Ghost Stories of an Erudite Man

‘Glancing to my left I could see that the hut door was no longer obstructed and there was no sign of the sheep either there or anywhere else that I could see. What was important was that the way to the gate was clear and taking my chance I sprang up and raced for the gate, and as I did the cloud covered the moon again and the wind sprang up.
I had got about a third of the way when I tripped on a grave kerb and went sprawling headlong. A snigger echoed the sound of my fall.
I did not have to look to know that they were there.
All round me hemming me in and closing in on me. I could sense them and there came from all round me a cold clammy blast of air which the raging wind did nothing to dispel.
A clogging stench like rotting meat and singing hair rolled over me; Catching at the back of my throat causing me to cough and choke. The smell seemed to be almost and I fancied I could feel it plugging my nose so that I gasped for air and nearly fainted. I fell to my knees on the grave.
It was this that saved me then for my right knee banged on the lamp. And snatching it up I switched on.
The bright beam of light shot out and lit up the beast in front of me. The sheep slowly began to fade and become transparent as the beam played on it. I focused the light on to another and that started to fade. I understood that there was a way of escape, all I had to do was shine the light on the sheep that were between me and the gate and then move towards it as they faded.
I faced towards the gate again and shone the beam directly in front of me. In its light was not one beast but dozens all crowded together between me and safety,
Thankfully though in the light of the torch they started to fade and I thought my scheme would succeed. But then they all looked directly at me and all their eyes glowed in the dark like live coals. While the light of my lamp lost its brilliance and started to dim, gradually fainter and fainter until it went out…’

I had known from my childhood that my Father enjoyed ghost stories. For a while he would read one of M.R. James’ tales, every year, by the light of the fire and Christmas tree, and these evenings led to my own enjoyment of the classic English ghost story.
I knew that he had written a few ghost stories of his own, but in the age before computers and with a long drive to work everyday his stories were hand-written into large notebooks in the infrequent moments when he could spare the time to write.
In the last few years before his death we often discussed my writing and the stories he wanted to either complete or start. Unfortunately old age and ill health prevented my Father from fulfilling his literary ambitions.
For several years it looked as if his work would be forgotten and would fade away completely on the death of the last person to have heard them. Then while looking for something else entirely I found an old carrier bag full of large legal notebooks and some old cardboard folders. It was an unexpected treasure trove containing not only his ghost stories, a part written children’s story and the outline of an autobiographical account.
I felt like I’d found a real-life ‘Flashman Paper’ and decided to publish his work. It was sensible to start with the few pieces that had been typewritten by a cousin of mine as these I could scan into my computer and then moved onto the completed written tales and finally those unfinished stories we had discussed most often while I was cooking our evening meals.

I hope that you take pleasure in these stories and, if so, why not read them to youngsters some dark Christmastide night.