Free Eleven New Ghost Stories by David Paul Nixon

had sealed up
his right eye; only one dark eye looked out at me. He was bald, but
with black eyebrows, standing out against the white of his face.
Half his teeth were missing; his jaw hung lazily open, but his lips
were curled up in a wicked grin and he was staring right down at
me.
    My God, I was scared so witless
I fell backwards screaming, screeching out all the air in my chest.
I started to crawl, terrified, on my backside towards the wall.
    But as I looked up again he was
suddenly gone, no longer in front of me.
    Then I heard the floor creak,
and I saw him again. Just the barest of glimpses; the back of his
shoe heels as he passed behind the end of the aisle and away. He
had been dressed all in black, old clothes, the type I’d only seen
in history books. A sort of cloak and robe type arrangement. Kind
of like a monk, but a touch more flamboyant, if you could call it
that. Maybe elaborate is the word…
    It was then, within a beat of
him disappearing, that suddenly the museum came back to life.
Pendulums started to swing, cogs began to turn, gears began to
move…
    The place was alive again. The
clocks were ticking in their constant synchronism, time was moving
forward like it should. The slow clocks finally began to ring in
the passing of the half-hour too.
    I ran around the shelves,
looking for the frightening figure. But there was no sign. There
was no way out of the museum, but for the shop entrance, or the
back door, neither of which he could have reached without me seeing
him. As I ran into the shop entrance, Guillam appeared, wondering
what on earth all the noise was about. So I told him, and
understandably he didn’t believe me. Well, why would you?
    He was angry that I had caused
such a hullabaloo and called me a little liar. I can understand
that he would find it difficult to believe me, but why would I make
up such a story? And I was so clearly very distressed. He was
emphatic in saying that there had been no one in the museum with me
and that he hadn’t mended or fixed the black clock, so how could it
have rung?
    He sent me back to the inn
insisting that I go to my room and stay there or he would get his
cane and thrash me. My uncle had never been one for physical
discipline, but he seemed more determined now than ever to hand it
out. I never even told him about Iris and her bullying brother.
    So I went back to the inn and
there I stayed. I found it difficult to sleep that night, every
creak on the stairs and I suddenly imagined him there, the man with
the burnt-face, waiting for me, coming for me. I’ve seen some
terrible things in my life – I lived through the Second World War;
I’ve seen a man take a bullet through his cheek and seen a boy’s
face swell-up from mustard gas – but his face; his is the one
that’s always stuck with me most.
    I remember being thoroughly
miserable the next day. Without Iris, I didn’t have a lot to do and
I didn’t fancy too much going back to Guillam’s shop. I moped
around and tailed my beloved barmaid until she was sick of the
sight of me.
    Eventually she barked at me to
make myself useful. She commanded me to go to the post office to
send some letters from a few of the guests. I was keen to go
because the post office was close to Iris’ Grocer’s shop. And once
the letters were delivered, I paced carefully down the opposite
pavement, trying my best to look into the window. I remember
thinking that I could see her through the window, helping her
father behind the counter.
    I began to cross the road very
slowly – not so much traffic back then. And I saw her father cross
to the door, to open it for a customer. Or at least I thought it
was her father. When the door opened, I saw it was Billy, playing
at being the good son and helping in the shop. As soon as I saw him
I turned and went back to the opposite pavement.
    He didn’t spot me at first; he
was too busy making conversation with one of the old town
spinsters. But I looked back and I caught his eye. His