Tales of the Supernatural

By Michael White

Listen closely, dear friend, for I have a tale to tell you. It's a story that will chill you to the bone, make your heart race, and send shivers down your spine. Six eerie and spine-tingling tales have been gathered from the depths of two previous collections: "Paul McCartney's Coat and Other Stories" and "Liverpool." But beware, for these stories all share one common thread - the presence of ghosts!

Yes, dear friend, ghosts! Apparitions that will haunt your dreams, send you screaming into the night, and make you question the very nature of reality. Some of these spirits are terrifying, their presence a harbinger of doom and despair. Others, however, are humorous and light-hearted, the perfect companions for those long, dark nights when the wind howls and the shadows dance.

These tales will take you on a journey through the spectral realm, where the line between life and death is blurred and the ghosts of the past still linger. So, take a deep breath, hold onto your courage, and join me on this bone-chilling adventure. But be warned, once you enter the world of ghosts, you may never be the same again...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike White
• Release date: Apr 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215116234

Michael White

Michael White was a science lecturer before becoming a full-time writer and journalist. He is the author with John Gribbin of the bestselling ‘Stephen Hawking – A Lifetime in Science’. He is a regular contributor to the ‘Sunday Times’, the ‘Observer’,the ‘Daily Telegraph, GQ, Focus’ and ‘New Scientist’.

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Contents

The Order of Pan     3

The Ghost Next Door   8

The Tree That Sang    20

Dad Comes To Visit  35

The Fae Wynrie     42

Vallum Aelium   50

The Order of Pan

There are secrets within secrets, paths hidden, most for good reason. The order of Pan knows this, and we watch and we wait and listen. Look for the signs. We are good at that. Very good. There are seven of us, one of us to watch over each, and that has always been our number. Guardians we are, and we watch, and wait, and on one night of the year we defend what must be upheld across the world, for if we do not then great evil shall fall upon this earth, and all that we have made will be unmade.

I pulled my cloak tightly about and tipped the brim of my hat forwards as some form of defence against the rain. I made way through the darkness and entered what was in light a place for children and sun and play. Now it was the realm of nightmares, and on this night, especially so. In these times there is but one fence to scale, though that has not always been the case. The park entrance now however is open, and I simply cross into it as a shadow. None will see my passing, for they do not know how. In shade and darkness I make my way to where I will be needed as I am needed on this night every year.

I make my way to the statue of the Pan and scaling the only remaining fence there begin my wait. Still the rain continues to pour but I feel neither the cold nor the dampness that surely finds its way into the folds of my cloak, for on this night when I become real to this place once again, I am mortal, yet I remember none of my corporeal existence. I am the guardian of Pan, and that is all. My worries and fears are no longer part of me, for I am formidable and exist only to serve. This ritual is all that I am, and yet it makes me more than a man, more than a shade. I am the guardian of this one of seven, and that is where I begin and end.

I sniff the air. I can sense my adversary has not arrived yet, but he is never far away. At the edge of night where shadows darken and flee from the light he is always there. Still the rain falls, the darkness seeming to almost be swept across the cold park towards me. Yet darkness does not give me pause nor defeat my vigil. I am as much a part of that as is he. So I wait patiently in the depth of night as midnight approaches and as it does every year upon this date, the veil shall fall and my foe will be with me.

Although the dark is all about me, the statue of Pan is like that of a beacon. I see every detail. The noble figure made real in metals by our founder and leader of the great lord Pan himself, now cast in bronze. He towers, as he should, above me on a trunk of forged browned metal and regaled by a multitude of woodland animals equally made from the same mould. The Fae are cast in bronze here too, though the hard metal outlines of their figures fails to render them as they truly are. How else could it be?  They are the essence of purity and grace and have the power of their own magic’s about them. They are as beyond comprehension as they could possibly be. No, the cold bronze does them no justice at all, yet they are as much a part of this as am I.

The hour approaches. I wait and listen and soon I can feel him near. He does not arrive on foot as do I, but he will be here shortly. He folds himself from the night and has no need for transport. He is always here in the dark, waiting for this night every year. As I listen the shadows seem to congeal, flow into each other and form a shape. He rises from the dark just outside the perimeter that the statue has made and moves slowly towards me. He has a shape, as he usually does, but it is as if it flows and changes all of the time, as if a gust of chill wind threatens to remove him from this place at any moment. Yet only I can do that. I move from the base of the great work and make to face him.

As I do so I draw my sword. A short blade it is, taken from a brigand of the Welsh hills some two hundred years ago. I keep it sharp, though in truth it requires little persuasion to be so. The thin sharp blade gleams bright blue in the darkness, the thin edge seeming to cut into the night about it. It is a fine blade, and has the work of the Fae carved into its hilt. It is a satisfactory weapon for one such as I, and now I raise it toward my foe, placing its blade between the two of us. He has formed fully now, and waits patiently at the edge of the night, his cold yellow eyes focusing upon my own. Now he too raises his weapon, a long thin blade of some dark design that seems as sharp as a scream, yet as flimsy as smoke. Thus has it always has been this way, and the great Pan himself permit, it always shall.

Seven there are. he says, mouthing the formal words. Seven forged from the same metal that fell from the sky. I nodded, waiting for him to finish. One guardian for each. When one falls, so shall they all. I nodded as he concluded, and our swords met in the darkness. A chill echo of cold ran down my arm as our two swords met, and then my own blade countered it, diminishing the wrong of the other until it was all but gone. His eyes flinched too, and I know he had suffered a similar assault from my sword. Similar, yet the complete opposite of the wrongness of him. His form was like a scar upon the earth. An open sore, a cold, dull ache. In this place I am light, and my presence, I know, affronted him greatly.

Step aside, guardian. he whispered, and his voice was cold and deep as if of ice and fear. It did not shake me however. I had heard it many, many times before. You cannot maintain this vigil indefinitely. he continued. Stand aside and allow me to show you and your brothers the error of your ways. With this he swung his sword slowly away from mine as if waiting for me to do as he requested. This I would never do. I peer into his blackness and await the first sword thrust. The shades form and his sword flashes towards me. I catch it on the bright blue light of my blade and turn it away. His form seems to alter, as if he has spun on the spot and his weapon slashes towards me once again, though from the other side this time. Again, I parry it and we move together, our weight holding us apart, separated by our swords. He snarls a deep growl and our blades swing apart and then he assails me once again. One blow, then two. Then three. I turn each away from myself, frustrating his intent. Yet is not for one such as I to take the fight to him. I am a guardian, and as such I defend. I have no other choice.

I too have words that have to be said. I shouted at him, for this was the case. It is the history. He snarled at me and his sword hurtled towards me once again. Backwards and forwards we paced, always keeping his blade away from me. It was tiring work, though I knew this was his intent.

The history! he snorted in derision, continuing to pace at the edge of darkness about me, seeking an opening. I continued to match his swordplay, blow by blow as they came.

The history. I spat through clenched teeth as our swords clashed once more. The great founder commissioned this work to be made of the great lord Pan He snarled at this and continued to attempt to wear me down. It was installed in the dead of night; this night, to ward and to contain. Seven there were made from the same metal, all forged to be as one. A guardian for each. The ward here is joined in London, in the Australia’s and Americas, two in Canada and another in the country of Belgium.  One hour hence my fellow guardian mounted his defence as always on this night, and darkness was vanquished, or I would not be here now. Likewise some seven hours ago in the Australia’s. A fellow guardian in London stands before the darkness exactly as I do now, and in two hours and a half the Canada’s shall take their stand, another in such a place in four hours’ time. The Americas at the same time as this last one. Thus it is as it always has been, and always will. The light of the great lord Pan shall prevail!

The shadows seemed to gather and he rushed at me. The formal words had been spoken, and all that was left was to fight. So we fought across and around the statue of Pan, our blades flashing and crashing against each other. The night drew in about him as our swords met, yet I was of the great lord Pan and so I met his every blow and returned them. It has always been this way. The founder of our order erected the first statue in London during the cover of night. He told all who dared to ask that