The Shortcut
by Glenn Muir
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: None.
Description: A Scot working in the Lake District has a ghostly encounter.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A Scot working in the Lake District has a ghostly encounter.
The rustling of fallen leaves underfoot, the creaking of dark yews and the faint scurrying of furtive hidden things, were not the only sounds in the graveyard at night...
There I go again, starting a story in the middle, I should explain why I was there in the first place.
My bosses had sent me down to the Lake District to sort out a drainage problem at the Yald Fell Golf Club. Having made my initial inspection, I spent several days setting out a plan of action for the greenkeeping staff.
If you are familiar with the area, you will know that Yald Fell Golf Club is on the outskirts of Grooholm, a town of some two thousand souls. The centre of the town boasts a
library, a grocer, a village hall and a quaint old church with graveyard attached.
There was also a nice wee pub, The Fell Fox Inn. It was there that I spent the hours of
idleness during my brief stay. There was a blazing log fire crackling away opposite the rustic bar with its oak beams and horse brasses. They served real ale and basic pub grub, which was just perfect for me.
The locals, mainly agricultural workers, were a friendly bunch and made me feel right at home.
On the eve of my departure, my new friends in The Fell Fox threw a party for me. The night seemed to fly by and all too soon I had to head back to the B&B where I had been staying that week. Now my digs were about three-quarters of a mile from the pub and foolishly I took the notion to cut through the graveyard to save some time.
There was a brisk breeze and the sparse clouds drifted swiftly past a hunter's moon set in an ebony sky.
Heading towards the top gate of the cemetery, I was suddenly aware of a woman's voice nearby. My curiosity guided me towards the voice, which was singing, and the words became clearer as I drew nearer. A little old lady was sitting on a headstone singing:
“The sun rises bright in France and fair sets he
But he has lost the look he had in my ain countrie”
A twig snapped underfoot and the singer abruptly stopped. “Please dinnae stop, ye sing sae bonnie!” I shouted.
The sad look on the old lady's face grew a little less so. “You are Scottish?” Her accent was broad Yorkshire and easy on the ear.
“Aye, ah am,” I confirmed.
“Oh, I do love Scotland,” she smiled. “I lived there for a while and all my friends are still in Scotland.”
It was at this point I noticed that my new acquaintance was quite transparent. A shiver ran up my spine and the effects of my night's drinking abruptly ceased. “Ye're a g-g-ghost!” I stammered.
Her smile grew sadder as she nodded in agreement. “I am, lad, my husband had me buried here against my wishes. We were living in Edinburgh when I got diagnosed as terminal. He promised me that I would be interred in Scotland, the only place I really felt at home. He went back on his word. I was buried here so that it would be easier for the family to visit my grave. Well, you can see for yourself, I have had no visitors for a long, long time.”
The moon shone down on an unkempt moss-strewn headstone and a grave overgrown
with brambles and nettles.
Having said her piece, the spectral singer vanished and I made a hasty exit. As I reached the top gate of the cemetery, I could hear a song carried on the winter wind:
“The sun rises bright in France and fair sets he
But he has lost the look he had in my ain countrie”
There I go again, starting a story in the middle, I should explain why I was there in the first place.
My bosses had sent me down to the Lake District to sort out a drainage problem at the Yald Fell Golf Club. Having made my initial inspection, I spent several days setting out a plan of action for the greenkeeping staff.
If you are familiar with the area, you will know that Yald Fell Golf Club is on the outskirts of Grooholm, a town of some two thousand souls. The centre of the town boasts a
library, a grocer, a village hall and a quaint old church with graveyard attached.
There was also a nice wee pub, The Fell Fox Inn. It was there that I spent the hours of
idleness during my brief stay. There was a blazing log fire crackling away opposite the rustic bar with its oak beams and horse brasses. They served real ale and basic pub grub, which was just perfect for me.
The locals, mainly agricultural workers, were a friendly bunch and made me feel right at home.
On the eve of my departure, my new friends in The Fell Fox threw a party for me. The night seemed to fly by and all too soon I had to head back to the B&B where I had been staying that week. Now my digs were about three-quarters of a mile from the pub and foolishly I took the notion to cut through the graveyard to save some time.
There was a brisk breeze and the sparse clouds drifted swiftly past a hunter's moon set in an ebony sky.
Heading towards the top gate of the cemetery, I was suddenly aware of a woman's voice nearby. My curiosity guided me towards the voice, which was singing, and the words became clearer as I drew nearer. A little old lady was sitting on a headstone singing:
“The sun rises bright in France and fair sets he
But he has lost the look he had in my ain countrie”
A twig snapped underfoot and the singer abruptly stopped. “Please dinnae stop, ye sing sae bonnie!” I shouted.
The sad look on the old lady's face grew a little less so. “You are Scottish?” Her accent was broad Yorkshire and easy on the ear.
“Aye, ah am,” I confirmed.
“Oh, I do love Scotland,” she smiled. “I lived there for a while and all my friends are still in Scotland.”
It was at this point I noticed that my new acquaintance was quite transparent. A shiver ran up my spine and the effects of my night's drinking abruptly ceased. “Ye're a g-g-ghost!” I stammered.
Her smile grew sadder as she nodded in agreement. “I am, lad, my husband had me buried here against my wishes. We were living in Edinburgh when I got diagnosed as terminal. He promised me that I would be interred in Scotland, the only place I really felt at home. He went back on his word. I was buried here so that it would be easier for the family to visit my grave. Well, you can see for yourself, I have had no visitors for a long, long time.”
The moon shone down on an unkempt moss-strewn headstone and a grave overgrown
with brambles and nettles.
Having said her piece, the spectral singer vanished and I made a hasty exit. As I reached the top gate of the cemetery, I could hear a song carried on the winter wind:
“The sun rises bright in France and fair sets he
But he has lost the look he had in my ain countrie”
About the Author
West Lothian-born Glenn Muir is a fiftysomething postman living in Bo'ness and working in Linlithgow. Previously a member of the West Lothian Song Writers Group, he is now with Quill, a poetry and writing group based in Bathgate. The McFables, his reworking of selected Aesop's fables in Scots, has been published by McStorytellers.