Beneath the Sheets; Creature of the Night - Monochrome Edition

I was visiting the quaint seaside town of Whitby at the behest of Reverend Patrick O’Sullivan. He had written to me about a “malevolent creature” who had chilled him to the bone. Not only did this pique my interest, but it also gave me a chance to visit Fortunes Smokehouse - an establishment that, without a doubt, produces the most beautiful Kippers one will ever taste.

I left Fortunes, as hoped, with a large number of paper-wrapped bundles oozing a heady smoky scent. The owner informed me that the delicacy is best served warm from the oven, covered in butter, with fresh crusty bread and a large pot of strong tea. But such a treat would have to wait. It was but a few yards from the shop door to the foot of the 199 steps to St Mary's Church. With the large bundle of kippers, alongside my clockwork lantern, its stand and my notebooks, I feared that my ascent to meet the reverend would be arduous. In reality, I managed only a third of the journey before I began to struggle with the weight and size of my packages. Mercifully there were several viewpoints offering a pause along the journey and I decided to set up a basecamp at the first one to gather myself. With my breath rattling in my chest and my brow damp with sweat, I decided to have a pinch of tobacco to restore my vigour. As I brought the clay pipe to my lips, I noticed a large gentleman staring intently at me.

“Do you need a hand sir? I fear you are suffering from the climb”. His voice had a thick Irish lilt. I replied that I had overloaded myself with items and asked if he would be able to watch over my belongings whilst I delivered my heaviest item to the top step. At this he laughed and exclaimed “if you are about to meet The Good Lord himself after only managing to climb a third of these steps, I fear that repeating the journey may be the end of you entirely. These steps were designed by the Devil himself, or so it seems as you near the top. Perhaps I could carry your camera for you?” I failed to correct him as explaining my lantern’s use often prompted more questions than I could easily answer, but gratefully accepted his kind offer.

The Irishman's name was Abraham and he was in Whitby for inspiration; he did not divulge what for, and I was too much of a gentleman to ask. He was indeed correct that the pitch of the steps intensified as we neared the top. But finally, as we crested the summit, St Mary’s Church stood in front of us, with the abbey its looming shadow. Before I had a chance to knock, Reverend O’Sullivan opened the door. “Abraham?” he mumbled, a look of puzzlement, followed by understanding, spreading across his weathered skin. “You must be Professor Braithwaite, come in, I will get you both a drink. Those steps have been the death of many a man which is why my graveyard is so well placed”. Within a few moments the reverend returned with a large bottle of Irish whiskey and three glasses. He was a verbose man and also (what my mother would have called) a gossip. In ten minutes, he divulged all to Abraham about me and my investigation agency into the unusual and unnatural and, in turn, I learnt a great deal about Abraham, including unnecessary anecdotes about his mother Charlotte.

The air in the dark refectory then suddenly grew cold and the reverend’s face became serious. He began to recount the dark events surrounding the mysterious apparitions of “The Creature” which he had mentioned in our correspondence. Each occurred on a full moon. With the moon a glowing orb in the midnight blue sky tonight, I took my leave to trek across the mossy graveyard to the pool of water that lay before the abbey. Abraham, his interest captured, joined me whilst the reverend remained in the church and, it would seem, with the remainder of the whiskey bottle.

I settled my lantern on its stand and cranked the handle and a purple light suddenly flooded the landscape. A row of torches appeared at the edge of the water with a figure visible behind the dancing flames. Closer to the abbey, smaller figures with crosses on their cloaks stood vigil. The main figure was unlike any other spirit I had encountered. It was instantly aware of our presence and glided towards the edge of the pool where it stopped abruptly. Like an animal in the zoo, it appeared confined behind glass, either reluctant to cross the water or to break the line of torches. At that moment it occurred to me that the moon and the torches, indeed the abbey itself, were reflected in the flat surface of the pool, but the figure had no reflection at all.

I was mesmerised into a state of near-unconsciousness by the figure. Abraham was also rooted to the spot, his mouth slightly ajar. Minutes passed but we did not move, entranced by this being which was like a cobra about to strike. Then the lantern's light dimmed. This woke me from my stupor and I started to collect my instrument as quickly as possible. Abraham merely muttered about the Virgin Mary until I seized him firmly by both shoulders. Struck with sudden dread, we fled to the safety of the church where the reverend was sitting with our whiskey glasses refilled. After a drink or two to steady the nerves, I recounted our experience. I could only surmise that the creature had been trapped by the torches for eternity - a sentence delivered by another unearthly power.

Eventually, a while after the reverend had found another bottle of liquor, Abraham and I summoned the courage to return to our respective lodgings. The descent was far less taxing so, as we walked, I asked Abraham for his thoughts on the evening’s events. “I have been inspired by your investigation”, he divulged “and you must stop calling me Abraham, that is my mother’s name for me - well actually she used to call me Bramble - call me Bram. After what we have just borne witness to, I believe we are now friends”. We parted with a handshake, exchanging promises to meet again to discuss other mysteries I encountered. I believe that Mr Stoker from Dublin had his eyes opened that night and his life would never be the same again.