Seabreeze Cottage

I will never forgot my stay at Seabreeze Cottage, even though many years have passed since the day I first arrived as if it were only yesterday. I can still recall the salt spray as it kissed my face as I unlocked the old, weather beaten door. At fifty-four, and finally alone after years of family holidays, a failed marriage and academic conferences, the quiet was both exhilarating and unnerving. I, Elara Finch, a historian specialising in obscure Cornish legends and local mysteries, had chosen this remote spot for my much-needed solitude. The cottage, perched precariously on a cliff overlooking the churning sea, was exactly as described: charmingly dilapidated, with a crooked chimney and windows that whispered tales of sea winds and forgotten lives. I loved the smell of brine and woodsmoke that clung to the ancient timbers. A perfect refuge in which to rediscover myself and feed my insatiable curiosity for knowledge and adventure. This place felt like a treasure chest waiting to be unlocked. I had read somewhere that there had once been a local woman who fell to her death from the nearby craggy ledges after being chased from the village, accused of witchcraft. There was no tangible evidence for this story but still, it appealed to my deep interest in the esoteric world and it was one of the reasons I had chosen this cottage.

I had spent the first afternoon unpacking, the rhythmic crash of waves a comforting soundtrack to my work. That evening, I settled by the fire, after enjoying a delicious meal of local fresh fish simply cooked over the open fire. A bottle of red wine, partly finished sat on the coffee table and a thick volume of local folklore lay open on my lap. As the firelight danced across the aged pages I drifted off to sleep, and it was then that I heard it – a faint, mournful sigh that seemed to emanate from the shadowed corners of the room. Stirring slowly I dismissed it as the wind, but then came a whisper, so close it seemed to brush against my ear, a woman's voice, old and laced with loneliness and wisdom. It spoke my name. My heart raced as I sat up in the chair. The fire had reduced to embers, yet a bone-chilling cold settled over the room, despite the warmth from the dying fire. The cottage creaked and groaned around me, its timbers protesting against the unseen force that seemed to inhabit it.

Night passed and I had eventually fallen asleep in the chair, waking the next morning to an eerie sense that I was not alone in the cottage. The day was cold but bright and I took a long walk along the cliff path, past the ruins of an old mine and into the nearest village where I took lunch before visitng the small local history museum. It was here that I made my first startling discovery. An old picture of Seabreeze Cottage, with a wizened old woman outside, wearng tradtional clothes and a scowl on her face. Underneath the words ' The Seabreeze Witch' had been handwritten on the image. There was a sadness about the woman's face that touched me and for a moment I too felt a great sadness. Shaking the feeling from me and fueled by a lunchtime glass of wine I asked the barman if he knew anything about the photo. Sadly, he didn't but he did point me in the direction of the small local history musuem just a few minutes walk away.

Intrigued by the 'Seabreeze Witch' I swiftly walked along the quiet roads until reached the museum. Thankfully, today was one of the few days it was opening. Being run by volunteers I was luck to have arrived just at the right time. The building was small by crammed with artifacts and information on the old fishing and mining communities that once inhabited this locale. As I wandered through the exhibition I finally came across a section dedicated to local customs, traditions and folklore. And there she was again, 'The Witch of Seabeeze Cottage'. The small information board informed me that the lady in question had been accused of witchcraft because of her eccentric ways and the fact she lived on her own in the cottage with only her cat for company, having shunned the traditional married life and choosen, instead, a life dedicated to researching the old traditions and ways; herbalism, self-sufficency and honouring and respecting the natural surroundings and the importance of the ancestors. For this, she had been penalised by the local community who did not understand her different approach to life.

If this had been the dark ages I could, perhaps, have understood how a lady such as this could have been ostracised and worse. But in this instance what occured would have been no more than 100 years ago. In the time of so called Industrial Revolution. Yet in places such as this old ways and old fears still run deep. That is what had sometimes made my own research difficult.

This poor woman had been hounded her entire life for daring to be different, to challenge what she had been told and to find her own truths and her own way in life. On one fateful winter's day, whilst walking into the village to buy food and writing materials, she had been chased by a group of children who threw stones at her, but they didn't hurt as much as the insults they hurtled towards her with such vehmence. What had she ever done to deserve this?

In fear she ran towards her home, her sanctury, the only place she felt safe. The cliff path was rough and the ground wet. In the pursuit she tripped, stumbled, lost her balance and fell. Her broken body was later recovered from the water's edge below. She was given a pauper's burial at the edge of the churchyard. A wooden cross the only thing that marked her final resting place. Nobody from the village attended. Nobody ever spoke about her again.

I returned to the cottage with a sense of unease and yet also the subtle tingle of excitement. I couldn't be sure that had happened the night before, but the sun was setting and who knows what the coming darkness would bring.

Back in the cottage I lit the fire once again and settled down with my book and wine. Sleep softly embraced me and as I drifted in a dreamless state I heard once again the call of my name, soft at first then growing louder until I awoke with a start. The fire had long since died so I lit a candle, its feeble flame struggling against the encroaching darkness, and looked around, my eyes darting from shadow to shadow when a shimmering light appeared, coalescing into a form – a woman draped in grey, her face hidden in the shadows. Fear, raw and primal, gripped me. I should have known better; I’d spent years studying these things, yet encountering it firsthand was utterly terrifying.

The apparition, if that’s what it was, didn’t threaten me; it simply seemed to observe and – smile! Walking towards and then what appeared to be through the old wooden writing bureau in the corner of the room it slowly faded, the light dissolving into the shadows until it was gone. The cold receded, replaced by a profound sense of unease. The next morning, I wandered over to the writing desk. It was beautifully carved and had several drawers and compartments within it. I ideally opened them, still drowsy from a poor night's sleep when I discovered an old, leather-bound diary tucked away in a dusty drawer. Its brittle pages chronicled the tragic tale of Elara Tremaine, a woman who had lived and died in the cottage a century earlier. She had been cast out from her village, labeled as a witch due to her interest in history and mystery. Her handwriting mirrored the whispered voice, her story eerily similar to my own research into the area's folklore. The apparition, I realised had been her, Elara, the 'Seabreeze Witch, reaching out to me, perhaps seeking solace in another historian, another Elara across the centuries and a desire to share her knowledge, just as I wished for with my own reasearch.  My fear gave way to a strange, melancholic understanding. My holiday, it turned out, wasn't just a break from academia; it was an unexpected meeting across the veil, a ghostly collaboration – the diaries contained more than just her thoughts – it contained her years of research and findings related to local folklore and legends and she had chosen to share it with me. Before I left Seabreeze Cottage a week later, my heart full of sadness and gratitude for the woman who had shared her story, and an understanding of local lore far deeper than before, I went to the cliffs where she had tradgically fallen to her death and threw some roses into the turbulent sea below. And if anyone should visit the churchyard in that far flung village today, they will see, in a far corner of the graveyard, a small wooden cross with the inscription 'Elara Tremaine - Gone but definately not forgotten' and a fresh bouquet of flowers laid upon it every week.