The lover was called Alec, and I was basing him on a real person called D’onston, or something like that. This person, as it turned out, had a yearly tryst with a girl (my Sarah) and in Hull. It seems though, that this same girl was murdered and that D’onston (Alec) going as arranged to meet his girlfriend instead witnessed her murdered apparition. Strangely enough, another separate account has D’onston linked to the famous prostitute murders. I had read of these two separate accounts up in the small reference room of Hull Library and marvelled that I might have stumbled on an unsolved mystery. Was D’onston a candidate for the murders? Was he ‘Jack the Ripper?’ My Sarah was not a customer however, but his ‘girl’, and she was even now in my story hurrying to her fate. The dockside was indeed lonely and had many narrow passages leading to the waterside.
As I pondered on those close dark passages that lead to the dull grey water of the Humber, and the slap slap slap of the same grey waters against the rotting timber dock, I must have gone into a dream, as when I next looked up I’m sure the clock was near to two. Had I told my story then?
Mr Dickens smiled over at me, or perhaps he couldn’t really see me properly, after all the room was lit by firelight alone. Yes the fire was still piled high and crackling away; Just this to break the silence, and the clock of course. I continued.
‘Yes – she longed for him, yearned for him and this yearning, stretching of her heart stepped aside from a deeper feeling. And this feeling was fear. Yet there she was walking quickly, in the dusk now, along one of the narrow cobbled passageways I was describing a moment ago.’
Just then there was a sound at the door and we both started! A trick or treater at last? I had been so deep in the story I had forgotten the restless wait for these excited visitors, being so caught up in Sarah’s fateful journey.
‘They’ve gone’ Wonka was inspecting the street and could just make out a disappearing group of children dressed as witches and skeletons with a smart looking adult in tow. ‘Maybe they thought we were out’ I pondered, because we were very obviously in! Candles lit, and the traffic light glow of the stick on ghost. Not to mention the Rat and his red pink eyes. There would have been real rats down by the wharves, and big cats, much bigger than Wonka, to catch them.
‘Shall I finish the story?’ Wonka was keen to go on and even though I knew the end, having written it, like all good mysteries I wanted to know it again. ‘Yes please Wonka, what happens next?’
‘Now Sarah was one of the lost girls I suppose, a mother to her own siblings, a child herself at the time and knowing little of warmth, of being content, of being loved. As is so often the case, this lonely child had much love to give, and grew up anyway, like these sad little children do.
As she hurried to meet her death, Sarah had many chances to change this awful destiny. A customer saw her go by the doorway of the Black Swan and called to her ‘Sarah!’ She continued to hurry, pushing her way through the couples and children standing outside the tavern. All the while she knew she was followed, and also knew who it was. Again, she passed a pie shop, busy and full of customers, some of them recognising her as she walked quickly by. Yes Sarah had many chances to change her fate that evening, but although the feeling of fear inside increased, the pull of her senses was stronger.
The old woman selling herbs and flowers at the top of the passageway was the last to see Sarah. Oh some said they heard her cries for help. Funny how loud you can scream when someone has got hold of you to the death.
The place itself, where she was murdered, is rumoured to have a bad atmosphere about it; A dark place of despair. And of course, Alec arrived at their meeting place too late. Sarah was gone by then, taken. But had he arrived too late like he said? Was he the murderer, and even worse, was he practising here in Hull, what he would later be so very good at in London?
You see D’onston left Hull for London in the 1800’s, and is reported in a book about hauntings in East Yorkshire, as he saw the ghost of his murdered
Girlfriend in the very spot where they arranged a yearly tryst. I stopped here, as I thought I would again check for Mr Dickens’ reaction to my tale.
He slept now. I suppose I had been so deep in telling my story that he had nodded off. Through tiredness or contentment I would not know unless I woke him. The fire was now low, and some coldness had suddenly come into the room. My arms felt cold and a flutter of anxiety started up. The room that had been so warm and inviting had cast a different spell. The red velvet curtains seemed claustrophobic not cosy and the carpet a busy swarming pattern. ‘Mr Dickens’, I spoke loudly now, ‘please wake up!’ The clock I noticed had stopped, or at least I could hear no ticking. In fact I could hear nothing at all, except the thud of my heart. A silence perhaps you would only have in some sort of vacuum. My fear had me on the edge of decision, and if I could only move out of the chair towards the door perhaps I would escape my fate. Perhaps Mr Dickens was not a part of it, perhaps they would leave him alone. They?
When Mr Dickens woke, stiff and uncomfortable the next morning, he realised and said this to the maid out loud (she was drawing the heavy red velvet curtains back). ‘I had the most interesting dream last night Emily – you may have been in it – and you were telling me a ghost story. Most unusual it was, and really Emily, come to think on it, it was a bit of a tall story.’
With a satisfied noise, Wonka patted the last page of my document. ‘It will do, for a Halloween ghost story.’ This coming from Wonka was as good as a five star rating. Perhaps, like Charles Dickens, I might entertain a few folk with it. After all the crimes of Jack the Ripper remain an enduring mystery, and in many ways, best not solved.
‘What I like best about it Wonka’ I started, but he was not listening. The mists had rolled back enough to reveal Ruggles, our best stray dashing across the street, heading for our back yard. I got up to go and let him in for his supper, carefully shutting Wonka in the dining room. I was still musing on the story and Halloweens past. Mum had always kept a big supply of sweets for the callers on this night, and to my surprise loved to entertain children. Time and again I caught myself doing things that she had done before me, and I gave the photo of her as a startlingly beautiful sixteen year old a nod. The real ghosts were still with us I supposed.
‘Are you ever,‘ muttered Wonka through the door ’Coming back in here? There’s time for another story’.
‘Happy Halloween Ruggles!’ I stroked his head and watched him trot off into the blackness of the yard. ‘And Happy Halloween to anyone else out there too!’
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