Marie O'Regan - The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women (Mammoth Books)

Ailen ran the last few steps, lungs baking against his ribs. He grasped the neck of his dragon pipe, burned the tips of his fingers on the glowing nodules and clamped the steaming jaw around one misty tentacle. The poltergeist writhed, but Ailen held fast this time. Hearing Willy’s voice harden, those ancient, occult words seeming to pepper the poltergeist’s surface like hot coals, Ailen moved to the sigil’s edge.

“I make you an offering. Pieces of death for peace inside this hallowed hall.” Retrieving the voodoo necklace from his belt, he tossed the offering into the chalked circle. Arching at the spine, he cast out with the dragon pipe and released the jaw.

The poltergeist streamed into the sigil, a bolt of silver ether. Writhing and whipping against its bonds, it found itself dragged down over the symbols, one tentacle at a time. As the last thread of it was engulfed, the screams of the martyred ceased. The wall of flame around the men brightened then went out.

A month passed before the large man came to call at The Deanery. Mrs Rook the housekeeper would later describe the pains she was put to, trying to place the gentleman. His suit was of cheap cloth but cut well enough, while a starched collar hugged his neck. But the face – a mask of steel with scars aplenty!

The man’s voice betrayed him. Nicholas recognized its deep tone from his place before the fire and on instinct gripped the blanket tucked over his legs. He forced himself to let go and call, “Mrs Rook! Show Mr Savage in. He and I have business.”

Nicholas heard the housekeeper falter, perhaps afraid of the name. But then she must have ushered in their visitor because the front door closed and heavy footsteps sounded across the hallway.

A man like Ailen Savage didn’t wait to be shown the way. He materialized in the doorway of the sitting room, blocking out what lay beyond.

“Canon Nicholas.”

“Mr Savage. Come in, do. Sit by the fire. Mrs Rook says the weather is unseasonably bitter.”

“I won’t stay long.” The man approached the hearth nonetheless and stood before it, arms crossed, his face looking more weathered in its light. “I didn’t call earlier as I was helping Naw get back on his feet. I see that you too have been nursed back to health,” he said after a few moments.

“Dean Richards has gone to the seaside to continue his recovery. Very kindly, he installed me in the house under the care of Mrs Rook until his return.”

Ailen’s lips curved. “Seems you and the Dean had use for those herbs I gave you after all.”

Nicholas shifted in his seat. “If you are asking if my mind has been opened up to the existence of the supernatural, and to magick worked outside the power of prayer, then the answer is yes, Mr Savage. And, yes, the spirits have left their mark on me.” He touched a finger to the fresh scar in one eyebrow, trying to control the tremors in his hand. When the man opposite him nodded gravely, Nicholas knew he understood that the true scar lay inside.

Keen to change the emphasis of their conversation, he asked, “How did you dispose of the remains of the spirits?” Nicholas’s mind had buckled in the aftershock of events. Glimpses of them came to him occasionally – the cathedral’s fixtures sparkling with salt as if in a new Ice Age . . . Naw collapsed at his feet . . . the air laced with the stench of burning.

Mr Savage kept up his unwavering stare. “We washed the sigils away with holy water. Helps to have an ex-man of the cloth in the form of Popule. He blessed a good few buckets’ worth and we baptised God’s house anew.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.” Nicholas liked the sound of the cathedral being newly sanctified, even if at the hands of one of the mummers’ troupe. He retrieved the package tucked in beside him for safekeeping.

“The second half of your fee, Mr Savage. And thank you.”

Washed clean of rags and soot, the chief mummer looked even more intimidating. His large hand took the package and pocketed it.

“You aren’t wearing your costume. Has the mumming season ended?” asked the canon, unsure how to close the conversation.

The man dipped his great head. When he glanced up, tears glistened in his eyes.

“Anniversary of my son’s death. I like to clean myself up once a year, to pay my respects at his grave.”

“I am sincerely sorry to hear of his passing. May the Lord keep him.” Nicholas felt a twist of sorrow in his gut for this strange giant of a man.

“He ain’t ready for the Lord yet,” said Mr Savage. He shook back his shoulders, shrugging off the mantle of mourning.

Nicholas peered quizzically at his guest. But the mummer seemed all talked out. He walked away and filled the doorway once more.

“Goodbye, Canon Nicholas.”

“Goodbye, Mr Savage.”

Heavy footsteps crossed the hall. The canon heard the front door open and felt a blast of cold air across his exposed skin. Seconds later, the door slammed to.

Outside the evening air was sharp and pure. The cathedral loomed before the Spirit Catcher like a rock of ages. Sculptures burgeoned. Stained glass burned like jewels, lit by internal light. Lichfield slumbered all around.

“Come now, Thom. Let’s go and meet the others,” said Ailen to the ghost boy at his side.

“Yes, Mr Savage,” Thom replied.

Together, father and son stepped out into the night.

Collect Call

Sarah Pinborough

In the end, there was only one person Lee could call. It was, after all, the only number he knew by heart.

He gave it to the operator and waited for the connection to be made. The line crackled. He tapped his fingers on the worn surface of the phone booth wall and breathed into the handset as the line rang. It pealed out to the point where Lee was beginning to think it would just be his luck that today of all days there was no one home, when finally someone picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hello, sir, we have a Lee Moseby on the line. Will you accept the charges?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

“Go ahead, sir.”

The line cleared as the operator clicked off, taking the unpleasantly sharp crackling sounds with her.

“Dad?”

“Lee?”

Another pause. This time caused by his own awkwardness. It had been a long time.

“Look, this sounds stupid, but I’m at this phone box in the middle of—” he looked out at the hick town that crept into life on the other side of the dusty road “—nowhere, and I – well – I couldn’t think of who else to call.”

“Do you need me to come and pick you up?”

“Yes,” Lee said, surprised to find how relieved he felt. “Yes, please.”

“Stay by the phone, son,” his dad said, as if Lee were a teenager again. “I’ll be there before it gets dark.”

“Thanks. Look, I know—” A crackling dead tone that made his ears buzz cut him off suddenly, and he hung up. His dad clearly had at the other end.

It was a hot day and the booth was like a sauna. He pushed the door open, the squeal of its hinges loud in the quiet afternoon, and stood by the roadside. He guessed he’d been lucky the phone had worked at all. Despite the heat and the still air, he wasn’t thirsty. He should have been – it felt like he’d been walking all day – but his mouth was moist. He wondered about the time and glanced down at his wrist, but his ever-dependable Timex wasn’t there, just the tan line, built up nicely on the golf course, outlining its ghost.

No watch, no phone, and no wallet. Thank God for Dad. Thank God for the days of actually remembering numbers instead of storing them into BlackBerrys or iPhones or whatever the next big thing was. He looked back at that empty space on his wrist. He never took his watch off.