marched past. You don’t need a chocolate bar, he told himself sternly. Maybe have it as a reward, if you find out anything good.

  Climbing up the stairs, he arrived at the room where the academic and local texts were situated. It was less crowded than yesterday. Kester moved to the furthest end of the bookshelves, intending to browse through the entire row until he had found something useful.

  However, an hour later, he had reached the end, and hadn’t found a single book to help him. He pursed his lips in frustration. Normally books don’t let me down, he thought, glancing over to the other side of the room. There must be more information here somewhere.

  An hour after that, he’d browsed the shelves on the other side, and still found absolutely nothing. What a waste of an afternoon, he thought, looking at the sunbeams filtering through the blinds. There were probably at least a hundred better things I could have been doing with my time than sifting through useles
s books.

  As a last-ditch attempt, he walked over to the information desk, where a young lady was busy piling books onto a trolley. She saw him and stood up quickly, smoothing down her skirt.

  “Can I help?” she asked, in a heavily accented voice. Judging by her blonde hair, height, and generally rather attractive appearance, he presumed she must be from northern Europe, possibly Sweden or Denmark. Her nametag announced that she was called Anya. He blushed.

  “Oh, I’m looking for something,” he began, shuffling his feet. “And to be honest, I don’t have a clue where to start.”

  Anya giggled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He noticed she was wearing a rock band t-shirt; some group that he was vaguely aware of. Oh no, she’s way cooler than I am, despite working in a library, he thought, his anxiety increasing by the second.

  “Why don’t you tell me what it is you are looking for, and we can go from there?” she suggested, with a sympathetic look that was rather similar to how someone might view a particularly dopey puppy. “What’s the name of the book?”

  “Well, that’s just it,” he said. “I don’t know the name of the book. I don’t even know if there is a book. I’m trying to find something out about a local artist called Robert Ransome.”

  “Do you want me to try searching on our system?” she asked, gesturing at the computer on her desk, which looked as though it hasn’t been replaced for at least twenty years.

  “You could try, but I’m not sure it will bring anything up,” Kester said. “I’ve already been through all the shelves. I just wondered if the name would mean anything to you.”

  Anya wrinkled her nose, then shook her head. “No, I am sorry,” she said. “I’ve never heard of that artist before. Is he famous?”

  “Not really,” Kester said, feeling glum. “An old lady pointed me in the direction of one useful book the other day; I think her name was Doris or something? Is she in today?”

  Anya giggled again, covering her mouth. “Doris, she doesn’t really work here. Well, she used to, you see. But then she retired. And she didn’t like being retired, so she volunteers to work here instead. It is funny, isn’t it?”

  Kester agreed that it was quite funny, trying not to melt as the librarian gave him a beaming smile. He suddenly panicked that he might still have Cornish pasty stuck in his teeth from earlier, and pulled his lips tightly shut again. Oh great, now I don’t dare open my mouth again, he thought, feeling even more idiotic than before.

  “I am very sorry I cannot help you,” said Anya. She sounded as though she really meant it. Kester smiled, remembered, then clamped his mouth shut again.

  “That’s okay,” he said, running his tongue over his teeth as surreptitiously as he could. “It was very nice to meet you.” He glanced down at the books she was stacking into the trolley. “Ah,” he said, pointing at the top one, which happened to be The Diary of a Nobody. “That’s a bit of a classic, that one is. I’ve always rather related to that.”

  The librarian laughed again. She held up the next one in the pile, which had a sensational front cover of a demon, covered in blood, rather unimaginatively called The Monster in the Mirror. “As long as you don’t relate to this one, right?” she said with a wink.

  “Quite!” Kester agreed jovially as he walked away. “Though in the mornings, I probably relate to that one too, if I’m honest. I’m an absolute fright until at least midday.” As the librarian laughed again, he felt rather pleased with himself. I just had a conversation with a girl! he realised with almost euphoric disbelief, giving her a little wave as he left. And she didn’t look repulsed at the sight of me either!

  He went outside, resisting the urge to skip. His day had suddenly got a lot better, even though he hadn’t really achieved much. He reached the concrete ramp then suddenly stopped. His mouth dropped open, and he clutched the railing for support.

  “That’s it!” he exclaimed, oblivious to the strange looks of the people around him. “I’ve got it!”

  An elderly couple eyed him with alarm, side-stepping to avoid coming within a ten metre radius of his person. He could tell they thought he was completely mad, but he didn’t care.

  “The Monster in the Mirror,” he muttered, grinning. “Mirrors! That’s the connection!”

  Chapter 13: Mirrors . . . and Mary

  Kester hared back to the office with more speed than he’d probably managed in the last ten years. When he reached the back door, he was red in the face, sweating profusely, and feeling as though his ribcage might pop open at any moment with the exertion of it all. However, he hardly noticed his physical discomfort. Instead, he bounded up the stairs, and ploughed through the darkness of the landing without a second thought.

  Thankfully, the others had left the door unlocked, and he walked straight into the soothing airiness of the office, striding over to the storeroom. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have been his ideal choice of location, but in this instance, the occasion called for it. He turned the key in the door, which Pamela had carelessly left in the lock, and stepped into the blackness beyond.

  Trying not to look too hard at the three water bottles sitting on the shelf, with their shifty, cloudy contents, he went over to the table in the corner, which was covered in books, paperwork, and various cardboard boxes, containing all manner of junk and strange items.

  “Yes!” he whispered with delight, spotting what he was looking for: Emmeline’s diary. Fortunately, Pamela had tossed it casually on top of one of the boxes, making it easy to find. He scooped it up, rubbing the worn leather cover speculatively with his fingers.

  Taking it out to the main office so he could read it properly, he carefully locked the storeroom behind him, then pulled open the book. Flicking through with trembling hands, he located what he was looking for, in the entry dated the 20th April, 1892.

  Here we go, he thought, re-reading Emmeline’s words. “Even Margery agrees with me,” he read out loud, following the spidery words with his finger. “She told me that the Green Lady has started to haunt her dreams; she now sleeps with the candle burning. She said that she had nightmares of the lady reaching out of the very canvas itself, grasping out with skeletal hands, trying to pull her in. She says she can no longer look at mirrors . . .”

  He skipped forward a couple of pages, to an entry written on the first of June. Soon, he found another reference, a further indication that his instinct had been right.

  “It is a house under a curse, I believe that most strongly. It is haunted. I have smashed the mirror in my room. At least that will stop her watching me while I am asleep.”

  “The mirrors,” Kester breathed, looking around the room in wild-eyed wonder. “It’s something to do with the mirrors!”

  He paced over to Pamela’s computer and wiggled the mouse until the screen lurched to life. Slamming the diary onto the desk, he typed in the URL of the Lake Garda site, drumming his fingers in irritation as he waited.

  Finally, the page loaded, and he whizzed down until he had found Ransome’s story again. And there it was, translated on the screen. The connection that he’d been looking for. The thing that had been niggling him, from the moment he had found the site in the morning. He read aloud.

  “The baker, delivering bread one day, heard him calling out a woman’s name—Mary. He cried, ‘I dare look in the mirror no more, I see her there . . . Mary! She is there.’”

  “He saw her in the mirror,” Kester concluded, stunned into silence. Scrolling down, he looked at the final description of the house, after Ransome had left. “Red paint covered the walls like blood. Scratch marks across the walls and doors. Every mirror in the property had been smashed.”

  Every mirror smashed, Kester thought, his head reeling with excitement. Ransome saw her in the mirror. He then smashed the mirrors. Emmeline, fifty years later, sees her in the mirror. Then she smashes the mirror. There’s our connection. H
e pulled out the chair and sat down heavily. His brain was speeding like a racing car, threatening to spin off the track at any moment, and he knew that he desperately needed to organise his thoughts. “It’s history repeating itself,” he muttered. “But why?”

  Rubbing his eyes, he opened up Google, and without much hope, typed in “Ransome mirrors.” Unsurprisingly, nothing came up, just a long list of unrelated websites. Tutting anxiously, he typed in “Coleton Crescent mirrors,” then “Coleton Crescent haunted mirror.” Again, nothing. He wasn’t surprised.

  What else can I try? he wondered, looking up at the ceiling as though desperately seeking inspiration there. Or is it pointless? After all, trying to search for anything related to mirrors is a huge topic, it’s unlikely that I’ll be able to find anything.

  He typed in “Mary mirrors” and leaned back, flinging his hand off the mouse in frustration. It was a last-ditch attempt, but he couldn’t bear to admit that he’d hit another dead-end, especially after discovering such a significant connection.

  “What on earth?” he muttered, reading what appeared on the screen with widening eyes. He leaned closer, squinting at the results, then started to laugh. “I don’t believe it,” he said, grabbing the mouse again. “I just don’t believe it!”

  The page was filled with results about ghosts. Or, to be more precise, one ghost in particular. Bloody Mary.

  He clicked through to the first site, which happened to be Wikipedia. “‘Bloody Mary (folklore)’,” he read aloud, scanning quickly through the content. “A folklore legend . . . ghost, phantom, or spirit . . . appear in a mirror when her name is called three times.”

  That doesn’t sound quite right, he thought, scratching his head. Why would Ransome or Emmeline have tried to summon her by calling her name? He quickly moved to another site, hoping to find one with more specific information on the matter. However, this one was clearly an urban legend, narrating the gory tale of a young girl who had been discovered with her throat slit, after having said the name “Bloody Mary” three times in the mirror.