The Regulars
Although it was only a short run from the car park to the front door of The King's Arms Pub, a stream of water dripped off Dabney Ashburton's mac when he entered the centuries-old hostelry, creating small puddles on the stone floor. Four elderly gentlemen sat at a table near the fireplace, watching him as he removed the wet garment and hung it from a wooden peg on the wall.
"It's brutal out there!" Dabney announced, wiping the water off his spectacles with his shirt.
"Delilah," one of the old men at the table called to the pretty, redheaded barmaid, "get this fellow a brandy to warm him up."
"Thanks, but I'll have tea instead."
"Suit yourself, lad."
"Mind if I pull up a chair and join you gentlemen?" the newcomer asked.
"Go right ahead."
"My name's Dabney," he introduced himself. "Dabney Ashburton."
"I'm Nigel Rigby," a man whose once flaming red hair and beard had long since gone white. "This old duffer next to me is Wylie Milloy."
Wylie, whose most notable feature was the thick, horn-rimmed spectacles he wore, nodded his head in greeting at the newcomer.
"The handsome geezer to his right is Tony Livermore, and the old coot next to him is Leslie Wickens."
"Pleased to meet you," the distinguished-looking Tony said, temporarily removing his pipe from his mouth to speak.
Leslie, who was sitting just to the left of Dabney, reached out his arm for a handshake.
"What brings you out on a god-awful night like this?" Tony asked.
"I'm writing a book about the inns, pubs, taverns and such of Great Britain," the former newspaperman-turned-author replied.
"And you hope to get it published?" Nigel asked with a good deal of skepticism. "I don't imagine too many people would want to read something like that—no offense intended."
"None taken. I already have a publisher. You see, this isn't the first book I've written. The previous two sold so well that the publisher requested I write a third one."
"Are both your previous works about pubs, too?" Wylie asked.
"No. The first one was about lighthouses, and the second was about battlefields."
"Oh, I see," Tony said. "You write travel guides for tourists."
"No," Dabney explained. "I write about haunted places."
"Ah! You're one of those nutters," Nigel joked, and the four men began to laugh.
"I didn't say I actually believed in ghosts myself," the author said somewhat defensively. "I don't, in fact. I just write about what other people claim to have experienced."
"And is that what you're doing here tonight?" Leslie inquired. "Do you think The King's Arms is haunted?"
"Yes. I've heard several rumors that it is," the author replied.
"Well, if anybody ever saw ghosts here, it would be one of us," Nigel asserted, signaling for Delilah to bring him another pint. "We're regulars."
"That's true. We practically live here," Wylie added.
"And have any of you ever seen or heard anything strange?" Dabney asked.
"As a matter of fact, I did," Tony answered. "Just the other night some young bloke came in with his girlfriend. His hair was blue, and he had a ring in his nose. Hers was hot pink, and she had both her eyebrows and her lip pierced. I thought they were both damned strange."
Once again, the four old men broke out into laughter.
"If it's ghosts you're interested in," the bearded Nigel said. "You ought to go to Kyteler's Inn in Kilkenny. That is if you're going to include Irish locations in your book."
"Yes, I am."
"Good. Because Kyteler's is one you'll want to write about. Back in the fourteenth century, Kilkenny was the home of Dame Alice Kyteler. Alice married four times. All of her husbands were prominent, well-to-do men. Her first husband was a merchant and moneylender. When he died five years into the marriage, the widow took over his business and increased her fortune. Her second husband was also a moneylender who had children from a previous marriage."
Nigel paused long enough to wet his whistle. Then he wiped his mouth and continued speaking.
"There were them that believed Alice and her new husband had a hand in the death of the first husband, but nothing ever came of the accusations. Because of her great wealth and moneylending activities, Dame Alice was resented by the people of Kilkenny. Then her second husband, a heavy drinker, died. But before he left this world, he signed over all his property to Alice and her son."
"I'll bet his kids weren't happy with that!" Wylie laughed.
"Marriage number three was to another wealthy man. This time a landowner. When he passed away, she sued his heirs, claiming the widow's share of his estate. Having lost most of their inheritance to Alice, the children shared their suspicions with the children of husband number two. They concluded that Alice killed her first three husbands and was currently planning the demise of husband number four—not by natural means, mind you, but by sorcery."
"Sorcery?" Dabney echoed.
"Yes. They claimed she conjured up an evil spirit in the form of a large black dog. After that unfortunate chap died, charges of witchcraft and heresy were brought against Alice and her maidservant, a woman known as Petronilla de Meath. They were both found guilty and sentenced to be burned at the stake. However, Alice was able to escape ...."
"Ain't that just like the rich!" Wylie interjected. "They always buy their way out of trouble. Don't they?"
"She was smuggled to England, where presumably she lived a quiet life."
"Odd that she managed to avoid execution and yet her ghost haunts the inn," the writer observed.
"It's not Dame Alice's ghost you'll find at Kyteler's Inn. It's that of the woman known as the Kilkenny Witch: Alice's servant, Petronilla de Meath. With her mistress gone, the poor woman was left alone to face the vengeful wrath of the authorities and townsfolk. She made a full confession—probably after being tortured—and was burned at the stake before a crowd of spectators. She was the first witch executed in Ireland."
"That poor woman," Dabney said. "To die such a horrible death because of people's ignorance and superstition! I can't imagine any sane person believing someone could conjure up an evil spirit in the form of a dog."
"Speaking of dogs," Wylie said. "I heard of a place in York called Ye Olde Starre Inne that's supposedly haunted by two phantom black cats that enjoy tormenting dogs."
"I'll bet my readers will love to hear about that one," the writer declared as he reached into his jacket pocket for a small pad of paper and a pen. "Wait a second. Let me take some notes. I don't want to forget anything."
He quickly jotted down the keywords under the name of the first inn: Kilkenny Witch, Dame Alice Kyteler, four husbands, Petronilla de Meath and several others. Then he turned to a fresh page and labeled it Ye Olde Starre Inn. He wrote down three words: phantom black cats. Once he stopped writing, Wylie Milloy commenced telling his tale.
"Dating back to 1644, Ye Olde Starre is reported to be the oldest pub in York. As such, it has its share of ghostly tales. Apparently, the basement of the inn was used as a field hospital after the battle of Marston Moor. It's said you can hear the screams of wounded royalists that were cared for there. There's also a mysterious woman in black who occasionally appears on the staircase."
"Yes, but what about the phantom cats?" Dabney prompted.
"Long ago, it was common practice to put live cats in a wall or foundation of a building. For some strange reason, people believed a feline's presence would ward off bad luck and protect the home from fire. In the case of Ye Olde Starre, not one but two black cats were bricked into the pillar between the bar and the door. To this day, customers at the pub claim to hear the animals' spirits howl in the night, complaining about their cruel imprisonment."
"And the dogs?" Nigel asked.
"It's believed that canines, due to their superior senses of smell and hearing, are aware of the cats' presence when humans aren't. People who bring their dogs into the inn, claim the poor beasts can see 'something' that isn't there. The hair stands up on their backs, and they growl or whine at the unseen cats. One poor hound was so frightened, he ran into a pillar and knocked himself out!"
"That's a good story," the writer declared, scribbling in his notepad. "I'll be sure to put that one in my book."
"I've got a better one for you," Tony Livermore boastfully announced, putting aside his pipe. "And since it involves sex and murder, your readers will surely love it."
With his pen poised above his notepad, the former journalist was all ears.
"The place is called The Sun Inn, and it's located in Saxilby, Lincolnshire. Go ahead and write that down," he instructed Dabney. "A disreputable chap by the name of Tom Otter lived there back in 1805. Tom fancied a young girl by the name of Mary Kirkham, and she soon found herself in trouble. By that, I mean she was expecting that rogue's child. Tom decided to do right by the girl, and they were married. The only problem was, Tom already had a wife."
"That no-good bounder!" Wylie exclaimed, his eyes glaring behind his spectacles.
"It turns out lechery and bigamy are the least of Tom's faults. After marrying poor Mary, he soon had second thoughts. Wanting to rid himself of an unwanted wife, he drove a hedge spike through her heart and murdered her!"
"I hope he paid for his crime for his own life," Dabney said.
"That he did! Tom was apprehended, tried at the inn, found guilty and hanged. After the execution, his body was cut down, bound in irons and suspended from a high post to show to all who passed by that justice had been served—and no doubt act as a warning to anyone who might consider murdering someone in the future. Now, here comes the strange part. The body was so weighted down that it fell from the post and killed a man standing beneath it."
"So, he murdered two people!" Nigel exclaimed with surprise.
"Although one was purely unintentional and accidental," Tony added. "Anyway, Tom's ghost is said to haunt the inn, occasionally accompanied by a female wraith."
"Could it be that of Mary Kirkham, the unfortunate girl he killed while she was carrying his child?" the writer wondered.
"It's quite possible," the debonaire Tony replied. "There's a stain on the stone steps of the inn that is said to be Mary's blood. Legend is that despite the best efforts of multiple landlords, the stain can't be removed."
"What about you?" Dabney asked, addressing the fourth man at the table. "Have you got a story that can top that one?"
"Indeed, I've got an incredible tale to tell," Leslie Wickens replied. "But's it more comical than frightening or sad."
"Let's hear it," Wylie said. "After Tony's story, I could use a good laugh."
"Wait just a second," Dabney requested, turning to a new page in his notepad. "Okay. What's the name of the place?"
"The Smuggler's Haunt Hotel—how's that for a catchy name? It's located in Brixham, Devon," Leslie told the writer who included the information in his notes. "The smuggler associated with the three-century-old inn was a bloke named Bob Elliot. In 1851, Bob was hoping to escape from excisemen who wanted to question him concerning the smuggling of contraband tobacco."
Nigel ordered another round of drinks for the table, and Tony refilled his pipe in anticipation of hearing another entertaining yarn.
"Back in those days," Leslie continued, "a coffin maker had set up shop in what is now the Smuggler's Haunt reception area. Bob got the idea that he could evade justice by faking his own death. First, he spread the word of his demise through the village. Then, he bought himself a coffin and lay inside it. There was a funeral procession, and he was buried in the churchyard. That night, his friends dug up the grave."
"Let me guess," Dabney said with amusement. "Bob was dead."
"No. He was still alive. But it was his misfortune to later be spotted by the same excisemen he was trying to avoid."
"After all that, he was arrested anyway. Damn me!" Nigel exclaimed.
"No. He wasn't. Those excisemen believed Bob was really dead. So, when they saw him walking about, they thought it was his ghost, and they ran for their lives. After that, people dubbed the smuggler Resurrection Bob."
"That was a good one," the writer said, jotting down more notes on his notepad. "I'll be sure to include that in my book as well."
Once the four elderly gentlemen had each told a tale, several other patrons at The King's Arms contributed stories. One of them spoke about The Talbot Hotel in Oundle, which was allegedly haunted by the ghost of Mary, Queen of Scots. Another described the ghostly man with his phantom dog seen at The Black Lion in Northampton. A third customer entertained them by recounting hauntings at The Angel and Royal Hotel in Grantham, a lodging founded by the Knights Templar and visited by both King John and Richard III. Yet another patron described a melancholic ghost at The Castle Inn in Dublin. The last of the customers mentioned The Old Silent Inn, located in Keighley, believed to have gotten its name in 1745 when villagers were warned to "keep silent" about the presence of Bonnie Prince Charlie who was paying a visit to the inn.
Even Emmett, The King's Arms' bartender, had a ghostly tale to tell. His story centered on a pair of invisible lovers seen at The Crumplehorn Inn and Mill in Cornwall.
"All this talk of ghosts and witches," the young Delilah complained when she passed by the regulars' table beside the fireplace. "I'll be too scared to walk home tonight."
"Surely, you don't believe any of these accounts?" Dabney laughed. "They're nothing but legends and myths."
The barmaid shrugged noncommittedly and asked, "Can I get you gents anything else?"
"How about another round for all of us?" Nigel suggested.
"And would you like another cuppa tea?" she asked the author.
"No. I think I'll take a pint this time."
When Delilah returned with the drinks, Tony asked if she knew of any haunted inns or pubs.
"Not personally, no, but when I was a girl, I heard Mum tell her friend, Bertha Frietchie, a story about The St. Kew Inn in Cornwall. Back in the 1970s, they installed a new waterpipe in the bar. During the excavation, workmen unearthed a human skeleton. A detective chief inspector from the local constabulary was called in, and he sent the remains to a forensics laboratory. Workers at the lab claimed the bones were those of a teenage girl who died nearly a century earlier. There was a police investigation, but the girl's identity was never discovered, nor did they ever find out why she was buried beneath the bar. Although she was later reburied in consecrated ground, it's said her spirit haunts The St. Kew."
"Bravely spoken, Delilah," the bushy-bearded Nigel laughingly teased her. "I'm sure if you do encounter a ghost on your walk home, it will run from you in fear!"
"So, now that everyone here has told a ghost story—as though we were a bunch of macabre Canterbury Tales pilgrims—what should we talk about?" Tony asked.
"Not all of us have contributed to the conversation," Leslie pointed out and turned his head toward the author.
"That's right," Wylie said. "You must know dozens of such stories since you're collecting them for your book. Why don't you share one with us?"
"Yes," Tony agreed, filling the air with pipe smoke. "And make it a good one."
"When you arrived, you claimed to have heard a rumor that this place is haunted. Who or what is lying in wait for poor Delilah at The King's Arms?" Nigel chuckled.
Dabney took a swallow from his pint of beer, glanced at the dying embers in the fireplace grate and began.
"I don't know if any of you know this, but The King's Arms used to double as a courthouse. For eight hundred years, it served its dual purpose, during which time one hundred eighty-two known felons were hanged from that large beam above our heads. In fact, it was not until the middle of the nineteenth century that The King's Arms ceased to be a court of law and place of execution."
"I don't think I want to hear this," Delilah told the bartender.
"You go home then. It's almost time to close anyway," Emmett answered.
Meanwhile, Dabney continued his story.
"Given its sinister past, it's no wonder there have been multiple paranormal accounts over the centuries. Some people claimed to feel cold spots, while others see full-body apparitions. There are even visitors who claim to have felt a peculiar sensation around their necks as though an invisible noose had been slipped over their heads."
"Blimey!" Nigel exclaimed. "In all the years I've been coming here, I ain't never felt anything like that."
"Me neither," Wylie added. "If I had, I would never have come back."
"I think those people may have had a bit too much to drink," Tony opined.
"Either that or they were downright lying!" Leslie said.
"Like I said earlier," Dabney reiterated. "I don't believe in ghosts myself; I just write ...."
The clock on the fireplace mantel began to strike midnight. At the first chime, the author fell silent. His eyes, like those of the bartender and the other patrons, glazed over. The faces of every man in the centuries-old establishment then lost all expression. By the sixth chime, red welts began to rise on their necks, visual reminders of each man's death. At the strike of ten, nearly every head in the pub twisted and turned and assumed an unnatural angle with the body.
When the sound of the twelfth and final hour faded with the start of a new day, those restless spirits hanged at the former courthouse who stubbornly refused to accept their deaths vanished into the night—only to return to their place of execution the following evening and every evening after that.
The King's Arms is a fictional pub inspired by The Skirrid Mountain Inn in Wales. All the other inns in this story actually exist and are supposedly haunted.
Salem's favorite English pub is the Carlsberg in London. It is entirely made of edible chocolate! Even the drinks are served in chocolate glasses.
