Tales of Terror from the Black Ship

For three long days the coast had been savaged by a wild and rabid storm. The waves threw themselves at the ancient cliffs with a rage few had ever witnessed, and certainly nothing I could remember seeing in my thirteen years of life – and I had lived nowhere else.

The Old Inn, my home, squatted on the clifftop, holding on for dear life like a limpet clinging to a rock at high tide. It stood on a gnarled promontory that had been gnawed relentlessly over the centuries so that only a thin trackway connected it to the rest of Cornwall. It was eaten away on either side like the core of an apple, undermined to form a bridge and in danger of being bitten clean through and making an island of the inn and islanders of me and my family.

The storm was a killing storm and had raced across the Atlantic without warning, like some wild, ravenous beast. Fishermen all along the coast were caught in its claws and their wan-faced widows haunted the quays and harbour mouths.

On the first day, a clipper that had tried to outrun the storm had been broken up on the teeth of the rocks a mile or so offshore and gone down with all hands, the sea too mountainous for the lifeboat men to reach them.

The day after, another ship, an ancient-looking vessel, had been sighted in the bay, only just visible amid the low clouds and sea spray, and the folk along the shore prayed that it had found some way to outwit the winds and escape the fate of the drowned brig. I did likewise as I stood in the wind-wrecked garden, looking out to sea.

Despite its isolated and precarious location, the Old Inn had always been a popular and friendly place, and much of this was due to my father, who was never too busy to listen to another man’s woes or share a joke or dispense some of the wisdom that comes with a vocation such as innkeeper.

Though some may feel an inn to be a less than perfect place for a child to grow up, Cathy and I would not have traded places with any other children in England.

The seafaring men who came to the inn were like our own family. There were those who could be bad-tempered or gruff, it is true, but we could always find someone who would be willing to tell us tales of their adventures and travels. We would sit, spellbound, until our mother shooed us away to bed, deaf to our pleas to stay for just a few more minutes.

No children ever had more love than we did; the memory of it is like a bright light, so intense I can hardly bear to look. But it was not to last.

After our mother died during childbirth, taking our little brother (as would have been) to heaven with her, our father, who had always been the very best of fathers and the noblest of men, slowly slid into a trough of despair, medicating himself liberally with brandy and port and whatever open bottle was at hand.

He had no call for jokes and no man’s woes were equal to his own. The wisdom he had gifted others seemed spent. He was sullen and ill-tempered, even to the friends who tried in vain to encourage him to see that he should take comfort in the lives of his children.

But Cathy and I were no comfort at all; far from it. We were reminders of the love he had lost. Cathy was a perfect miniature of our mother and it often seemed to pain him to look at her. Yet no matter how he spurned us, he was still our father and we loved him dearly. He was my model for manhood; I had grown up wanting nothing but to be like him in every way.

Our customers were not so forgiving, however. Gradually the inn began to empty. Long-standing patrons and family friends who had once thought nothing of trudging up the cliff path now stayed in the village, and any passing travellers rode on, forewarned of my father’s inhospitable nature.

His mental state grew worse and worse. He flew into uncontrollable rages from which Cathy and I would hide, cowering in our rooms until we felt it safe to come out, invariably finding our poor father drunkenly sobbing to himself in front of the fire. It began to seem as if whatever ties had bound us to him, our father was drifting away from us day by day, staring past us, unwilling or unable to hold our gaze, pushing us away, crying out for a quietude that seemed forever lost to him, and therefore lost to us too.

The storm seemed to be an especially malevolent influence on him. It was as if three days of gales had shaken my father’s wits, uprooting and splintering them. He had become oddly invigorated by the wildness of the weather and his actions became more and more excitable and intense.

I observed him from my bedroom window in the cottage garden my mother had lovingly kept but which now was overgrown with thistles and weeds, beaten almost flat by the gales. He was leaning into the wind, harvesting tall blue flowers manically yet methodically, gathering up a sad bouquet. I was shocked to see that he was crying profusely as he did so. It pained my heart to see it.

Then, on the third night of the storm, Cathy and I were struck down by a terrible illness. It hit Cathy first, but only by about an hour. It came on with frightful speed, with strange numbness about the face and throat, followed by the most terrible sickness and vomiting. We were both sure we would die and we called out as we would have done as tiny children, calls that would have brought our mother running up the stairs.

With this crisis my father seemed to come to his senses. He was like a changed man. He comforted us as dearly as any parent could and said that all would soon be well: he would go to fetch the doctor and we were to stay in the house and on no account leave or let anyone enter. I had never seen him so distraught. He seemed half crazed with worry and we loved him for it.

We promised and he left, assuring us that he would be back before we knew it. My father had placed Cathy and I in his own bed, and we lay there together in the dark. I could hear Cathy’s breathing – which, like my own, had become so very fast – gradually slow and calm. Then I fell asleep.

I cannot say how long I slept. The wind around the house was like a dragon’s mighty roaring and, understandably I suppose, my sleep was troubled, for I woke into the darkness gasping for breath, like a sailor breaking the surface of a black ocean whose depths had swallowed his ship. But to my great relief, the pains had gone.

‘Cathy,’ I whispered, ‘are you awake?’

‘Yes,’ she said after a pause. ‘But I feel strange.’

I knew what she meant. The symptoms of the illness seemed to have passed, but they had been replaced by an odd light-headedness. I said that perhaps we should get up and wait for Father downstairs by the fire, and Cathy agreed.

We got dressed and made our way down to the main room of the inn, which until recent times would have been filled with the talk of men and the clink of glasses and clatter of pewter pots, but was now empty, the only movement being the jittery, nervous shadows of chairs, flickering in the firelight.

I asked Cathy if she would like me to read to her and she said she would, so we settled down by the fire as we often did. I had intended to read her some childish works of fancy, some frivolous entertainments to calm her in Father’s absence. But I should have known better.

Ever since I could remember, Cathy and I had both had the most insatiable taste for stories of a macabre persuasion, particularly those whose plots sailed upon storm-tossed oceans or hauled up on strange deserted shores. It was a taste acquired from listening to the seafaring tales of the regulars at the inn, tales that made little concession to our tender years and would have caused our mother to send us to bed even earlier had she known.

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