Winter Tales: Ghost stories for the Winter fireside

By Lesley Anne Wright

Threatening, gloomy skies. Dark, chilly days and even darker, colder nights. Whispering from the corner or the rustle of dead leaves? A vision of the future or your worst nightmare come true? A silly game or a portal into the unknown? Was that a creak on the stairs or just the wind whistling in the eaves? You don’t have to believe in ghosts to enjoy a ghost story. Between these pages, you will find ghosts of all kinds. Not all ghosts are scary as I set out to prove in some of these stories. Some of the spirits within are indeed dark and vengeful, while others are playful and helpful and one wants to be forgiven for a past sin, despite the cruelty and injustice he himself suffered. All the stories within are set during winter, at or near Christmas, when in many homes it is traditional to read or listen to ghost stories, so curl up by the fireside and read on. I hope you enjoy the ghostly tales inside this cover. Sweet dreams and sleep well!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398428379

Lesley Anne Wright

Lesley has always enjoyed writing but began doing so in earnest when she retired from her post as a primary school headteacher. She has always been interested in the supernatural and mystery, and is also an avid reader. She lives in North Tyneside, with her pet Fox Terrier, Darcy, and has three daughters.

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About the Author

Lesley is a retired head teacher and started writing for pleasure soon after retirement. She wrote most of the following stories during the lockdown, finding them very cathartic. Her interest in ghosts and the supernatural began when an aunt gave her a copy of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol for her 12th birthday. She has read it every year since. Lesley has three daughters and lives in County Durham.

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my three lovely daughters, Louise, Kate and Rebekah, and to my dear friend, Anne, who inspired three of my ghosts.

Thank you for your love, support and encouragement.

Copyright Information ©

Lesley Anne Wright 2023

The right of Lesley Anne Wright to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398428362 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398428379 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

My thanks to all the team at Austin Macauley Publishers for their work in bringing this book to print.

A Christmas Gift

I was not looking forward to Christmas; on the contrary, I was very much dreading it. I feared that there would be too many ghosts of Christmases past and I had no hope of finding any cheer in a Christmas present. A lonely Christmas therefore, loomed before me, the rift with my one and only child a heavy burden. I do not wish to dwell on the causes of our separation; it was just one of those silly family squabbles that gets out of hand, until mountains have been made from molehills and angry, hurtful words that cannot be unsaid have been exchanged in heated arguments. We are too alike, my daughter and I, both stubborn, both refusing to admit fault, neither prepared to be the first to say, I’m sorry.

In my melancholy mood, I had declined the kind invitations of friends and wider family; I was determined to wallow in my misery in a solitary fashion and so I had rented for myself a small cottage in a quiet village, several hours from home, where I would be in no danger of disturbance from well-meaning but unwelcome visitors. By Christmas Eve, I had been in the village for three days and that morning I’d awoken to see that a gentle snow had begun falling. The cottage was warm and welcoming enough and I had made some attempt at recognising the season; a small tree stood by the window, lights twinkling merrily, as if in an effort to dispel my gloom, in which endeavour it failed miserably. I had found fresh holly and ivy and these lay across the small mantel piece, where a fire blazed, the only other source of light in the room as the afternoon drew on towards dusk. I watched the snow gently falling for some time, lost in thoughts of other Christmas Eves, when I was a happy wife and mother. I recalled the faces of those whose absence I now so keenly felt; I closed my eyes and heard their laughter and my heart broke afresh. I had visited his grave before I left, laying fresh Christmas blooms; Tom had always loved Christmas, his inner child resurfacing each year at Christmastide. When our daughter was born, it only heightened for him the wonders and magic of it all. He revelled in it and happily, I caught his mood and joined in. They were happy times; we were content with each other and with the world.

The first Christmas without him was difficult; we two grieving souls did our best to console each other and to welcome the season as he would have wished us to, but in truth, neither of us had the heart for it. The year that followed mellowed our grief a little and as the second after we’d lost him year wore on, we began to look forward to the coming festivities. Yet, here I was, alone in a stranger’s cottage, far from hearth and home. My daughter and I were estranged and my world had collapsed around me. I had no desire for Christmas and the memories it would bring.

The snow was falling more heavily now and the landscape began to take on the magical look of a Christmas card; even in my misery, I could acknowledge that much. I decided to go for a walk and finding boots, gloves and scarf, I put on my coat and ventured out into the village. In truth, I wished to escape the tree and the solitary gift beneath it, which bore the name of my beloved absent child. Locking the door, I turned left and walked away from the hub of the village and out towards the church, which I could see some distance off. I had made no conscious decision to walk to the church, rather my feet seemed to have a mind of their own. Upon reaching it, I stopped to admire the exquisitely carved woodwork of the lych-gate and I realised that there was a sizeable graveyard beyond too and I stood, silently for a few minutes, looking at the grave stones before me, thinking mournfully of the grave I’d visited only a few days earlier. I pushed open the gate and walked in to get a better look at the rather pretty church. It was not large, but was very pleasing to the eye. A sign told me it was the church of All Souls and that the vicar’s name was The Reverend John Markham. There would be a carol evensong this evening at seven and then the traditional midnight service, neither of which I had any intention of attending.

I was not a church goer, as I was not a believer; that had been my husband’s province and I had been happy enough for him to embrace his faith and all that it meant. I had looked on and smiled indulgently, gently fending off every attempt to convert me. I stood now, on the threshold of the little church of All Souls, undecided about going in. What would be my motive for doing so? To get out of the cold and warm through a little? I was no hypocrite, so it would not be to find solace or peace, no, not that. To admire the architecture and stained glass windows then, I told myself. I hesitated briefly and turned to look back at the graveyard. A shiver shook me violently and suddenly, I did indeed feel chilled through to the bone, recalling the old saying, ‘Someone had walked over my grave.’ Without further delay, I turned the heavy handle and pushed open the solid, wooden door, stepping into the tiny vestibule of the church, not at all surprised to find it unlocked and open to anyone wishing to enter. It was deadly quiet and though now out of the weather, it was also extremely cold. Gingerly, I opened the inner door and peered into the church. It was typical of small country churches everywhere. A central aisle split two rows of pews and I could see a baptismal font to one side of the altar ahead of me. Closing the door behind me, I walked down the aisle towards the font and altar, which was beautifully decorated with fresh, seasonal blooms. A Christmas tree stood at the other side, gaily decorated, although the lights were not switched on. A beautiful angel rested on top, wings outspread and hands folded as if in prayer.

I must have stood looking at the angel and the tree for several minutes, lost in thought for I was startled when a gentle voice said, It’s beautiful, isn’t it?

I had not realised I was no longer alone; I had not heard any approaching footsteps and I turned now to see a man, taller than me by several inches, standing beside me, also observing the angel.

Yes, it is beautiful, I acknowledged.

It’s very old, well over a hundred years, my companion informed me, it was a gift to the people of the parish.

Oh, really?

I could think of nothing more profound to say and truth to tell, I did not really wish to engage in small talk with this quiet stranger.

Oh yes, a very special gift, given in thanks for help freely given during the season of peace and goodwill, on a night when the snow fell just as heavily as it does now and a stranger to our little village, found himself lost and in need, alone at Christmas.

He said no more, as if waiting for me to respond and after a few silent moments, I felt compelled to break the silence.

How interesting, I remarked, do you know the whole story?

I do indeed; everyone in Winterfield knows the legend of the angel. Shall we sit and I will tell you the whole of it?

We sat on the pew directly in front of the tree and he continued the tale.

The snow had been falling all that day and lay thickly along the lanes and hedgerows. It was a bad night for travellers to be out and about and one poor soul had lost his way in the whiteout. He related that he had been heading for a village which when he named it, he was told, was three miles further west but he had lost the road and he had felt very fortunate indeed to have stumbled upon the church in Winterfield. The evening service had just ended and it seemed the entire village spilled out from the church to wend their way home. The landlord of the Fox and Hounds offered to stable his horse and give him a room for the night, free of charge as it was Christmas, and in honour of that little family, who so long ago had sought shelter and found it in a stable. Gratefully, he warmed himself in front of the fire and over a few mugs of ale had joined in the locals’ chatter. It transpired that they had been dismayed that evening to get to the service only to find that the tree was missing its little angel and that the top of the tree was bare. No one knew where it was to be found; the vicar had declared himself perplexed because, it had definitely been very carefully put away in its usual place on twelfth night, only twelve months previously.

"It was declared a mystery and the conversation then moved on to other, less perplexing topics. Unable to continue his journey for several more days, the traveller spent Christmas at Winterfield and although away from loved ones and worried that they must be in despair at his absence, he could only hope they would realise he had sought shelter from the weather and pray that they would soon be reunited and despite all this, his Christmas was a pleasant one, made so by the warm welcome he received from the villagers.

"This kindness was clearly not forgotten for several months later, when the snow was long thawed, the vicar received a parcel and inside was the very angel you see now, accompanied by a note which simply said, ‘To the people of the Parish of Winterfield, in gratitude for your welcoming hospitality last Christmas to a stranger in need. May the spirit of Christmas always be present among you.’ Legend now has it, that if a stranger comes amongst us and is in need, the angel will bestow