Kieran.Stories

In February, my partner booked a stay for us in Whitby. In the mornings, we walked the mile into town. On our second morning at the inn, our room door contracted due to the cold, and we couldn’t leave. There was a small casement window, through which we spoke to the maintenance manager. It was a problem door, he explained. Eventually, we got out and then about, but our feelings towards the inn had changed, and at the end of the day I was slightly reluctant to return. We had a new room, because of the problem door. It felt like we weren’t supposed to be there, and possibly that was true.

That night, someone came into our room. I heard the sound of a keycard unlocking the door. My partner leant over the bed. ‘Hello?’ But the figure was leaving, closing the door behind them. In my memory, they left slowly, walking backwards, retracing their steps into the courtyard. The sensor light came on a couple of times, but I saw no one outside. It was two in the morning.

We called the emergency number on the inn’s website. The lady on the other side assured us that if the intruder tried the door again, she was only next door. This added to the strangeness. She was next door. It was somehow less than reassuring. I made a coffee. The silver kettle was awkward. The cord was too short. I spilt a few drops of boiled water onto my wrist. I took the unfamiliar mug back to bed. I sat on top of the covers, trousers on. I started reading Edward Parnell’s Ghostland: In Search of a Haunted Country, which I had bought from the Whitby Bookshop. I was drawn in by Richard Wells’ cover illustration. But then I started reading, and I felt a huge sense of relief. The book was more than good; it was just what I needed. I made another cup of coffee. I was at ease with the kettle. The mug didn’t seem that different to my favourite mug at home. The book had done its job. I felt calmer, despite the Nescafé.

Ghostland is both a memoir and a selective history of the British ghost story, with a particular focus on M.R James, but that description isn’t quite right. The book it reminded me most of was All the Devils Are Here by David Seabrook. It’s a book with ginnels. If you want to get lost in its pages, that’s easy to do. Parnell writes about the power of family, how our immediate family shapes us, even when they’re no longer with us. There is a great sense of loss in Ghostland, but also love; Parnell’s love for his parents and brother, but also his passion for the writers he explores in the text.

I was primed to like Ghostland. (As the kids say, I’m well into this hauntological shit.) But it still had an infectious quality. Since reading, I thought again about the M.R James stories I read last October. I took on the challenge of reading all of his ghost stories. As October dragged on, and Halloween came and went, the challenge became more profound. I was sick of his voice in my ear. Maybe the trick to M.R James and his uncanny stories was to eat them slowly. Shortly after finishing Ghostland, I treated myself to the BFI boxsets of the BBC’s A Ghost Story for Christmas strand. I spaced them out over about six weeks and loved every one, and I wouldn’t have made the effort if it wasn’t for Ghostland.

On the drive home from Whitby, I read more of Ghostland. I fell asleep with the book in my lap, and it dropped into the footwell as my partner accelerated onto the motorway. I had weird dreams about the fens, ghosts, henges, and hooded figures. There is something special about dreaming a book. At home, I finished Ghostland in a couple of days, which is quite speedy for me. I read one long chapter in bed, holding the book up above, straining my arms. I hadn’t done that since I was twelve, working my way through Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, or various Beatles books. The book has become a part of my personal history. Whenever I think about it, I will remember our stay in Whitby, our intruder in the dead of night.