Girl who sings to Butterflies
This is the story I wanted to tell.
An eloquent urban myth, hearsay, like those, passed on from a friend of a friend or someone who knew someone; only this time, the experiences are my own. I love ghost stories. I’ve always loved them. Something about the paranormal really piques my interest. Now, I’ve not seen anything you could class as supernatural, but also nothing that dissuades me that it isn’t a possibility. I listen to people talking, in pubs, restaurants, and bars, mostly. I manoeuvre myself so that I can overhear their conversations. I love the chase, eavesdropping on as many people as I can, just to hear something out of the ordinary; a snippet of the unexplained; a mystery to ponder. Most of the time they’re just making it up: had a couple of beers and want to sound more interesting. What better way to mark yourself as different, to have had an otherworldly experience? Or to put an arm around a new potential loved one, pointing out into the night, using the darkness as an excuse to break down barriers. They flavour the story, changing it in the retelling, tailoring it to the audience. To be honest, I don’t mind. It’s just people. So, back in August, I was travelling – the Universities had disgorged their captives for Summer, so it made for interesting opportunities. I’d left the bustling streets of Manchester behind, and headed towards the Lake District. I got side-tracked just north of Lancaster. A blank space on my ordinance survey map, devoid of any urban sprawl, the town I’d found was so small it didn’t seem to have a name but was a distant satellite away from the closest town of Ingleton. On Google Maps, it was nothing more than a collection of houses at the furthest point of a dead end. It was here that I heard a very intriguing story. Remote, but even here there were tourists. The lure of the countryside brought a slow trickle of explorers wanting to venture out into the unknown. As I listened, I was sure that this tale was being adjusted to the benefit of a couple of outsiders. Malcom, the sole proprietor of the only guest house where I was lodging, was doing his best to encourage them to stay on a few more nights. He told them about the ghost of a young girl and old woman that seen within the ruins of a burnt-out manor house on the crest of nearby hill. Malcom absently curled the hair behind his one ear, making the rest of his greying thatch look like a lopsided Spaniel wagging its tail. He spoke in a friendly manner, looking at the rain beating down the window pane. “The best time for catching a glimpse would be when the skies are clearest. Oh yes.” He stared out of the window, as though expecting the clouds to magically part. “In the starlight, near the old fountain, you can hear the girl sing.” The couple rattled their cutlery against the porcelain plates, more intent on chasing scraps of food around than listening to him. “Beautiful,” he whispered. The word warmed the room, said in a way that it could have been a compliment to a lover, rather than dropped between strangers. It fell with disinterest, adding to the ambience of lost words, and ignored gestures. Malcom blinked, back to the here and now, casting his eyes around the frayed dining room along the cracked walls and peeling paint as though seeing the state of the building for the first time. “If you can stay, until the weather is better, I’m sure that you’ll be able to hear her.” It was a good line; good idea for scam. Easy to implement. Not beyond a penniless guest house owner, to drum up a bit of tourism. Though it would have been more believable if the sparseness of the accommodation wasn’t so obvious. With the threadbare carpet in the hallway, and the fact that electricity went off as soon as the last light went out, might suggest his actions weren’t selfless. The previous night, my reading lamp shut off as soon as I’d turned off the main room light. I’d stood there in the darkness, flicking the switch on the wall. I felt a presence hovering in the hallway, Malcom haunting his own building, hearing the impotent click, and stewing whether to turn the power back on. Rather than bother him, I’d simply climbed into bed went to sleep. The couple scoffed. Taking turns to huff disinterestedly, No, their itinerary had to be kept, and they couldn’t prolong their departure. Malcom shrank a little, took their plates away. I noticed the one with a chip in the enamel, knowing that it was one short circuit around the sink before it would be brought out with my food. When he came out again, the chip hidden beneath his thumb until he placed it down on the table. He kept glancing at the other table, probably wondering if there was something else he could say that would keep them another few nights. He was also looking out of the window, as though the weather really did matter. “Good story,” I said. Malcom nodded, “’s true.” I waited until he had stopped looking out of the window and he realised that I was watching him. He’d not tried his patter on me, I’d booked in for the week, so he knew he already had my money. “There’s a tragedy up there, written in the soot on the walls, decorating the broken beams in what remains of the rafters. Impressive sight, if you’ve not already taken it in.” “What was it?” “What?” “The house?” “Far too fancy for this place, but a local man, done good. Lived down at the corner with his grandparents. Made his fortune, but there was something about the place that he couldn’t get out of his skin. Traps souls this place. Thought that he’d have the common sense to stay away, but no, came back and brought two more victims with him.” “You make it sound quite sinister,” I said. “Just have to look what happened to them, house burns to the ground, no happy ending there. Not for him, his wife, or his daughter.” “Can you remember his name?” “Lowell, William, or James. Something like that, walk past the name every time I go to the post office. The street’s named after him, after he died.” “What happened?” “It was a long time ago, I think they were happy, once. Or, I’d like to think so, but something went wrong. Whether his wife couldn’t settle there, or he realised what he’d come back to, and it turned him slowly mad. “Stir crazy, could ‘a been too used to travelling. Back here strangled him. Her too, confined to that building. Anyway, their relationship soured – rumours from the delivery men. No one knows what exactly. There was a fire, started in the drawing room. The same room that housed his collection of butterflies, specimens brought back with him from far off places. One of the finest collections in England, so it be told. He donated cases to the Natural History Museum in Manchester and London. When my Dad saw the house go up in flames, God rest his soul, he said that the embers fluttered as though it was the butterflies escaping. “Everyone died. Heard their screams, louder, louder, then nothing. Just the crackle of pop of the flames, and the building breaking apart. “It wasn’t until years later, that she was seen. The girl, moving through the ruins looking for her butterflies. Other nights, it could be her mother, looking for her lost daughter.” I listened. It had potential. “Have you seen her?” That sad, wistful look crossed his face, of a man concealing a secret. “Once. Maybe.” Out of the window, the rain beat down relentlessly. “Is it easy to get to?” He blinked, taken aback. “Well, I… Sure. There’s a footpath that wends along the back of the houses. Takes you through the woods and joins a larger trail. I can draw you a map if you want?” “Yeah, sure, that would be good. I’d like to see the buildings, have a poke around.” Although I knew that it wasn’t the buildings that I was interested in. Malcom hastily sketched the network of footpaths, leading for the back of his property to the hill. Pointing out landmarks and hazards. “It can get a bit boggy, so when we have a clear spell, the paths should be passable. Here,” he tapped, “if you see the Giant’s Knuckles, you’ve gone too far, it’s a turning just before. Not obvious.” “Giant’s Knuckles?” He made a fist, tapping the bones on the top of his hand, “Sticking out of the ground, four boulders in the path. You’ll recognise it when you see it.” “Okay, next bit of sun, I’ll go have a look.” “You do that.” Malcom put the pen down carefully on the map. He kept looking at it, as though checking that it was complete, or perhaps, with regret. It rained for the next three days.
