As the autumn leaves dance through the air and I, once
again, turn to my favourite jumper, I think about my beautiful holiday. At the
very end of summer, I returned to my favourite destination: Whitby. This North
Yorkshire coastal town calms my very soul. I feel better. I sleep better. And I
am always inspired to write something when I am there. The views and the
atmosphere are so incredibly rousing if you have a creative mind. My first two
novels are set here.
Once more, Whitby Holiday Cottages provided me with a
perfect base. I stayed in a gorgeous cottage, on Cliff Street, named Abbey
View. The booking process had been simple and easy. On arrival, we were greeted
with a tray of complimentary drinks and biscuits. Fresh flowers were in several
rooms. I knew that I was going to have a brilliant week.
Whitby’s magic had me enthralled immediately and we did so
many fun and interesting things over the course of those wonderful seven days. And
when it grew dark and we all started yawning, we headed back to Abbey View with
smiles on our faces. The view from the living room window was exquisite. I miss
that view and I think of it often. I also miss taking my cup of coffee and
writing pad out into the front yard in the morning, knowing full well that
words would find me and they would soon be caught on to that blank page. And it
didn’t take long.
One morning, I looked up at Whitby Abbey and it began to
disappear as a fog seemed to descend from nowhere. It appeared rather spooky
and my head was coming up with all kinds of ghostly notions. I thought of Bram
Stoker and some of the key scenes of Dracula that were set on those winding
hundred-and-ninety-nine-steps. As a fan of horror, I quickly came up with an
idea. And I scribbled and scribbled away until I had finished.
As it’s almost Halloween, it seems the ideal time to share this
with you. Here is my short Whitby story, very much inspired by my stay at Abbey
View. Thank you, Whitby Holiday Cottages, for another marvellous holiday.
Midnight.
As the bells rang out from St Mary’s, deep into the night,
the creatures of the darkness were summoned from their hiding places. Fog
circled the Abbey, concealing the dramatic ruins from view. Snow-white seagulls
soared through the ebony sky; so starkly bright that they almost appeared spectral.
Even the buildings huddled together, over on the east side, as though they were
conspiring to veil some ancient secret. Old whisperings crept along thin
ghauts, leading into the still harbour and high up into the clifftops.
Rain splashed the cobbled streets. The narrow strips of
pavement glistened along Church Street. This street attracted masses of
tourists by day; it embodied the notion of the hustle and bustle of a popular
seaside town. Though, it stood eerily empty and silent by night, and it was an
entirely altered place by midnight.
The humans inside the cottages slept soundly and could not
be roused from their deep slumber. Come the morning, they would comment upon
how well they had slept and proclaim that the sea air had been responsible.
They never knew or understood that the sea air had so little to do with it and,
in fact, they had been under a Whitby spell; a deep-rooted and profound trance.
The creatures of the darkness could run amok these antiquated streets with wild
abandon, and after hearing the proud chime and cry of the church bells, they
stirred from their ramshackle graves. Arms outstretched and the low hum
beginning, clawed hands scratched and scooped at the soil. The awakening had
begun.
Hums became chants, quiet yet strong and purposeful; a
synchronised rumble of growing noise. Tales of former glories, a pretty face
and maritime adventures. Bodies emerged, in varying states. Skin was gashed
open, revealing bone. In some cases, limbs were lacking. Clothes were tattered
and spattered with blood.
The rhythm grew stronger, louder, much like the beat of a
heavy drum. As Whitby slept, the creatures marched down the
hundred-and-ninety-nine steps. The chant became a roaring sea shanty and it
lost its echo to a past well-lived and it became a despairing sonnet of
recollected pain. A ballad of anguish and agony that had long been forgotten.
But they remembered. The creatures. They both recoiled from the harrowing
flashbacks and embraced them. They were important. Lives had been lost, so many
of them, and although the horror was relived on a nightly basis, it could not
be accepted. So, they lingered, night after night, repeating this haunting
process with no closure to end their suffering. How could they move on? They
hadn’t found him. He didn’t have a final resting place as they did, and it
simply wasn’t right. Not for a lad so young.
His father, the captain of a once great ship, lead the line
of ghostly sailors. His pale blue eyes were drowning in melancholy, but a
flicker of determination still resided there. He hobbled along on injured legs,
and his remaining arm swayed at his side. A long, cruel gash ran down the
length of his torso, but he didn’t appear to feel the physical pain. He only
felt the eternal love in his heart and the sickening loss of losing his
precious son. And he felt the guilt, always, it burned his soul and swallowed
him whole. He never should have allowed his only child to step aboard that ship
on that fateful evening.
The captain thinks of his poor wife. He imagines her all
alone, consumed by grief, and he vows to find her. It’s the same sorrowful
story each night. But he never finds her. She’s long gone. Shuffling along the
deserted streets, the captain’s hefty, black boots stop dead on Grape Lane. The
others stop too, leaving a respectful distance between them.
His timeworn eyes leak tears and they race down his weather-beaten,
gruff face. What was once his home, is no more. The building remains, and when
he closes his eyes, he can hear his son right there on the street. He’s
laughing and playing; he’s full of life. He can hear the sweetness in his
wife’s voice, as she gently guides him back inside the house in time for
supper. As he opens his eyes, they are gone, and only some kind of shopfront
looks back at him. He peers closer. Books. It’s a bookshop. And he cannot
fathom how this could be. Where is his wife? And where are the remains of his
dear young son?
An ear-splitting, pitiable moan roars from his throat and
into the cold air. He cannot rest until he finds them. Though, he senses that
this will not occur tonight. It’s late, and now his bones are beginning to
ache. So, on he goes, bypassing the other men as they fall into an orderly
single line behind him. The ballad of torment builds once more. The sonnet of
memories plays as they stride back into the hush of Church Street. The chanting
grows stronger as they ascend the many steps, slowly fading to a hum as they
climb back into their aged graves, covering themselves up with the earth.
The captain takes one last glance out to sea. It faintly
shimmers, though it’s nothing but a blanket of thick, black darkness out there.
He too settles back down, deep into the ground, as the boisterous gulls shriek
overhead; the only witnesses of the ghostly sailors and their tragic, nocturnal
mission.
You can book your own fabulous Whitby holiday here: Whitby Holiday Cottages
My first novel, set in Whitby, can be found here: Black Eyed Boy
The sequel can be found here: Green Eyed Girl
Happy Halloween!
