Who is Tulovski?

Who is Tulovski? I was now accustomed to the hostile stares and scowls that the locals offered me when I enquired about the elusive man, who had once inhabited my cottage. It all started about three months ago, when I married my childhood sweetheart, Holly. We often used to visit Whitby, the remarkable, mysterious fishing village and seaside resort made famous by Captain Cook, and of course Count Dracula. Why Bram Stoker chose Whitby for his setting for his famous classic novel is obvious. With its numerous cobbled streets and old cottages, it makes a wonderful location for a horror tale. Then of course, there’s the ancient cemetery and old abbey that are perched on the cliff and overlook the harbour.

The abbey, as a child enchanted me, as there were so many stories involving countless ghosts, which at the time, I had no reason to doubt. Whether the stories were authentic or not, Whitby never failed to stimulate me with its alluring charm. After numerous visits to the North Yorkshire town during the summer months, we fell in love with the place, and promised that when we did eventually marry, Whitby would be our home.

One cottage in particular caught our eye. It was within throwing distance of the abbey and had been empty for many years, which somewhat surprised us, as it was in a prime location with wonderful views of the sea. After a visit to the estate agent, we were somewhat astounded at the asking price of fifty thousand pounds. If I had the cash on me, I would have gladly produced it there and then, as we were expecting Saltwick Cottage to be at least twice that price. After viewing the said structure, we were more determined than ever to make it our abode. True, it needed a lot of work, but I was due time off from my job as a journalist with a local newspaper.

We were over-enthusiastic about our dream home. The white, ivy covered walls of the cottage added a little authenticity to the place, which must have been steeped in history. Holly, being a genealogy nut, could not wait to visit the local library and study the census, to discover who had inhabited our home over the years. The locals at first eyed us with suspicion, for this was a close-knit community. Later, after realising that this young couple offered no threat to their humdrum everyday lives, we were eventually accepted.

Our lives were about to change dramatically one fine morning in June. Being a Sunday morning, I decided on a lie in, but the shafts of sunlight probing through the curtains, coupled with the squawking of the seagulls roused me. Distant bell ringing coming from the local church conspired to rob me of my habitual slumber. I leant over to see Holly sleeping peacefully, her long, red hair cascading over her slender shoulders, a content smile on her face. With her petite nose and fresh complexion, she could easily pass for a girl much younger than her twenty-three years. I kissed her before rising, and heard the whistling of the postman who approached the cottage. I waited in anticipation for the mail, as I was expecting a reply from the Daily Mirror about my recent application. I felt my talents were being wasted at the Evening Gazette and aspired for greater things.

As I leafed through the usual bills, one tatty looking envelope held my gaze. It was addressed to a Mr Tulovski. The address was given as Saltwick Cottage, but there had to be a mistake and so I put the letter to one side. My first chore of the morning was a visit to the local shop for newspapers and milk, which we had not yet arranged for delivery. Needing the exercise, I decided to jog to the village, so I dressed suitably in a vest and shorts.

On exiting the cottage, my attention was averted towards a strange looking man, who was standing at the edge of the cliff and looking out to sea. He was bizarrely attired in a long, black robe that flapped wildly in the sea breeze. My first thoughts were for his safety, for he had stepped over the wire fence and was standing far too close to the edge of the cliff.

“Good morning,” I shouted to him. There was no response, so I edged closer to the strange man. “Good morning.” Again, he ignored me. My conscience would not let me abandon him, for I could have been witnessing a suicide attempt.

“Are you okay there?” I gasped when the man stepped off the edge of the cliff. I straddled the fence, yelling loudly to wake Holly. My fear of heights prohibited me venturing to the cliff edge, so I lay on the ground, crawled carefully forward and peered downwards. The tide was out and my eyes scanned the rocks, searching for his body.

“What are you doing, Adrian?” came the voice from behind.

“Holly! He jumped.”

“Who jumped?”

“There was a man standing here a moment ago. He jumped, well not exactly jumped. He stepped off the edge of the cliff.”

Holly sauntered to the edge, oblivious to the danger and looked down, her red hair and nightdress fluttering as the wind strengthened. “I cannot see anyone, Adrian. Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m bloody sure... Wemust contact the authorities immediately.”

No body was ever found, and I was forced to apologise to the police for wasting their time. I was eyed suspiciously and asked if I had been drinking the night before, or if I had taken any illegal substances. I had not endeared myself to the local police and was branded a potential junkie and trouble causer. No matter how hard I tried, I could not erase the incident from my memory.

That evening, we decided to call at the local pub, as Holly reckoned a drink or two would help me deal with my daunting experience. There was a graveyard silence when we entered The Lord Admiral. My thoughts were of the movie An American Werewolf in London, as I browsed the inquisitive customers and offered a false smile. I felt as though we were walking the gauntlet when we shuffled slowly towards the bar.

An obese, red-faced man awaited our request. I cleared my throat. “Er, a pint of bitter for me and...”

“A Tia Maria and coke please,” smiled Holly.

“We don’t sell those fancy drinks here,” said the proprietor in a deep voice. I half expected him to sing a chorus of Wandering Star.

“Well, I guess I’ll settle for half a lager,” said Holly.

As he poured the drinks, the landlord spoke. “You’re the young couple who’ve just bought Saltwick Cottage aren’t you?”

I nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

“That incident this morning. You don’t want to be wasting precious police time anymore.”

“Anymore? I don’t expect this is an everyday occurrence. Anyway, I know what I saw.”

A loud laugh from behind did not help to abate my rising anger. I turned to face an old man, who was sporting a flat cap. He sat in the corner playing dominoes with three others. He had a very large, bulbous nose, and the absence of his teeth reminded me of one of those gurners.

“I don’t think this matter warrants laughter, do you?” I asked.

Holly grabbed my arm and shook her head. “Leave it out, Ade.”

“What do you do for a living?” asked the landlord.

“I’m a journalist, or I should say, I’m training to be one.”

“A journalist! You aren’t going to write any lies about the incident are you?”

“Relax. My work hasn’t yet progressed past the task of making coffee and running errands.”

“Oh, that’s all right then.”

I was now curious. “Who used to live in the cottage before us? My wife is doing some research on its history, and I wondered if you could give her a name where she could start?”

Holly joined in. “Yes, I can’t seem to find any records of the cottage.”

“Nobody’s lived there for years,” shouted a middle-aged attractive woman, who was sitting with a bald man.

“Really? Who then is Mr Tulovski?”

Judging by the looks on their faces, I had upset the natives.

“Who?” asked the landlord.

“Tulovski... A letter came to our address this morning, addressed to him.”

“Tulovski. That’s Russian isn’t it?” queried Holly.

The landlord spoke up. “We know of no such person. Fetch me the letter and I’ll gladly return it to the post office.”

“Mr er...”

“Call me Horace.”

I beckoned for the landlord to come closer and he leaned over the bar. “Well, Horace, how come the address was correct?”

He shrugged his wide shoulders. “Who knows? Like I said, bring the letter to me and I’ll return it.”

We took our seats not too close to the blazing log fire, as it was a warm evening. Every now and again, I would catch a customer staring at us, and then they would quickly turn away after realising that they had been detected. I, by now was having second thoughts about living amongst this reticent community.

The change in the weather when we walked back to our cottage was unexpected, and the orange skies were replaced by black, drifting clouds. A flash of lightning illuminated the abbey to our right, and then the deafening sound of thunder made Holly jump. She increased her pace when the rain came down, slowly at first, and then with more urgency. Holly could look over the top of a cliff or chase a mouse, but when it came to thunderstorms, she became a nervous, quivering wreck. She held my hang tightly, her fingernails unbeknown to her digging into the cold flesh of my hand.

I afforded a glance towards the abbey, which was lit up by another flash of lightning, and halted abruptly, almost pulling Holly’s arm from its socket. I felt my bowels loosen when I saw the black-robed man looking towards us. His face was indistinct, but it was definitely the same man that I had seen stepping over the edge of the cliff that morning.

“Do you see him Holly? Do you see him?” I shouted, above the loud explosion of thunder.

“See who, Ade?... Come on, let’s get home.”

I reluctantly heeded her advice, for I could no longer see the mysterious man. I am normally a realist, but common sense told me not all was right here. I was convinced that I had seen a ghost. We lay in each other’s arms, an afterthought after our bout of lovemaking. Holly liked to indulge in a session of passion during a thunderstorm as it took her mind off it. She was now soundly asleep, a luxury I unfortunately could not partake in, as my thoughts were of the strange man. His attire was of someone not of this era, and even though his face was obscured, something told me that I had seen this man somewhere before. It was a similar feeling to when you visit a city for the first time and know what is around the corner.

I must have lain motionless for hours, before I eventually dropped off. The wind and rain rattling against the window pain roused me, and I glanced at the clock to see that it was three-fifteen. Again, I closed my eyes and felt a sudden chill. The temperature in the bedroom had dropped rapidly. I had made up my mind to find out the reason for the coldness, when a stale odour, which I can only describe as a rotting carcass reached my nostrils. I turned onto my back, careful not to disturb Holly, and the repulsing stench seemed to grow stronger.

I have no rational explanation for what happened next. I heard the mattress squeak and felt it being depressed, as if someone was on the bed with us. My instinct told me to lift my head, though dreading the consequences of what I might see. I found myself unable to do so. It was if I was paralysed. I swivelled my eyes towards the foot of the bed and shivered violently with the coldness. The ghostly figure of the black-robed man was sitting on the end of the bed, his mesmerising eyes staring straight at me. He had long, dark hair parted in the centre and sported a lengthy, straggly beard. His unhealthy pallor gave me the impression that he was an ailing man. I sensed that he was a monk or holy man.

I tried to speak to him, but was unable to, as the paralysis rendered me unable to move my mouth. As hard as I tried, I could not utter a word, and attempted to scream, but again, no words were forthcoming. How could Holly not feel this freezing temperature and not smell the rotten nauseous odour?

The monk stared at me emotionless for what seemed like hours. He said nothing and eventually rose up like a wisp of smoke. I feared the worst and felt my body soaked in perspiration, even though the temperature must have been below zero. He approached the window and looked back at me before he faded away.

The temperature rose and the odour was absent. A bolt of lightning lit up the bedroom and I felt myself able to move again. A strange sensation similar to pins and needles flooded through my body. I approached the window and looked out into the darkness, watching the sky as it once more was illuminated. The lightening silhouetted the monk, who was standing close to the cliffs edge and looking out to sea.

I looked at Holly and roused her, as I needed confirmation that I was not losing my mind.

“What is it?” she mumbled, her eyes still half closed.

“Come here Holly. You’ve got to see this.”

She reluctantly clambered out of bed and approached the bedroom window.

“There, by the edge of the cliff. Can you see him?”

“See him? See who, Ade?”

“Wait for the lightning, Holly. You must see him.”

My eyes searched her petite face when the sky once more was illuminated. “Well, do you see him or not?” I punched the air when she nodded.

“Who is he?”

“He’s the man I saw going over the cliff this morning… I don’t know how to tell you this, but he’s been in our bedroom tonight. In fact, he was sitting on the end of the bed.”

“Stop it. You’re scaring me.”

“I don’t think he means us any harm, Holly. I think he’s a monk or priest; and since when have holy men been evil?”

“What are we going to do?”

I gazed out of the window. “Get your coat. I think he wants us to follow him.”

“Are you crazy? No way, Jose… The thunderstorm's bad enough, never mind a bloody ghost.”

“Come on, Holly. You were the one who wanted to know the history of this cottage. I’m certain he won’t harm us.”

“I don’t know, Ade.”

I took her hand and convinced her to wrap up against the cruel elements. As we left the cottage, the gale force wind almost blew us off our feet. The driving rain conspired with the wind, as if to prohibit us in our approach. I could no longer see the monk, but something told me that the answer to this enigma lay at the bottom of the cliff. We stepped over the wire fence and we both lay on our stomachs; me because of my fear of heights, and Holly, because it would be dangerous to stand close to the edge, owing to the strong wind. We crawled forward, screwing our eyes up against the rain that was being driven into our faces. We clasped hands.

The sight that befell us rendered us speechless. A large, old sailing ship was being blown about in the raging tide and was in danger of capsizing. We watched horrified as it headed for the rocks. The human screams when the ship impacted with the sharp rocks were audible above the storm. Bodies were strewn along the beach, the lucky ones crawling to safety. The ship was no more and the wreckage was dispersed along the shoreline.

Gradually the image faded and we lay there motionless, both deeply engrossed in our own thoughts. We walked hand in hand back to the cottage, sorrowful and stunned by the piece of history that we had just witnessed. As we entered the cottage, Holly gazed at me with tearful eyes and threw her arms around me, sobbing uncontrollably. Our question had been answered. Who is Tulovski?

 

The Whitby Maritime Museum was quiet, as it had just opened its doors. We shuffled slowly along the impressive row of cabinets, carefully inspecting each photograph and plaque in our obsessive quest to solve the mystery of Mr Tulovski. We came across a cabinet dedicated to shipwrecks, and my eyes fell upon a very old photograph. It showed a group of eighteen survivors from a shipwreck off the coast of Whitby in 1917. The name of the ship filled me with excitement and I clutched Holly’s arm.

“The Empress Alexandria! A Russian merchant sailing ship that sunk off the coast of Whitby in 1917. It all fits.”

My eager eyes settled upon a photograph of the survivors, and my heartbeat accelerated when I looked at a man who was standing towards the rear of the group, his black robe partly obscured by others.

“That’s him!” I yelled, feeling slightly embarrassed, as an elderly couple craned their heads to see what the commotion was.

“My God! My good God,” spluttered Holly.

I looked down at the list of names and was overwhelmed as the name Boris Tulovski registered. I looked across at Holly, who appeared traumatised. “Are you okay, Holly?” I noticed that she was trembling uncontrollably.

“That man. Do you know who he is?”

“Yes,” I answered. “Boris Tulovski.”

“Look again. You must recognise him,” she urged.

I stared into the penetrating eyes of the bearded man, and again a sense of familiarly came over me. “What are you getting at, Holly?”

She looked across at me, a frightened look on her face. “That is Rasputin!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Rasputin was murdered.”

“Ade, I took a degree in history remember, and one of the subjects I studied was Russian history. I’m telling you that is Rasputin.”

I studied the photograph once more. “Granted, he looks a little like him, but come on. Rasputin in Whitby?”

Holly continued. “Three conspirators attempted to poison him in 1916. After that failed, they shot him several times, but still he survived. They eventually bound him and threw him into the Neva River, where he was believed to have drowned.”

“Exactly.”

Holly was adamant. “What if he didn’t drown? What if he survived? Rasputin was thought to be a mystic and to possess healing powers. Maybe they couldn't kill him after all. He could have fled Russia and sailed to England.”

I was not convinced. “Maybe, maybe. You’re telling me that after he was shipwrecked, he lived here under a false name?”

“It would explain why the locals are staying tight-lipped.”

I pondered. “Wasn’t Rasputin an evil man?”

“Exactly. All the more reason for us to leave the cottage.”

We headed back to the cottage along the cliff-top, still mulling over our remarkable findings. The sun had made a welcome appearance from behind the clouds. We passed an old man who was seated on one of the rickety benches. He was apparently looking out to sea.

“You know don’t you?” he muttered.

I stopped abruptly and faced the old man with the large, bulbous nose, recognising him from the Lord Admiral the night before. “Excuse me?”

“You were overheard in the Maritime Museum,” he said.

“But how did you get up here so quickly?”

“I didn’t. Wonderful new fangled things these mobile phones.” He filled his pipe and we joined him on the bench. “You see, we are as I’m sure you’ve already gathered, a humble, close community. We just want to be left in peace… What purpose would it serve to have outsiders coming here and nosing around? What has been done cannot be undone.”

“So Tulovski really was Rasputin?” probed Holly.

The old man continued. “After the shipwreck, all the survivors returned to Russia; all that is except one. Tulovski... He was a strange man, but was eventually accepted by the community, including my grandfather. It turned out that Tulovski was a priest of some sort and soon exerted his influence on Whitby. After healing a dying young girl, word spread of his alleged mystical powers. Despite this, many despised him. He was a dirty man and an alcoholic. Before long, he was using his hypnotic power to seduce young girls. One such girl was my mother. She was only sixteen, and after a secret meeting in the Lord Admiral, the villagers decided to do something about it.”

“They murdered him didn’t they?” I asked.

“Murdered? That’s too strong a word. No, he was executed. He was overpowered, and they thought it apt to dispose of him where he had been found, two years earlier. They carried him to the cliff opposite your cottage and threw him off. He was laughing loudly, even on his descent to his death.”

“How do you know this?” I quizzed.

He lit his pipe and tears were forming in his eyes. “My father told me. Anyway, there you have it. If you want to dig up the past, then so be it… My grandfather and numerous other people will be branded murderers, and the media will swarm Whitby... I beg of you, for my mother’s dignity, rest her soul. Do not disclose of what you have learnt today.”

Holly spoke first. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with us.”

The old man put his liver spotted cold hand on hers. “Thank you, dear.”

“One other thing... Rasputin? How did you know it was him?” I asked.

The old man smiled. “You obviously haven’t opened the letter addressed to Tulovski have you? I don’t know if you’re aware, but Empress Alexandria of Russia was Rasputin’s lover. He wrote to her often and she wrote back. The village postman saw the Russian postmark all those years ago, and his curiosity got the better of him. Of course, at that time, the villagers knew little of Rasputin. When news of what sort of a man he was presumed to be reached Whitby, there was a great feeling of relief.”

“So, the cottage is haunted?” quizzed Holly.

“Oh he’s harmless enough. His ghost has been seen ever since that tragic night. Ghostly letters are still posted to the cottage. We know not where they come from. He’s an evil man, but can do no harm now. You’ll get used to him in time.”

“I don’t think I want him sitting on my bed too often,” said Holly.

“Where was he buried?” I quizzed.

The old man puffed on his pipe and pondered before facing me. “That’s just it. He wasn’t. They went down to the beach the next morning and there was no body. The tide was out, so there was no chance that his body could have washed away.” “

Maybe he is immortal after all,” I said.

The old man struggled to his feet up and shuffled slowly along the path, looking towards the sky. “It’s going to be a canny day.”

Holly held my hand. “What are we going to do, Ade?”

“The choice is yours, Holly. We can sell the cottage if that’s what you want.”

We did eventually get used to Rasputin. We sometimes just sat and gazed at the black-robed figure as he stared out to sea. We were in awe of this remarkable man, who once had so much influence on the Russian Empire. One thing that did keep crossing our minds though. If Rasputin was indeed immortal, then our visitor was not a ghost!