Ghosts and Scholars: Ghost Stories in the Tradition of M. R. James

SINS OF THE FATHERS David Rowlands

In the past twenty years David Rowlands has written countless ghost stories, many of them distinctly Jamesian in atmosphere and the majority featuring the delightful Catholic priest Father O’Connor. They have seen print in a number of places, including the Cork Holly Bough and Ghosts and Scholars magazine. Among his other interests are railways, campanology, and western movies, all of which—even the last—he has managed to incorporate into Father O’Connor stories from time to time. He is also the author of several non-fiction books, including The Tralee and Dingle Railway (1977). The following story is taken from his 1981 collection Eye Hath Not Seen, which contains six ‘supernatural anecdotes from the reminiscences of Father O’Connor’.

Those of you who have been kind enough to follow my recounting of the ghostly anecdotes related by my old friend, Father O’Connor, may remember an earlier reference to Black Shuck, the phantom dog who allegedly haunts parts of East Anglia and Devon. I did not give this narrative at the time, because it would have detracted from the story of ‘The Previous Train’. However a small paragraph in a daily paper recently caught my eye and recalled the old priest’s story. The item ran as follows:

Reading this, I doubted not that the local populace could have enlightened the Inquiry had they so chosen. Consulting the Ordnance map confirmed my impression that the most ancient of old straight tracks—the Peddars Way—crossed the cutting at this point. Any Suffolk native will tell you that Old Shuck still runs the Peddars Way nightly, just as his Devonshire appearances follow a straight line. However, on to Fr O’Connor’s tale. It will suffice to say that he was on vacation in Suffolk, sometime in the 1930s . . .

‘Having my Superior’s permission to indulge my archaeological interest to the full,’ said the old priest, ‘you can imagine I lost no time in securing the use of a bicycle, and in visiting many of the ruins that abound in Suffolk. Leiston Old Abbey came early on the itinerary as the remains are extensive and intriguing. From there I took roads (they were little more than grassy tracks) to the coast and put up at “The Black Dog”, the sole inn of a little fishing village on the receding coastline.

‘I had inspected the local church, where there was a little old glass, offset, I’m afraid, by the most dreadful modern glazing it has even been my misfortune to see. There were also a decorated font and a little carved stone in the chancel. If that helps you to identify the place, well . . . I can’t very well help it now. The much-worn font panels showed the sacraments (as expected) except that one scene, instead of “penance” (showing the vanquished devil), depicted a fearsome dog-like creature, rampant and not in the least cowed by the threatening staff of a human figure with long hair, which even in the eroded state of the fabric, I could see had been skilfully carved, and with great feeling. Just discernible, and scratched into the stone at a much later date, was “Ps xxii v.xx”, which careful thought and—I must admit—a quick glance at a handy Book of Common Prayer, identified as “[Deliver] my dear one from the power of the dog”. There was no one about in the church to ask about this unusual departure from practice and I stood pondering for some moments—long enough to become uncomfortably chilled at any rate—until roused by an odd keening noise in the air outside.

Drawing by David Lloyd

‘The wind was coming hard off the sea. The landlord had informed me they were were expecting a “blow”, and I had to fight every inch of the few yards across the road to the inn. There, I commented on the mournful sound.

‘“Yes sir,” he said (I really do not think I shall attempt to phoneticise his dialect), “Old Shuck’s calling up the storm. We shall be in for it tonight, I don’t doubt.”

‘“Old Shuck?” I queried. “Who is he?”

‘“Why, he’s the black dog, sir. It’s said he was left behind by one of them heathen gods that had come a-hunting, or something. He were something to do with thunder and they say the dog is looking for him. Heaven help him when he finds him, is what I say!”

‘I took dinner in the little panelled parlour which was empty, because the storm had kept away the regulars. Very snug it was, with a fire blazing in the hearth and the old settles creaking, and the wind howling round the house. The settles interested me greatly. They were of very old oak, in the style of church pews, and some had well-worn carved figures on the arm rests. The landlord who came in to smoke a pipe with me, said they had come from the church across the way, many, many years before when the Gothic tide was in full flood. I was interested to learn that when Dunburgh had been a thriving town in the previous century, this had been a main thoroughfare for road traffic, and the inn itself a regular lair of highwaymen and footpads. Respect for the authority of the Church had still been sufficiently strong that pursued highwaymen taking refuge in the village church had been immune from arrest there. This survival of the medieval notion of Sanctuary was intriguing. The inn’s cellar, too, had apparently been a noted local hiding place.

‘“Have you found any treasure there?” I asked, laughingly.

‘“Bless you no sir,” he replied; “it must have been plaguey damp though, judging by the way it fills with water nowadays. It’s quite ruined the panelling.”

‘“The panelling?” I asked in surprise. “Is your cellar panelled then?”

‘“Aye, it is; or was, because most of it is rotted now.”

‘“Could I see it, do you think?”

‘Wheezingly, he got a hurricane lamp, which he pumped up to renewed vigour, and then led the way behind the deal-topped table that served as a counter, and through a solid wooden door in the wall. A flight of steps led downwards, whence arose a dank, salty smell. The lantern threw fantastic shadows on the crumbling stone walls as we descended. The cellar was simply a big hole, currently somewhat awash with dirty saline water. Crystals that winked in encrustation lines, like tidemarks around the walls, showed the extent of previous floods. Tatty, rotten panels of once-superb oak covered part of the walls, clearly at one with another of the church pews; and there was a pile of rubbish, nets and baskets, in one corner. Mine host indicated a carving on the seat end, all but worn away by many years of handling.

‘“That was said to be Old Shuck, carved on there,” he said.

‘“Is he taken seriously?” I asked. “Do people see him?”

‘“That they do, sir; but folks don’t welcome the sight, that’s for sure. He brings death or bad luck, does Shuck, and that’s the fact of the matter. Why, I remember my old Grandad (who had this pub before my Dad and me) telling me how ‘Toby the Jack’, the last highwayman in these parts, saw Old Shuck one night and vanished from mortal ken, as the saying is. His father—my great-grandad—was innkeeper at the time and, by all accounts, knew a lot of the secrets of the rogues in these parts.”

‘“Have you seen the dog?” I asked amusedly.

‘“No sir, and glad of it too; but I’ve heard him all right, in the night. Many times.”

‘“Calling up the storm, you mean?’

‘“Yessir, and often lying a-bed of a night I hear him come running up the road and knock over the wall outside.”

‘“Knock it over?” I cried, amazed. “What—actually destroy it, do you mean?”

‘“Oh no sir, he never does any damage as I can see, but I hear the stones fall, all the same, so he does knock it down, for all that.”

‘“Amazing,” I said. “When does this happen?”

‘“Why, often of a night, but always when it’s stormy. Don’t you go getting ideas though, young man. It’s bad luck to meet the old dog.”

‘I said no more, but you can guess the tenor of my thoughts, as we climbed back to the parlour. Houses and inns in Suffolk were never locked at this period and I knew I could slip out anytime I wanted. We parted early for bed. I had no trouble in keeping awake—the wind took care of that. The mournful wailing and buffeting certainly sounded just like the howl of a dog and, as I lay there, another verse from the Psalms (59 vs 14) slipped into my thoughts: “And in the evening they will return, grin like a dog and go about through the city.” My uncontrolled mirth when first encountering this verse under the stern tuition of the Christian Brothers had earned me a stiff poena; in the present circumstances I found it even less funny and began to think of abandoning my scheme.

‘It was scorn of my own temerity that really forced me to dress at about ten to twelve. I lit my lamp and crept downstairs, boots in hand. It was difficult to proceed quietly on the old boards, but the raging of the storm and the sonorous snores of the landlord along the passage blanketed the creaks and decrepitation of my progress, and I let myself out of the parlour door.

‘I had formed no conception of the real fury of the storm; luckily I had put on my cycling waterproof. I stood shivering in the doorway, blaming my unpriestly pride and my curiosity for this ridiculous vigil, as the rain squalled into my face, ran off my cape and down into my boots. Visibility was clearly nil, and I was about to give up, when there came through a lull in the wind, an odd reverberation—seemingly from within the house—as of falling masonry, quite audible above the storm. Then a huge black shape rushed past at furious speed towards the sea wall. I had a momentary glimpse of two dull red lamps and a lumbering outline, galumphing along, shaking the ground. A flash of lightning split the sky and I saw . . . nothing; just the empty beach below, lit up by the blue-white glare; but there came a long howl of agony, a snarling yell almost, promptly drowned by a monstrous clap of thunder and sound of a thunderbolt.

‘“Thor, of course,” I muttered hysterically, thinking suddenly of that long-haired figure on the font and the staff that must surely be a hammer, “come for his hound.”

‘I turned back into the house, hanging my waterproof up to drip on the back of the door. I was about to cross the parlour to the stairs when—again—I heard the sound of masonry shifting; seemingly from the cellar below. The cellar door was open, and peering down I saw undulating light cast on the wall by a lamp, rising as someone climbed out of the basement. Here was an enigma indeed! Do sleepwalkers need a lantern to light their way? For it was the landlord and he certainly appeared to be asleep. His feet were leaving wet impressions and the hem of his nightshirt was soaked; clearly the cold water in the cellar had not woken him. He came past me and on, up to the bedroom. What had he been doing? In a moment my reprehensible curiosity had me descending to the cellar.

‘Down there the storm’s noise was less apparent, though water dripped drearily somewhere close at hand. I stopped at the foot of the steps—or, rather, at the water’s edge—holding my lamp up high. Nothing seemed disturbed save for wet splotches on that old oak pew in the corner. Well, I had my boots on, and the water was only a foot or so deep . . .

‘I was about to cross to the corner, when I realized that the light was failing. My Tilley lamp burned as fiercely as ever, but the light seemed to be absorbed—sucked in almost—into the fabric of the cellar; faster in fact than the flame could emit; resulting in a growing darkness all around. From behind that oak settle, a shape was growing—dimly at first. Its outline strengthened and grew sharper as the lamplight waned; just as if the absorbed energy was building up the phantasm.

‘I stared hard as the shape defined, not liking what I saw. It was just as if a painter were limning-in the detail, pigment by pigment. That the painter would have been a Goya became readily apparent; for the integrated picture became more grotesque with each passing moment.

Drawing by David Lloyd

‘It was clearly the skeleton of a man in rotted clothing, bent double and contorted into an evil, humped caricature of an animal on all-fours. The curvature of the spine stood out with terrible clarity through the rags of a coat. It crawled sluggishly towards me, and a hoarse cry seemed to ring inside my ears, though I cannot be sure I actually heard; for it seemed more like the snapping of something in my brain. Its passage did not disturb the water on the cellar floor, as though to impress on me its intangible nature, but now I saw clearly that the visage was simply shreds of fungus-like skin adhering to the mildewed skull. It came right up to the foot of the stairs (where I stood petrified), and seemed to mow about to one side; slowly pawing as if in search of some object. As I watched the horrible vision, it became clouded, then translucent and—like a misty window clearing—dissolved abruptly into the water at my feet, while the lamplight grew brighter again.

‘My sudden decision to leave the cellar to this occupant can, perhaps, be understood if not condoned. Upstairs in the parlour the storm seemed to be abating, and I could hear the snores of the landlord overhead.

‘I was woken by the arrival of the inn helpers (the landlord was a bachelor), and by his voice shouting to someone, or at someone, outside. A watery sun shone through the latticed bedroom window on to my face. I dressed and went downstairs.

‘After breakfast I took the landlord to one side and recounted my adventures of the night. He shook his head over my tale of the dog and grew frankly incredulous at my account of his role, saying I had dreamed it all. Suddenly though, he looked thoughtful. “Why, that would explain my damp sheets,” he exclaimed, “and my rheumatics, and I’ve been blaming the girl for not airing them properly.”

‘Together we descended to the cellar and splashed across to the opposite corner. He held both lamps while I examined the wall and struggled with the panelling. The rotting remains came away quite easily. Set into the wall, a couple of feet off the ground and above the water-line, was a small door, reminding me rather of the White Rabbit’s door in Alice in Wonderland. It was clearly of some age, and unknown to mine host, who was muttering surprised comments to himself. We had no suitable tools, other than my archaeologist’s mattock and a garden spade, but our rather barbarous assault was at last successful. The door flew open with a bang, revealing a deep hole or tunnel, about three feet high, and dislodging a heap of debris that was evidently propped against it. The debris fell into the water and I’m sure you will not be surprised to learn that it contained the rotted clothes and decayed bones of a man. I think we both realized at once that we were looking at the remains of Toby the Jack!

‘“A bolt-hole,” I said, orientating my sense of direction, “leading over to the church and Sanctuary. It looks as if your great-grandfather was a bit of a villain, eh? Did he shut him up to die, or did he get trapped somehow?”

‘We got an empty keg and recovered what we could of the fragments. I carefully raked out the tunnel entrance, gaining some rusty buckles, bits of mildewed leather, a knife and a flintlock pistol, while the local vicar was fetched.

‘We must have presented an incongruous scene; the vicar sitting on the cellar steps listening to our story, myself standing in the water like a Baptist about to officiate, and the landlord before me like an acolyte. He was a good enough chap though, the parson, and undertook to inter the remains and give proper burial.

‘Outside in the sunshine, we stood in the road and followed the line of the presumed tunnel.

‘“The Saltire vault, of course,” said the village parson excitedly. “That must have been the exit point, below the font. It’s all bricked up now though—the family line is extinct—so we cannot get down there to see.”

‘A number of depressions in the churchyard told their own story. Clearly the ground had subsided at points. Whether such an occurrence had blocked Toby’s escape to the church, and the old Hostelier had simply taken the opportunity to entomb him alive and keep the spoils, or whether he had—with malice aforethought—engineered a blockage, we were never likely to know. Our adventure seemed at an anticlimactic end, until I remembered the phantasm’s attention to the cellar steps.’ (Father O’Connor broke off tantalizingly here, to refill his old pipe. The inefficient combustion and suckings and sputterings seemed to take even longer than usual.)

‘Have you ever tried digging in a pool of water?’ he asked. ‘It is the most maddening process imaginable. We had no convenient means of pumping, and the more we dug beside the steps, the more water and the muddier we got! However our perseverance was rewarded at last—we stuck a spade into a much-rusted metal box, that literally fell to pieces as we deposited it in a pool of water on the stairs, spilling tarnished, greeny-black coins everywhere. There were some scraps of cloth, a now useless gold watch and some gold chains. Clearly we had found Old Toby’s hoard, but whether he—or another—put it there, we were none the wiser. Come to that, we didn’t even know that it was Old Toby . . . there were no dental records for checking teeth, or what have you, in those days.’

‘What became of the hoard, Father?’ I asked.

‘Part was restored to the landlord in due course. I believe he gave it to the church,’ replied the good Father.

‘And your landlord’s somnambulistics?’

‘Ah, well, so much of this can only be speculation,’ said the priest, ‘but let us suppose that on stormy nights maybe, some inherited conscience stirred him to try and find the concealed bolt-hole—I put that first as a charitable supposition—or, maybe, some inherited avarice directed a subconscious search for the buried hoard. Quite frankly the theological implications of an inherited conscience—or avarice, for that matter—are staggering and I decline to follow them.’

‘The sins of the fathers, indeed,’ I commented.

‘Quite so.’ He shuddered briefly. ‘A horrible death, shut up in that cramped, dark tunnel; even a murderer—for so he may have been—cannot deserve that terrible, lonely, slow dying. Although motivated purely by selfish thoughts of safety, he was heading for the church and Sanctuary. I hope he has—in a more true sense—found the peace he was seeking’.

‘Amen to that,’ I said. ‘But look here, Father, this is all very well. A horrifying tale and I agree the morality of your reflections; but what of the dog—of Black Shuck?’

‘Young sir, what of him?’

‘Well, agreed you saw something that might have been the phantom dog in the storm; but what did it signify? Except to run down the lane and to howl at the storm, the dog did nothing in the night! It has no relevance.’

Fr O’Connor stretched, banged out his pipe and smiled slightly as he caught my eye.

‘Has it not? My dear fellow Sherlockian,’ he said, ‘the dog did nothing in the night time . . . what?’

Speaking in unison we capped that most famous Holmesian quotation:

‘That was the curious incident.’

[Author’s note: The curious will find many reported instances of Black Shuck ‘knocking down’ walls that are always subsequently found to be standing. A number of sightings of this famous ghost, plus Mrs Carbonnel’s theories, are given in J. W. Day’s A Ghost Hunter’s Game Book, Muller 1958.]