By Sujatha Subramanian, Winner of Onlooker story contest, 1964

My house is by the foot of the Welsh mountains. It is a lovely old mansion, I grant you; twelve bedrooms, huge carved doors and a fireplace large enough to roast an ox in. I do like pottering about the place on my own and I value my privacy. After all, we ghosts have never been a gregarious lot. But still, one does feel like having a bit of company now and then. And what on earth is the use of having a colorful personality if there’s no one to appreciate it. I have been described by various people with various terms, but one does not like one’s features bandied about unduly. does one ? Let me give you a correct picture of myself. I am a hunchback with the hangman’s noose still around my neck.The blood-stained bullet-hole on the left sde of my chest drips gore and above my fiery eyes, my head is enveloped by a luminous halo. But this is not the only unique quality about me. I am perhaps the only ghost who knows exactly when and where he was born. It all happened this way.

“Bert me lad, you ain;t arf in the soup !” Bert Simms had a very comforting habit of talking to himself. “A bloke aint got no better pal than himself”, he would say. But, at this moment, as he blundered his way thorugh the bushes he did not feel particularly well disposed towards himself.”You and your ‘iking” ! he chided himself”. “You might’ve guessed it wont be no ruddy picnic. This aint the Circus to be thumbing a ride from every persihing geyser with a wheeler”. Aven’t set eyes on no man or no beast in a couple of ‘ours”. If this aint the middle of nowhere , I’ll eat my flaming ‘at !”. Resignedly, he shifted the load on his back. The halter of the rucksack bit into his throat and he swore, as he pushed forward into the inky blackness. It was a long time since he had come off the road. He was completely lost in the unfamiliar Welsh mountains, alone with nothing but the grim, unfriendly forests closing in around him. Fear would not let him stop and spread his sack for a rest. He was frightened by the shadows that oomed from everywhere, the sinister twitterings and murmurings of the night. “Strewth “, he muttered to himself, as a shiver raced thrugh his burly frame at the hoot of an owl. He groped in his pockets and brought out a box of matches. He struck one and stared at his battered old wristwatch. It was just on midnight.

He held the rapidly dying flame of the match before him and tried to find his way out of the labyrinth of brambles and bushes. To his surprise, the huge bulky shadow of a building confronted him, a mere hundred yards to his left. “oly Smoke !” Bert cried out in wonder, an ‘ouse !”. “And me in the open, catching me death of a cold !”. The match died out and Bert pushed forward resolutely towards the house. As he neared it, vague fears began to assail him. “Blimey, it aint ‘arf spooky”, he whispered to himself. He almost blundered into the door, before he could struck another match. This time he took in his bearings more carefully.

The house had no fence or gate and the front looked most uninviting. Festoons of cobwebs hung from the doorway and the timber looked as if generations of woodworms had been feasting on them. “Bert, me ol’ hearty, this ‘ere thing’s better than that there Noah’s ark outside” Simms told himself firmly, as he put his hand on the door. There was a low, long moan and the door swung open. even Bert Simm’s cockney heart stood still for a moment. ” A right likely place for them ruddy ghosts !” This time Bert did not have the courage to even whisper to himself. With a thumping heart he struck another match and proceeded cautiously into the house. Clouds of dust swirled around as he stepped inside and a board creaked under his weight. A scurry of rats brushed past his feet and Bert hastily tried to sweep them away with his hands. Another step and he stumbled, plunged headlong into inches of powdery white dust ! From the floor, Bert cautiously raised his head. There were footsteps outside and then a sort of groan. Bert struck another match. Slowly the door opened, and an apparition stood in the doorway.

It had fiery red eyes and its shirtfront was still wet with crimson blood. It glared wildly at Bert. the match slipped out of his nerveless hands

Dash it all , thought Ronald Chapman.. What a beastly thing to hapen. It was all Jimmy’s fault. What a place to choose for a party, almost the middle of nowhere. Just because Jimmy’s grandfather had a mansion in the North of Wales, it was no excuse for a man to ask his friends out to thisdesolate corner. Ronals’s gloved hand rested on the steering wheelof the stationary car. The party had not been much of a successfor him, right from the time, that clumsy oaf Denis Wheatley had jostled his arm and spilled the sauce on to his shirtfront. Ronald prided himself on being fastidious with his appearance and a frown creased his brow as he one again dabbed at the offending stain with his handkerchief. And John Moore with his stories of murders and ghosts..childish sense of drama . Not really in good taste. And now of all the beastly luck he had to go and get himself stranded in the middle of the Welsh mountains. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly midnight. He gave another vicious pull at the starter, but there was no answering splutter from the engine. Ronald remembered seeing the outline of a house somewhere behind him as he came along the road. Armed with a pencil torch he climbed out of the car and began to walk back. After a few minutes there was a sudden flicker of light from the woods to his right. Ronald held his torch in front of him and slowly made his way in that direction. Soon, the pencil of light from his torch picked out the crumbling beams of a decrepit, old house. He carefully negotiated the two rickety steps to the front door. With a great flapping of wings, an enormous bat swooped down and almost crashed into his face, but veered away at the last moment. With a frightened curse, Ronald dropped his torch and stood in utter darkness, rubbing his eyes where the bat’s wings had brushed against them. His courage slowly ebbing away, he pushed open the door and stood in the doorway. There was a tiny flicker of light and the sight that met his eyes froze the blood in his veins.

Almost from out of nowhere, arose a figure with a huge hump on his back. A hangman’s noose still lay coiled around its bulging neck and the white face seemed to glow with an incandescent halo. Ronald took one look and fled headlong into the darkness, running for his very life.

At exactly 4:27am that morning, Ronald Chapman arrived at Llangyog weak with fright and exhaustion and babbling of hunchbacked ghosts with the hangman’s noose ..haunting the house by the woods. And at about 5am, a shepherd picked up Bert Simms near LLansilin mumbling incoherently about a ghost with red eyes and a bloody drippping hole in its chest in the derelict building near the forest.

And that folks, was how I was born. Now, if you would like a chat with an honest-to-goodness, dyed-in-the-wool ghost you know where to find me. And dont forget that I love company once in a way .