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The Ghost Guide’s Tale

by Ian Stuart

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Outside the Minster, every eventide,
You’ll see him wait- the smiling Ghostly Guide.
Top hat on head, dressed in Victorian fashion,
He’ll tell you stories full of gore and passion.
“For just three pounds I’ll chill your blood,” he cries.
And people pay him, though they know he lies.
At half past seven by the Minster clock
He’ll gather them to him, like a dog his flock
And fleece them.Then when all have paid him money,
He’ll charm them with a voice as sweet as honey.
Dead Romans,phantoms, corpses limp and gory
Drag bloodstained footprints through each shocking story.
From Minster on to Bedern and the Shambles
He’ll lead his nightly paranormal rambles.
Then, at the end, he’ll finish with a joke-
A jolly, cheerful, normal sort of bloke.

But take him to the pub and buy him ale-
A pint or three- he’ll tell a different tale.
“Twas late last year if I remember right-
A windy, drizzling, miserable night
In late December. Misty drifts of rain
Shrouded the city from Walmgate to Lop Lane.
I had a party booking- thirty one
Retired teachers from South Hillingdon,
All dressed in anoraks and sturdy shoes.
“Come on !” I said, “There is no time to lose.”
“Just wait a moment more- there is no hurry,”
Their leader said, “We’re still one short- where’s Murray ?”

Chubby and pert, a dapper little chap,
Round as a Christmas pudding, woollen cap
Upon his head, came trotting up and smiled.
“Sorry I”m late.It was a pint of mild
Detained me at the pub.I feel so foolish.
I’m dying to hear of ghosts and all things ghoulish.
Please start at once.” And so the tour began.

Along the Minster’s length to College Green
We trudged.I pointed out the ghastly scene
Where once a man, weighed down with murderous knowledge,
Paced up and down inside St William’s College.
And then to Bedern where the children haunt,
Lurking in shadows, wild-eyed ,pale and gaunt.

For every storyteller it makes sense
To keep a sharp eye on your audience.
To check if they are listening or no.
So as I talked my glance flicked to and fro.
I looked at Murray; terror numbed my mind-
He stood wide-eyed and smiling but behind
Him stood another, shadowy and dim.
His robes were all of black,his face was grim
And corpse-pale, but his eyes were black as coals.
I knew that he was Death, who steals mens’ souls.
I looked round at the others, wond’ring why
No-one saw the horror, only I
And then I knew- their faces blank and blind
Saw nothing of the ghoul that stood behind
them. Spreading wide the folds of his black cloak
He wrapped them round the jolly little bloke,
Who fell down to the ground and gasped for breath,
Twitched and lay still, for he had found his death.

The tour broke up; there was no more to say.
An ambulance arrived to take away
his mortal remnants.Someone phoned his wife.
“He was so happy ! Always full of life !”
The leader said,”He wanted to find out
Within this hour what phantoms were about.
And now he knows.Our souls are full of sorrow.
Just thirty of us will return tomorrow.”

For ten long years I’ve walked the alleyways
Where echoes of the past seek to amaze
and frighten the unwary.But that night
Destroyed my courage and unnerved me quite.
And now when I go out upon a tour
I keep on looking round me to make sure
There’s no-one at my shoulder. Yet I know
When my time comes to leave the world and go
into the unknown, there’ll be no ghost
With ash-white face and graveyard breath to tap
me on the shoulder. He I fear the most
Is plump, and smiles , and wears a woollen cap.

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The Halloween Parade 2018

by Alasdair Stuart

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You weren’t expecting the news vans that open the parade but you can’t say you’re surprised to see them. Earnest men, bow ties glistening, speaking power to truth (or is it the other way round) as their feeds slowly die and the volume on their guests only ever gets turned further up even as they shout not to be heard but to make sure their guests are not.

Capering desultorily around the edges of their floats, the redcaps. Fists looking for faces, mischief hiding behind stern-faced self righteousness, so proud. So angry. So alone. And as they recede into the distance, it strikes you, they all look so very very tired of winning.

You watch them leave and it’s only when they do that you realize the last float was trailing sand. Sand that is walked by a family, all eyes wide, all hyper aware. All alone. They walk barefoot and silent down the sand line. The mom and dad in front, the two kids behind. They make no sound. They jump at every sound you make.

Behind them come the nuns. One small and precise and happy. One tall and inhuman, her habit concealing where you hope her legs are. Her grin is as wide as the gap between heaven and Hell. Her eyes are cold. She sees you all.

Behind her come the rioters and the people they stalk. The brother and sister in the wrong places at the wrong times. The drug lord. The terrified family. The cop. The President. All of them circled by masked figures, capering inhumanly, waiting for a moment to strike.

The scientists follow and the thing is, you have trouble following them. They jerk in and out of existence, flash cuts moving them down the road faster than their legs can carry them. One of them looks down at her hand as it begins to blossom, and smiles.

The doctor follows them. The man with the blank face and the hole in his mind. The child that follows him isn’t one he sees, but the child sees him, that’s for sure. The child sees him, and you and wants it all.

Following them. stumbling a little, is a man caked in blood, holding an axe he has clearly forged himself. He’s in animated, sweet conversation. There is no one walking next to him.

A small boy made entirely out of teeth. He skips and his feet clink and drag against the ground as he does so. He waves to you. You wave back across the hundred feet in each direction around him where no one dares go.

The survivors come next and they have a different gait this year. The sheriff, his old hat back on his head, has trimmed his beard and is moving with a new purpose, the swordswoman at his side. The farmer, her hair in a knot, rides a horse and is flanked by the King, his bodyguard, the scout, the warrior and more. They have carts, equipment and only a small group of followers refusing to make eye contact.

Behind them, the other group look better as well. One walks with a limp but does so gladly, his staff providing plenty of support. The cowboy and the scientist never quite touch but never quite drift apart. The trucker and her friend keep pace, her watching with a smile, her friend wheeling along, eyes dead ahead but posture relaxed. Behind him, the daughter walks backwards, eyes on what’s coming. She knows she shouldn’t relax. Not quite yet. Not yet.

The old-fashioned navy officers that are next bend double against a window only they can feel. One of them sees clearly, sees you and the world. The others are lost in a storm that only exists for them.

The Impala makes the turn and the crowd goes wild. The men inside have grown up during your time watching the parade. The wide-eyed boys fully prepared to live fast and die ugly replaced by men bowed but not broken under responsibility. The angel is inviolate. Eternal. The crowd of people who follow the car ever larger, the blonde mage among them. Survivors. Victims. Friends. Allies. All shephered by the smiling redhead in LARP gear, the sheriffs and the grumpy old trucker.

It’s only as they pass that it occurs to you that the driver of the Impala was in an old-fashioned suit. That’s new…

A little boy with the most convincing pumpkin mask you’ve ever seen, walking by himself.

The podcast float is next. Hard talking hard charging truth tellers who do everything from true crime to comedy facts. Each voice unique each voice revelling in its time and its existence. You see a precise man in a suit coordinating three teams at once. See a team of horror storytellers shackle the nightmares to the ground with their voices. Listen to the tourist information for three very weird towns. You take COPIOUS notes.

The women arrive next. The scientist from the 1960s with her precise movements slowly relaxing into her normal gait, not what’s expected of her. The house doctor, all pockets and practicality and eyes that don’t quite settle. The Corporate archaeologist, with her endless enthusiasm and increasing desperation. They’re watched from the audience by people in costume. Long white gowns. Long white gloves that brush the floor.

The Archive staff come next. All of them. Even the dead ones and the ones who are…something or somewhere else. The archivist deep in discussion with his predecessor who is only slightly transparent. The police officers still looking for something or someone to cuff. The archive staff checking to make sure they’re alive. The old director deep in discussion with the new director who sounds oddly familiar…

And then the Director appears. The Director of it all, the capital D somehow audible on her name. Same suit as always, same gloved hands, same total lack of entrance. She just…is. Inviolate. Untouchable. Persisting.

You watch her go past and, for the first time in a while, feel something like relief. Not for her passing, but for her presence.

And then, the parade is done for another year. You watch it go, thank the churro guy and tip him as you leave. Small kindnesses aren’t really small at all and after all, it is Horror Christmas.

Happy Halloween everyone. From all of us to all of you.