Blaze writes! The Padwhistle Poltergeist
A lot of you has been asking what Blaze has been up to. As you might recall from when we last spoke he was so far ahead of the curve with this virus and the whole social isolation thing that I can’t think of a figure of speech to insert here.
Apparently what he has been up to is writing. When I asked him what genre Blaze said a mix of horror and 19th century “girlie books.” His words, not mine. I said, “Good for you.”
In the spirit of writer solidarity I crazily added, “Send me something and I will put it on my blog. “
And here it is. As any good editor I have fixed up as best as possible the grammar and spelling. I also edited out a 3000 word section that seemed to be about what happens after the heroine of the story is told and I quote, ”Wooh, look at them! Why don’t you get them out for the boys.” There was some highly descriptive writing in the section but I am fairly sure that they did not speak like that in the period that the story is set.
Plus as it did not seem to drive the narrative forward I cut it. So without any further ado I present for your reading pleasure the…
The Padwhistle Poltergeist
Dear Beloved Mother,
I pray this letter finds you well and resting in bright Devon sunshine. I have just journeyed with Mr Angus and Mr John Cartwright to Dunsborough by coach in the most dismal weather and with generally poor company. I must say Mother that although both were gentlemen, their demeanours were of great disappointment to me. Angus, a beanpole of a man with squinty eyes said little. John, of more substance but of disagreeable odour sat beside me and gazed for long periods at my hands positioned, as per your teaching, demurely in my lap. No doubt wondering how an engagement ring of his would look there. Be assured there is no chance of that!
However the third gentleman was of greater interest. He is a cousin to the Cartwrights on their mother’s side by the name of Mr. Taylor Carlisle [perhaps you could look him up in your reference book mother] and he has property bordering the road into Dunsborough.
A man of average size and appearance but his eyes twinkle with laughter and intelligence and his steady voice show his solid nature. I found him most good company especially after we discovered we take a mutual pleasure in ghost stories.
Let me set the scene Mother. By early afternoon the clouds had lowered and it seemed we were the only ones ignorant of bad weather approaching as the road was empty. Eventually the sun was masked and a drizzle commenced making the carriage a haven, admittedly cooler and darker and full of Mr John Cartwright’s odour of manure and waves of neediness, an emotion most unwelcome in a gentleman. We passengers had been quiet for some time and it appears both Angus and Taylor were drowsing, easy to do as the view was steadily stolen away by the misty rain and all there was to hear was the trotting of the horses.
Suddenly Mr Carlisle opened his eyes and leaned forward from across the carriage. His face was serious but he fixed me with his twinkling eyes and said, “Miss Hycombe, are you partial to storytelling, especially the relating of tales of the supernatural? I ask as it seems a perfect time to indulge in such stories but I am aware that most ladies have no interest and indeed find them distressing. But, if I may say so, you do not seem to be one that would be so affected.”
Mother, I told him I would be delighted to hear and I think to his surprise, tell such stories. I know you think this to be unseemly in a lady but I could not help but feel that this was a gentleman of some interesting qualities and indeed may be a match in at least some ways where till now many have been unsatisfactory. Why is it that their delight in manly pursuits should automatically be somehow of strong interest and attraction to me? And don’t get me started on men of learning who seem to be so stunted in their development in other ways as to render themselves as interesting as a stone wall. Anyway I digress.
At my agreement the weather seemed to become darker still and the rain fell heavier upon the windows of our carriage and the cloud was now so low that I feared our driver would become unsighted.
“Awful Lowlands’ weather," John Cartwright suddenly mumbled before leaning back and closing his eyes, mercifully removing me from his gaze.
“Well I dare say it should be ladies first in terms of telling a story,” Mr Carlisle ventured with the note of a challenge in his voice.
“Certainly Mr Carlisle,” I replied.” It would be my pleasure. “
Mother I know you will be horrified to hear but I told him the story of the Padwhistle Poltergeist. I believe I changed enough of the story to preserve sensibilities and protect privacy. I know! I know Mother! But please still your heart and ask Mrs. Ham to bring you a small brandy for I know you are now aghast and concerned. I pray you lie back and rest your mind. All went well. The story as you well know Mother dearest is like this.
“Mr Carlisle not long ago I was asked to stay at a friend’s family estate. I will not, for obvious reasons, use actual names but be assured that the building, its inhabitants and indeed the food and other invited company was most pleasant over the three days I was there. I rode some wonderfully bred ponies, and enjoyed some lovely singalongs around the piano. Indeed all was quite wonderful until the night of the third day where, and I pray do not think ill of me Sir but this detail is essential for the story, I had need to visit the water closet which was at the end of the corridor from my suite.
It was late and the house was silent. I rose from my bed and put on my dressing gown and then went to the window and looked outside. There was a ground mist filling in the adjacent lawn and rose beds but the sky was clear and full of stars and the air mild. I put on my slippers and opening my boudoir door I looked up and down the corridor. It was of course quiet, still and dark. I hurried off on my journey to the privy mindful of my need. I was almost at the door to the water closet and just reaching to open it when I became aware of a pungent odour. It came upon me in waves, growing in ghastliness, a stench from hell surely. I froze with my hand almost touching the door knob. I was enveloped in the rank smell as surely as the rose bushes disappearing in the fog outside. My heart was hammering and yet I found myself stone still with even my breath held. Mr Carlisle, I knew that in the darkness I was alone with something evil.
Mother, Mr Carlisle’s face was already frozen in rapt attention by this point. Even the brothers Cartwright were leaning forward in their seats hanging on my every word.
Then from inside the water closet there came a most unearthly noise. It was a strange moaning punctuated with sudden deep intakes of breath and then sounds like sobs. These sounds stopped for a moment or two and Mr Carlisle I swear onto the good Lord that I feared that the evil spirit had heard me and soon the door would be flung open and I would see the horror of the poltergeist face to face. But after a second or two the sound began again and as the terrifying cries reached their crescendo I found my wits and turned and fled. I ran back to my room, flung open the door and quickly entered. I slammed the door against the evil smell which seemed to have followed me. Or was the odour, the demon in my nostrils? I sat on my bed trying to slow my racing heart and quiet my breathing. How terrifying that poltergeist should be in the house but of more horror was that I was still in need of the smallest room. I checked under the bed and was delighted to find a thoughtfully provided chamber pot.
The next morning at breakfast Mr Carlisle, I sat with the lady of the house, my friend’s mother and while partaking of delicious kippers I outlined the previous night’s events. The Lady, let’s call her Mrs Padwhistle looked at first alarmed and then distressed at my disclosures. I asked her if any other guests had reported such going ons. Mrs Padwhistle said not guests, but as she pointed out, her bedroom was right next door to the privy and that from time to time she had heard and smelt the poltergeist and its terrifying activities. As to why, she did outline to me a sad event that may be responsible.
Apparently the installation of Mr Crapper’s convenience was not without a tragedy.
A malicious prank enacted during the installation caused the death of a boy who was indentured to the plumber. Ever since then the room had become haunted, plagued with terrible smells and the cries of anguish and pain. Mrs Padwhistle asked the servants to keep the ructions secret in fear of the family’s reputation being damaged. She now begged me to do the same. I agreed out of the friendship between her daughter Mary and myself and for her hospitality. That pledge I have kept Mr Carlisle, speaking of it previously only to my beloved mother, until today where the weather and your zest for such tales have eked it out of me.
Mother, I am very pleased to say that the three gentlemen took some time to relax from their attentive poses and light their pipes before Mr Carlisle with a wry grin said, “A chilling story, Miss Hycombe, chilling indeed.”
