I Scream.

In the rush to nowhere of the Easter weekend, I was frequently like unoccupied jetsam on the tide of briny sightseers; isolation can only last so long when summer has turned up early and is playing with a ball outside. About 3 o’clock on Saturday, feeling the over-specific need for a cinder-toffee ice cream from the shop near the abbey steps, I defied the hordes who out numbered me a few thousand to one, and did quite well to reach the bridge unmolested. It all went wrong about then. Church Street, the street to the abbey, was like a maze of shuffling bodies, with vans and Range Rovers rolling up and down, pushing the crowds to the side like carcinogenic rolling pins. Tourists, hypnotised by their own reflections, stopped at every window, creating walls of indifference and checked fabric. I fought as far as the market place, salmon like, and then got boxed in, stuck behind an asthmatic old woman, who I stood over like a redwood tree over a sprout, but then sunhats buffeted me from the side, and I took refuge in the shade and echoes of the alley leading to the haunted cottage.

It wasn’t as calm as I’d hoped. The yard outside of the cottage was filled with red and white faces, all with angry voices. There seemed to be two distinct parties, but at times they turned on each other, dropping the restraint of reason for those more familiar to them, as they tried to establish what the point really was. Amongst those nearest the cottage were the two men I’d seen living there, and among those opposed to them were faces that I’d seen around town. The gist of the argument was about fairness, but the specifics were lost on me. It reminded me of how kids complain about fairness, using the reason they couldn’t do other stuff back on their parents like it’s a two way deal. I think it’s only since I left school that people have stopped pretending that anyone is ever fair back to you. After a few minutes of watching them shout about, one of the men started to look at me; and then they all turned, falling into silence. I realised then that it wasn’t a normal, neighbourly row. They were arguing about the haunting. I was told to clear off by one of the resident men – something that hasn’t happened to me since I stopped trespassing on building sites. There was nothing wrong with where I was. The chap in his potter’s shed was selling his tiles still, and the shouty man lacked the beef-faced authority of a site foreman, but I went back into the plod of people nonetheless. To get my ice cream.

On the way back down, I saw one of the women antagonists, and since it was impossible to move anywhere fast, she worked her way towards me with the slow inevitability of dripping paint, and said:
“It was just as well that you left.”
Instead of asking why, I pretended to have no idea what she meant, and said that I wasn’t spying on them, after all, who cares?
“Who cares about what? I’ve seen you loitering there before.” And then I recognised her as the woman with the shopping, who’d kept pushing past when I found the cottage that first time. She was about five foot tall, wearing shorts and a baggy yellow T-shirt, making her look like summer’s shame. Half by design and half by jostling, we found ourselves in a corner of the market, trying not to step on a display of dusters.
“I was only looking,” I said. “You’re allowed to look at the outsides of places.”
“But you wanted to see inside.”
“Not really. I didn’t think there was anything to see, y’know. I know there’s supposed to be a ghost in there, but I doubt there’s much to see of that any more.”
“Don’t you believe in ghosts?” She asked.
“Sure, sort of. I think they’re fascinating, the idea of them, that’s why I wanted to see which cottage it was, but I don’t see how that’s doing anything wrong. What was the big row about anyway?”
“Who told you the cottage was haunted?”
“Everyone knows about it. Not that many people believe it. Have you seen it?”
“There isn’t a ghost.”
“Right. Then, what were you… Or are you saying there was a ghost, and now no one knows where it’s gone? Because I could see how that might happen, if it’s supernatural. It would sort of be the end of the end.”
“You know about that?”
I said I did, although I wasn’t sure what she meant by that. I assume now that we were both talking about what happened last Halloween, since that’s when the ghost story started.
“So what’s in there if it’s not a ghost?” I asked.
“A friend of mine. I can’t say more. But I would ask that you don’t interfere.”
And that’s where she left it, until I saw her today.