The White Lady
A ghost story for Halloween based on a local legend [3,600 words] (original illustration by Cathugger). Hear the beginning narrated by the wonderful Katrina on the Hearth of Europa's Halloween special
“When we were kids, me and my sister used to duck down in the back seat of the car whenever we drove past,” Darren said. “We’d insist that dad drive us there when we came back that way, after a day-trip to the borders or wherever. But by the time we got there, dad’s ghost stories would have us so scared that we’d lie down and hide in case she saw us.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Paul said, returning from the bar with three pints which he struggled to fit amongst the empties crowding the table.
“The White Lady of Delaval Hall,” Darren said in an exaggerated spooky voice, waving his hands in front of him. “She haunts the bloody tower.”
“I was just telling Darren, we studied Delaval Hall at uni. Interesting place,” Lucy explained.
“You’re learning about ghosts? I thought you were studying architecture?”
“I am, we studied Vanbrugh. He designed it. I also read about the family history, they go back to 1066, and the ghost was just something that kept coming up. I didn’t actually study it.”
“So, who was she,” Owen said, rolling a cigarette in his lap. “I mean, there must be something to it. There’s no smoke without fire.”
“Nonsense,” Paul said. “It’ll be some local superstition invented to attract tourists.”
“According to the story…” Lucy ignored Paul’s interjection and turned to face Owen, absent-mindedly placing her hand on Paul’s knee. The move surprised Paul and brought back memories from school when he and Lucy had briefly been ‘an item’ before he had left for Oxford University. She had stayed in the North-East to study and to take care of her ailing mother and this was the first time they had met since then.
“She was a noblewoman betrothed to one of the lord’s sons. He never came back from the war and she died of a broken heart. Her spirit keeps a vigil in case he returns.”
“See, I told you,” Paul responded, slightly annoyed with the talk. “Nobody dies of a broken heart, it’s physically impossible.”
“It’s meant to be poetic, Paul,” Lucy said. “Who knows how she died, but it’s a sad story. Unrequited love is so sorrowful.”
“And completely fictitious.” Paul downed his pint. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
“You used to cross the road when we walked past the cemetery on the way home from the park, in case the Mad Monk got you,” Darren said, laughing.
“Yeah, when I was ten years old. I believed in Santa Claus too.”
“Well, there’s one way to find out,” Owen said.
“What are you suggesting?”
“It’s just down the road. We can go and check it out for ourselves.”
“Like Ghost Hunters?” Lucy said. “That could be fun.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s the first time I’ve seen you guys in ages, I don’t want to spend the night wandering around looking for imaginary spooks. Besides, I need more beer. I can’t get a decent pint in Oxford.” Paul stood and went back to the bar.
This time when he returned, he was pleased to hear the talk had returned to reminiscing about old times. It continued until the time bell rang. They made their way in good spirits to the pub car park and said their goodbyes.
“Anybody fancy a club? We are in Whitley Bay after all, the Blackpool of the North,” Owen said, sucking on his cigarette.
“Blackpool is already North,” Paul said.
“Well, it’s South from here.”
“Can’t I’m afraid, I’ve got work in the morning,” Darren said.
“I forgot, you don’t get the summer off like us lazy students,” Owen laughed.
“Can I give anyone a lift?” Darren offered as he unlocked his car.
“Cheers, but I’m off for a bop,” Owen said. “Good to see you guys.”
“I can drop Paul off,” Lucy said. “It’s not that far out of my way.”
“Well if you insist,” Paul said. “It’ll save me the price of a taxi.”
“Which way are you going?” Paul asked as Lucy turned off the coast road.
“I thought we could take a look at Delaval Hall while we were in the area,” Lucy said. “That course made me really curious about the place and I haven’t had the chance to visit since I’ve been back.”
“What do you expect to see at night?”
“I don’t know, maybe the White Lady,” Lucy giggled.
Paul was dubious but the visit would give them some more time together. He realised that he had missed her company more than he would like to admit.
They parked the car in a lay-by a short distance from the stately home and walked along the estate’s walls to the main entrance.
“The gates are locked,” Paul said and he started walking back to the car.
“Look at the height of that wall, we can just step over it,” Lucy said, walking up to the barrier.
He pointed in front of them. “There’s someone up there, look,” Paul pointed to a shape silhouetted above the staircase in front of the main entrance to the house.
“Clean your glasses, scaredy-cat. That’s just a statue. Are you coming or not?” Lucy asked, looking down at him from on top of the low wall.
Paul sighed and followed her over.
They stood in the courtyard, facing the baroque main block, flanked by colonnaded wings to their left and right. “So, where does the White Lady keep her melancholy vigil?” Paul asked.
“At a window in the east wing, they say,” Lucy said in barely more than a whisper. “Looking out for the return of her lost lover.”
“Up there!” She pointed to a first-floor window on the North front.
The friends stood silently in the moonlight, scrutinising the window where the ghost was said to appear. Their fingertips brushed against each other and neither moved their hand away.
Despite the silliness of the situation, Paul felt his heart racing and a shiver ran down the back of his neck as if someone was watching him from behind. He knew it was just his excitement but he still felt the urge to look and make sure.
As he turned, he saw a shadow staring at him from a window in the East wing. His heart jumped in his chest and he stood rooted to the spot, jaw clenched.
A light illuminated the window and someone shouted, ”What the hell are you doing there? I’m calling the police!”
They ran, Paul turned west and Lucy followed him, sprinting through some trees in the direction of the public car park, away from the house.
They collapsed, breathless and giggling like children once they were out of sight of the house.
“Lucy, are you OK?” She had started wheezing heavily and Paul was concerned.
“Asthma. Not supposed. To run. Inhaler. In bag,” she said as she bent over, heaving with heavy breaths.
Paul found the inhaler under her phone and handed it to Lucy who was still finding it hard to breathe.
“We should go back,” Paul said once Lucy had recovered. “There’s nothing more to see here and you need to rest.”
“There’s the mausoleum,” Lucy said, seemingly fine now.
“What’s that,” Paul asked.
“It’s where you put dead bodies.”
“I know what a mausoleum is, I just didn’t know there was one here.”
“There is, it’s just over there.” She pointed across the field behind them. “It’s a listed building in its own right although apparently, it’s in a bit of a state. I’d like to take a look at it while I’m here. One of the lords built it as a memorial to his son, you wouldn’t believe how he died.”
“And he’s buried there?”
“No, it’s never been used for burial, the local bishop refused to consecrate it.”
“I don’t think you’re up to it,” Paul said.
“Speak for yourself,” Lucy said. “I’m fine now. If you’re scared, just say so.”
“Well let’s go then,” Paul said, not wanting to appear a coward. He pulled out his phone and switched on its torch beam.
“Don’t do that,” Lucy said. “They might be able to see the light from the house. There’s plenty of moonlight.”
They set off across the field in the direction of a copse of trees.
“It’s in there,” Lucy said, pointing at the wood.
Paul’s pulse was still racing from the run and the darkness around him was making him nervous but he wanted to show Lucy that he wasn’t afraid of silly superstitions.
They followed a rough trail into the gloom of the trees and they soon saw the stone mausoleum looming out of the shadows in a round clearing, overrun with tall grass and bushes.
“What was that?” Lucy said, stopping dead in her tracks.
“It’s just the wind,” Paul whispered.
“The wind doesn’t make footsteps,” Lucy said, ominously.
They crouched down in the undergrowth, behind the stone-facing of a circular ditch which surrounded the building and peered over.
“Probably the groundsman making sure we’ve left,” Paul said. “Or the White Lady who knows we haven’t.” He winked at her.
“Paul, please don't. I’m getting scared,” Lucy said, pushing close to him. He put his arm around her in a brotherly manner to reassure her.
“There’s nothing there. It’s the wind,” he said, as much to convince himself as her. Paul chased other implications from his mind. He would not let Lucy think he was afraid.
He realised that their roles had reversed. Paul had been indifferent at first but Lucy had insisted they come. Now, because of his pride, he was pushing her to go on.
They listened for a few minutes and kept looking around but there was nothing to be seen. They climbed the wall and walked up the low steps to an impressive four-columned portico in front of a central building, flanked by cube-like wings on either side.
They went inside, into the square drum which rose in the centre. The dome which used to top it long since scavenged for its lead and the roofs of the wings were gone too, leaving them exposed to the night sky.
At the back, a curved apse pierced by a window to the rear showed trees eerily outlined by the moon like black veins but it was dark inside as clouds crowded overhead.
Paul took out his phone, put the torch on and swept it around the interior. The ground was infested with weeds and bushes and the walls were covered in graffiti; people’s names, crudely drawn symbols and an ominous pentagram in red paint.
He swung round to examine the other wing and started back, heart pounding. A face stared back at him from behind a bush covering one of the alcoves. It took him a moment to realise that it was painted on the wall. He was tired and anxious from the constant adrenaline flowing through his veins but he needed to show Lucy that there was nothing to be afraid of.
“It’s empty. Where are the bodies supposed to go?” Paul asked.
“There’s a crypt underneath,” Lucy replied. “It’s closed off now. Apparently, some kids went missing so the council barred it off…
“What was that?” Lucy said. “I heard a noise underneath us.”
“It’s just rats,” Paul said.
“What if it’s the ghost?”
“There’s no such thing. Come with me and I’ll show you.” Despite himself, Paul was determined to prove to Lucy that there was nothing supernatural going on. She’d challenged him to come here and he would see it through to the end.
They walked around to the back of the mausoleum where the ground sloped down to a low arched entrance in the wall, blocked by a metal grill.
“See, I told you it was closed,” Lucy said.
“Let me show you there’s nothing there,” Paul said and he slid down to the bottom of the slope. He shone his torch through the grating, illuminating a cruciform-shaped space underground with intersecting vaulted ceilings. Dark shapes scuttled in the shadows.
He grasped the grate to steady himself and it creaked open.
Paul crouched down and entered the crypt, and stopped dead with a gasp. The light of his phone illuminated a dead cat lying in the centre of the Eastern arm of the crypt. Its legs were spread out in a cross, pinned to the ground with sharpened twigs and it lay on its back in the middle of a large pentagram which looked like it had been dug in the dirt with a stick. Its innards lay in a grey-brown pile, hanging out of a split in its belly.
His eyes darted around the crypt. There were dozens of niches lining the walls but they were all empty. It looked as if the place had never been used for its intended purpose. It was something of a relief to know that he wasn’t surrounded by dead bodies.
“Don’t leave me alone,” he heard Lucy sobbing from outside. “She’s here.”
Paul scrambled back up the slope. He found Lucy lying on the ground, motionless. He knelt down next to her, unsure of what to do. He felt something brush his shoulder, he turned but there was nothing there although he shivered as he felt or imagined the air chill.
Paul remembered his first aid and started to put Lucy in the recovery position. She moaned lightly as he moved her arms and legs and turned her gently onto her side.
He got to his feet and fished his phone out of his pocket. He’d have to call an ambulance to get Lucy out of here and they’d just have to accept the consequences of trespassing.
He switched on the phone and the photo app appeared on the screen. He was looking at Lucy in the frame.
Her head turned to look at him, smiling enigmatically. Her eyes sprung open, revealing repulsive milky-white orbs devoid of pupils that fixed him in an unearthly gaze.
He started back in shock. His phone flew out of his hand into the undergrowth as his arms flung out reflexively to steady himself. He closed his eyes to fight back the nausea that twisted his stomach, competing with his thudding heartbeat for his attention.
Despite the awful anticipation of what might await, he forced himself to look at Lucy. His relief was palpable when he saw her still lying as he had placed her, eyes closed, head resting on her shoulder.
He was freaking himself out, he reasoned, his hyper-attentive state was making him see things. It was his mind playing tricks on him, nervous excitement making him hallucinate. Just neurotransmitters in his brain, he told himself, making random pathways that his subconscious translated into patterns of things that weren’t there.
Lucy moaned. The sound brought him back to the desperate reality of their situation. He ran to where he had flung the phone, cursing his stupidity, but the brush was too thick and it was too dark for him to see anything.
He remembered that Lucy had a phone in her handbag. Paul breathed heavily and tried to calm himself but his pulse continued to beat in his temples like a steam hammer and stopped him from thinking clearly.
As he leaned over to reach her handbag, Lucy sat up and flung her arms around his shoulders. She pulled him tight and he struggled to get back to his feet, still trapped in her embrace.
Lucy pulled him closer with a surprising force and out of the blue, kissed him full on the mouth. Paul’s eyes opened wide in terror as he stared back into the ghastly soulless eyes he had glimpsed through his camera.
He tried to break out of her grasp but she held on with unexpected strength. Paul could feel an icy cold where her body pressed against his, chilling him to his bones.
“I have waited so long, my love.” An eerie voice echoed in Paul’s head as Lucy continued to kiss him. Her mouth on his was so cold and her tongue darted inside his mouth like a writhing icicle. He gagged and Lucy, or whatever had taken her over, pushed him away.
“Why do you resist me, my betrothed? Do you not want me anymore?” the voice in his head said. Lucy’s head cocked quizzically in front of him, mouth unmoving, pupilless eyes staring.
She’s sick, Paul thought, some kind of hysteria. Probably because of the stress of this stupid escapade and her asthma. Paul knew he was denying the evidence of his own senses but he needed a logical explanation for what was happening to Lucy.
“Make me your wife, beloved,” the voice insisted.
The realisation that she was possessed chilled him as much as her cold, cadaverous touch had. His stomach dropped into oblivion and his head spun with vertigo as if he was standing over a bottomless void. Paul dragged his mind back from the precipice of panic. He willed himself to face the supernatural nature of the situation.
She must think I’m her old fiancé, he thought, gasping back the dread and trying to drive out the fear that threatened to overwhelm him. What does she want?
An ethereal arm reached out to touch him, Paul took a step back. He stumbled down the slope and fell heavily on the ground. The Lucy-thing hovered in the air above him, wreathed in eldritch light, like the gossamer of an Edwardian nightdress outlining her form.
Lucy, or whatever it was that now controlled her, sprang on him and wrapped her legs around his hips in a vice-like grip which Paul desperately struggled against. The apparition held down his arms and covered his face with icy kisses from pallid lips as he tried to fend her off. Each touch was like so much meat. He felt an alien presence enter him, removing his volition and pinning him to the ground.
Chill fingers stroked him all over. Despite himself, Paul responded to their caresses. Whatever was controlling him was prepared to let Lucy’s possessor do whatever it liked with him. He tried to scream but his jaw was clamped tight as if an invisible hand was pressing down on him.
He looked up at the thing that was straddling him, Lucy but not Lucy, outlined in an unearthly aura, hair and clothes fluttering about her as if blown by a strong wind, although the air was still.
For a brief moment, Lucy’s eyes returned, wide with terror, weeping.
“Paul, please don’t!” she mouthed, then the entity returned.
“Bam!” A gunshot cracked the night and echoed through the empty shell of the mausoleum.
They froze.
Lucy fell forward and collapsed on top of him, pinning him to the ground. At first, he thought that she had been shot but then he saw the ghost floating above her. Had she been freed from its domination?
Paul found that he could move again. He slid out from under Lucy and tried to make her comfortable on the ground. The spirit turned its back on him.
Paul watched a figure march out of the trees towards him, reloading a shotgun with a thick red cartridge, then he closed and cocked the gun.
“Come out where I can see you,” the stranger said. “I’m not playing around.”
Paul climbed up the slope, his hands in the air. “Am I glad to see you…” but the stranger ignored him. He was rapt by the spectral vision of the lady in white in front of him.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
Paul watched the spirit of the White Lady glide across the ground towards the man. It circled him slowly in a spiral of diaphanous ribbons of light and shadow. An ephemeral hand stroked the man’s cheek and he watched, enraptured as the apparition kissed him.
The man fell to his knees and a translucent figure, resembling a soldier in an old-fashioned uniform stood in his place. The two spectres embraced and dissipated in an effulgent spiral into the night.
Lucy staggered up the slope, Paul quickly went to help her.
“What happened?” she asked. Paul had no answer. He held her tight and hugged her. The experience had rekindled some of his feelings for her. Perhaps she felt the same.
Lucy shook Paul off and ran to the man who was still kneeling on the ground with his shotgun in front of him. He was a handsome young man, dressed in a smart tweed suit, oddly offset by a pair of green Wellington boots.
She helped him to his feet and they stood looking at each other for a while. Unspoken complicity filled the space between them.
The man introduced himself as the current owner of the hall. He invited them to join him for a nightcap to help them recover from their ordeal.
Lucy and the man walked together discussing the architecture around them as they made their way to the main building. Paul followed on behind, feeling like a spare wheel.
As the lord served them glasses of cognac from an expensive-looking bottle, Paul’s eye settled on a large portrait of a couple dressed in Edwardian garb hanging above the elegant fireplace. The man in the painting resembled their host. It must be some relative, Paul assumed but why did the woman in the white dress standing next to him look like Lucy?
Paul gazed out of the first-story window overlooking the courtyard, wondering what he had lost tonight…
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Link to Katrina’s reading on the Hearth of Europa's Halloween special
Buy the Bizarchives #1 for more Weird Tales of Monsters, Magic and Machines
Nice one Illuminatus
Brilliant bit of modern folk horror.