Fret Not

An old-fashioned ghost story

Claude has barely walked a mile when the fog rolls in. His uncle warned him over lunch, but, desperate to escape the oppressive atmosphere in the house, Claude ignored him. Now it clings to him like damp cotton, so dense he can barely see his shoes. He takes tentative a step away from the cliff edge. It would be madness to continue, but the prospect of waiting there as darkness falls doesn’t appeal. Claude is a resourceful man – he would not have survived the trenches if he were not - and, after considering his predicament, he heads towards the derelict cottage he spotted earlier. The cottage was inland, and although part of the roof had collapsed, its walls will offer some protection from the cold.      

The fog has transformed the headland into an obstacle course, but apart from one misstep, when he becomes disoriented and is dangerously close to tumbling thirty feet onto the shore below, God is on his side. After ten minutes navigating unseen clumps of gorse and heather, a line of wind whipped hawthorns looms out of gloom. Behind them, its outline blurred like an impressionist painting, is the cottage. Earlier, he could have sworn it was abandoned, but as he approaches, he is gratified to see an oil lamp burning in the window.   

The woman who opens the door is about his age. She is wearing an old-fashioned dress with a lace collar and she has styled her blond hair into a loose bun at the nape of her rather elegant neck. Claude can’t help but observe that she is extremely pretty.  He introduces himself and explains he is visiting his uncle and was caught unawares by the fog. The woman nods sympathetically.

‘You’d better come in then, sir.’

He follows her into a low-ceilinged room. A fire is burning in the grate and the few items of furniture look as if they have seen better days. In the centre, a table is set for one. 

‘My husband is missing,’ the woman explains. ‘Verdun.’

Claude remembers Verdun. A mud clogged, gas-saturated, eye-watering hellscape of dead and dying men. They both know her husband won’t return. He is an amulet, protection against this stranger who has turned up uninvited on her doorstep.

She says her name is Eleanor as she fetches another bowl. The stew, although simple, is delicious. The best thing he’s eaten since arriving at his uncle's house two days before.

‘So, tell me about yourself, Eleanor,’ he says when they’ve finished.

He is slumped in an armchair by the fire and she is perched on a rocking chair. She said he could sleep there tonight and his eyelids are already drooping as she recounts her marriage and the baby she lost a month earlier.

‘Born dead, Mr Claude. He didn’t draw a single breath and you’ve never seen so much blood. It covered half the floor.’

Claude winces.

‘Were you on your own?’

The woman nods. Her skin is as pale as alabaster and her delicate features are a contrast to her accent, which is pure West Country.

‘I’m glad you came, Mr Claude. It’s nice to have company for a change.’

When he can’t keep his eyes open any longer, she dampens the fire and brings him a blanket. He is asleep within minutes.

It’s dark when he wakes, and the room is perishingly cold. For a moment, he is confused and then he remembers the woman. She must still be awake because pinpricks of light are visible through the floorboards above him. Except… he struggles into a sitting position as the realisation slowly dawns on him. There are no floorboards. What he sees is the night sky and the pinpricks of light are stars. True, he is in the ruins of what appears to be a cottage, but the meal, the woman, the fire burning in the grate, must have been figments of his imagination. A hallucination, no doubt induced by fear and exposure. He shivers and pulls his jacket around him more tightly. The fog has dispersed, and he must get back. His uncle has probably sent a search party to look for him.

He notices the sound as he is pulling on his boots, a rhythmic creaking somewhere behind him. He turns and there, illuminated by a shaft of moonlight, is Eleanor. She is rocking gently back and forth and, in her lap, swaddled in a bloodstained cloth, is a tiny baby.

Sweat trickles down Claud’s back and pools under his arms. He wants to run, but his legs won’t respond.

‘What on earth?’    

Eleanor lifts her eyes from the child and gives him a beatific smile. She is uncannily beautiful, like a renaissance Madonna.

‘Fret not, Mr Claude,’ she says softly. ‘You had a fall, but all is well. We are your family now.’