The Western Gate

Foreword; The following is redacted from a larger compilation of ghost stories. I have included two tales and also my own experience in the edited form;-

I was the first to arrive at the study. The week had so far been enjoyable. I had feared booking an activity week would be akin to boot camp but this was an altogether more relaxed affair. This afternoon we had completed a still life art class. Our model strolled in as if we wasn’t there disrobed and there she stood for the best part of three hours. The tutor did annoy me, continually interrupting my brush strokes and telling me to see this triangle on this part of her body and projecting this and that. If I had wanted to do some art ‘in the style’ of my art teacher then fair enough, this was my expression and my art, why, quite frankly didn’t she just fuck off and leave me to it?
We was told, after dinner to meet in the study for the evenings, ‘event’. This would be ghost stories! Now,we was prewarned in our introductory glossy pack and on the induction the first morning I arrived that we were each to tell a short ghost story, be it true or false. That we should hence, create or elaborate a story for the night in question.
This caused some anxiety in me having phobia of public speaking, in fact I don’t even like a small crowd of friends listening to what I have to say. I did try to overcome this by enrolling in a singing class! Yes, where each week we would after some practice exercises sing in front of the rest of the class, made up mainly of performing art students and people who were well versed in karaoke and what not. I did ok, in fact there was no fear as such at all. It didn’t alleviate any pre-performance nerves though…. And……What ghost story would I tell?

The study was a very cosy, though somewhat large room, the ceilings nearly double height. A crackling fireplace and dimmed lights added to the ambience of the theme… I guess. The walls were filled with fine bound books, hidden behind chicken wire to stop literary predators like me leafing through the volumes. On the walls hung some rather curious portraits with eyes that definitely followed you around the room, each of whom seemed to either snarl or curse as you looked at them.
The room begun to fill with other guests, each receiving a polite nod and I stepped away so as not to engage in any awkward conversation pretending instead to admire the books and the staring evil eyes of the paintings.
We were, apparently to sample some wine, local of course so as to entice the guests of the contents of their purses and also some whiskies, not so local but on hand, of course, should the discerning customer require a bottle or case or two. As wine is my preferred drink I opted for the whisky sampling, after all, I am on holiday and being as its different then all I do should be exotic and unfamiliar?
Each of us were then invited to sit in some plush armchairs befitting of a gentlemen’s club where expensive cigars and cognacs are consumed whilst the fat pigs discussed which section of society they should pick on next.
In no time at all the lights were dimmed to barely visibility, some candles were lit and a strange hush fell over the chattering guests.
In roleplay the fellow who mans the reception was dressed as a butler, and stony face, standing square as a statue, he looked as if at any moment he would open the door of a haunted house and stoically welcome in guests from the pouring rain. We were, if we required to call him- by means of raising a finger discreetly-to ask him to refill our glass of whisky or wine. It was after the fourth finger raised and requiring my fifth shot I noticed he began to pretend he couldn’t see my finger and so rather than being discreet I raised my finger even higher and then waved just short of calling out “Oi”, such that it distracted the guests who looked my way at my obvious failure of etiquette. I had tried five different whiskies within the half hour before the, ghost story, evening was to begin proper and my initial fear of public speaking had given way to brazen swank, as I almost sunk into the comfy chair, legs sprawled and my eyes beginning to rotate carelessly in their sockets until my attention was fixed, I arighted myself, sat up properly and fixed my eyes again on whoever was talking, wondering whether I should raise a finger for another sample of whisky.
Now the stories said so far seemed to be retellings of films, somewhat, or urban myths, a couple of guests had managed to convince us of the time they had indeed seen a ghost.

One said was of a young boy who would travel on the milk float, apparently he had been killed whilst delivering milk as a Saturday job, running out into the road when a paraffin delivery truck mowed him and the two pints of semi skimmed down. Ever since he had, at times been seen.
My mind wondered what would happen if his eyes were cast upon you, would your fate be condemned to become food for oncoming trucks? the cursed eyes! I wandered and wondered as I looked at the paintings enticing me to doom.
I heard another story of a woman who had committed suicide by jumping from an iron bridge that went over the railway tracks, they recovered her body, except the hand. Weeks later a woman in a wheelchair was found dead along the main road, apparent heart attack, and, nearby for want of no rhyme or reason a decayed and withered hand was found. It was surmised that somehow the hand had been delivered such;- when severed it had flung into a passing truck and then, that very same truck days later had hit a pothole in the road surrendered the decayed morsel of flesh into the path of our wheel bound victim.

I was beginning to wonder if this was the same devil truck that cut short the life of our poor milk delivery boy?
“David”. In my wandering wondering mind I forget that my turn was coming, and here it was, to deliver my ghost story! I discreetly inhaled and sipped the last of my whisky, wagged, yes instead of pointing discreetly I now had to wag a finger to get the butlers attention, and awaited for the butler to refill with another sample of the 9 whiskies on offer. I was determined to try them all and this, number seven, was very sharp on the throat with the cutting edge of vinegar and medicinal fumes of something. All the while as I fumbled to get ready the impatient guests began talking amongst themselves, but with Dutch courage, an eye that seemed to be moving of its own accord and a hearty bellow I began my discourse,

” I was!” I exclaimed silencing almost immediately the chattering guests, “quite a nervous child when young, at night I would see all sorts of patterns in the wallpaper, the fleur-de-lis type repeated patterns became goat head figures and frothing demons. The shadows cast by the pile of toys or books became nocturnal monsters and kidnappers that would feed on my soul.”
At this point I was talking into the glass of whisky as old Irishmen in pubs do whilst singing a lonely sorry lament and folk song about famine war and attrition. As I looked up I had seen that my introduction had gained some curious and inquisitive looks from nearly every one of the guests.
“For some reason I cannot remember I found myself being put to bed in the middle of the three bedroomed house where I was raised. It maybe that my dad was redecorating the small box room where I usually slept. I know he repainted the ghastly brown blood wallpaper that gave me nightmares to a ‘calming violet’ as he said.”
I paused, for effect and to swish the orangey brown liquid a little before adding, “it never worked, I still saw monsters.”
I continued the story after a gentle sip of the whisky,
‘The unfamiliar bedroom where my two sisters slept for some reason made me sleep instantly.
Now for years I had suffered from terrific nightmares that would wake me screaming, the contents of them too numerous and triggering for me to repeat.
This night I awoke and everything was still, there was however some luminescence in the room which as I sat up to view realised it was a woman standing at the end of my bed looking at me and smiling.
Now, as I have explained, from the way my mind would find images of the demonic in all objects and with the nightmares I had suffered from I should, with good reason, have screamed the roof off of the house. That didn’t happen. I didn’t recognise the woman at all but she was, she felt ….overwhelmingly kind, and I felt at ease and comforted, her smile became a little broader and I easily just nestled back into my pillow and went back to sleep.

I told my mum the next morning about the lady at the end of my bed, of course, this would be another of my fantasies, more warped imagination. I knew that what I had seen was real, as real as I am sitting here now observing you. I told my mum she looked a bit like that Mona Lisa painting which we had talked about at school, indeed the smile was very similar, almost half laughing and half caring.
Nothing more was said of this but from that day forward I have never ever felt afraid of the dark, in fact I absolutely love the dark, I do not see mysterious shapes morphing into alien forms, even though I try and will myself to see such things, not to scare myself but for entertainment purposes. And, the nightmares…. I love them, I begun to lucid dream, I would turn and face monsters chasing me and run into them giving them a cuddle. I would sing in haunted liminal places and meets people that would frighten the living daylights out of someone and talk to them about things, anything.

Many months later after that episode I found myself at a Christmas party held by one of my aunts.My grandad was there and I talked to him about the war, which he didn’t really talk about but asked my cousin for the photos of when he was a soldier in the Royal marines.
The photos came across and I looked at my grandad proud in his uniform, also amongst the photos was my nan, whom had died a long time before I was born and I had only ever seen photos of her when she was a lot older, in the photograph I held in my hand she was quite young, It was the lady at the end of my bed. Not similar or resembling, it was.”