Strangers By The Shore.

It’s been another weekend of sweaty vests and blistered children here in Whitby. I’ve been alternating between nights spent at the hotel and nights spent with Geoff, as we continue the pretence of my indoctrination. Brian let slip the other night, that the actual induction, under the tutelage of their master, took up to a year. Thankfully I’m getting the quick-study montage version. Sebastian has heard from a contact that Challoner might have been spotted on Edinburgh, but it’s unconfirmed, so he’s waiting.

The group try and sleep through the day as much as they can. Those that work 9-5 go straight to bed when they get home, and wake up again at midnight. In the meantime, I stroll around, trying to imagine what it must be like to be a seagull: they must get sick of the sound of themselves. At night I fall asleep long before the nocturnal ones, but since I’m still on the sofa, I take their solemn blather into my dreams, and no doubt this will happen tonight.

The woman from the haunted cottage found me sat in the sun near the harbour. I was wearing my sunglasses, so I don’t think she realised I could see her thinking about whether or not to come over. When she’d spoken to me over Easter, it was as if she thought we talked all the time, like one of my friends’ mums – polite but informal, and free to put me in my place.

After a minute or so she walked up. She has short brown hair, and the shorts and T-shirt of the other day wasn’t a one off. Her face is round, with extra pinches of skin about the eyes, which are also brown. Her name is Carol Wainwright.
“It was rude of me not to introduce myself when we met before.” She said. I introduced myself – the family name provoking no response.
“We need to know,” she went on. “If you’ve been sent by someone.”
“Who would send me?”
“My friends and I aren’t sceptics by nature, so now that we do have reasons to be suspicious, it’s hard to know when to reign them in. And again, I’m jumping ahead of myself. I’m sorry, but we simply have to know why you’re interested in the cottage.”
“I think I told you,” I said. “Everyone says it’s a haunted house, so I went to see it.”
“And the other day? Why did you need to see it again?”
“I didn’t. I was looking at you all having a barney outside.”
“But you were there first. And the other night, after the first time you went.”
“Look, if I’m so dodgy, why are you talking to me? I don't plan to go there again.”

She shrugged, and looked a bit fed up – like she’d eaten a Mars Bar she probably shouldn’t have. “I’m worried, about my friend. We all are. But it’s not as though we can go to the police. And any one else with a vested interest can’t really be trusted to be on our side. So where do I turn? I’m not in a position to ignore opportunities when they present themselves.”
“And one’s presented itself?”
“You have. I consulted the cards.”
“As in tarot?”
“They were very favourable.”
“But surely they can’t work anymore.”
“Really? Yes I suppose they’d be affected too... How much do you know? About the death of magic.”
“Only the basics.” I said. I don’t know how much there is to know, but Samuel taught me enough not to talk to strangers about my father or the study.
“But you know enough to believe it’s true. It can’t be chance that brought you here.” She stopped in thought again. “The only problem is, how to know we can trust you.”

This seems to be the theme of the place. It used to be that you went on faith until someone gave you a reason not to trust them. Or maybe that was just the books I read.
“How do I know I can trust you?” I asked her, making her face go a little rounder. “You’ve not told me anything, except that you think it’s impertinent of me to go round looking at the outsides of houses from on the byways and highways. You say it’s not a ghost: I don’t care anymore. You say you’re not sure if you can trust me: again, I don’t care. I don’t particularly to be in this town anymore, so the opinions of strangers and cryptic cottage people hold as much interest as my horoscope in the local paper.”
By the way, I’ve looked that up since, and this is going to be a good week for my money.

“My name is Carol Wainwright. I live further along the coast, in Robin Hood’s Bay. I’ve been a student of simple magics for twenty years now. I’ve never been able to cast any spells, but I’ve seen things. My friend is in that cottage, and she needs help. And I suppose you’re thinking ‘so what’ but I believe that’s what you’re here to do. So, we drink in the Duke Of York most nights, to stay close to her. When you’re ready, come and find us.”

And that’s how she left it this time – middle-aged riddler that she is. The whole thing has come about because of these rubbish vampires and their dithering, but as she said – maybe I shouldn’t ignore opportunities when they present themselves.