Old House

I gazed up at the old house, which lay mellow in the morning sunlight, its ancient walls covered with ivy, and I wished with all my heart that I could turn back time. From far overhead came the raucous cries of the sea-gulls as they circled in their endless quest for food, while in the background was the ever present surge of the sea, and I remembered.

At the landing window I looked out and sighed with pleasure. It was going to be another beautiful day. The sun, already high in the sky, shone down on the streets which were thronged with tourists. When the resort became popular this house, once the home of an affluent family, had, like so many others, been turned into a hotel.

And it was still a beautiful house, I thought, turning at last from the elegant aperture. I walked slowly along the landing and down the wide, graceful curve of the stairs into the lobby, touching the familiar fixtures and fittings as I did so. The rich, red cloth of the curtains, the smooth, polished surface of wooden panelling, and the luxurious pile of the carpet; all these could have existed in another age.

I thought of the house and contents as my own, I had been here so long. Though never managing to make friends among the visitors, I always hoped that with each fresh lot of tourists I would find someone to get along with. It was so lonely in the little seaside town.

I’d tried to cultivate friendships, of course. In the hotel I’d tapped on the various doors in the evening before entering the rooms and trying to strike up some kind of rapport with the guests, but it was very difficult. Perhaps they were just a different class from my own. More likely these temporary strangers just didn’t want to make permanent attachments.

It was a shame because Penzruth was such a pretty place, and I didn’t want to leave. The pink and white cottages, their gardens overflowing with scented blossoms, tumbled down the steeply narrow lanes to a little cove, sweetly curving at the bottom, and lapped by an azure sea. In the summer months the town came alive with visitors and was busy and bustling, and even in winter it had a quiet charm all of its own.

I was still a young woman; petite and pretty with silky chestnut hair curling down my back.                                                                                                                                                                 My temperament was both placid and even, but I had never married.

However, now that I had witnessed some of the arguments between the couples who had stayed here, I had rarely regretted it. I had heard the rows through the oak paneling, and had even seen some of the fights played out in front of my eyes. One couple, however, had shocked and saddened me above all others.

I supposed they would have been middle-aged. The lady had curly, dark hair threaded with silver, and the gentleman was thinning on top. I used to watch them covertly in the dining room. They struck me as being the ideal couple; they were so polite to each other, each asking the other if they had enough toast, or orange juice, and was their tea alright? Yet later, when they thought there was no-one watching, they never spoke except to rasp out a request or comment, and slept apart in separate beds. I thought I had never seen anything so sad, or so pointless. Doubtless they had stayed together for their children’s sake, and had simply got into the habit of each other. What a waste of life. To endure that drab, monotonous, sterile existence, when the wonders of being alive on earth were beckoning.

Yes, sweet, tumultuous, magical life was out there waiting for them, if they did but know it. And yet, was my own existence any better?

I walked around the lobby. It was quiet at the moment; sunbeams splintered silently through the beautiful crystal chandelier and scattered their natural light onto rich velvet sofas and brocade curtains. Over everywhere was an old-fashioned ambience of refinement and dignity.

On one of the sofas a young girl was sitting alone. She was gazing at me, so I walked over and seated myself opposite.

“Hello.” I said softly. “My name is Emily. What’s yours?”

“Lucy.” said the child. Then “Are you staying here too?”

“Yes.” said I. “Where are your parents?”

“Oh, they won’t be long. They’re having a bit of a row. They’ve sent me down here to wait for them while they battle it out.”

“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s OK,” said the child. “They’re always at it. They think I don’t know,” she added, conspiratorially.

Just then, the girl’s parents called her from the staircase. They went out of the front entrance and I was alone once more. I felt sad for Lucy.

“How awful.” I thought to myself. Lucy was part of a family, but I seemed just as forlorn as she did.

I wandered restlessly around the lounge. The brilliant sunshine beckoned outside, but still I lingered indoors, endlessly pacing, round and round. Suddenly I stopped. On the large mahogany desk which straddled one corner of the room were some new leaflets. My interest caught, I went over to have a look. The leaflet said:

                                   “GHOST WALK ROUND THE TOWN.”

           LET OUR GUIDE SHOW YOU THE HAUNTS OF THE SPIRITS          LISTEN TO THE LEGENDS AND FOLKLORE OF OLD PENZRUTH

                MEET BY THE HARBOUR WALL AT 8-30 P.M.

It was a new venture for Penzruth. Visitors loved to be frightened with tales of spooks and smugglers. I was delighted. I had of course heard many of these stories myself, over the years. Some were very silly, like the tale of Old Hobble.

Old Hobble was supposedly an ancient sailor who used to live in the town, and who walked with the aid of a crutch. Legend had it that one night, while under the influence of the local cider, some mischievous hob-goblins waylaid him and led him astray from his usual path, which he never regained. Now, late wayfarers going home through the dark, empty streets may hear the tap-tap of Old Hobble’s crutch as he wanders around, forever looking for his way home. All nonsense of course, but the tourists loved it!

But then again, I thought to myself with a sudden shiver, some of the tales were not nonsense. Some were very real indeed. What about, for instance, the story of the Graveyard Watcher? This was a spectral figure who glided through the graveyard - by day as well as night. The phantom was supposed to be guarding the tombs of the dead, but I was not convinced his motives were entirely altruistic. I myself had only seen him once, but that was more than enough for me!

The very worst tale of all, though, the one I didn’t like to think about, was the story of The Mortant.

The very name chilled me. This spectre was said to appear before every death in Penzruth. The sky overhead would darken, and a chill and eerie wind would blow. The Mortant, a large, hooded figure would first be spotted by the victim standing in the distance. Then, over the next few days, the Mortant would be seen - but only by its prey - moving ever closer until eventually its unfortunate quarry would turn around, and there would be the Mortant, close enough for the victim to see its face and then-the person would die!

I glanced with terror over my shoulder. Then I shook myself. It was silly to be scared now. Besides, I may meet some new friends. I would go on the tour!

That evening, I left the house and began to walk down the steep hill towards the bay.

The late summer day was already dying and the houses threw long shadows down the cobbled street. The myriad plants in the gardens oozed their heady scent into the air. I just knew it was going to be a magical night, ripe for tales of mystery and witchcraft.

As I made my way down the twisting lane, the sun began to dip towards the horizon, and the sky was quickly turned from blue to indigo, gold and amethyst, and I thought I would never see anything as beautiful, even if I stayed here forever.

When I reached the harbour I saw a small group of people waiting for the walk to begin. I recognised one or two of them from the hotel but the rest I had not seen before. Everyone was pleasurably excited, waiting for the guide to start the tour. They were chatting amongst themselves, introducing each other and talking about their holiday experiences, but no-one seemed to want to talk to me. I sighed, and seating myself on the harbour wall, looked over the edge to the strengthening waves pounding far below.

Suddenly the rising tumult of noise quietened; and the guide, evidently deciding that no more customers would be arriving, began the tour.

I listened in a dreamy fashion to the broad Cornish accent of the guide as he regaled the group. Suddenly I heard my name mentioned.

“This is where the beautiful, lovelorn maiden Emily Tregennis threw herself off the harbour wall and drowned, way back in 1854.She had fallen in love with the son of a local landowner, but his father forbade the wedding. Poor Emily, in a fit of unrequited passion, rashly decided to end it all.

“It was never known just why the landowner, who was called Sir Edward Bantinet, had cancelled the wedding. Maybe he was superstitious, for it had long been known that there was a curse on the Tregennis family.

“Perhaps he was frightened that the strain of madness which had run through the previous generations, admittedly a rare one, would be mingled with his own family’s blood.

“Whatever it was, Sir Edward rendered the proceedings null and void, and the maiden was devastated. Deciding that she couldn’t live without her sweetheart, Emily raced to the wall and flung herself into the raging torrents below.” The guide paused, then said, “Strangely enough, this story ties in with another legend.”

He then told the group the terrifying tale of the Mortant. Finally, he concluded:

“They do say that Emily, just before she jumped, cried out that she had seen the creature, but this may just be hearsay. Whatever happened to her back then, she now walks through the town, endlessly searching for her lost lover, and has even been seen in her old home at the top of the hill, which is now The Penzruth Hotel. Maybe Emily is even here with us tonight!”

I smiled to myself, a soft, wise smile.

“Maybe!” I said, but my voice was lost in the sound of the sea.