no one knows what desperate, foul secrets lie hidden in deep silence beneath the sudsy, dark, gray waves of the icy water of Narwhale Bay ~* expressions of fear and confusion chase each other across the features of those who make the crossing from the mainland over to the treeless, foreboding island ~* the place has never been a tourist destination ~* occasionally, those who call themselves names like globe trekkers or free spirits amble over, but they soon leave and with less determined expressions on their once bold countenances than when they arrived ~* they never venture o'er the bay again ~* few who weren't born there ever do; I am one of the few ~* I had been gone long, many's the year, from that little village that the gothic novelists write about in Alderbrooke when I arrived at the seven nine wharf that chilled autumn day in the fall of '23 ~* there was a crispness in the late afternoon sun which was being dampened out by the coming of the early evenings which come ever earlier at that time of year ~* there were only an elderly couple, a family of five, two seasoned salts returning from the summer fishing grounds off Cape Torrent and a beady eyed merchant in a three piece tweed suit who made the choppy crossing o'er Narwhale Bay that blustery afternoon and nobody talked to anybody else for the entire thirty~five minutes aboard the Sure Wind ferry ~* Thrice a day she makes that crossing, the old ferry girl she does, twice in the morn' and once in the afternoon ~* it's always just after four p.m. when the Sure Wind makes her berth for the night at the seven nine and Charlotte O'hare gets the welcome lights on in her dainty, time honored establishment called the Red Herring ~* the Red Herring, a name whispered in hushed and reverend tones among the boulders and byways which stretch the length and breadth of the rock strewn Celtic isles ~* the Red Herring is just up the hill from the frothy gray waves of Narwhale Bay and by the time the chill has iced their bones, there's seldom a weary traveler who doesn't head straight for Charlotte O'hare's heavy oaken door at the tumble down front facade of the Red Herring ~* like unto a somber procession for the dead, the passengers trudge their way up the hill to the Red Herring, slowly stumbling to and fro as their weary bones tremble in the fierce Nor'wester of a late summer cold front ~* the recently passed front left high wispy clouds with occasional low hanging bellies crossing the gray, foreboding sky, and it was these low hanging clouds which caught the far reaching beams of the distant sunset and cast an eerie, hazy light of washed out purple orange on the land, buildings, rocks and water ~* yes, those weary travelers might otherwise be doomed if they didn't have Charlotte, proprietor of the Red Herring, to turn to when they need her most ~* "Charlotte!", they all say "we need one of your famous hot toddies to get the chill of the North Sea out of our rattling bones!" ~* well, they don't all say that, as a matter of fact, I only heard one patron say that a long time ago when I lived here at Alderbrooke ~* he was a short, chubby tugboat captain wearing a striped wool sweater with a captain's cap pulled low over his brow while his rotting teeth cravenly chewed at an old brier pipe which sent tendrils of thin blue smoke into the rustic cozy atmosphere of the dim eatery ~* inside the Red Herring, the sour scent of sea~weed roasting mixes with the earthy aroma of irish tea brewing and as the dreary denizens drag themselves over the worn and magical threshold, a hushed mumble begins to swirl through the gathering crowd of jumbled journeyers ~* a chilling life size portrait of a lonely looking lass staring out at the vast and endless swells of the North Sea hangs opposite the entrance on the far wall of the Red Herring ~* it's a relic of an oil painting on an ancient handwoven linen canvas, and this portrait is of a pale young beauty with haunting ice~blue eyes as cold as the freezing waves of the North Sea, her hair is long and scarlet ~* the expression in those cold, far~away, hollow blue eyes is that of a lost soul, a maiden crying out with her deep frozen stare for the hand of a long lost companion to reach out and pull her ghostly figure from the eternal stillness of the painting ~* draped in a thin, wispy, white dress, long and flowing and mingling with her silky, scarlet locks in the blustery wind of the bone~chilling shores of Alderbrooke, this damsel of the Celtic Isles of the North Sea waits in stark silence ~* a skulking wolf with red eyes stalks the background in front of a vanishing castle ~* this allegory to her broken life projects a legacy of fear from the painting ~* a legacy born by all who enter the time~steeped, shadowy, old establishment ~* she seems to curse those who view her ~* she casts a spell upon them, a hex which dooms them to eternal subconscious wandering in search of her missing confidant, her trusted secret mate in whom she thought she could place her deepest shrouded yearnings, but who left her instead to seek his fortune abroad ~* so there she hangs upon the wall ~* a perfect picture of death of the heart ~* it is indeed the portrait of a ghost ~* the Ghost of Nelly McBride !! *~V8~*+ a haunting poem hangs just 'neath the penetrating eyes of the Portrait, it is a cryptic rhyme which seems to wail out in the night as one reads it, and no one who reads the enigmatic limerick says a word for a measure of time afterward ~* it is as if they become possessed by the fearful, longing words of the poem.......bewitched by the silent, yearning eyes of the Portrait ~* it is said that those silent eyes, reflecting so much hurt and pain, roam the countryside at night ~* the glowing eyes appear in the pallid face of a spectral apparition which glides like moonlight across the glen seeking solace in the hearts of lonely, wayward travelers such as those who happen upon the dim hospitality of the Red Herring ~* the chilling rhyme and meter of the poem are enough to raise the dead from the crypts and graves come crawlin' ~* no one knows who authored the lonesome posey ~* 'Tis rumored the words were found scrawled as a suicide note in the frozen, rigor mortus clutches of young gentleman around the time of the painting of the Portrait ~* seems he was an heir of the upper classes who spurned the love of a chamber maid whom he had bedded down during a night of drunken revelry ~* she fell in love with him, if one listens to gossip, long before the night the wretched affair took place and according to her dairy, found sometime after she disappeared, his love for her was true, yet he was bound by social custom to marry one of his own breeding and rank ~* the poem reads like a song, a forlorn love ballad ~* it is sad and goes like this: she walked with me she held my hand she walked beside me through enchanted lands she held my hand so gently as if it crush or break she held my hand so warmly my good hand she did take she talked to my ear in quiet she whispered a secret sortie she told me so in private that death would soon come for me she made me feel so loved she made me feel that something she made me feel so safe she knew that death was coming you see she was a ghost the hand she held was fate she told me death was coming and death is never late so we continued walking through the valley of the flowers we whispered among the lilies holding hands for many hours a hill lay up ahead I could not see beyond she whispered I could climb it to that I didn't respond the thought of what lay over over on the other side the thought of coming death from death I could not hide I slowed my pace to stillness she said I should be scared at death approaching behind to turn I did not dare the sound of death closer made me squeeze her supple hand the shadow of death shall take me to the hill's other side strange land I knew we were close to something something I really wanted but death was going to get me my want by death was daunted I'd never have another chance to go to my desire the mystery of what I wanted obscured by flames of fire a passion burning deeper than I would ever know the icy grip of death tightening around my throat I do not want to see what lies over the rounded crest death takes me there tonight when they lay me down to rest I'm afraid of what is there waiting for me alone I wish she'd hold my hand till death from me was gone but death shall not leave me though she shall surely go the ghost who held my hand the bride to whom I said no (*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*) a bog laden swamp with quagmires so deep as to have the reputation of being bottomless surrounds the only spring~fed lake on the isle ~* a fortune in rubies, emeralds, gold, silver, sapphires and diamonds is said to lie hidden in the swamp ~* buried in a long since forgotten location in the deepest, dankest most dangerous and perilous, urking and vexing region of this morbid swamp lies a king's ransom in precious stones and jewels ~* waiting in taunting rumor for anyone intrepid and venturesome enough to brave the traps and snares of the festering swamp from which for close to a thousand years, many have entered in search of this buried treasure, yet none have returned ~* those high spirited adventurers, those would~be royalties of untold wealth and glory have sauntered forth into the twisted darkness of the wretched swamp only to never be seen or heard from again ~* 'Tis for this untold wealth and glory which Nelly McBride's promised set forth upon the high rolling crests of the North Sea to search abroad for clues to its cryptic location the marshy swamp of his home isle ~* for it is said that a treasure map dating back to Roman times and the days of legendary emperors such as Hadrian, Trajan and Vespasian is housed in the famed Ancient Egyptian capital of learning, the Library at Alexandria ^*^*^*^*^* ******* ^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^* at first I thought I heard a warm humming sound like a mother singing her newborn babe to sleep, then it broke into a rasping sound as if someone were trying to catch their breath, then came a low moan as of a cow mooing in the distance and when I stepped round the wooden partition in the hayloft I wretched as I felt my stomach suddenly turn inside out ~* laying on her bare, naked back on my brother's blue flannel long sleeve shirt which I had sewn for him with my own hands was my best friend and most trusted companion Darcy ~* her skin was white yet flushed rosy with the pulse of passion ~* my brother was above her and she pulled him down onto her with repeated rhythmic undulations of her long, supple arms ~* she rolled her head wildly as she arched her back and he buried his face at the nape of her neck in the bushy tangle of her long, dark hair ~* I don't think either of them saw me, in fact, because of what happened later that night, I know they didn't ~* I turned and quietly made my way down the ladder and out the back way of the barn all the while pressing my hands hard against my ears in an effort to block out the sounds of human voices rapt in ecstasy ~* my brother and my best friend, it was beyond what my highly loyal and eternally devoted heart could possibly bear ^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^* ***************** |
can you endure the unspeakable horror which is
THE GHOST OF NELLY McBRIDE !! *~V8~*+
THE GHOST OF NELLY McBRIDE !! *~V8~*+
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to be continued..................
