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<\/figure><\/li><\/ul><\/figure>\n\n\n\nA fiction by\nC.P. Langeveld<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/td><\/tr><\/tbody><\/table><\/figure>\n\n\n\n “I suppose. Herr Longfield, that in your country and upon nights such as these, the telling of ghost stories \u00a0is the order of the day, or to put it in better words;\u2019the order of the\u00a0 night.”\u00a0 Von Smiesher gave a \u00a0good hearted guffaw, as he vigorously stuffed tobacco into his large meerschaum pipe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nI was in Austria at the Schloss Gabelhofen in nearby Speelber-Zelteg a\ndistrict of Styria. It was my chosen lodgings, while attending a\ngathering for those who illustrate\nbooks, magazines and pamphlets, where I was to give a reading of my latest\nmonograph; \u2018George Cruikshank. His Pen, His Inks and Political Impact.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nAnd here, in early December, I was seated, with five fellow guests\ngathered in front of a large fireplace. Flickering flames threw shadows\nthat danced and cavorted impishly among the oak panelled walls and heavy, black\noak rafters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAh,\nbut the British are not the only ones with a tale of the supernatural “,\nexclaimed Van de Hoek, a thin, balding Belgian, ” I can tell you of a\nclose friend of mine who was put up in an old house for the night. He had been\nreading in bed, and feeling sleep approaching, he reached over to extinguish the light that stood at his bedside and in the process, his\nspectacles slipped from his fingers.\nFumbling in the dark, he reached down to retrieve them and to his horror, the\nspectacles were placed into his hand from something beneath the bed”.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n “Exactement!”, <\/em>protested Joubert, a rather touchy\nFrenchman standing with his back to the fire, “the tales of apparitions in\nchains walking the grounds of the Place de Bastille abound, for was it not\nthere that the infamous prison once stood, n’est-ce pas?”<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n Taking a long draught of brandy and soda, Johansson, a stocky Dane spoke\nup, “My father once told me of a time when he stayed with his elderly aunt\nwho lived beside a graveyard. He was disturbed during the night by heavy\nfootsteps climbing the staircase followed, by a loud thumping on the door of\nhis bedroom. My father did not open the door, as some sixth sense warned him\nagainst so.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nAs he stepped from the bedroom on the following morning, he was confronted by a\ntrail of evil smelling, maggot infested soil that led all the way down the\nstaircase”.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n“Ach, come now, gentlemen, this is all very well,\u201d protested the German,\n“but there can be no doubt, the English are the folk who have the edge\nwhen it comes to a good ghost story. Let us take the excellent M.R.\nJames, Elizabeth Gaskell, E.F. Benson and the prolific Mr Algernon\nBlackwood. And to be entirely candid, sirs, the tales heard this night, have been\nsecond hand. So come now Herr Longfield, show us how it should be done, show us\n– ‘The British Way'”.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nI relit my pipe which had gone out and after tentatively puffing at it, I\nreplied,.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n“Have any of you ever seen a ghost?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n I was met with blank stares that I took to be negative answers. It wasn\u2019t\na flippant enquiry if one was to be serious on that particular subject.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n“As far as I am concerned, \u2018ghosts\u2019 come in three categories – the first I\nwill call ‘the magnetic replay’, this is where \na scene is replayed, time after time at the same time and location and\nwithout change, the spectres never acknowledge those who see them. These\nappearances seem to take place where strong emotions are concerned, strong\nenough to be imbedded in the surroundings, the stones, the flooring, indeed,\nthe very ether itself. This is typical of the example put forward by Monsieur\nJoubert <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nThe second are not ghosts of the dead, but \u2018beings\u2019 or ‘spirits’ that have\nexisted since the beginning of time. Some evil, such as demons, succubi,\ncacodemons, incubi et al, and then those of a more gentle, humorous nature,\nbetter known as poltergeists. This fits into the category as given by Meinheer\nVan de Hoek.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nFinally we have Herr Johansson\u2019s account. This can only be a troubled, a lost\nsoul, returning from the dead to rectify some unfinished business.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n I leave you to judge into which file you would put mine. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n But before I begin, it is essential that I furnish you with a brief\nhistory of the establishment where it occurred.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Athenaeum\nis a gentlemen’s club situated in the heart of Liverpool. Founded in 1791,\ndemolished in 1924 and rebuilt in\nits present location. Many notables of the city can be found among its members\n(called proprietors). During his visit to the city in 1821, the author\nWashington Irving described the club in his \u2018The Sketch Book of Geoffrey\nCrayon, Gent’, thus:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
‘One of the\nfirst places to which a stranger is taken in Liverpool is the Athenaeum. It is\nestablished on a liberal and judicious plan; it contains a good library, and\nspacious reading-room, and is the great literary resort of the place. Go there\nat what hour you may, you are sure to find it filled with grave-looking\npersonages, deeply absorbed in the study of newspapers<\/em>.’<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nThe story I’m about to relate took place two years after the opening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was on one of those mild, sunny days,\nin late September in which we delight,\nthat I sat, comfortably ensconced in a particular high backed chair by the\nfireplace in the splendid library of the club, occasionally\n pondering the history of the two atlas globes that grace its hearth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n As is my custom, I spend thirty minutes reading one of its wonderfully\ndiverse collections, my back to the window that offers a view of The Bluecoat\nChambers below. I had not long been thus settled when my attention was\ndiverted to the sound of someone entering the room. Now, this is not unusual,\nas there are occasions when proprietors\ncome to research, or merely borrow books. If they happen to notice me, there is\na brief acknowledgement, a nod or a friendly smile, before they move on to\nwhatever business they are about.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nIt was then, as a cloud passed over the sun, briefly darkening the room, that I\nnoticed a tall figure framed in the doorway. He paused for a moment, dressed in\nwhat can only be described to be a long overcoat. There is no doubt that he saw\nme. I was about to greet him with a ‘Hallo!’- but he moved on without a\nword.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nI continued to watch the upright silhouette of the stranger as he gazed into\nthe depth of the room known as the \u2018Stacks\u2019 where over 60,000 of our valuable\nbooks are kept. But for the faint sound of pedestrians passing below, all\nwas still.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nHe entered the room, and I continued my reading until it was time to descend\nthe grand, red carpeted elliptical staircase where I was to join my\ncompanions in the Newsroom for a pre -luncheon drink.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nAs I entered the club a week later I was instantly struck by a strained\natmosphere in the air which was reflected on the face of young John Bridley in\nthe administration office. I greeted the young man and enquired as to his well\nbeing. His answer was unusually glum.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n“The news is not good, Mr Longfield, the police have been called in and\nthings are all over the place”.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n\u2018The police John? Has there been a\nburglary? What has been stolen? The bust of Napoleon?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n \u2018No, the library has been vandalised, three days on the run with books\nstrewn all over the floor. Thankfully, there has been no noticeable damage.\n Nevertheless, Mr. Glover, our librarian is very upset, very upset. There\nhas also been great difficulty in keeping the whole affair out of the papers.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n After signing in, I left the lad, sadly shaking his head and made my way\nup to the library.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n How can I describe the ambience which pervades one’s senses as one enters\nthe room, the elegant furnishing, the splendid high ceiling and most of all,\nthe ever present, wonderful, comforting, fragrance of books.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n The conversation in the Newsroom was centred on the disturbance in the\nlibrary. Major Dee would be approaching the committee, with the suggestion that\na permanent watch be put on the room, Captain Orbe, late of the Guards and\nfamous for his support of Temperance Societies, was all for having an armed\nmember of the police guarding the entrance. Mr Alec Sandrews, one usually\ndescribed as a \u2018cheerful chappy\u2019 and of\noptimistic character, was noticeably disturbed. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n The lunch that followed was, to say the least, pensive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n There were two more disturbances in the Stacks where books were dislodged\nand strewn onto the floor, but after a month of inactivity, it was judged to\nhave ceased. The last I heard of the affair was that a book had been taken.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Late\nNovember saw me once again seated in the library. It was uncommonly late\nin the day for my usual visit. Outside, it was raining, darkness had descended\nand a heavy wind hammered and rattled at the windows. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\nlooked up from my book to rest my eyes when I saw a familiar figure enter\nthe room and silently make his way to the Stacks. As I continued with my\nstudies, I gradually became aware of changes taking place in the room, drop of\ntemperature, the electric light dimmed; the figures inhabiting the\npaintings by Edward Halliday appeared to stare balefully at me from their\ncanvases. In short, an atmosphere of intense unease was replacing the peaceful\nenvirons of the room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nIt was with a mixture of trepidation and\ndiscomfort that I hastened to the Stacks to replace my book. Normally not a\nwell lit room, it was now, only with great difficulty that I could make my way\nto the necessary shelf. As I did so, I heard footsteps pacing the floor above,\nwhich is semi-transparent. I looked up, but no one could be seen. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nThe footsteps continued, I had not seen the stranger leave the library and as\nthere was no sign of him, the only place he could have been must be on the\nfloor above. Puzzled, I ascended the stairs. If anything, the room was\ncolder and darker than the one below. Outside, the wind groaned and shrieked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nHow long I stood at the top of the stairs I do not know, and then, out of the\ngloom, from one of the row of shelves facing me, a sable mist appeared. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I heard the clock chime downstairs and as\nit did so, the mist drew itself more compactly and before my astounded gaze, it\nbecame the figure of a man who slowly approached me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My brain strove abortively with the\nproblem. An instant later, I had no doubt that it was the stranger, only now I\nhad more time to study him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n What I had thought to be a long overcoat proved to be a frock coat as\nworn by Victorian gentlemen. This one displayed signs of wear and tear covered\nin places by a fine, grey dust. The collar and cravat too was in the fashion of\nour fathers, but the face gentlemen, the face. How may I best describe it other\nthan it was that of a dead man! With eyes sunk deeply into the skull \u2013\nlike head and strands of long, dry hair sprouting from the top of it, the mouth\nfixed in a permanent rictus, he stood before me, a figure of pure horror. He\nhad a book clutched close to his chest<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nHe came to a halt about four feet from me, who, I will confess, was rooted to\nthe spot with pure fear. The head stared straight at me and I could not look\naway. There was no avoiding the black gaze of those bony sockets. It was like\nlooking into an empty grave. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n Removing the book from his chest, the figure\u2019s long thin arm reached up\nto place it with those which lined the shelf.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nThen he spoke. I started back in dismay. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nThe voice was faint, a mere croak, dry as if unused for many years, like the\nsound of the withered leaves of autumn as they whisper to each other in the\nstreet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n \u2018I now return your book sir, I have found that for which I have long\nsearched. I have found my true resting place at last. It lays below\u2019.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n With that, he seemed to sink into the floor and at the same time slowly\nfade from sight. Recovering, I withdrew the book. It contained a history of the\nstreets of Liverpool. A particular place was marked with a smear of mud. It\ntold of the demolition of St Peter’s Church in 1919 that once stood on this\nvery place. It also told of how the bodies were removed and placed elsewhere.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n One can only assume that the poor fellow had been searching for his\noriginal place of burial and it was the only place his spirit could find peace.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I believe he has found his peace, for I\nhave not seen him since. And yet, sometimes, when I venture into the Stacks\nagain, I still catch the sense of a smell which is not the ancient aroma of\ngood books, but something else, as if the breath of the grave has not quite\ngone from the place.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Thank you to those who provided entries to the literary competition. We have had three entries which will be published in the Advisor over the next three Thursdays. Each of our published authors will receive a bottle of wine as thanks for their efforts. In this edition a piece from Proprietor Colin Langeveld LATE RETURN … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_price":"","_stock":"","_tribe_ticket_header":"","_tribe_default_ticket_provider":"","_tribe_ticket_capacity":"0","_ticket_start_date":"","_ticket_end_date":"","_tribe_ticket_show_description":"","_tribe_ticket_show_not_going":false,"_tribe_ticket_use_global_stock":"","_tribe_ticket_global_stock_level":"","_global_stock_mode":"","_global_stock_cap":"","_tribe_rsvp_for_event":"","_tribe_ticket_going_count":"","_tribe_ticket_not_going_count":"","_tribe_tickets_list":"[]","_tribe_ticket_has_attendee_info_fields":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-8216","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/enda.studiodev.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8216","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/enda.studiodev.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/enda.studiodev.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/enda.studiodev.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/enda.studiodev.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=8216"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/enda.studiodev.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8216\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8220,"href":"https:\/\/enda.studiodev.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8216\/revisions\/8220"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/enda.studiodev.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=8216"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/enda.studiodev.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=8216"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/enda.studiodev.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=8216"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}