A Lyme Ghost Story

A new home, a new life. Something which had been on the cards for some time, but now fully realised at last. A chance visit to an old friend in a quiet seaside town had given me the impetus to make the changes I needed to make and a few short months later, here I was. I had purchased a cottage in the old part of town with enough money left over to live fairly comfortably. It is a town much frequented by writers and artists and whilst I considered myself as neither one nor the other, I had ambitions in those directions.

I found myself a part time job to while away some of my time, the position was neither demanding nor exciting, just a little driving job. If nothing else, it gave me the opportunity to see more of the area than perhaps I would have done otherwise. I managed to get the cottage straight and almost homely within days, my possessions were few and my needs simple, as long as I had a home for my CDs and books, I was happy.

I noticed quickly how the narrowness of the street combined with the height of the buildings conspired to trap noise and amplify it. Conversations of a not particularly loud nature could be heard clearly at night when all else was still, but still I was surprised one night to be woken by the sound of a violin being played. I was only disturbed momentarily however, long enough to register the beauty of the playing before I fell back into a deep sleep. In the morning, I could not be sure whether I had dreamt the episode. I had never heard it being played before, but then maybe last night was especially quiet, then again it must have been around one in the morning and would I really expect to hear someone practising on their instrument at that time? It was hardly important anyway and I quickly put it out of my head.

A few nights later, I found my sleep disturbed again by the sound of the violin, I knew this time it definitely wasn’t a dream. I sat upright in bed, listening and just as before, it was truly beautiful. I couldn’t tell you what was being played, my knowledge of classical music was skimpy to the point of it being non-existent, but even I could appreciate the wonder of the piece, it was both hypnotic and oddly comforting. I glanced at my watch, one-thirty in the morning. I listened for a couple of minutes, then the playing stopped abruptly and although my night had been disturbed, I was strangely disappointed at the cessation of this music.

The next day was taken up with more mundane matters; work in the morning and in the afternoon I had arranged for a local electrician to have a look in the wiring in the cottage. It looked as though it had received no attention for a long time. He confirmed my fears after inspecting fully the intricacies of the electrics and announced it would need re-wiring completely and the sooner the better. It was an expense I had not budgeted for, yet I could not have the work done, safety was paramount.

That night, I was again awoken by the sound of the violin. This time my violinist, whoever he or she may be, was playing a more urgent piece, it filled my mind, my soul even. I was entranced. Strangely, it seemed much louder. I thought this must be due to the different nature of the piece being played. Yet, it seemed not only louder, but closer, too. I got out of bed, walked to the window and looked out into a quite empty street, all was peaceful out there and as far as I could tell, no one else was disturbed by this beautiful music.

The next day, I had the notion of asking around to see if I could shed any light on the violinist who felt the need to practice at such unsociable hours. In the end I thought better of it and one of the reasons was that I did not want it to stop. I had become enraptured by the music, dependent on it in a way, as though it was only for me and I did not want to take the chance that by asking questions I may inadvertently put him or her off from playing.

The following night, it was the same pattern as before. The music would wake me around one-thirty and shut off abruptly once more, a few minutes later. The difference this time, was that the music was undeniably louder and closer to me. If I hadn’t known better I would have sworn that the music was coming from within the bedroom itself. I put my ear to the wall which connected me to the next cottage, it wasn’t coming from there, but it was so very near. Again, I looked out of the window into the empty street. I don’t know what I thought I was going to see, a man or woman playing the violin feverishly under the street lamp maybe?

The day passed in a dream, all I could think about was this strange, beautiful music which visited me night after night, invading my senses and that evening I was in a positive hurry to go to bed. I slept well, surprisingly, but was drawn out of my sleep once more by the sound of the violin. I can’t really describe to you how this music made me feel, it was possibly the most beautiful melody I had ever heard or maybe, ever will. I looked towards the bedroom door for it seemed to be from there, where this spellbinding music was coming from. There was a dim light by the door which became a glow and gradually this nebulous shape became the figure of a man, his right hand gliding the bow across his violin. He backed away from the door towards the stairs, his eyes imploring me to follow. I was, by now, wholly trapped within this glorious, bewitching music and I followed, willingly. All the way down the stairs he went, playing all the time. Before I was hardly aware of the fact, I found myself out in the street. He was out there, still playing, although I had not seen him open the front door; in fact I knew he hadn’t as I realised that I had turned the key in the lock. He looked at me one last time and this fabulous melody, this beautiful melody came to a sudden end. He was gone. I had no time to ponder on this, for there came a sharp crack from within the cottage and all at once the bedroom was engulfed in flames. There was a phone box on the corner and I sprinted those few yards in record time and dialled 999.

The first fire engine was there in minutes and I watched the crew go about their work. The flames were everywhere now, licking out from every window, the smoke billowing down the street, taking with it my dreams.

After a few hours, the fire was out and everything had been dampened down. The fire chief was sifting through the wreckage, no doubt looking for the cause of the fire. I was in a neighbour’s house; she had very kindly taken me in and kept me supplied with an endless stream of coffee. All I could think about was how I would still have been in the bedroom had I not followed my violinist into the street. Was it a precognitive dream then? An apparition formed only in my mind by God knows what processes? I did not know, only that I had been saved.

There was a knock at the door and the fire chief came in, his eyes were full of pity for me.

“Sorry sir, we weren’t able to save much I’m afraid.”

I mumbled something in return.

“It looks as though the wiring might have been at fault. The fire started in the bedroom and spread very quickly through the rest of the house. Some of your books might have survived, but little else, save for this, which we found in the bedroom and somehow it wasn’t damaged by the flames.”

He handed me a violin. Unmarked, untouched.