The Waif (A short ghost story)

THE WAIF

It had been a bed and breakfast in an area of Chivester that was rather seedy. Unfortunately a lack of funds had forced my hand and as I had been sent by my firm to enquire as to whether two of the engineering companies that had factories in the town were interested in buying nickel plated nuts and bolts from us, I had been forced to book a room there.

The weather for this time of year was atrocious with high winds and cold, sleety rain. By the time I had humped my case from the railway station to the nondescript house in a row of other equally nondescript houses – I was soaked.

I pushed the door bell and listened to the ‘Trumpet Voluntary’ echo through the house as I waited with water dripping on my head from a faulty rone on the roof.

Mrs. Briarly my landlady was a large lady of the motherly type who shepherded me into the hall.

“Oh dear, Mr Sexton, what an awful night!” she wittered as she handed me a towel. “Dry your hair with this and when you are settled in your room, I’ll take your clothes and dry them in front of the fire.”

The bedroom was at the top of a set of stairs and was a contrast to the blandness of the outside of the house.

A double bed covered with a patchwork quilt and pink cushions which sat at the head of the bed dominated the room.

Someone, possibly Mrs. Briarly had attempted to offset the colour of the walls – yellow, with pictures which hung on the walls. The scenes, mostly pastoral or rural added an air of incongruity to the overall effect.

The kind woman prepared a very appetising meal for me and allowed me to eat it in my room.

“I normally like my guests to eat in the dining room, but as it is late…..” She left the sentence in midair, turning quickly and gazing at me with a worried look.

“You’re not a …. nervous man are you … Mr Sexton?” she asked haltingly.

I looked up at her from where I sat, the plate of sausage, egg, bacon and chips giving off an appetising aroma.

“Nervous? Mrs Briarly,” I answered puzzled.

“Well, it is just that some of my lodgers who have slept in this room have reported hearing…..strange noises…in the night.” she paused, uncertain of how to continue.

“What sort of strange noises?” I asked popping a bit of sausage into my mouth.

“Oh…..nothing scarey, just sometimes ….a child crying,” she replied warily.

As I put the light out that night and lay listening to the wind shriek round the house and the rain spatter the windows I wondered how a child like Ellen came to be haunting a house in this awful district.

Mrs. Brierly had ‘come clean’ over the ‘noises’ in the night. It was reported that about a hundred years before, her house had been a foster home for a little girl of eight. The foster parents had made her life a misery, making her get up early in the morning and work before she went to school. As soon as she got home and had eaten a meagre meal Ellen was expected to do all the family’s washing before she went to bed.

The situation had continued for a year until one night the house had caught fire and before the fire brigade could get the blaze under control the family and little Ellen had died.

Being in a strange bed has always affected me. I can’t sleep for any length of time and find myself awake in the early morning.

It was during one of those situations that I woke to see a small shadowy figure standing over by the window. The false dawn had begun lightening the sky and her silhouette stood out clearly. I caught my breath and for a few minutes I lay shaking under the covers. Then common sense prevailed and I half whispered:

“Ellen. Is that you?”

The small shadow gave a little moan and I heard a returned whisper:

“Yes, it is Ellen, Ellen Frances.”

I leant over and was about to put the light on when Ellen whispered:

“No, no don’t do that!”

The little figure moved over to the bed and I could see her in the semi-darkness, almost if she was glowing slightly. The feeling of fear had passed from me and all I felt was sympathy for this sad, frightened wraith.

“Are you a ghost?” I asked stupidly.

“Yes,” she whispered and I could feel a cool breeze about my face.

Her clothes were mismatched and her hair was long and tousled. On her feet she seemed to have slippers with holes in them. If ever a person looked like an orphan, it was Ellen.

“You were badly treated when you were alive,” I said sadly. “I’m so sorry.”

Ellen leant forward and I saw that she had a lovely face. It needed a good wash, but a natural beauty shone through the grime.

“Why are you sorry?” she asked. “It was not you that was unkind.”

“No,” I replied. “But it was grown ups like me who made your life a misery.”

Ellen and I talked on into the little hours. She told me of the orphanage that she had lived in when she was very young. An abandoned baby, she had been left on the orphanage steps by her mother or someone unknown. A kind nurse had called her Ellen, for as a youngster she looked after the children younger than her and would take the babies out in their prams. A gentle child.

The dawn sky strengthened and I could see that the spirit of Ellen was growing very tenuous.

“Must you leave me/” I asked. “I have a lot to ask you.”

Ellen placed her little hands into mine and I felt them as a breeze tickling my skin. She tilted her head and looked into my face, her eyes big and luminous.

“You have helped me,” she whispered. “Everyone else just got frightened, but you talked to me.”

“What caused the fire?” I had to ask before the morning light came and took her.

“It was a candle which fell over and set some rags on fire,” she replied. “The master had left it burning so I could see to do my duties. I watched it fall but I was so miserable I didn’t try to right it. I sat in a chair and watched as the room gradually burnt up.”

“So….. you could have stopped it,” I said quietly.

“Yes, you are right; I could have stopped the fire.” Ellen hung her head and looked sad.

I could hardly feel her hands anymore. The breezes had weakened and I felt she was going away.

“Ellen, you could make it right,” I whispered. “It’s not too late. Your life although tiring and menial then, could have improved once you grew up”

She moved slowly over to the window and then turned and looked back at me. Her mouth was turned up in a smile and her eyes twinkled with happiness.

“Thank you,” she said her voice full of emotion. “I hope we meet again….sometime.”

And she was gone, as sylph like as a piece of gossamer.

The outcome of my business proved successful and I won contracts from both companies.

The weather had improved and as I packed my bag to return home I thought about little Ellen. Had she made it right? Was Time in the spirit world a two way process allowing return to nodes of time when large decisions were made but could equally be unmade at a later time? 

Mrs Briarly knocked at my door and came in.

“I hope you enjoyed your stay with us Mr Sexton,” she said.

“Yes Mrs. Briarly it was a very successful trip and Ellen didn’t bother me at all.”

“Who is Ellen, Mr Sexton? And why should she have bothered you?” asked a plainly perplexed Mrs. Briarly.

“The ghost that you said haunted my room,” I said laughing. “Don’t you remember telling me?”

I said my goodbyes to a very puzzled Mrs. Briarly and began to walk down the street towards the railway station.

The wind blew gently and a blue sky covered the heavens. Birds sang and flew about in the sky.

I had just about reached the station when my attention was caught by a sign on the wall I was passing.

“Chivester Old Cemetery” it read.

I turned and began walking slowly down the path that led to an old lych gate. I made my way into the burying ground and began to check the gravestones. A large number of them were covered with moss and I had to rub the script clean before I could read them. Soon I had reached the centre of the cemetery and wondered which way I should go.

I checked my watch and saw that my train was due into the station in fifteen minutes. I turned and made my way back to the gate by one of the other paths.

I knew the stone as soon as my eyes fell on it. It glowed slightly as Ellen had. Its slight radiance visible in the shadow.

“Ellen Frances Davis born 1860  died 1930. Wife to William Prentis Davis born 1855  died 1925.  And their three children Louise, Sexton and Miriam (also buried here)”.

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