‘Whoever
shall dare to speak her name, I say to thee - good luck and fare ye well! For
here is a wretched soul that will not be laid to rest.’
The tale of
Agnes Moor was well known amongst the villagers of Warbling Mill. I heard it
first from my brother, Thomas, when I was seven years old. As we passed by the
village graveyard one day on our way to school, I asked him, ‘Are there really
dead people in there, Thomas?’
Spotting
an opportunity for education, a wicked smile flashed across his face. I was his
little sister, after all. Taking my hand, he led me through the graveyard’s
iron gates.
‘Thomas. I’m not sure...’ I tried, hopping
gingerly between gravestones.
Stopping
in the furthest corner of the yard, Thomas pointed to a small gravestone. An
epitaph, barely visible beneath the moss, read:
Here Lies
Agnes Moor. 1765-1785.
‘Are
you ready for the tale of the graveyard’s oldest resident, Hattie?’ he asked. I
nodded though my heart thumped in protest. Thomas told me of the young woman
who fell from the church spire one hundred years ago. ‘Folk say that being unmarried and with child, Agnes Moor
threw herself from the church spire. Others say she was pushed by a jealous
lover. One thing is certain – Agnes Moor is a most malevolent spirit.’
I
stepped back, my mouth agape. Thomas moved toward me, his smile widening. ‘If
you say the name Agnes Moor three times at midnight during a full moon, she
will appear at your bedroom window. The foulest ghost you’ll ever see. And she
may want to take you with her!’
‘Oh!’
I cried, charging toward the graveyard gates. Thomas’ laughter filled the air.
‘I’ll
never say it! Never!’ I cried, all the way to school.
Above
me, in the clear morning sky, a full moon looked on.
***
The church
spire, visible from my bedroom window, towered above the village. Obscured by a
collection of houses, its graveyard lay below. At bedtime, I asked my mother to
shut the curtains tight. ‘The moon is so bright tonight,’ I told her. She
kissed me goodnight and left the room. In the silence, a flurry of thoughts
took hold.
I must not think upon Agnes Moor! I told myself, but then, could the tale be true?
I will never summon Agnes Moor! I continued, but would she hear me if I did?
My thoughts persisted as the church bell chimed nine o’ clock, ten o’ clock,
eleven o’ clock. Sleep eluded me, such was the rising mix of terror and
curiosity that stirred within. As the church bell struck a quarter to midnight,
my curiosity surged.
I slipped from my bed, I tip-toed to the window and parted the curtains. The full moon
beamed a knowing smile. Upon the stroke of midnight, I began, ‘Agnes Moor.
Agnes Moor. Agnes...”
Ca-thump.
A
noise from inside the house caught my attention.
She’s
here! I thought. Oh, please forgive me! I closed my eyes and prayed
that my parents would come and offer their reassurance.
Blessed with the ignorance of slumber, my parents did not come.
Click
clunk. A noise from the garden this time! Instinctively, I peered down at
it. In the moonlight, I saw a crooked figure creep from our back door. A rugged
fellow, all whiskers and rags. To his breast he clutched the silver candlestick
from my father’s study and a painting from the parlour.
A burglar!
‘Mother.
Father...’ I whimpered, but to no avail. We were alone, this burglar and I.
Then he spotted me.
‘Thomas...’
I breathed.
Lifting his finger to his lips, the burglar
bid me to hush. Then he drew that finger along the width of his throat
and flashed a toothless grin.
In
desperation I whispered the only other name that was utmost in my mind.
‘Agnes
Moor, Agnes Moor, Agnes Moor.’
At
once, a great flash of light pierced the night sky! The burglar averted his
eyes.
Then.
At my window. A face.
Agnes Moor!
She looked at me, but her face was not foul. I felt no
fear as I looked upon it. Instead, Agnes Moor glowed, translucent and serene, drawing
her lips into a gentle smile. She reached her arm through my window. I gasped.
With a cool and delicate stroke, she wiped the tears from my
cheeks.
Then
she flew at the burglar, her hair a stream of white! He tumbled backwards,
dropping his loot. ‘Our Father who art in Heaven,’ he began, scrambling to his
feet. She hovered a moment like a luminous bird of prey. I could not see her
face, but I knew from the terror in his eyes that it was not the gentle face
that I had seen.
Then she swooped and she scooped him high into the air!
‘Hallowed be thy name!’ he screamed, kicking his legs.
But she carried him away, to where, I’ll never know. Up toward the moon she
flew, waving as she went.
‘G-Goodbye!’
I said.
The night was silent once more. With much relief, I
smiled at the moon. Succumbing at last to the pull of sleep, I returned to
bed.
**
‘What?’
‘Last night. I met Agnes Moor!’
‘Poppycock,
Hattie.’
I
recounted events to Thomas as we walked to school the next day. He acknowledged
that our parents had found items strewn across the garden, and yet he dismissed
my encounter. He did, however, watch in astonishment, as I strode through the
graveyard gates and up to the grave of Agnes Moor.
‘Thank
you,’ I said, taking a cloth from my pocket and cleaning the headstone. On the
ground, I placed a doll. ‘For company,’ I added.
You
never know when you might need their help.
No comments:
Post a Comment