The Grandmother Clock – A Tale for Halloween

THE GRANDMOTHER CLOCK

 A delightfully spooky  tale from Pembrokeshire writer CAROLYN DENMAN

The vicarage was beside the church – which, as a minister, Hugh did find convenient. Seeing gravestones while crunching on toast and marmalade limited his morning pleasure. He had considered having his meals in another room, but the breakfast room, as it was called, was one of the few small rooms in the enormous Victorian building. The fire made the room warm, and his old housekeeper, Miss McDonald, was skilled in banking it down and keeping it in overnight. Once he had washed and dressed in an unheated bathroom, Hugh was always glad to hurry down to its warmth.

Indeed, he had spoken to his bishop about the chilly temperatures he had to live in. The bishop had raised a bushy white eyebrow and peered at Hugh in astonishment.

‘What do you expect? Keep active, get out amongst your parishioners. Do some good. You have a wayward parish. Fill your church, then perhaps they will be able to help.’

‘My Lord, it is 1978 most people have heating.’

‘You are not most people, are you? You are ordained.’

Hugh kept his indignation to himself. He had no one to share it with anyway. He’d only arrived in the parish a month previously. His friends were scattered all over the country and like his family disapproved of his career choice.

The silvery chimes from the grandmother clock in the hall sounded nine times. Hugh stood up – time to start his day. As he passed the domed head of the grandmother clock, he paused and gazed at her with affection. He had never seen one anywhere else and liked her rounded shape and glowing gold face. The hands and numerals were also a dull gold, which glowed when the light hit them.

Sticking his head around the kitchen door, he called to Miss Mc Donald, who was washing up: ‘I’m off out. See you later.’

She only vouchsafed a grunt in reply.

He was late for lunch and Miss McDonald made her displeasure known with a crashing of dishes and a slam to the breakfast-room door. Hugh would rather she had said something, but she rarely spoke. The only time they had had a conversation had been the day after his arrival.

She had stood twisting her gnarled fingers in the end of the old grey cardigan she wore. Her white hair was twisted up in a tight bun on top of her head. Her face was pale and lined, the only colour came from narrow lips. Her eyes were like the fluid silver of a brook of clear water. In contrast to the rest of her, they were full of life.

‘Sir, did the bishop remember to warn you about the other side of the house?’

‘He mentioned that the roof was leaking, so it was unused. Why?’

‘It’s not safe, sir. Rotten floorboards and such. The last minister went in exploring and he got hurt. Best not to risk it.’

‘I most certainly won’t. I have plenty to do.’ Hugh’s voice came out with a snap, which he immediately regretted. But her tone was chiding and disrespectful, he disliked being spoken to as if he was a foolish child. For a moment Hugh thought he saw a flash of satisfaction in her eyes, but she’d walked away speaking in colourless tones.

‘Very wise, sir.’

That evening he was enjoying himself as he wrote his sermon. He was miles away listening to the Sermon on the Mount when he felt a chill across his neck. Perplexed, he glanced around the room, then saw that the door was ajar. Jumping up, he crossed the room to close it.

A door slammed. Startled, he paused; he was alone in the house. Why would a door slam?

Someone up to mischief, he thought leaping into action. He raced around the ground-floor rooms, but they were deserted, the windows closed. He approached the locked door to the other side of the house. His hand on the door knob, he hesitated, then turned the key and opened the door.

The interior was dark. He tried to find a light switch. Failing, he opened the door wider and saw the switch a couple of feet into the hallway. Again he hesitated, remembering Miss McDonald’s warning. The floor looked fine to him, he stepped inside and turned on the light.

Two dim pools of light lit the gloomy hall. He stood listening. He could hear the wind whistling around the outside of the house. Not another sound, until a child giggled.

Hugh stood unmoving.  A wave of unease whispered down his spine. It was impossible. A child couldn’t be here. Hugh strode along the floor to the bottom of the stairs, clicked on another light and ran up them.

‘Hello. Who’s there? This is the minister, come out and show yourself.’

He tried the light switch at the top of the stairs. It gave a dull click, but no light came on. The darkness was impenetrable. Hugh waited for his eyes to adjust, peering ahead. Silence greeted him. The house was damp and cold, Hugh could feel it even through his jacket.

He couldn’t see much detail, a couple of closed doors, the bare boards of the landing. He shivered, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him. Retreating, he stepped carefully back down the stairs holding firmly to the banister. He moved along the hall towards the door. It was closed.

Hugh halted.

Did I pull the door closed behind me? No, I left it open, I know I did. I wanted the light from the hall. He sucked in a breath, tightened his muscles, then rushed to the door.

Will it open?

His damp hand fumbled its grip on the door knob. It took a second wrench to turn it and drag the door open. Relieved, he hurried into his study, closing the door and locking it. He crossed to the large coal fire and stood shivering in front of it.

Draughts, of course, draughts. Old house like this. Calm down, Hugh.

He walked over to his large oak desk, sitting down, glad to still feel the warmth from the fire. He’d had a fight with Miss McDonald when he’d dragged and pushed the heavy desk across the room, turning it sideways on to the fire. It was a large room and he had become cold writing his sermons.

‘The desk will block the heat from the fire. We’ll get damp by the windows, you mark my words.’

‘Better than me getting pneumonia,’ Hugh said.  He had stood tall, daring her to contradict him.

‘Hmph!’

Hugh’s gaze returned to his sermon, but he felt too unsettled to continue. He looked around the sombre room wishing he could afford to redecorate. He’d promised himself freshly painted walls by spring. He studied the growing patch of black mould which had formed around the far windows. With a snort of disgust, he jumped to his feet and hurried into the kitchen.

Armed with rubber gloves, bleach and with an apron around his middle, he scrubbed the wall clean. Now Miss Mc Donald need not complain.

The next morning was bright with sunlight. The wind continued to toss the trees and shrubs about and Hugh knew he would step out to a chilly day. This close to the coast, it was always windy.

As he crunched his toast, he debated whether to do a quick exploration of the top of the house next door. The main problem was Miss Mc Donald’s presence in the kitchen. He didn’t want her grumbling. She only worked a half-day today – he’d explore after lunch. He mused on last night’s experience: possibly he heard an owl call, it couldn’t have been a child.

Aware of a slight headache, he hastened outside intent on doing some parish visiting. The local folk were friendly and returned his greetings with smiles and nods. He returned to the vicarage with a contented heart in good time for his lunch. Miss McDonald served a delicious meal, leaving at 1.30.

Hugh grinned to himself as he put two batteries in the torch he had bought at the village shop. He was going exploring. Turning the door key through to the unused house, he switched on the hall lights and wandered around the rooms on the ground floor. There was a beautifully proportioned room with a large bay window, which he assumed was the original drawing room. He crossed the room with impatient strides as he caught a glimpse of the sea. The outside of the windows were cleaned by the local men so, despite the murky stains on the inside, there was a good view of the sea where the land dipped.

What a pity this is going uncared for, he thought, studying the brown stains on the bay’s ceiling. Visible growths were like splendid young cauliflowers all along the damaged ceiling. Splashes of black and green ruined the faded flowered wallpaper all around the window. Shrugging, he moved on.

When he reached the bottom of the staircase, he paused. Disliking the nervousness that made him hesitate, he shone his torch and mounted the stairs at a steady pace. The landing was wide and the floorboards appeared intact. They were uncarpeted, creaking and muttering complaints as he stepped on them. He traversed to the back of the house going to look down on the overgrown garden. There was more evidence of roof damage, and mould grew in abundance all down one side of the window.

He thought about the generations of big families who must have lived here in the past.  Opening one door, he found the damaged remains of a child’s wallpaper. Once the colours would have been bright and vibrant.

All of a sudden, Hugh felt like an intruder. He didn’t belong here. His headache, which had faded, returned and his vision blurred. He rubbed his eyes with his fists and moved back towards the main staircase.

The child was holding a large plastic doll.

Hugh squeaked and stopped. He rubbed his eyes again. She was still there. Six feet in front of him.

‘Who are you?’ His voice and hands trembled. Trying to soften his voice, he asked, ‘What’s your name?’

She stood in silence, then her thumb slid into her mouth. She was dressed in a simple summer dress and sandals. She looked pale and thin, her arms bare.

Concerned, Hugh stepped towards her.

‘You must be cold.’

With a swish from her wide skirt, she turned and ran. Hugh gave chase calling after her.

‘I won’t hurt you. Come back. Where’s your mummy?’

He ran around the corner,she was nowhere in sight.  Hugh paused – chasing her would only scare her.

What shall I do? She must be found. What is she doing here?

Hugh shivered in the cold air, his breath misting in front of him. He shrieked as one of his calf muscles cramped. He stood on the cramped leg trying to get it to ease. A realisation had crept into his thoughts, he tried to ignore its whisper, it couldn’t be?

Had he seen a ghost, a spirit of some sort?

She hadn’t shivered at all and it was very cold.

What shall I do? Who should I tell? A search will have to be made. Shall I call the police? No, I will look now. If she’s lost she needs to be found at once and if, if she is a spirit. I am… I should be able to deal with it.

I’ll be methodical. Open every room and cupboard.

Half an hour later, Hugh decided it was time for tea, lashings of it. She wasn’t there.  He plodded downstairs feeling tired. As he stepped down into the hall, he saw her again, flitting through the door into his side of the house.

‘Child, wait.’

He ran fast after her. Racing from room to room, but she remained elusive. Panting, he paused in the hall. The grandmother clock chimed three quivering notes. Smiling, Hugh walked over to the clock, while he tried to decide what to do or who to inform. He rather regretted the absence of Miss Mc Donald’s stern self. She could have advised him. Then, he gasped. The hands of the clock were moving backwards.

Mesmerised, he watched, then he turned on the light. The golden hands glowed with bright colour.

‘Tick, tock.’ Backwards around the face they moved.  Hugh had sharp pins and needles running down his whole length. His body spasmed with terror.  With a stifled shriek, he ran into his study and grabbed the phone.

He stabbed wildly at the phone numbers and missed. His hands shook as if in a wind. He tried again and a third time with the same result.

They are trying to stop me calling for help. The evil spirits have overrun this place.

Hugh managed to collapse into his chair. He clasped his hands together holding them between his knees. The spasms were slow to ease. With determination, he dialled the minister in the nearby town.

‘You must come at once,’ he said, ‘the vicarage is over run with evil spirits. There is a ghostly child, who disappears every time I speak to her. We must exorcise the vicarage.’

‘My dear fellow, how extraordinary. Have you been indulging in too much whisky?’

‘Not a drop. Oh, no, she’s here again!’ Hugh dropped the phone.

 

A month later, the Reverend Johnston was sharing the story with a friend.

‘I thought he’d totally lost his mind. When I got there, he was running around chasing an imaginary young girl. The hands on the grandmother clock were turning backwards he said, and evil spirits had invaded the place.’

‘A good joke, if, it wasn’t serious. Has he been committed?’

‘He is in hospital, but not a mental one. No, it was the mould on the walls of that cold vicarage. He had a mould toxicity.  Made him completely crackers. I believe the bishop is embarrassed.’

Miss McDonald had plenty of time to warn her friends. They removed everything from the cellar before the repair men arrived.