The Golden Fleece (Ghost Walk) Part One of Two

Leads on from: https://www.abctales.com/story/marandina/golden-fleece-part-two-two

 The Golden Fleece (Ghost Walk) Part One of Two

I watched as Alice wound spaghetti onto her fork, thoughts of ghost texts still lingering. Pizza Express was buzzing, tables of tourists intent on eating, drinking and savouring the medieval delights of ancient York. We had discussed the ghostly goings on at the Golden Fleece and not managed to find a credible reason as to why events had unfolded as they had. Alice could be capricious at times and on listening to speculative tales of ethereal Puritans and phantom airmen, would switch from being attentive to downright sceptical in the blink of a basilisk’s eye. So it was seemingly bizarre that we were considering exposing ourselves to yet more supernatural shenanigans.

“Did we say it was a fiver each then for the Ghost Walk?” Alice wore a look of doubt, the question posed with hesitancy.

“I think you are supposed to pre-book online but I’m sure they’ll take cash.”

The organisers’ website was displayed on my mobile phone despite the tang of guilt that went with indulging in screen-time during dinner. 

“Righteo love. Let’s finish up then give it a whirl then. Not before dessert, though.”

Alice parked her knife and fork neatly on the side of her now empty plate, pushing it to one side to indicate she had finished.

“I think we should go together this time. No nebulous arrangements to meet.”

I was yet to move on mentally from earlier escapades.

It was two Peach Melbas later that we spilled back onto the waiting city cobbles, night engulfing streets and alleys like a murky sable shroud. Street lamps cast silhouettes and shadows making thoroughfares and passageways appear impenetrable in the gloom.

The rendezvous point was outside the Kings Arms pub by the side of the mighty river Ouse (unless it was flooded in which case the alternative location was a bridge nearby).

The walk was due to start at 8pm and with just a few minutes to go, a crowd of around twenty or so people had built up. Some folks milled about nervously whilst others stood stoically chatting, waiting for the event to begin. The man dressed as a Victorian gentleman that had passed by outside The Golden Fleece earlier (I now realised he was probably more Doctor Jekyll than Jack the Ripper after all) was checking tickets and taking cash from those who hadn’t already booked.

Strolling forward, I held out a hand with a ten pound note in it which was theatrically snatched away. With a furtive look around, the organiser closed the clasps on his leather medical bag. He turned and promptly ran off in the opposite direction, his black cape billowing, top hat held in place by a hand making the whole thing look surreal.

For a few moments, the gathering looked dumfounded. A rotund American with a bumbag wearing a Levi’s polo shirt under a large puffer jacket glared into the distance, his athletic-bodied wife with beauty parlour blonde hair and husky voice whispering into his ear how she hadn’t wanted to come on this excursion anyway. Before anyone could take genuine exception, the faux Victorian doctor stopped, smiled and explained it was all just a joke and that the tour would be starting forthwith. I threw a half-smile at petite Alice, she grimaced back, both of us pondering whether the tone had been set for the evening. I was sure it had.

We duly set off, a rabble of collective souls in search of the macabre and damned. The American couple were up front firing questions at the organiser. We drifted along at the back followed by the Grim Reaper. He had been introduced at the start of the sojourn as Jeff drawing a laugh from the entourage. The cowl wearing, scythe wielding figure from the Underworld had a comedy name and could have been just about anyone other than the personification of death itself. His job was to keep the land-train safe and together ensuring nobody strayed. A gaggle of Japanese tourists with cameras hanging around their necks wore unsure expressions when glancing back to check if the spectral assistant was indeed, just a regular person. It was hard to tell with its face obscured under a hood.

Before we knew it, York Minster was sprawling before us, a thousand years of history beckoning. We heard the story of long dead, senior clergy Dean Gale haunting pews and listening furtively to present day sermons. Then there was the tale of two women in the 1820s. They had got separated from a tour. Encountering a man in naval uniform, he had whispered something in the ear of one of them. He turned out to be her deceased brother who had died at sea. It remains unknown as to what the clandestine message was. Terrifying but apparently true.

I noted it was £10 admission to enter the cathedral. We were cheapskates so didn’t go in but moved on instead.

Next up was an ethereal pit stop at 41 Stonegate. It is a tall, terraced townhouse with flat roof. Two square glass windows on the second floor look ominous from the pavement below.

Holding court with legs astride, the Victorian regaled another spooky tale in conspiratorial tones of how a young girl – 8 years old – fell from a balcony to her death during a party thrown by her father who was a wealthy doctor. Her ghost is seen and heard playing on the staircase to this day.

As the story unfolded, mist was unfurling around us adding to the eeriness everyone already felt. I couldn’t help but notice that Jeff still hadn’t said a word. He seemed firmly committed to the role of Grim Reaper/tour steward.

The air felt moist, rain threatening. There was a sense of foreboding despite the levity that goes with the notion of a ghost walk. We carried on.

It was at this point that I reflected on the appeal of all things paranormal; the reasons why people consciously seek out situations that imbue terror. I wondered whether this was my motive for marrying as I pictured Alice threatening me again with an acrimonious frying pan. I realised I was digressing. Escapism, I concluded. Perhaps it was all a way of sidestepping the grind of daily existence.

With Alice now holding my hand, we shuffled towards the next set piece. Feeling garrulous, we ruminated together on what a ghost walk guide might do as a day job: an out of work politician? Maybe it was Jacob Rees-Mogg fallen on hard times. We settled on the probability that he was young enough to be a student at university. Perhaps. In truth, we had no idea.

5 College Street is also known as the Plague House. It is a stone-bricked building with a small window at the side. A couple’s paranoia about black plague had led to them sending their daughter out on errands to spare them having to leave the house. On returning one day, the mother noticed boils under her daughter’s eyes. During the night, they left marking the doorway with an X, a sign telling all not to enter. The little girl had been confined to a bedroom and, despite tapping and scratching at the window for days, eventually died as the townsfolk were too fearful to help.

As the story trailed off, our Victorian raconteur fumbled in a trouser pocket and surreptitiously tossed grains of rice at the window to simulate rapping at the glass. Breaking the tension, this elicited giggling from most present, a few relieved at the change of tone. Turning away, the herd coalesced around the Victorian gentleman and scuttled off to the next destination.

Before I could join them I felt tugging at my arm. It was Jeff and he was pointing at the window like a Dickensian latter-day ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.

Part Two at: https://www.abctales.com/story/marandina/golden-fleece-ghost-walk-part-t...

Image free to use at: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kings_Arms,_York#/media/File:King's_Arms,_King's_Staith,_York_(5509707825).jpg