The Lonely Shadows: Tales of Horror and the Cthulhu Mythos by John Glasby

Author:John Glasby [Glasby, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, H.P. Lovecraft, haunted house, Cthulhu, Horror, Mythos
ISBN: 9781434448934
Google: QXX0AAAAQBAJ
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2012-04-10T04:00:00+00:00

SHIRLEY’S GHOST

My first glimpse of Corvellan as I drove down the steep, winding road towards the coast was far from uplifting. Barely visible through the fog drifting in from the sea, the tiny huddle of cottages along the base of the cliffs looked dismal with their roofs glistening in the drizzling rain. Whenever the fog thinned, the ocean looked sullen and grey, not at all how I imagined it would be.

The fog became thicker by the time I drove along the single narrow street. In spite of the poor visibility, I readily spotted the hotel, it being the only two-storey building in the village. It stood a little way back from the road with a small paved area in front where I parked the car.

Taking my bags inside, I rang the bell on the desk and waited for a few moments before the proprietor arrived, a short, stocky man I guessed to be in his late fifties.

He gave me an inquiring look before his face cleared. “You’ll be Mister Hartley,” he said. “I expected you earlier but doubtless this terrible weather delayed you.”

After shoving me to my room, he paused in the doorway. “Are you here on holiday, sir? It’s just that we get so few visitors to Corvellan, even during the summer.”

“Call it a working holiday,” I told him. “I’m writing a book on English folklore and superstitions.”

He gave me a sharp look and it was then I remembered that the Cornish people did not regard themselves as being English.

“I don’ reckon you’ll find many hereabouts willing to talk with strangers. If you’re looking for ghosts and the like, I doubt if you’ll find much of interest.”

When he had gone, I crossed to the window and stared out into the all-enveloping greyness of the late afternoon. His last remark had been a little too quick, too vehement, for it to ring true. It was the first inkling I had that there was something about this village that was worth looking into.

That evening, after an excellent dinner, I went through into the bar. There were only two customers, both old men, and clearly locals, sitting in one corner. One of them, the taller of the two, caught my attention at once. He had the weather-beaten features typical of the fishermen along this stretch of coast. His hair was snow white, yet I had the impression that this had happened prematurely, that it was not due merely to age. But it was the expression in his eyes that struck me most forcibly.

I could only describe it as a ‘haunted’ look. Even without knowing a single thing about him, that expression told me there was something in his past which had laid a heavy burden on him and which would trouble him to his grave.

I turned back to the bartender, a young man barely out of his twenties, with a frank, open face. After ordering a pint, I asked him whether he knew any of the local legends.

He shook his head. “I’m not from Corvellan,” he told me, leaning his elbows on the bar.

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