Those Ghostly Victorians

By Annette Siketa

Why can't Gilly remember dancing at the ball?  What is the mysterious bulge in the wall?  Who is the woman who prefers to meet in a cemetary? 

These fifteen stories might just have you looking over your shoulder, especially at night.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Annette Siketa
• Release date: Feb 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393009016

Annette Siketa

For those of you who have not yet made my acquaintance, my name is Annette Siketa, and I am totally blind. Were you aware that most blind and visually impaired people are extraordinarily perceptive? To sighted people, this ability must seem like ESP, and I suppose to a certain extent, it is. (I'm referring to the literal meaning of Extra Sensory Perception, not the spooky interpretation.) To compensate for the lack of vision, the brain and the other four senses become sharper, so that we can discern a smell or the identity of an object. I promise you there's no trickery involved. It's simply a matter of adapting the body to ‘think’ in another way.Being blind is no barrier to creativity. Like most things in this world, life is what you make of it, and after losing my sight due to an eye operation that went terribly wrong, I became a writer, and have now produced a wide variety of books and short stories, primarily of the ghost/supernatural/things that go bump in the night genre.So, how does a blind person write a book? On the practical side, I use a text-to-speech program called ‘Jaws’, which enables me to use and navigate around a computer, including the Internet, with considerable ease. Information on Jaws can be found at www.freedomscientific.comOn the creative side...well, that’s a little more difficult to explain. Try this experiment. Put on your favourite movie and watch it blindfolded. As you already ‘know’ the movie – who does what where & when etc, your mind compensates for the lack of visualisation by filling in the ‘blanks’. Now try it with something you’ve never seen before, even the six o'clock news. Not so easy to fill in the blanks now is it?By this point you’re probably going bonkers with frustration – hee hee, welcome to my world! Do not remove the blindfold. Instead, allow your imagination to compensate for the lack of visualization, and this will give you an idea of how I create my stories. Oh, if only Steven Spielberg could read my mind.

Book preview

A Good Deed.

She was known in the village as Miss Margaret.  Few knew her surname and even fewer cared, for with her sharp tongue, cold heart, long skinny fingers and frizzled white hair, many were convinced she was a witch. 

Miss Margaret had lived in the two room stone cottage near the cliffs for most of her adult life.  She had no friends or acquaintances to speak of, and local gossip claimed that, although she was of noble stock, she had been ‘born on the wrong side of the blanket’.  Her only known relative was a grandniece, Lily, with whom she had not spoken in years.

The nearest neighbours were Elizabeth and Jack Barnet, who owned a small dairy farm.  Elizabeth was passing on her way to market when she saw Miss Margaret working in the yard.  The first autumn chill was nipping the air, and the old woman looked more bent and feeble than usual.

Good morning, Miss Margaret.  Tis rather cold today.  The weather is changing and not for the better.  You ought to have a lass to look after you in the coming months.

I don't need anyone, thank you very much.

Suppose you took a tumble, or when the really bad weather sets in, you fell ill and couldn’t get out of bed?  Who would fetch and carry for you?  Surely it would be wise to have a serving girl stay with you, at least until the spring.

And pay her for the privilege, was the grumbling reply.

For the main part, Elizabeth Barnet was kind at heart.  She had a soft spot for the elderly, and would often give them eggs and milk and butter from the farm - meat too when it was available.  But, when she chose, she had the annoying ability of mixing shrewdness with sarcasm, and it was sometimes difficult to determine whether she was speaking wisely or impudently.

What about Lily's eldest daughter, Mary? she suggested.  She's a good worker, knows her place, and is pleasant in manner.

Miss Margaret looked at her contemptuously.  I will not have that hussy nor any of her spawn in my house!  As far as I’m concerned, my grandniece does not exist.  Good day to you! 

Elizabeth grinned as she walked away, the sound of the slamming cottage door reverberating in her ears.  That’ll teach the old witch, she murmured.

A few days later however, she began to wonder if her mischief had not backfired.  The days and nights were growing colder, and whilst this would certainly account for Miss Margaret’s non-appearance in her yard, it did not explain why the chimney was smokeless. 

When Jack returned from tending a suppurating pig, Elizabeth gave voice to her thoughts.  I am rather worried about Miss Margaret.

Well, if you are, he said as he sat on a bench outside the front door, you’re the only one who is.

Be serious.  I think there’s something wrong.  I haven’t seen her in days, and the cottage looks deserted.  Perhaps we should pay her a visit.  I’ll take some eggs as an excuse.

Not the fresh ones you ain’t.  Them’s too good for the likes of her.  Jack removed his gore-splattered boots.  Let me change my clothes.  I might keep pigs, but I’ll not have her accuse me of being one.  I doubt she’s ever done a hard days work in her life - miserable old...

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Half an hour later, Jack and Elizabeth stood outside the cottage.  He knocked on the door.  There was no answer.  He tried yelling.  Hello?  Miss Margaret!  Are you in there?  Still no answer. 

Try the handle, whispered Elizabeth.  It was unlocked.  They looked at each other as Jack opened the door.

The interior was typical of most small cottages in the area - a large kitchen with a single bedroom off to the side.  What was not typical however, was the sparseness.  Apart from a scrubbed table, two wooden chairs, a large cupboard and a rocker by the fire, there was no other furniture of note.

Having never been invited inside, Elizabeth was surprised by the lack of possessions.  She had always imagined it to be prim and proper, just like its owner.  She went across and inspected the hearth, and although there were ashes in the grate, they were stone cold.

I don’t like this, she said with a shiver.

Jack pointed to the closed bedroom door.  I reckon she’s in there, and judging by the smell, she’s dead. 

Elizabeth felt bile rise in her throat.  She had seen plenty of dead cows in her time, the grotesque remains of a lamb that had been mauled by wild dogs, and chickens that had been pecked to death by its brethren, but never a dead human.

Jack opened the bedroom door.  One look was enough.  Yep - dead as a dried sardine.

Elizabeth stared in fascinated horror at the putrefying corpse on the bed.  Oh, Jack, what shall we do?  We can’t just leave her here.

He thought for a moment and then said, Well, with nobody to take care of her, I guess it falls to us.  We should look for any documents and letters.  We should also make an inventory of anything valuable.  Once it gets out that she’s dead, the cottage will be prey to thieves.

She won’t like us poking around.

For goodness sake, Elizabeth, she’s dead.  Besides, unlike her, I have a conscience.

Yes, but what about her... Elizabeth lowered her voice, ...her ghost?

Stuff and nonsense!  See if you can find some candles.  It will be dark soon.

Elizabeth went to the kitchen and began to search.  Look at this, she said a few minutes later.  In her hand were three candle stumps.  They were so tiny that the wick had almost burnt through.  And yet I found two boxes of new ones at the back of the cupboard.

If you think that’s odd, take a look in there.  He pointed to a big old chest in the corner, the lid of which was propped against the wall. 

Elizabeth lit a new candle and peered into the chest.  The flame was reflected in a mound of shining silver.  There was a tea service, a salver, a punch bowl, two fruit platters, and at least four pairs of tongs.  She extracted an exquisitely engraved spoon and held it close to the candle.

Oh, Jack, she said in an awe struck whisper, this is real silver.  It must be worth a fortune.  And look at the sheets and pillowcases underneath.  I’d swear they’ve never been used. 

She turned her head and scrutinised the bed, averting her gaze from the dead woman’s eyes.  Not only were they open, but they seemed to be staring at her accusingly.  What linen could be seen was grey with age and had been repaired many times.

Jack looked around the dingy room.  Best find pen and paper and then...  He broke off when Elizabeth gasped.  What is it? he demanded, his voice a little jittery.  He too had noticed the dead woman’s stare.

Still squatting in front of the chest, Elizabeth was holding the lid of the teapot.  Jack...it’s full of money...lots of money, silver coins and a small roll of bank notes.

He lifted the pot out of the chest, and as he ran the coins through his fingers, several fell to the floor.  I could re-stock the farm with this, he said, his tone a mixture of bitterness and envy.  I suppose it will all go to Lily, but even so, I can’t help wishing it was mine.

That poor girl.  Orphaned when she was no more than a babe, and then to be thrown out when she was 16 because she attended a dance against Margaret’s orders.  Fancy her thinking that music and dancing were the devil’s work.

You can’t condemn her piety, said Jack, glancing at the dead woman and her glassy-eyed stare.  Still, it did cause her to have some queer notions.

She never cared tuppence for Lily.  Worked her day and night, filling her head with all that religious rubbish, and then turning on her when the poor lass wanted a bit of fun.  If it hadn’t been for Tom Smiggins, goodness knows what would have happened to the girl.

Lily was very lucky.  Tom is a good man and a fine carpenter.

Elizabeth jerked a thumb at the corpse.  She would never have said so.  She didn’t even attend their wedding.  Her vein of shrewishness now rose to the fore.  And I’ll tell you something else, Jack Barnet, she’s not getting wrapped in one of those new sheets.  The one on the bed will do.

But they now belong to Lily.  Surely it’s her decision.

No, it isn’t.  The last thing Miss Margaret said to me was, ‘As far as I’m concerned, my grandniece does not exist’.

Jack frowned.  Are you sure? 

Elizabeth bristled.  Don’t you call me a liar, Jack Barnet!

I’m not, but a Judge might.

Find a bible and I’ll swear on it.

In that case, he said, clutching the teapot just that little bit tighter, we have little choice but to abide by her wishes.

I suppose we’ll have to pay for the funeral.  Her voice was full of self-justification as she added, And I think we’re entitled to some recompense for all the eggs and milk we’ve given her.  I thought she couldn’t afford to pay for them, yet all the time she was hoarding money.

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The funeral was duly held, followed by a small wake at the farm, where the Barnets were lauded for their Christian charity.  However, there was an awkward moment when Lily inquired as to her great aunt’s belongings. 

I’ve tried several times to patch things up over the years, she said to Elizabeth.  I had hoped that old age would cause her to relent a little, at least enough to see the children, but she just didn’t want anything to do with us.

I’m sorry, my dear.  I know how painful this must be, but her final words were most explicit.  You were not to inherit anything.  We have ordered a decent headstone.  I just hope you won’t be ashamed of our choice.  It was the best we could...erm... Elizabeth looked embarrassed as she finished, ...afford.  The so-called treasure chest was now residing in a barn.  Nobody other than the Barnets knew it was there.

Lily left the funeral several shillings lighter.  The alleged ‘decent’ headstone was a piece of white marble with a barely visible crack running through it.  Miss Margaret’s particulars and two lines from a poem – a very short poem, were to be engraved at two pence a letter.

At length, the mourners took their departure and the Barnets were left alone.  It was a nice service, said Jack, sipping a glass of neat gin.

We couldn’t have done much better by her.

A good deed brings its own reward.  They filled their glasses and drank a toast, each brimming with self-righteousness.

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Being farming folk, the Barnets were wont to retire early, and the night of the funeral was no exception.  The moon was high when Elizabeth suddenly woke up.  She tugged at Jack’s arm but he was already awake.  They listened intensely, their breath barely audible.  Somebody was moving around in the kitchen downstairs.

Perhaps it’s one of the farm-hands, whispered Elizabeth.

Jack’s tone was sarcastic.  What?  He broke open the back door to secretly make a bacon sandwich?

The sound of a crashing drawer settled the issue.  Walking on tiptoe and avoiding the boards known to creak, Jack and Elizabeth descended the stairs.  Reaching the open doorway at the bottom, they peered timorously into the kitchen.

The moonlight shining through the broad kitchen window, highlighted the stone floor, the table & chairs, the flour crocks and the curing haunches of bacon hanging from the ceiling.  It also shone on a figure wrapped in a faded white shroud, and there was no mistaking the glassy-eyes and pursed lips.  It was Miss Margaret.

The Barnets watched in horrified fascination as the old woman went to a cupboard and removed the silver teapot and spoons.  Then, standing at the table and with lips moving silently, she counted the spoons and inspected them, as though checking for any sign of slovenly washing-up.

Seemingly satisfied, and one-by-one, she removed the coins from the teapot.  Whether bronze or silver, they rolled across the table of their own accord, stopping at the edge as though held in place by an invisible barrier.  However, they did not remain upright.  Instead, they bunched together in their denominations and formed into piles.

And then a cloud obscured the moon and the kitchen was plunged into darkness.  The Barnets turned and fled up the stairs, bolting the door and jumping into bed.  Clutching each other as though their lives depended on it, neither slept til dawn, kept awake by abject fear and the sound of rolling coins.

But any relief was short-lived, for when they went to bed the following night, the crashing and banging returned.  This time, only Jack descended the stairs, but the result was the same.

After three nights of relentless rolling coins and the banging of cupboard doors, the Barnets were nervous wrecks.  With their pallid faces and the dark circles around their eyes, they looked like corpses themselves.

Jack, we can’t go on like this.  She might come upstairs and pull her sheets off our bed while we sleep.  We’ve hardly slept a wink as it is, and the last thing we need is to fall ill.

Jack slowly nodded his head.  I think we'll have to get rid of her sheets, along with everything else that was hers.

How?  We can’t give it to Lily without telling her the truth.

True.  Seems to me it’s Miss Margaret who wants her stuff back.  So, we’ll go to the churchyard tonight and put it on her grave.

On her grave?  But, what if someone steals it afterwards?  That teapot is quite valuable.

Jack shrugged.  Not our problem.  We will return her belongings.  What happens after that is none of our business.

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Even though it was bitterly cold when the Barnets arrived at the churchyard, both were sweating profusely.  By the light of the moon, they wrapped the tea service, the salver, the punch bowl, the fruit platters, and the tongs in the sheets.  The lumpy bundles were placed on the grave, along with the remaining linen. 

Retreating to the porch of the church, scudding clouds crossed the moon as Jack and Elizabeth waited. 

Jack pointed to a low stone wall to his left.  That’s the rear of Tom’s workshop.  I wonder how he feels having the old witch literally in his backyard.

Never mind about that, snapped Elizabeth, shivering with cold.  How do we tell her the stuff’s on her grave?

Jack produced a bottle of gin, grateful that, under the circumstances, he had paid for it with his own money.  I reckon if she knows we had it, she’ll know where it is now.

Elizabeth could clearly see the grave in the moonlight.  And to think, we actually paid for her funeral.  Ungrateful wretch.  What was the final cost?

Including the wake - three pounds seven shillings and sixpence.

Jack was about to take a swig of gin when a gust of wind caught one of the sheets.  It rose in the air, unfurled, and flapped like the sail of a ghost ship.  Thrusting the bottle into Elizabeth’s hands, he ran to the grave, caught the sheet, and rolled it into a ball.  The next grave along was bordered with whitewashed stones.  Jack said a quick prayer of forgiveness, muttered an apology to the occupant, and used the stones to weigh down the sheets.

He patted the white marble headstone.  Nice try, he mumbled, and returned to Elizabeth.

I...I thought it was her, she stammered, holding out the bottle.

So did I, he replied, taking a stiff drink.

Elizabeth suddenly grabbed his arm.  A white hand had come out of the grave.  Tossing the restraining stones as if they were pebbles, the hand reached for the sheets and pulled them beneath the surface. 

And then two hands came out of the grave.  They stuffed the silverware into a pillowcase, and with extraordinary speed and accuracy, threw it over the low stone wall.

She wants Lily to have it, said Elizabeth in amazement.

Jack laughed scornfully.  On the contrary, she doesn’t want us to have it.  Well, we’ve returned it.  Let’s get out of here.

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But the night was not quite over.  Upon arriving home, Elizabeth was about to light a candle when someone blew out the match.  The pitch-black kitchen instantly brightened as Miss Margaret’s ghost appeared.  Her frown of disapproval was practically demonic as she went to a drawer and yanked it open.  She rummaged through the contents, not caring what fell on the floor, and presently extracted a set of tongs.

It was an innocent mistake, cried Elizabeth in a terrified voice.  I forgot it was there.

Miss Margaret slapped a handful of coins on the table, and giving the Barnets a look of utter contempt, exited the house by walking through the wall.

Elizabeth collapsed in a chair while Jack counted the money.  Three pounds seven shillings and sixpence, he announced.

The miserable old cow, said Elizabeth scornfully.  And after everything we did for her!

The Favour.

According to the law, sequestration is a private or civil writ that authorizes the seizure of a person’s property for an unpaid debt.  Further, that the person issuing the writ can retain the property until the debt is paid.  In simpler terms, sequestration is a legal form of ransom. 

But what happens if the seized property remains unclaimed?  To whom does it belong if the rightful owner dies?  This was the problem confronting me as I lay gravely ill in bed.  Moreover, it was a problem of 56 years standing.

At 82 years of age, I hope I can be forgiven for imagining seemingly impossible dangers.  Yet the story of how I obtained the sequestered property is so strange that, even now years after the event, unexpected sounds set my teeth on edge.  Moreover, with failing eyesight, objects that I cannot distinguish in the evening twilight, cause my heart to beat just that little bit faster.

It happened in July 1854.  I was on leave from my regiment and staying in a guesthouse in Brighton.  One morning, I was strolling along the foreshore when I saw a man who seemed vaguely familiar.  Then, as we drew closer, recognition caused me to stop. 

Some five years earlier, Percy Kingston and I were the best of friends.  His family pile, Broadside, was one of those rambling country estates with plenty of woods and game.  Being daring and rather spoilt, we had courted Brighton society and escaped many a designing maiden.  But one, Isabella, had finally caught him.  Unfortunately, I was in India at the time, and missed their entire courtship and wedding. 

Now, as we stood on the foreshore facing each other, I could not believe it was the same man.  Time had ravaged him terribly.  His once rich black hair was streaked with white, and his gaunt features gave him a cadaverous look.  It was also obvious that he was very ill. 

As we renewed our acquaintanceship, I was surprised to learn that, instead of his family home, he was living in town.  Curious and concerned, we adjourned to the parlour in his hotel, where a stiff brandy steadied his nerve.  Naturally I enquired as to his circumstances, and the story he told was both pitiful and tragic.

Isabella died a year after our marriage, he said.  "It broke me completely.  I could not endure the happy memories of our living at Broadside.  You have no idea how close I came to tearing the place down.  Every room