Here is the ghost story i promised last week. Its about 6 pages long so may take time to read. I suggest you copy it all and save it in a word document. A one way Ticket to Shawside By S. M. Leonard. Disclaimer. All characters, places, railways or organisations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The early years There can be nothing more quintessentially English than a rural railway station set amidst the Yorkshire countryside. The delightful stone buildings with their half moon topped windows , sturdy arched entrance doors nestling below a slate roof. A fire crackles merrily in the polished grate to one side of the booking hall with its stone flagged floor. A fat marmalade cat lies contentedly basking in the warmth. A couple of passengers sit waiting for the next train on the heavy bench seat on the opposite side. Notice boards tempt the viewer with pictures of golden sands and day excursions to the seaside by special trains. It is the beginning of spring as the green shoots of the flowers lovingly planted by the old stationmaster, whom it is said started working at the station soon after the line opened in the late 1870s, appear in the tubs along the single platform with its neat edge. An unusually clear sky and bright sun light this place of passing moments, of warm embraces and sad farewells. Of those off to distant lands and children returning from long school terms and Mrs. Braithwait on her way to the weekly shopping expedition at the nearby mill town clutching her basket and newly printed cardboard ticket bought from the tiny ticket window. The river that gouged its way to the valley floor those millions of years ago plays merrily alongside the line swirling and eddying on its way to the Calder some 5 miles away. The gas lamps have been cleaned and polite fingerboards discreetly inform the would-be passenger of the next departure. The ever present smell of coal, steam and warm oil waft across the busy goods yard, the merry clinking of wagons being shunted by a simmering tank engine as her crew go about their work. What finer place could I have arrived at on that bright yet cold morning, My uniform neatly pressed and buttons sparkling than in my 20s and so proud of the first posting by my employer, having completed my clerical examination at Leeds only a few weeks previously? During the passing of the months I became accustomed to the ways of the railway and the many tiny tasks that made up the day’s work. From selling of tickets to carrying parcels and goods bound for the nearby village. Helping passengers with heavy luggage, the postmen with their bulging sacks and the traders and farmers who brought their produce to the weekly market at Northley. Occasionally I would help at the goods office, mastering the many mysterious and never ending paperwork required for the conveyance of just about anything that could be carried by train. The head clerk, a cheerful Yorkshire man in his 50s was a paragon of patients as he watched me toil over the massive ledgers and columns of figures that had minds of their own! This demanding yet ever-changing world of passengers, trains and railway life was to be my lot for the next few years, I grew older and wiser with the passing of the seasons and must admit at long last began to feel a part of the life at the small terminus station. Yet for all that there was a doubt deep within me. Was it the reticence of meeting new colleagues with their many years of experience, perhaps a place I was not familiar with, I could not tell, a nagging sense of the unknown, almost something of another world that lays beyond the understanding of the ordinary person. Although the end of the line, the trains were frequent with regular passenger services to Northley, the junction with the mainline as well as a never ending supply of local goods of all kinds. Coal arriving at the terminus would provide fuel for the smoking mills along the valley whilst endless wagonloads of fabric would be sent all over the empire. On high days and holidays the station would be filled with jostling holiday makers for the excursion trains to the Lancashire coast and even the nearby non-conformist chapel would hire a train for the annual Sunday school treat. On certain race days the private saloon belonging to the local gentry would be attached at the rear of one of the passenger trains along with their horseboxes. We were somewhat sheltered from the outside world; living at the end of a valley people would only come to if they had business there. We received intelligence from the broadsheets, illustrated papers and gossip from passengers. It was also not unknown for messages to be passed down the telegraph, strictly against company rules! The sinking of the huge passenger liner Titanic in 1912 and the Great war that came and went with little effect on our community save the ranks of hopeful youngsters filing past on their way to do duty for King and Country and the forlorn stragglers returning from the front and field hospitals, their mangled limbs and dazed expressions of something we would later know as shellshock. With the passing of time and with little changing with the exception of the seasons. A routine, both loved for its reassurance yet loathed for its monotony. Steady as the ponderous ticking clock mounted in its Mahogany case on the wall of the dimly lit booking office that impartially marked the passing of the minutes and hours. The trains marked the passage of the days, The 5:10 workmen’s special, the morning commuter working to Northley with its new through coach for the London terminus, leisurely afternoon journeys and gaily dressed theatre goers returning on the last train from Bradford or Leeds. Yet still within there was me a feeling of dread or worse. Somehow it must appear so ungrateful. With so many others in destitution, I had a good job with prospects With all I could have asked for and more besides but with all this there was a deep melancholy that would never leave me, a sadness mixed with a terror I could not define. Each day at the end of my shift I would leave the station and return to my modest railway home to be greeted by beloved family. My wife Emily and two growing lads James and Luke. Who attended the small elementary school ruled over by the fearsome Mrs Patterson. I was blessed with both children fit and well, forever playing pranks yet studious and inquisitive at their books. James the more sporting of the two, belonging to the local boys’ Association football club whilst Luke showed more of an interest in all things mechanical and could more often than not be found pestering the yard foreman for visits to the shed and elicit rides on the footplate! Yet as I passed to and fro the station and home those once so lovingly tended buildings appeared grubby and dull, having lost that shine I remembered so well from my first visit all those years ago. The beautiful half-moon topped windows were now as hooded eyes seeking, searching and peering into the souls of the unwary. The booking hall seamed sepulchral and stifling. The dancing shadows cast by the fire seamed nearer and of a strangely sinister nature. The comforting sound of the gas mantle now a malevolent hissing. It would be with dread I would arrive at my once loved place of employment and tormented by those things that had been my ever-comforting accompanists. Week after dreary rain soaked week these night terrors would haunt my dreams and trespass upon my consciousness through the short winter days. I knew no piece by day or long lonely night. I was all too aware these strange events were telling on my family and work. My once cheerful chats with passengers were as interrogations and the thought of leaving the booking office to make merry with my fellow workers was yet another torment. My only ease were the bound tomes of timetables and railway rules and tidy columns of tickets and even within this haven the oaken walls appeared to creep ever closer, the once cream paintwork became a distempered yellow run through with many cracks. We live in a modern age where steam is king and electricity flourishes in the larger towns and cities. It has even become possible to send messages through the air by means of the Marconi system without the need of telegraph wires. So in this age of enlightenment and burgeoning science why was I so haunted by things so familiar and of such a simple and inert nature? I could not tell. One evening there would come a dreadful culmination of all my terrors, an event so horrific and full of such terrifying evil I dare not set it down in writing. It was as though all the things I have described hitherto were but a prelude to my devastation and torment. I was on the late shift so passed a family high tea with my beloved, James and Luke having reached the age of 11 and joined the local Boys’ Brigade, eagerly showing of their brightly polished belt clasps and brilliant white haversacks. Their pillbox hats at a jaunty angle. The emblem of the organisation, the anchor that even at that time of mental anguish and chaos held and kind of inner strength for me, clearly seen on their uniforms! Down the narrow gas lit street, waving to neighbours returning from their work, youngsters at play and neighbours gossiping on the doorstep. A cheerful “evening Bert” to the duty shunter who had become a genuine friend over the years. Many was the time his family and mine joined for a social evening or parlour games, grouped around the small piano singing the songs of the day. On brighter days we would go walking, taking the train to Ribblehead to marvel at the massive stone viaduct. If we were lucky we would see the express and her long train of sometimes 13 coaches snaking through the countryside on her way to the Capital. The dining coach resplendent with cut class and silverware. A far cry from the compartment stock and tank engines that were the work horses on our line. Then returning to a much-deserved pint or so of foaming ale an convivial company at our local inn, The Old Black kettle. And so across the ash path of the loco shed and finally, to that dread approach to the station, and those malevolent windows that seemed to stare blindly and yet with such intensity. I entered the booking hall and prepared to go about my duties in readiness for returning passengers, relieving Mr Hollroyd, the chief booking clerk A tall and silent fellow for whom I had little time. Somehow his gaunt features and silent demeanour only added to the gloom of the interior. He tapped a long finger on the waybill and made some acerbic comment I did not dignify with a reply. So leaving me to my own devises. My first duty was to check the gas lamps on the platform then to check the fire buckets were full of sand or water as required. Next it was to the fingerboard, ensuring the correct destination was shown, thence to the booking office to apprise my self of the day’s takings and browse the operating notices written in that pedantic style that typifies the safe working of the railway. By now it was completely dark and there would be no more trains for a couple of hours save the arrival of a pick-up goods from Northley. The Haunting This passage contains reference to the Occult and may not be suitable for younger readers or those of a nervous disposition. As I sat at the scuffed and warn counter thumbing through old timetables and other railway paraphernalia, occasionally glancing through the ticket window. I fell into a fitful doze, my mind troubled with the events I have already described. Once again the creeping shadows and hissing gas mantle tormented my thoughts. As I awoke from my thoughts I peered through the window for the hundredth, time hoping, preying for some lonely passenger to pass the time with if for but only for a few short minutes, to ward off those dark shades who had by degrees, unbidden entered my life. As I glanced once again through the window I noticed a damp patch on the floor, slightly to one side and under the bench seat usually occupied by waiting passengers, I gave it little thought thinking it would dry of its own accord. Yet as I gazed it grew in area, minute by endless minute, inexorably creeping across the flags, the complete surface now appeared as upon a wet day. Could this phenomenon be some kind of subterranean spring that by a fluke of natural geology had risen thru the ground along a hitherto unknown fault line? “Pleas oh please let this be so!” I called upon all that was holey but to no avail, inwardly knowing it to be but a dreadful portent of some phantasm that yet had to reveal itself. Even as the strange fluid appeared to cover the flaw, completely, I perceived a depth that in natural law could not exist. There was as if an undulating and quivering sheen of a viscous substance yet by some ungodly means appeared an un fathomable depth. Minute by interminable minute nameless entities rose and fell as though within the deep; as a myriad of the unspeakable, each the shape of a tiny and part formed animal, seen within the scientist’s laboratory, as if though through the lenses of the microscope. I could not determine their real size, at once a million miles below yet within just a few inches; they swarmed and multiplied spewing forth from the depths. And then within appeared a seething broiling mass of an in indistinguishable nature. At once a whirl pool and yet and bubbling caldron of half human forms, Their eyes hollow and dark as tombs, the twisted features a rictus of pain and anguish as if upon the torturer’s rack. A stench of evil I could not describe. The shadows on the wall now maniacally dancing and assuming the shape of unspeakable demons, fiends cast into everlasting damnation, the gas mantles reflected upon the surface flitting this way and that, like fearsome salamanders, the tormenters of those below. How could I have known these dread filled weeks and such terror would manifests its dark presents upon me, yet not be able to confide my thoughts to another mortal for fear of cruel ridicule. On the one hand assuming it to be a prolonged melancholia but in truth knew in it to be a haunting of infernal proportions? What had I done to anger these dark spirits, I could not tell. A rushing sound as a thousand tormented souls clawing and clambering upon each other as if within a foundering vessel yet imprisoned forever by a gossamer veil, infinitely thin yet strong as steal, a subtle Tantalus of their supernatural masters. Their twisted and writhing forms appearing to break surface only to be dragged down into the abyss with the sound of quicksand and all that is abominable accompanied by devilish laughs that had not a human tone with which to redeem them. Thence came a terrible voice as if from the midst of this troubled seen, this dark reckoning of suffering and evil incarnate, this misery from the very inner most recesses of Hell. A sound so inhuman and hollow like a throat scoured with endless ages of pleading yet malevolent with threatening demand. “Give them what they want”, “Give them what they want”, endlessly chanting their infernal chorus, their supplications of the damned. And then I knew no more, sweet oblivion folded me in to her merciful arms and I fell into a black and blessed unconsciousness. My recovery When I came too I found myself upon the floor of the booking office, the high stool having collapsed on me as I blacked out, Carefully feeling for injuries it appeared all was not lost, however there was a massive lump upon my forehead and it was evident I had been bleeding for sometime. My hair matted with dried blood and my clothes dishevelled with a tare near my waistcoat pocket. My faithful railway pocket watch had stopped at 2:37. The bright sunlight streamed through the windows, now having somehow lost their sinister appearance. The walls had returned to their original hew with not a crack to be seen, the gas mantles now extinguished with not so much as a sound. The only immediate damage to the buildings that could be seen were some oddly shaped cracks across the thick plate glass of the ticket window, it having frosted in several places strangely resembling the cloven hoofs of a goat! Deep gouges upon the public side of the counter, the wood sharply splintered in several places! There was a mess as many tickets had fallen from the rack to the floor and had become defaced and unusable. That hated waybill book lay under the table, its flimsy pages torn in many places in abject disarray. As I attempted to rise and clean the worst from my clothing the door opened. With fresh dread I remembered the odious Mr. holroyd and his mean sneering countenance but these fears were instantly dispelled as my old friend Bert and our jovial family doctor, a former military surgeon, of numerous campaigns entered the room. “Now now, what’s been happening here?” asked the doctor. But even before I had time to remonstrate “It’s off to St. Mary’s and plenty of bed rest for you and not a word more will I hear!” “You have clearly had a nasty shock and I want Matron to take a look at those cuts” “You can’t be too careful with head injuries.” I tried to stand but my head swam so I gladly succumbed to doctors orders and awaited the motor ambulance. The routine and rhythm that is part of railway life had surely shown its benefits this morning, as Bert having finished the night shift in the goods yard would many times call at the station for a brew before returning to his home. Having passed the booking hall he observed the damage to the window and the turmoil within. Within a short time he was knocking at the Doctor’s door, summoning him to the station. Within a short time the motor ambulance collected both doctor and I from the station making the short journey to St. Mary’s, the small cottage hospital on the edge of the village were I was gently but firmly confined to a freshly made bed. The nurses in their starched uniforms bustling about the wards. At visiting time one of the nurses approached my bed saying “You have some very special visitors” Joy of sweet joy, my beloved family, My Emily and two boys James and Luke all as well as ever, what more could I ask but to see them again after my horrific ordeal? For the next few days I convalesced, being permitted to walk in the hospital grounds for a short time each day. And after a week I was discharged and returned to light duties. Upon my return to the railway the booking hall and ticket office had been completely repaired, there being no sign of those sinister marks. The smell of fresh paint and varnish greeted me is I signed on for another shift. The Conclusion. The official enquiry regarding the whole sorry affair found that a prson or persons unknown, possibly with the object of robbing the ticket office, had attempted to attacke me. The shock of the same causing me to fall in injuring my self. I was completely exonerated and indeed praised for my diligence during my time at the railway. There was one further strange occurrence I have yet to relate. Upon my discharge from hospital and return to work I was handed a small brown envelope containing a small brass key inad some smudged tickets marked “Shawside”. I had apparently dropped, possibly whilst facing my would-be assailant. Ordinarily I would have given the matter little thought but the particular of the tickets merely deepened my interest. To The best of my considerable knowledge of our railway and those of other companies there were no stations by that name. I resolved to discover why these odd tickets had been found upon me. As I returned once again to those dusty tomes in the newly refurbished ticket office. My search was after much digging through those elderly volumes rewarded with the discovery of stations no longer in use. There was once a small wooden halt on an isolated road crossing known as, Shawside, apparently belonging to the estate of a former consultant of one of the London teaching hospitals. Further research revealed the doctor had been struck-of for gross misconduct and jailed for performing hideous experiments upon his patients. The station having taken its name from the disgraced doctor’s house. The house had long fallen to rack and ruin and now regarded by locals as being haunted were little visited apart from the curious and thrill seekers. The station had become overgrown and finally demolished in the very early days of this century and had therefore not appeared on the present day railway maps or timetables. Such was the outrage at the time that the name of the doctor’s family, Holroyd, was completely shunned by society. Even to the extent that the son and grandson were barred from all the best social events and fount it almost impossible to obtain gainful employment. The medical establishment who had once revered the doctor’s pioneering work had completely turned their backs on the family. Although never proved in court it was rumoured the doctor’s son had been party to some of the nefarious happenings at Shawside. To a lesser extent the grand son faced the same invisible yet tangible wall of prejudice, being unable to gain admission to medical school. Unable to accept the situation for what it was he grew more bitter by the year, eventually obtaining a lowly position on the railway as a porter so working his way to the position of chief booking clerk at our station. As we now know his name was Mr Holroyd! Could it be that those long nights I faced a loan in the booking office brought upon me a melancholia, or depression of the spirit, or could it be the miserable souls of the victims of the evil doctor reaping their terrible revenge upon the family yet on one innocent of any offences? You dear reader will have to decide for your self. The End.
Posted on: Thu, 30 Oct 2014 23:07:49 +0000
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