The Black Kraken. By Sophie Humphreys

Foreword

The York Ghosts are and always will be tokens of good fortune and fortitude, this short story is a work of pure fiction, inspired by a real object of my own making and the wonderful surroundings and narratives of my everyday work at The York Ghost Merchants. I currently have 60 Black Krakens residing on my shelves which increase in number by the day and I can assure you dear reader, no one of them is cursed.

Pettyfer died suddenly and with little ceremony on the spring equinox 1846. His dusty, small frame was shrouded in the blankets, sheets and many woollen layers one might associate with the elderly and persons of a permanently cold nature. The Doctor was called to confirm death and his earthly remains left the premises that very day - with no-one to wash or sit with the body it was not to be left now the nights were beginning to become fine again. He left little of himself behind, no children or wife or great accomplishments, but had acquired in his time a comfortable sum and respectable townhouse in one of the more fashionable areas of York.

His house on St Saviourgate (which boasted generous gardens and stables) and his entire staff, not to mention all fittings and furnishings, were to be bequeathed to his next of kin, a very ‘modern’ couple from Cornwall. (The nephew’s mother had been a second cousin, of the type one’s mother would frequently mention but whose face permanently escaped the mind.) They were to take on the house from April and had already sent instruction to the small but dedicated staff - which comprised a butler, housekeeper, gardener, cook and kitchen maid - to make sure the most modern fixtures and fittings were in place for their arrival.

York’s reputation for ghosts was well established by that time; the act of gifting and charitable enterprise had been much admired for many a generation throughout the philanthropic upper classes. The Sorrowful Guild of Ghost Makers had originated over one hundred years before, and Pettyfer’s house had been something of a hub. These totems were widely renowned as a positive, friendly knick knack; a gift loaded with the best of intention, and were often gifted at significant life events such as funerals, christenings and occasionally as an alm for the poor. The origins of the ghost amongst the classes to which they had navigated had been largely forgotten, its rich history consigned to meeting rooms and afternoon craft teas.

Pettyfer had been an advocate of the Guild and what it stood for since his own father had died,  and after he had inherited the house as a younger man he found himself custodian of a ghost whose origins were unknown and whose purpose was best dismissed. His ancestors were, to polite company, ‘sailors’ or ‘merchant seamen’, but in the early hours after too much port and too little joy the whispers of smugglers,  cut throats and an ancient curse rose from the drawing room and the butler Forrester- a stalwart man fast approaching his autumn years- would usher Pettyfer to his bedchamber with promises of a hot toddy and salted beef amidst the rolling mutterings of his masters ire.

Forrester and his staff trod a line between the right and the righteous (a fine cobweb of a line at that) and not a word between them was ever spoken about what lay in the cellars below the house. Despite the silence they kept, every single one of them knew what measures should be taken to keep the oldest of the St Saviourgate ghosts cowed and asleep. The candle was lit every evening, the salt water kept at the correct depth, the darkness maintained.

Pettyfer’s instructions had been very clear, but now Pettyfer was dead and these new types would be in the house within the month. The staff bustled about their daily tasks and preparations with a pregnant, stilted silence swelling between them. A held breath begetting fear skirted the edges and corners of the rooms, from the flagstoned reception to the boarded up fireplaces which were now being exposed and cleaned. Each person within that house bore the hunted look of prey who had smelt the wolf but had yet to see its approach.

There was nothing to do but wait.

***

Clary and Magnus Whitehead arrived, without notice, on a Tuesday. Their belongings had yet to appear and their impromptu visit threw discord into an already tense home. They were staying in a local hostelry whilst they waited for their trunks and cases to arrive via train from Bude, but they were ‘absolutely desperate’ to see their new house and would not be dissuaded. Clary was an overly enthusiastic young woman whose obvious lack of charm was far from compensated for by her constant high volume and insistence on inserting herself into any given social situation - be it appropriate or not. Magnus, by contrast, was quiet and nervy, a fish so far out of its water as to be almost walking.

Forrester showed them around, but was keen to emphasise the unreadiness of the house, its lack of appointment of an appropriate standard. He took great pains to argue that the staff would need at least another week to make sure the fires were safe, the rooms were aired, and every one of the window panes clean. Magnus Whitehead thoroughly agreed (not being used to having any kind of staff himself he was in the awkward position of deferring to a subservient in these matters) but Clary, who already had the lady of the house moniker in her sights, had other plans.. She announced that they would move in with their belongings whenever they should arrive, be it tomorrow or next week. Forrester  was in no position to argue but quietly his face tightened in defiance, despite his head reluctantly nodding in agreement.

The ghost resided in the lower basement. A wine cellar of sorts originally, it was accessed through the main basement which held a larder and stored  cold meats, vegetables for the winter and barrels of mead and beer. At a pinch the basement could be used as a secondary kitchen for large parties (not that there had been any of those in over two decades - Pettyfer had despised small talk, hosting and cats, in that precise order) as it had a suitable fireplace and coal store. The wide wooden door next to the basement kitchen, which had started to rot from its base, was not opened unless absolutely necessary, and led to the lower basement or cellar. This comprised a low, curved, brick vault like ceiling and would have made a fine wine store, since it was always cool and dark, even in the height of summer. A child could stand up in it but no adult of average height, and it stored no wine. Instead it held the Black Kraken.

The staff were not in the habit of asking questions. Life in service had taught them to hold their tongues, lest they feel the wrath of whoever happened to be paying their wages, and this was no different. The kitchen maid, Ivy, had once plucked up the courage to ask the gardener, Jack, about the ghost in the basement. A rough young man,  he had been raised by the river folk and, although superb at growing roses, he lacked in every sense the ability to converse in respectable company. He had replied in a manner so gruff and coarse that she dare not ask again, but nevertheless she followed the rules; fire, water, and above all else, darkness.

***

The belongings of the Whiteheads arrived soon after, as Forrester had feared. In truth the house had been ready for days, though it hardly mattered as Clary set about ripping down and throwing out every scrap of material the old house held. New curtains, bedspreads and rugs had already been ordered at great expense and the woman was a veritable whirling dervish of activity, delving into every nook and cupboard - even the little crooked butlers pantry in the upstairs drawing room was inspected (and dismissed). Mrs Aske, the housekeeper, bustled behind her under the guise of helpfulness, a constant shadow taking down measurements and suggesting haberdasheries. A large pile of materials began to amount in the yard and Jack was politely asked to deal with the removal. (His response was far from polite.) The only saving grace to this violation of the usual way of things was that Clary’s time was firmly focused on the above stairs and she seemed to have no interest at all in any of the servants’ areas of work.

After the initial month of settling in, the Whiteheads had established a firm routine amongst their new and shiny possessions, the brightly coloured rugs and curtains a garish contrast to the rather dull sage walls (which would surely be the next to go if Clarys’ obvious disgust at them was anything to go by). However with any new venture, once the novelty wears, the boredom begins. The couple knew no-one in York, Their neighbours were significantly older and richer than they and ran in higher circles; despite Clary’s frequent attempts to entice them over for tea or cake they almost always had wonderfully robust excuses (which were now beginning to verge on the fanciful). Their immediate neighbour to the right - a Mrs Hardwicke - was a wealthy widow whose husband had been a surgeon to the late Lord Mayor Robert Cattle. Since their arrival she had apparently attended such an alarming amount of luncheons and physicians’ appointments that you might suggest she cut down on the former to decrease the latter. Even she had now run the gauntlet of excuses and found herself sat in the parlour of 31 St Saviourgate enduring the small talk of a lady not long since a girl, who had the airs of a duchess and the conversation of a boat jetty.

They discussed the weather, the gardens and roses, York society (many hints were dropped by Clary but Mrs Hardwicke did not bite) and the Lord Mayor's demise. Eventually the conversation turned to the changes which Clary had put in place through the house. She complemented Clary on her decor and seemed unusually interested in the ornaments on display; once the flow of conversation faltered she asked where the ghosts of good fortune which often graced the shelves had gone? When Clary declared with pride that she had discarded the strange things which she derided as ‘Bobbins’ along with the old curtains, she was too involved with her own thoughts to notice the incredulous look which crossed her neighbour’s face; Clary was not to know that Mrs Hardwicke’s relatives had been original founders of the Sorrowful Guild. Mrs Hardwicke regained her composure and asked whether Clary had inspected her kitchens yet? Were her staff keeping standards? Did her Cook make sure the larder was vermin free? Clary felt quite chastised by this, having never once thought to check or enquire (a small slight aimed at her lack of experience and previous status landed where it was aimed) and after the tea was finished she made firm plans to speak to the cook and housekeeper the next day.

Mrs Aske had heard this entire conversation through the double doors of the Parlour, where a small space occurred between the reception hall doors and the parlour doors, to prevent draughts and enable the servants to wait until called without being seen. It also provided the perfect place for eavesdropping, and the housekeeper now hurried, face drawn, to warn the rest of the staff that Clary meant to invade their world that very day. The cook was a surly woman and a most average cook at that, but she knew the rules, like everyone else; under no circumstances was Clary to be allowed access to the lower basement. All the staff were in agreement. They would do whatever they needed to.

Magnus, in this time, by contrast to his wife and to the surprise of everyone (including himself) had found his place in the world. A Junior Architect by trade, he had quickly found work with a firm developing the land outside the city walls, into a housing estate and school. He busied himself with his daily tasks and was well liked by his colleagues, often invited to the gentlemens’ clubs to discuss future endeavours. He had frequently been asked about his cousin’s death and the work of the Guild, but of course had very little to say, having had no real involvement with either. If his acquaintances found his dismissal of the ghosts disturbing they either did not show it, or it was not noticed by him.

It was during one of these evenings of smoking and taking on of alcohol that a particular gentleman called Benedict - a fellow prone to excess - started to talk animatedly to Magnus about the demise of Pettyfer. He loudly exclaimed, with exaggerated sadness, what a shock it had been to everyone and how strange that no one had seen him in so long... He had been a fine fellow and a great card player but had become somewhat of a recluse in the last few months of his life - haunted by madness apparently. Magnus was quite confused by the direction the conversation was taking and did wonder whether he should continue to finish his port or take his leave but in the end he asked why the death of an old man had been such a surprise? The answer gave him the clarification he required but wasn’t welcome. Pettyfer hadn’t been the old man Magnus had assumed, his death had occurred in his 43rd year and followed no apparent illness. At this news, Magnus was quite shook and did in fact take his leave. Had he stayed, he would have heard the gossip about the ghosts, the whispered imaginings regarding the basement and whether what lay there was treasure or curse.

Clary, meanwhile, had taken her organising and management of the house very seriously. She had little else to busy herself with and the staff was taking the brunt of her boredom. She had ordered them to clean the kitchens until gleaming and take particular care of the mouse traps which lay empty. Did they own a cat for ratting? Should they get one, she wondered?

The basements were to be inspected after she took her midday meal . Mrs Aske persuaded her to take luncheon out in the gardens and brought with her a decanter of Madeira wine as a treat, knowing that it was a particular guilty pleasure of Clary’s and also that she had no head for alcohol. The basement inspection was successfully stalled for another day, once Clary had fallen asleep under the gazebo and woken with a splitting head (she shortly afterwards had to disappear to her bedchamber to recover). But the borrowed time was not enough.

Magnus returned that evening to a quiet house and a slumbering wife. Still deeply disturbed by the news of Pettyfer’s death and a little worse for drink, he couldn’t for the life of him understand why the age of the man had escaped his notice when he had read all the paperwork and signed the legal documents; he realised that he had (like so many of us confronted with the bombardment of items steeped in tedious official terminology) stopped reading the details and happily ignored the small prints. He went about searching for any journals and remaining documents which may have shed some light of the last months of the man’s life, and after some stumbling and cursing amongst the unpacked detritus, managed to locate a box in the topmost bedroom - currently unused but with designs of a nursery for future Whiteheads.

Amongst the storage boxes and family crib he rifled through papers only worthy of tinder, so old and brittle a gust of wind would have scattered them like confetti. He found nothing but legal documents, receipts and several dusty ledgers relating to the Sorrowful Guild of Ghost Makers - which seemed to only contain names of benefactors and dates of meetings, giftings of ghosts spanning a 50 years or more. The first of the names had faded to near invisibility, the last of them was dated a good 10 years since. He had closed the book and re-stacked the papers for return when, from the ledger, fell an envelope, ivory and newer than its boxed fellows. His fingers fumbled in the candlelight, and when he managed to unfold the letter within he began to deeply regret where the evening had brought him.

Dear Nicholas,

I implore you, my love, to rid yourself of these notions of curses and regimens. There is nothing to these relics but stone and the hand of man. To imagine otherwise is not only madness but blasphemy! You bring the entire house down with you, you have these staff beside themselves with superstition or I wonder is it the other way about? I cannot be here, with you, knowing that which resides in the basement. It seems that your love for me is not strong enough to overcome your fear and obsession so I will take my leave. I hope you find peace Nicholas. Please, I beg of you. Release yourself of the Kraken.

Yours evermore,

Beatrice.

Magnus stumbled to bed, letter in hand to collapse in anxiety and inebriation next to his wife, who snored gently and did not wake.

***

The Whiteheads rose late on that Saturday morning. Clary - head fogged from too much sleep - dressed and readied herself first. Despite her frivolous, vexatious and often childish nature, she was not stupid and it had become apparent to her that the servants were keeping something from her - or keeping her from something, perhaps.

She marched as forcefully as one could in corsets and  petticoats down the wide staircase.  Encountering Mrs Aske, she demanded to be escorted down to the basement. The housekeeper curtsied in deference and, head bowed, led the way. Clary’s nose wrinkled in disgust as she was led down the uneven, dank staircase. She passed the rotted door without a glance.  Her gaze was focused on the food and organised kitchen space and she found the small larder well-kept, with no signs of vermin or poor management. She was almost disappointed that her anger had nowhere to run to and she would have been entirely satisfied had it not been for that rot which had set into the door of the cellar and caused the base of the door to become uneven. Chunks of wood had come away, leaving a gap between door and floor. A gap through which the faint glow of a candle could just be seen.

Clary sucked in her breath all at once. She knew that what lay behind the door was the secret being kept from her. But despite her determination to assert herself now that she knew the staff had hidden truths from their masters, she found herself quite still and knew not why. At that moment Magnus came heavily down the stairs. His face was grey and drawn, and in his hand he clutched the letter from the previous night.  He saw his wife staring, hypnotised, at the cellar door and for a moment, everything stopped.

Forrester arrived through the side alley to the larder panting heavily and an alarming shade of puce. He had heard Clary’s demands from the kitchen and rushed down to intercept. He saw the faces of the couple and implored the company within to stay where they stood, to not take a step closer to the door and to take their leave to the upstairs parlour where he would try his best to explain. Slowly the assembled company made their way back up the stairs, dumbfounded and drawn up to safety by an invisible thread.

As Forrester suggested, everyone gathered in the parlour, apprehensive and fearful. Magnus’s anger was barely contained and his hangover teetered on the edge of sickness as Forrester made a stuttering attempt at reassurance; this thing in the basement was not their concern; it was a mere superstition of the staff, magnified by the passing of Mr Pettyfer.

Magnus was furious at this easy platitude and demanded the truth, his dignity dissolving as his nausea and fear escalated. He accused the ‘Kraken’ in the basement of having some part in the premature death of Pettyfer.

The  servants had all flinched at the naming of the ghost and Clary, who had become quite mute as events unfolded, began to claw back her place in the discussion. Why was Pettyfer taken prematurely, she demanded to know? What was this Kraken?! Her pitch rose as her emotions took hold.

Magnus shouted in exasperation, shocking the entire room. That Pettyfer was 43 years only! That this relic, this ornament! had taken hold of Pettyfers mind and surely driven his madness and subsequent death and these people had enabled a poor soul with a clearly cracked mind by encouraging his flights of horror and fancy.

The  servants exchanged glances, all looking to Forrester.

Forrester visibly slumped - the weight of the charade finally pulling him down.  Letting out a great shuddering sigh he began with truth; the best truth he knew.

“Sir, Madam. We cannot take the blame for the madness in Mr Pettyfer’s mind. He was  broken, sir - broken from inside. I knew him boy and man and I can tell you, his soul was stained by that wretched ghost and the spot never came clean. We wrote to every physician and apothecary we knew, and there was not one who could bring him back to this world. But his death…..” Forrester hung his head as Ivy began to gently sob. “His death, sir, was human error”.

Magnus sat heavily on the sofa, saying nothing, but indicating for the butler to continue, his frustration not quite sated. Forrester’s eyes flicked briefly to Ivy before he swallowed and resumed his speech, while Ivy stared resolutely ahead, tears rolling into her collars

“The Black Kraken is a relic, sir, but it is also a curse. Some ungodly thing brought back by the ancestors of this house. It consumed Mr Pettyfer who was sure that if he didn’t keep the rituals and rules in place, it would take us all. The ghost must be kept in saltwater, just enough for it to sit in, but it must never be taken near any body of water. It must be kept near fire, to ensure it is kept weak and cowed. It must never see the sunlight, the darkness keeps it asleep so it can do no harm. We have kept these rituals day and night for the last ten years with only one slip.”

He looked tired then, older and worn, as if the mere telling had aged him and taken more than words. Mrs Aske made to continue the story but Ivy, emboldened for a moment took it on instead:

“It were my fault sir. I was to attend the ghost that night. Everyone had left and I was heading downstairs sir, to fetch the water and flints for the candles but you see we’d had oysters for supper and they was bad sir, and by god sir I was so ill with it. I near passed out on the flags in the hallway sir and then I started to retch. I tried sir -  I did -  and I dragged myself over to the door but - Well, I must have passed out, and when I woke up it was dawn…”

She choked on a sob, unable to continue. Mrs Aske interjected “It’s all true sir, it wasn’t her fault, she was bed bound for 3 days after - ”

Magnus, who at this point looked as though he had been told he possessed a tail, came to his senses, not quite believing that this was the nonsense he was being fed, by people he paid! “This is utter tosh, a ridiculous superstition from grown adults who frankly should know better. I expect all of your papers tomorrow morning…”

His bellicose rant  was stopped short by Forrester. “Sir. That was the night Mr Pettyfer died, wrapped up in those blankets in his bedchamber. He was nothing more than a husk when we found him, His face was warped into such an expression he looked as though he had seen his own death in a mirror..”

***

Magnus and Clary both exchanged glances and left the room together without a word spoken. Once away from the leaning ears of the staff the matter was decided. The ghost must be removed from the house immediately.

They ordered a shaking and almost crying Forrester to remove it. He refused over and over again and in the end, it was the gardener Jack, the least superstitious of the group who took the ghost out of the cellar, Magnus refused to even look at the object which had caused such fuss. After much deliberation, they decided that if the ghost was wrapped in saltwater rags and two of the rituals kept, maybe it would be enough. Jack had his instructions- he was to walk or ride to the foundry where the ghost would be burnt into ash and come immediately back to confirm the task had been done. He left the building with the relic in his pack, loping down the street as if nothing had occurred at all, no one saw him double back.

The staff were ordered back to work and they undertook their chores badly, with shaking hands and hunted eyes, plates were smashed and food burned, nerves frayed by the events of the morning. Magnus and Clary could not admit to having been disturbed by or even to have believed what they had heard and took their tea on the lawn with forced laughter and benign conversation, only the rattle of their teacups as they tried to place them into the saucer gave them away.

Many hours passed with no word or return from Jack, it felt to the inhabitants of the house as if the hours were days, sometime near dusk a knock came at the tradesman’s entrance and Ivy answered it. The Foss Ferryman stood at the door, his large frame blocking the light. Ivy's brow furrowed and she curtly asked him what his business was. The Ferryman apologised for the intrusion - he was not in the habit of knocking on doors or grand houses, but he was the bearer of bad news, and solemnly explained that the river had taken Jack. Despite his ability to swim in even the harshest currents (being a lad of the river) they had seen him steal a skiff and take off, hanging off the mainsail and shouting of a treasure to make him rich. The river men and women had all stood laughing at his antics until the skiff tipped and the boy stayed under long after he should have surfaced.

Behind Ivy, Forrester and Mrs Aske had gathered, their faces grey and fists clenched. The Foss Ferryman had good news though. They had rescued Jack’s pack, which had miraculously survived - no one knew how - not only intact, but absolutely dry.

He held it out to Ivy, cap in hand.

The End.