Ghosteria Volume 1: The Stories (Ghostgeria) Read online

  Ghosteria

  Volume One: The Stories

  Tanith Lee

  Ghosteria

  Volume One: The Stories

  By Tanith Lee

  © 2014

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people, or events, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  The right of Tanith Lee to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.

  Cover design by Danielle Lainton & Storm Constantine from an idea by Tanith Lee

  New (future) Author Web Site, as the original has been stolen: http://www.tanith-lee.com

  An Immanion Press Edition through Kindle

  http://www.immanion–press.com

  info@immanion–press.com

  Contents

  Ablan

  The Abortionist’s Horse (A Nightmare)

  Blue Vase of Ghosts

  The Ghost (In Two Letters)

  The Ghost of the Clock

  The Lady-Of-Shalott House

  The Minstrel’s Tale

  A Night on the Hill

  Seeing, Believing

  The Sky Won’t Listen

  The Squire’s Tale

  Tan

  Thuvia Made of Mars (Spilt Milk)

  The Winter Ghosts

  Yesterday

  Yesternight

  Publishing History of the Stories

  About the Author

  Ablan

  He wandered about the woods and hills by day, and nightly lay against some tree. He tried to eat the edible leaves, or fruits in season. He tried by now not to see how they, his people, moved about in the village below, going on as ever in their usual occupations, and after dark kindling the warm smoky shimmer of their lights. In the past – often at first – unable to help himself, weeping, where now he was obdurately silent, he drifted down into the valley, and in among the village lanes and walls. Into the folds or byres he peered, at the beasts as they chewed, or slumbered. In at the glimmered windows he gazed, watching as families cooked and ate their food, drank beer, sang songs. And after, how they curled to sleep or to join in eager congress. He watched the women feed or rock their babies, the men repair their working gear before the fires. Forever excluded he, cast out by the terrible calamity that had fallen on him, and forever exiled now, able only to stare and sigh, to hang like a moth upon the sill, a raindrop on a pane – ephemeral and of no account. Sometimes, unthinking, one of them might come out into the yard, to urinate, or scan up into the stars. These villagers, encountering him, never saw him, of course not, not even those members of his own family. Once or twice one had, in fact, unknowing, passed – right through him – oh, shock and misery. He could, of course also, not touch them. No single kiss. No loving, yearning, weeping arm extended. He was to them unseen, less than a shadow, less than a fall of dust. Except once, once only. That was with his daughter of fifteen years, his sweet child so soon to be wed, and standing in the open sunlight of the yard she had looked up and, with no warning, seen him. She the only one ever to do so, since death had sliced him from them. But though instantly he held out his hands, begging her not to be afraid, she dropped to her knees, sobbing and screaming, till the others came, and took her in, and he heard them promising her, in voices that, now, were to him faint as if heard across a mountain gulf, that she had seen nothing, nothing. It was only sorrow at his loss, only a feminine mistake, some cloud reflected on the wall, some waking dream. And after that he stole away. And never again did he venture too close. To make them afraid, after the horror they had already suffered; he would not do it. He loved them still, though never now might he offer love to them. He kept to the woods and hills, lay against some tree. Watched from a distance. Let his tears, that had been an ocean, dry up like a vat of salt.

  The plague had come to Ablan’s village in the early spring.

  Within three days many were sick, like to die. But there is generally some immunity. On this occasion fate chose whom should be saved and whom destroyed with an extraordinary and prickly pettiness, and vile cruelty. In a single night, by fits and starts and fits of utter ending, it ordered which must be slain. And left surviving only what might truly suffer.

  What it did leave then, to bear that harsh and undeservedly unforgiveable punishment, was most select: Only Ablan.

  For he alone had survived. Otherwise his family, his wife, his son, his daughters, otherwise the entire village, obliterated.

  And crawling at last from his bed he found them all, everyone a corpse. Only he lived. He, Ablan. No other. Not even their cattle, their sheep, their dogs. All gone. All gone. When first he, wandering half mad about the woods and hills, glimpsed below the lights smoke up at sunfall, he had run down, shouting and amazed – and found them all, about their usual business. Working and eating and drinking, singing and sleeping and making love.

  But he was no longer one of them. Forever then excluded, an outlaw, dead as death in every way – but – true mockery – for one way. For he had lived, and they were ghosts, were ghosts.

  He wanders about the woods and hills, he tries to sleep, to eat the leaves. His ocean of weeping has turned to salt. He is alive and alone forever, and so more dead, buried in cold flesh, more dead than death; Ablan.

  The Abortionist’s Horse

  (A Nightmare)

  Naine bought the house in the country because she thought it would be perfect for her future life.

  At this time, her future was the core upon and about which she placed everything. She supposed that was instinctive.

  The house was not huge, but interesting. Downstairs there was a large stone kitchen recently modernised, packed with units, drawers, cupboards and a double sink, with room for a washing machine, and incorporating a tall slender fridge and an electric cooker with a copper hood. The kitchen led into a small breakfast room with a bay window view of the back garden, a riot of roses, with one tall oak dominating the small lawn. At the front of the house there was also a narrow room that Naine christened the parlour. Opposite this, oddly, was the bathroom, again very modern, with a turquoise suite she would never have chosen but quite liked. Up the narrow stair there were a big linen cupboard, and three rooms, the largest of which was to be Naine’s bedroom, with white curtains blowing in fresh summer winds. The two smaller rooms were of almost equal size. One would be her library and workroom. The third room also would come to have a use. It, like the larger bedroom and the parlour, faced to the front, over the lane. But there was never much, if any, traffic on the lane, which no longer led down into the village.

  A housing estate had closed the lane thirty years before, but it was half a mile from the house. The village was one mile away. Now you reached it by walking a shady path that ran away behind the garden and down through the fields. A hedgerow-bordered walk, nice in any season.

  The light struck Naine, spring light first, and almost summer light now, and the smells of honeysuckle and cow parsley from the lane, the garden roses, the occasional faint hint of hay and herbivorous manure blowing up the fields.

  You could just hear the now and then soft rush of cars on the main road that bypassed the village. And church bells all day Sunday, sounding drowned like the ones in sunken Lyonesse.

  Her Uncle Robert’s death had given Naine the means for this venture. She had only slightly known him, a stiff memory of a red-brown August man handing her a lolly when she was five, or sitting on a train with the rest of the family when she was about t
hirteen, staring out of the window, looking sad at a bereavement.

  The money was a surprise. Evidently he had had no one else he wanted to give it to.

  The night of the day when she learned about her legacy there was a party to launch the book Naine had been illustrating. She had not meant to go, but, keyed up by such sudden fortune, had after all put on a red dress, and taken a taxi to the wine bar. She was high before she even entered, and five white wines completed her elevation. So, in that way, Uncle Robert’s bequest was also responsible for what happened next.

  At twenty-seven, Naine had slept with only two men.

  One had been her boyfriend at twenty-one, taken her virginity, stayed her lover for two years. The second was a relationship she had formed in Sweden for one month. In fact, they had slept together more regularly, almost every night, where with the first man she had only gone to bed with him once or twice a week, so reticent had been their competing schedules. In neither case had Naine felt very much, beyond a slight embarrassment and desire for the act to be satisfactorily over, like a test. She had read enough to pretend, she thought adequately, although her first lover had sadly said, as he left her for ever to go to Leeds, “You’re such a cool one.” The Swede had apparently believed her sobs and cries. She knew, but only from masturbation, that orgasm existed. She had a strange, infallible fantasy, which always worked for her when alone, although never when with a man. She imagined lying in a darkened room, her eyes shut, and that some presence stole towards her. She never knew what it was, but as it came closer and closer, so did she, until, at the expected first touch, climax swept through her end to end.

  At the party was a handsome brash young man, who wanted to take Naine to dinner. Drunk, elevated, she accepted. They ended up at his flat in Fulham, and here she allowed him to have sex with her, rewarding his varied and enthusiastic scenario with the usual false sobs and low cries. Perhaps he did not believe in them, or was only a creature of one nights, for she never heard from him or saw him again. This was no loss.

  However, six weeks later, she decided she had better see a doctor. In the past her methods of contraception had been irregular, and nothing had ever occurred. It seemed to her, nonsensically but instinctively, that her lack of participation in the act removed any chance of pregnancy. This time, though, the spell had not worked.

  Abortions were just legally coming into regular use. For a moment Naine considered having one. But, while believing solidly in any woman’s right to have an unwanted foetus removed from her womb, Naine found she did not like the idea when applied to her own body.

  Gradually, over the next month, she discovered that she began to think intensely about what was inside her, not as a thing, but as a child. She found herself speaking to it, silently, or even aloud. Sometimes she was even tempted to sing it songs and rhymes, especially those she had liked when small – Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush, and Ride a Cockhorse to Banbury Cross. Absurd. Innocent. She was amused and tolerant of herself.

  Presently she was sure that the new life belonged to her, or at least that she was its sponsor. With this in mind, she set about finding a house in the country where the child might be brought up away from the raucous city of its conception. The house by the lane looked so pretty at once, the cow parsley and docks standing high, the sunlight drifting on a pink rose classically at the door. When she learned there was the new hospital only two miles away in Spaleby, and besides a telephone point in the bedroom for the pre-ordained four-in-the-morning call for an ambulance, Naine took the house. And as she stepped, its owner, in over the threshold, a wave of delight enveloped her, like the clear, spotted sunshine through the leaves.

  As Naine walked up to the bus-stop by the main road, she was thinking about what a friend had said to her over the phone, the previous night. “You talk as if it didn’t have a father.” This had only come to Naine hours afterwards. That is, its import. For it was true. Biology aside, the child was solely hers, and already Naine had begun to speak of it as feminine.

  She realised friends had called her less and less, during the fortnight she had been here. In the beginning their main interest had seemed to be if she was feeling ‘horribly’ ill – she never was. Also how she had ‘covered’ herself. Naine had put on her dead mother’s wedding ring, which was a little loose, and given the impression she and a husband were separated.

  Once the friends knew she was neither constantly spewing nor being witch-hunted as a wanton, they drew off. Really, were they her friends anyway? She had always tended to be solitary, and in London had gone out perhaps one night in thirty, and that probably reluctantly. She enjoyed her work, music, reading, even simply sitting in front of the TV, thinking about other things.

  The bus-stop had so far been deserted when Naine twice came to it about three, for the 3.15 bus to Spaleby. Today, in time for the 1.15 bus, she saw a woman was already waiting there. She was quite an ordinary woman, bundled in a shabby coat, maybe sixty, cheerful and nosy. She turned at once to Naine.

  “Hallo, dear. You’ve timed it just right.”

  Naine smiled. She wondered if the woman could see the child, faintly curved under the loose cotton dress. The bulge was very small.

  “You’re in Number 23, aren’t you?” asked the woman.

  “Oh... yes. I am.”

  “Thought so. Yes. I saw you the other day, hanging your washing out, as I were going down the lane.”

  Naine had a vague recollection of occasional travellers using the lane, on foot, between the stands of juicy plants and overhanging trees. Either they were going to the estate, or, climbing over the style, making off across the land in the opposite direction, where there were three farms, and what was still locally termed the Big House, a small, derelict and woebegone manor.

  “Miss your hubby, I expect,” said the woman.

  Naine smiled once more. Of course she did, normal woman that she was; yes.

  “Never mind. Like a lot of the women when I was a girl. The men had to go to Spaleby, didn’t come back except on the Sunday. There was houses all up the lane then. Twenty-seven in all, there was. Knocked down. There’s the pity. Just Number 23 left. And then modernised. My, I can remember when there wasn’t even running water at 23. But you’ll have all the mod cons now, I expect.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “I expect you’ve done a thing or two to the house. I shouldn’t wonder if you have.”

  Naine sensed distinctly the nosy cheerful woman would love to come in and look at Number 23, and she, Naine, would now have to be on guard, when the doorbell rang. “I haven’t done much.”

  “Just wait till hubby gets home. Shelves and I don’t know what-all.”

  Naine smiled, smiled, and wished the bus would arrive. But she would anticipate Naine would sit with her, no doubt. Some excuse would have to be found. Or the guts to be rude and simply choose another seat.

  Two cars went by, going too fast, were gone.

  “Now the lane used to go right through to the village, in them days. There wasn’t no high road here, neither. You used to hear the girls mornings, going out at four on the dot, to get to the Big House. Those that didn’t live in. But the Missus didn’t encourage it. She was that strict. Had to be. Then, there was always old Alice Barterlowe.” The woman gave a sharp, sniggering laugh. It was an awful laugh, somehow obscene. And her eyes glittered with malice. Did Naine imagine it – she tried to decide afterwards – those eyes glittering on her belly as the laugh died down. At the time Naine felt compelled to say, “Alice Barterlowe? Who was that?” It was less the cowardly compulsion to be polite than a desire to clear the laugh from the air.

  “Who was she? Well that’s funny, dear. She was a real character hereabouts. When I was a nipper, that were. A real character, old Alice.”

  “Really.”

  “Oh my. She kept herself to herself, did old Alice. But everyone knew her. Dressed like a man, an old labouring man, and rode astride. But no one said a word. You could hear her, co
ming down that lane, always at midnight. That was her hour. The hoofs on the lane, and you didn’t look out. There goes Alice, my sister said once, when we’d been woke up, and then she put her hand over her mouth, like she shouldn’t have said it. Nor she shouldn’t. No one was meant to know, you see. But handy for some.”

  This sinister and illogical dialogue ended. The woman closed her mouth as tight as if zippered. And, before Naine could question her further – or not, perhaps – the green bus came chugging along the road.

  “Old Alice Barterlowe. Oh my goodness yes. I can remember my gran telling me about her. If it was true.”

  It was five days later, and the chatty girl in the village shop was helping Naine load her bag with one loaf, one cabbage, four apples and a pound of sausages.

  “Who was she?”

  “Oh, an old les. But open about it as you like. She had a lady-friend lived with her. But she died. Alice used to dress up just like the men, and she rode this old mare. Couldn’t miss her, gran said, but then you didn’t often see her. You heard her go by.”

  “At midnight.”

  “Midnight, that’s it.”

  “Why? Where was she going?”

  “To see to the girls.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Girls up the duff, like.”

  “You mean... you mean pregnant?”

  “She was an abortionist, was Alice.”

  Naine had only felt sick once, a week after she had moved in. Sitting with her feet up for half an hour had taken it right off. Now she felt as if someone was trying to push her stomach up through her mouth. She retched silently, as the chatty girl, missing it, rummaged through her till.

  I will not be sick.

  I won’t.

  The nausea sank down like an angry sea, leaving her pale as the now hideous, unforgiveable slab of cheese on the counter.