Short Story

Ein erfolgloser Schriftsteller erhofft sich Inspiration auf einem Landsitz in Irland – und wird in dem alten Gemäuer mit skrupellosen Autorenkollegen und höchst mysteriösen Vorkommnissen konfrontiert. Von CHRISTINE MADDEN

“The ghost of Ballyfeckit Hall”

MEDIUM AUDIO

“No, it’s OK. I’m sure it’ll turn up.”

Reynard left. Alicia got up after him. “I’d better go and help him. Men…,” she said, rolling her eyes, “…they’re so helpless.”

Marius watched her leave the room. He no longer wanted another coffee but filled his cup anyway, so that no one would think he’d come down just to see Alicia and was now disappointed.

“Wow!” said one of the other writers around the table. “I’ve got a cardigan just like that.” Unfortunately, it was one of the women.

“What a coincidence!” said Marius, and turned to leave with his coffee.

As he was walking out, he heard someone say, “Maybe the ghost took it.”

They all laughed, but Marius shivered. Ballyfeckit Hall, they said, was haunted. The people staying there had told him stories about the ghost, who’d been the lord of the manor. He’d played a cruel trick on his cousin, who then killed the laughing lord by stabbing him in the heart. But Macmurdle — for that was the name of the dead lord — remained a cruel joker, even in death. He stole things, hid them or destroyed them, always marking them with his ghostly blood.

Marius was afraid of ghosts, and this story about the dead lord had frightened him.

He stopped to look out the window on the way back to his room. The sun was just disappearing behind the lake, leaving a watery, red-orange reflection across its quiet, shimmering surface. He sighed and went up the stairs.

He couldn’t go through with it. He would leave Reynard’s notebook somewhere and let one of the others find it. They’d all think the ghost had taken it. Then it would be over and Marius could go back to his desk — and maybe tear out the little hair he had left.

As he opened the door to his room, he heard an impish laugh.

Someone was floating over his bed. This person turned his transparent face to Marius and laughed again, waving a notebook — Reynard’s notebook.

Marius jumped and spilt most of the coffee over himself — now staining the cardigan. He didn’t scream — he couldn’t — no sound would come out.

“This is truly marvellous! Who needs novels? Ha ha ha ha ha!”

“Who… who…?” Marius’s throat was tight with terror.

But he didn’t need to ask. The ghost had a large, messy hole in its chest.

“Listen to this,” the ghost called out, then began reading: “‘That tart Alicia is really into me. I’ll keep

ignoring her for another day or two. Then, when she’s desperate, I’ll let her help me with something. Maybe I’ll tell her about my cruel ex-wife. I just have to decide which ex-wife I’ll talk about.’ You couldn’t make it up!”

“You’re it,” Marius whispered. “You’re the ghost.” “That’s not very polite. I am Lord Macmurdle. You should show me more respect, now that I have the notebook you stole from Reynard. Ha ha ha!”

“How do you… ?”

“‘She looks like a sheepdog having a bad-hair day,’” Macmurdle read on, “‘but needs must.’ Not what you’d call a gentleman, our Reynard. ‘Afterwards, I’ll offer to read some of her manuscript. It’s probably the usual rubbish, but I’m sure there’ll be something in it I can use.’”

It was true, Marius thought. Reynard didn’t sound like a very nice person.

“He isn’t a nice person,” Macmurdle said. Could he read Marius’s thoughts? “And he doesn’t think much of you, either. Listen to this: ‘There’s a new person this year. A fat idiot who hasn’t a brain in his head. And even less personality. Alicia says he looks like yesterday’s leftover pudding.’”

That stung. Why hadn’t he read any of the notebook, Marius asked himself. Too much respect for the famous Reynard? As it was, stealing the thing was turning out to be its own punishment, an own goal.

Macmurdle was enjoying himself. “You stole it but didn’t read any of it? What were you going to do with it?”

“I… I don’t know. I was jealous.”

Macmurdle laughed again. “That big, conceited fathead. He comes here every year. Always steals other people’s ideas. Some woman develops a fancy for him. He then steals her work and uses it in his own books. You might say they were ghostwritten. Ha!”

Macmurdle rose from the bed. Marius froze as the ghost laughed into his face. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?”

Macmurdle’s ghost disappeared through the wall, taking the notebook with him. How, Marius wondered, did he manage to get the notebook through the wall? He was still in shock — and hurt. Although he now felt less bad about stealing the notebook, he was still worried. What was Macmurdle going to do with it?

He heard a scream downstairs: “Aaaaahhhhhh! It’s the ghost!” It sounded like Alicia.

“Listen to this!” It was the voice of Macmurdle. Then Marius smiled with private pleasure and sat down to enjoy what was left of his coffee.