The Grim Ghost (3 page)
Pliny sipped his ale and looked around the garden. “I cannot tell you,” he said slowly. “I would be mocked. I am an important man.”
“Grandma says you are a friend of the emperor,” the boy nodded.
“I am. So we cannot have people saying Pliny is a foolish man who thinks he sees ghosts.”
Pertinax nodded. “I can see that. Maybe… maybe you could tell it as if it happened to someone else? Somewhere else?”
Pliny half-closed his eyes and thought. “I could. Let’s say this story happened in Greece… in Athens.”
“In a garden that looked like this?” Pertinax grinned.
“In a garden like this. A lot like this…”
Then Pliny told his story.
And this is what he said…
The house in Athens was beautiful. It was large and cool, and the garden was full of colours and shades, flowers and sighing trees. The family that lived there had been so very happy.
Then, one night, a storm brewed and bubbled in the purple skies over Athens. A flash of lightning lit the rooms, and the crash of thunder woke the heaviest sleepers.
The thunder rumbled out over the ocean and left a soft silence that comes before the rain. And in that silence, the family heard sounds. Sounds like the rattling of chains.
At first, the rattling seemed far away. But with each moment it grew nearer and nearer until it deafened everyone. They all rushed to the great dining room, and huddled together in fear.
The slaves clutched each other in the dark corners of the room. Some tried to scream, but no sound came from their throats.
There was a silver flash of lightning and everyone waited, breathless, for the thunder. When it came, it sounded like the mighty clash of a thousand chains. A freezing wind blew open the shutters and they turned to look at the light glowing at the window.
The light seemed to shift and change and take on the shape of a man.
No one could breathe. The glowing man looked ancient. He had a flowing, white beard and long, grey hair that streamed in the wind.
His hands and chains rattled and clattered. He opened his mouth as if to speak… or scream. But no sound came. His eyes glowed like great Moon-green globes. His face showed terror. As he stepped into the room, there was a final clash of thunder and chains, then he vanished.
The rains came. They fell on the empty garden, smashed onto the roof tiles and gurgled in the gutters.
The shaken family and slaves clung to one another as they went back to their beds. But one old slave didn’t move anywhere. The ancient cook was stiff and still and staring. She had died of fright.
Morning came after a dreadful night of storms. Yet the grim ghost of the spirit seemed to hang on. No one could see the old man in the daytime… but everyone could feel him watching.
The second night was not as bad as the night before, but the faint rattle of chains let no one sleep.
The next morning, the master of the house gathered together the tired family and slaves. “We are selling the house,” he said. “We are moving away from this place that the gods have cursed.”
Before the day was over, the house was empty and became the lair of the grim, grey ghost.
No one wanted to live there. The house was cheap, a gift, but the spirit was too fearsome for most families to face.
Then, one day, Dorus the teacher came to the city looking for somewhere to live. He asked many questions, and the master of the house told Dorus the terrifying truth. “Even in the daytime the spirit will drive you mad with fear,” he warned.
Dorus nodded. “I know the sort of monster you mean. It sounds unhappy.”
“Unhappy! Not so unhappy as the slave woman it scared to death. Good sir, we would like to sell the house – of course – but are you sure you want it?”
“I’m sure,” Dorus nodded. He decided to buy the place and no one could talk him out of it.
A few days later, Dorus moved in. He had a special seat put at the window. First he ordered his writing tablet and pen…
