Disclaimer: if you don't believe in ghosts or have trouble believing in other world happenings - don't worry about it just don't read this tale.

Night Scare Plus a Visit from Black Jack The Pirate

Christmas Eve: 1974. We were newly arrived in Newlyn, Cornwall, U.K. My son and I were joining my mother and sister, who were staying in a rented house belonging to a couple of teachers who resided "Up Smoke" and were rarely seen in these parts.

It was quite a charming house, but with London being such a huge distance from Cornwall, the owners found it difficult to carry out the necessary housing inspections. The house's advanced state of decay was not immediately visible to the naked eye. However, we were about to find out the extent of neglect in the not too distant future.

The house was perched on a hill overlooking the ocean, there were houses on either side that butted up to the side fences, and as there were no houses directly in front the magnificent view of the ocean was unimpeded

Central to the ocean view was the stone walled entrance to the small harbour where traditionally at Christmas, fairy lights were strung along the outline of the small sailing boat, the deliciously indolent mermaid, a couple of huge swans and of course the stone wall.

The first night my small three year old son and I arrived from Italy, via the doubtful graces of an extremely chauvinistic Italian airline company, (but that is another story altogether) my mother asked Patrick to come into the parlour to gaze out of the big window, towards the walled inlet.

The time was about 6.25pm, and as she carefully propped him up against the back of the sofa she told him that when she clicked her fingers the most exciting thing would happen. In fact, all the lights in the harbour were going to come on exactly when she told them to. He waited in wide-eyed concentration, all three years of him, rapt in anticipation of the promised magic. At 6.30pm precisely, my mother clicked her fingers and what should happen, but of course all the lights came on. The ancient harbour was alive. The old sailing ship outlined with fairy lights looked as if it was going to float up into the heavens, the two swans swam lightly on a reflective mirror of darkness; the indolent mermaid became revitalised, and was no longer indolent. The fabled, siren became the sultry sensuous temptress inviting man to meet his destiny.

The excitement over, dinner was prepared, followed by bed for Patrick. We followed suit a little later. At about 2.00am, a small, frightened, cold little body climbed into my bed. There was a desperate sound in the air; the joints of the house were creaking loudly, as the wind screamed around the roof vigorously trying to lift the tiles. The roar of the ocean was in direct competition with the storm huge grey waves thundering onto the beach, the mermaid was no longer visible she had obviously dived for cover. It was a storm of huge dimensions, and (naturally because we travellers had just arrived!) the worst in Cornwall for ten years.

The house decided to pack it in, the heating pipes froze, and the hot water system formed a great boiling geyser above the back door shooting water in all directions, quite effectively cutting off any escape. The toilet backed up, not a pretty sight really, but the last gasp was when all the lights went out and the phone disconnected.

My mother urgently suggested that my sister and I negotiate down hill, mid storm, to find a telephone box and ring friends in Goldsythney to come and rescue us. My small son elected not to join us on this woolly adventure.

The storm literally embraced us as we slipped and sloshed along the muddy laneway to climb under the rusted wire fence to take a short cut down the hill. Lightening flashed about us, the bright, white streaks menacing. The long, wet, grass alternately pulled and flicked at our clothes as our shoes slid on the loose stones. The whole surreal experience became even more memorable, as our eyes caught the green, glassy orbs of the many black cats sitting in the bow windows of the locally owned houses. Owned, it was whispered, by the village witches.

Never was a sight more welcome than the vandalised red telephone box, with its handset still intact. The phone was in working order. We rang, our generous Cornish friends answered, and soon a car was on its way to rescue us. Such kind friends were they that at 3.00am there were beds waiting, and fresh hot aromatic coffee perking. Our relief was palpable. We had escaped the dying house.

The next morning the sun shone weakly into the huge kitchen highlighting the devastation of our previous night, our bags where we had dumped them and our meagre belongings still scattered across the floor. Breakfast over; my sister decided to take my son on a bus ride to Lands End. My mother and I chose to remain behind to unpack what little we had managed to salvage in our flight from the night terrors.

My mother sat chatting to me from a distance of about fifteen feet, watching my endeavours as I squatted down in front of the old kitchen cupboards to carefully place our few domestic objects into their cavernous interiors.

In a squatting position my very vulnerable posterior made quite a good target for a pinch, and so when I felt a remarkably hard pinch I jumped up, quite angrily in fact, to ask my mother why she had done this. To my utter amazement she was still in exactly the same position as she had been when I last looked, in actual fact hadn't moved off the sofa on the other side of the wide room. She got up only when she witnessed me jumping up to rub my bottom. " what happened?"  She asked. As I rubbed the injured spot I told her that I had been pinched by what felt like a large male hand, and, as there were definitely no males in evidence it was most strange!

Apparently Black Jack the pirate, and resident Goldsythney ghost, also known in the village as a bit of a ladies man, had given into temptation and struck again!

Copyright: a.a.gallagher. 1986

and there must always room for a monty python movie!