The Legend of the Phantom (18 page)

Chapter 25

The skeletal remains of a ruined Benedictine abbey rose high above the east-cliff, overlooking the North Sea a short distance from where the man stood, hunched over the weathered stone field before him. Begun in about 1220 in the Early English Gothic style, with the abbey’s north transept and high pinnacled east end both richly carved with characteristic 'dog's tooth' embellishment, Whitby Abbey was the type-cast inspiration for Bram Stoker when he realized his great work, Dracula. Though centuries of wind and rain have etched and pitted the decoration, it stood defiant against the ravages of time and weather as a reminder of man’s accomplishment, a testament to the Golden Age of Northumbria .

Nearby
the massive structure was a small parish church nestled close to the extreme edge of the cliff; standing like a fortress against the elements on a windswept hilltop. With stout tower and crenellated stone walls, at first glance it seemed more of a fortress than a church, however the inside of the old parish was something more altogether. A mixture of old and older, the original Norman church housed one of the most complete sets of pre-Victorian furnishings in England. It seemed more in tune with the seamen that frequented the chapel; what with its low roof supported by pillars (that look like deck supports) and the woodwork alongside them that would be quite at home on a ship. Described once as "part folly, part museum, part large parlour" the pews and furnishings filled every available space.

From its doors outward the large
filled churchyard continued its mariner theme with a sea of weathered tombstones and monuments to fishermen, sailors, Royal Navy seamen and lifeboatmen.
To the man that surveyed the vast stonework, the task at hand seemed nearly overwhelming.

Behind him a long stone path of 199 steps lead down to the inlet at the mouth of the sea.
Originally made from wood, he had traversed them recently, climbing to the top, pausing along the way at the various rest spaces that now forgotten pall-bearers of old had found through necessity to stop at to catch a breath and take a moment of ease from their burdens on their way to the open graves that awaited their efforts above.

From th
at high vantage point at the top of the steps all of the city of Whitby could be seen in its splendor, from the whale arch to the jet-stone streets. Once a small fishing port, that later became a major player in the whaling industry, the town sat just 47 miles from York at the mouth of the River Esk.

Even its hidden treasures were evident through the testimon
y of its many shops and tourist sites. For the city sits along a stretch of the Yorkshire coast, known as the 'Fossil Coast' that comprises about 35 miles of what would be a virtual fossil hunter’s paradise. With many ammonites, reptiles and shells, in addition to its famous ‘Jet’ which is the fossilized wood of monkey trees, the city seems to have it all: even dinosaur footprints visible upon Whitby’s beach.

Additionally,
with the lighthouses and bridges, the stone buildings with their tiled or thatched roofs, black and gray cobblestone streets and even a castle to remind one of the regal past of the country’s inhabitants, the city seemed almost paradisiacal.

Yet the man turned his back to it all, while he surveyed the depth of the work before him.
He wasn’t feeling very optimistic. He had already visited the four port cities of Plymouth, Portsmouth, Dover, and Hull. Each with their own graveyards. Each with a long and lasting disappointment of failure.

Wiping the last of his tea of fish and chips from his unshaven chin, he looked around for a bin to throw the Siggy’s butcher paper and carton into.
Letting out a long sigh, he set to work.

The man tightened his overcoat as the winds of the coast assaulted him from behind.
One by one he sought out the name of the victim encased below, and compared it with the list of names to which he had been assigned.

As he searched the stones he realized that m
ost of the graves were too recent for his purpose, having been planted in the 1700’s. He grunted to himself and wiped his brow as he took on the next row of markers. If only he could find what he was looking for, something a bit closer to the time of Columbus, around the beginning of the 1500’s.

Meanwhile as the light faded into dusk, a small crowd had gathered around the old abbey. A man dressed in a long dark coat and cloak began telling ghost stories of the haunting of the abbey and its cemetery.

‘Great,’ thought the man, ‘just what I need. Someone telling ghost stories to make this place even creepier than it already appears in the gathering dusk.’

Row after row of weathered stones passed before his eyes. Row after row of weathered stone was
slowly appraised and discarded as he moved from marker to marker.

Then, even as he was beginning to give up hope, he came across one within the right time period. He drew in an involuntary breath as he surveyed the name: ‘Christopher Standish’.

He didn’t even need to consult his paper this time. The name matched. It wasn’t the first on the list, but certainly was one of the names that he was searching for, along with Christopher or Kit Walker, and Roger Nelson, or any variation thereof. He had no idea who these men were, but he really didn’t care. Instead, he mentally counted the money that would come his way if this was the one.

The ground around the grave was sunken through age. Stepping down and shaking
a bit from the cold (and perhaps a bit from anticipation) he bent over to brush away the leaves and grass that covered the base of the stone marker.

There, j
ust above the sod line, rising over it only enough to make out the top of it, was the curved outline of a familiar symbol. As he removed enough of the sod to see it clearer, his heart leapt. There before him stood out a symbol that would almost be expected in such a ghoulish place: a death’s head. Now he was certain this was the one.

Scraping the
rest of the sod free to reveal more of the death’s head to his surprise the man found another mark on the stone. Puzzled as to its significance the man spat on his hands and used the spittle to wipe the scratching clean. What he had unearthed was but a single word, “Eyrie”. 

Working his way around the base of the tombstone,
on the backside he came across another small symbol. This one appeared to be two crossed pirate swords.  He searched for more but nothing more was revealed to him.

As he stood, he wiped his hands on his clothing and though the
wind blew less he imagined he heard a voice on the wind. The crowd was long gone. Looking around he could see no living person. But despite the lack of wind an intense chill came over him.

“Who’s there
?” he asked aloud. His own voice broke the still of the approaching night and he grinned at himself. “Nigel,” he admonished himself, “you nearly had yourself believing in a phantom,” he said aloud. Then he laughed at his own imaginations and scolded himself mentally for succumbing to vicarious ghost stories.

Continuing to mentally chide
himself, he returned to the immediate task at hand. He had one more task to do before he could collect his funds. Reaching into his pocket the man removed his smart phone and using its camera took a few photos that he immediately sent off via text. Then calling the same number, verified that the text and photos had been received.

The phone
rang only a few short rings before a husky Irish male voice answered it. Instructions were given and Nigel marked on his map the location of the grave before descending the 199 steps to the city below.

It would be a few days before the
others would arrive.

Two days later, as per instruction, Nigel wore the uniform of a night patrolman; an occupation that he proscribed to part-time. He positioned himself at the top of the 199 Chapel steps, which gave him an excellent vantage point of anyone approaching from below, as well as of the incoming drive from the other side of the field nearer the abbey ruins.

As
the evening arrived, he found a number of men approaching the cemetery. They could easily have been another ghost walk group, or perhaps, a gaggle of students wanting to find some secluded spot to play and hang out. However, it was neither but rather the men that had been promised would arrive ‘shortly’.

One of them broke away from the others and approached him. As the man came into view under the light at the top of the stairs, Nigel involuntarily gulped as he saw the man had the same death’s head symbol on his jaw that the stone marker bore imprinted upon its façade.

“Are you Nigel?” he asked, saying it more as a demand rather than as a question. The man certainly wasn’t much for small talk. The clothes he wore were dark, his head shaven yet his face was not, with a three day stubble darkening it. His eyes were wild; catching the light of the lamp above the path and casting it about within them in a manner that reminded Nigel of some wild beast of prey.

Nigel’s throat suddenly felt dry. Something about the man seemed to make him suddenly afraid; as if there was something inherently evil about the man in front of him. Yet he
recognized his voice as the husky Irish voice that answered the phone which had given him his original assignment and to which he had reported his findings.

“Well,” snarled the man.

“Um… Yes,” he meekly replied.

“Good. Show me this grave you found.”

Against his better judgment, Nigel walked the man over to the grave, and there pointed out the markings on it. Nigel glanced up as he pointed the symbols out and caught the man fingering his own tattoo of the death’s head.

The man suddenly dropped his hand and stared at Nigel with those wild eyes. Before he could say anything, Nigel was already backing away, saying, “I’ll get back to my post then. I’ll make certain you are left alone.”

“Make certain you do, Nigel.” warned the man. “Make certain you do.”

Nigel’s legs couldn’t carry himself quick
ly enough back to his post.

Once the guard was in place, and the word was given, men went to work immediately. The headstone was ripped out of the ground, the earth torn asunder at the wake of its departure from its place at the head of the grave.

With the grave now accessible from all sides, it was quick work to get down to the box below. As the first shovel hit the stone box, the man called out and others swiftly worked around the top, removing dirt from the exterior and sides.

Shortly they had made enough of a trench around the lip of the coffin to pry up the heavy lid with crowbars.

No one knew nor could they have surmised what they would find inside. Many assumed it would be the skeletal remains of the unknown man. Others assumed it was empty, while a few envisioned that it would be filled with great wealth: jewels, gold and silver.

Instead as the stale air escaped from the box and fresh air circulated inside, they found neither man nor cloak. Instead, the only remains to be found were from a calf and a whale: a vellum scroll wrapped around a whale bone key.

The leader of the men jumped down inside and snatched up the precious cargo. But before he could open the scroll to read it, a woman appeared at the top of the hole and calling down to the man said, “Stripes, darling. What have you found?”

Looking up, Stripes grumbled to himself but obediently passed up the scroll with the key. “Looks like some sort of paper with a key attached,” he stated numbly.

“Well don’t just stand there looking dirty,” commanded the woman, “Climb up here and let’s take a look.”

Stripes looked stunned. She had never invited him to partake in anything… and though it made him feel somewhat elated, he was also very suspicious.

“Why?” he let escape involuntarily.

“What?!” demanded the woman, returning to her ‘normal’ mood according to Stripe’s opinion.

“Why, I would be delighted,” lied Stripes, trying to cover up his mistake. The woman looked at him quizzically, as if trying to decide if he were playing a game or making fun of her. In the end she simply let it go, being too elated by the find to worry about trivial responses for now.

As Stripes watched her relax and grin down at him, he let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding and grabbing for men’s arms, pulled himself quickly out of the grave.

They retired to a lighted column of the abbey and there spread open the vellum.

A low whistle escaped her lips. “We found it!” she whispered in a husky voice. “We found it!” she said louder than she wanted to.

The audible escape caused Stripes to look around to see who was near enough to hear them. As his eyes passed over his men, he
caught the night watchman looking back his way. As they linked eyes, Nigel quickly pulled away, and deliberately looked the other way.

The woman saw the exchange and simply said, “Time to pay the guard.”

This time it was Stripes turn to smile. “I’ll be right back.”

When Stripes arrived at Nigel’s side, Nigel was more than wary. But at the invitation to see what they found, and more for the promise of payment pending, Nigel followed the man to the edge of the grave site. Looking down he saw nothing more than what appeared to be an empty box. Looking up at the man by his side, he said a bit bewildered, “Its empty.”