By way of a taster for Ghost Ship, here is a special 'teaser piece' penned by author Keith Topping.

This letter does not appear in the novella itself.

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John Lamb
Lily Cottage
3 George Lane
Allan on the Whay
Rutland

 

My dearest John,

I promised that I should write to you before we reached New York with my perceptions of the voyage and so on. I am attempting to keep that promise, as I always do upon these trips, even if it is in strange circumstances. Stranger than you can possibly imagine. You will be pleased to know that we embarked from Southampton exactly upon the hour (you know how I worry about such punctuality). Since then, I am sad to say, matters have been less straightforward.

The Queen Mary is, as you are possibly aware, a vast and ominously labyrinthine vessel with nooks and crannies and many dark and hidden secrets. The sound of ill-concealed laughter from behind half-closed cabin doors is never far from me. I must, I fear, sound desperately paranoid. But I sense that upon this ship I am being watched constantly by an unknown and malevolent entity. I really must tell you of a terribly disturbing incident that occurred shortly after we embarked on our voyage. Yet I do not know how to begin my story without it sounding like the most preposterous tale of smoke and mirrors. You will, I know, believe after reading what I now must tell you, that I am quite, quite mad.

On the first night out of port, believe me when I assure you that I was in as convivial a mood as you could recognise. The evening had offered no hint of the terrors to come. Sanity, or lack of it, was the furthest thing from my mind at that time. Whilst walking to my cabin after dinner, and you will see I am sure that my hands tremble as I write this, the air became chilled, like the first frosts of oncoming winter. I thought nothing of this phenomenon at first - Atlantic nights can be this way, I am told by those who know about such things. But as I approached a corridor leading to the first class cabins, my breathing becoming more laboured in the suffocating atmosphere of my exertion as I hurried to my destination, I heard a scratching behind me. I turned to look from whence I imagined the noise had come but to my surprise I found nothing there.

This continued along one corridor after another. An insistent skittering. At a corner close to my cabin, I stopped and turned, frustrated and angry, hoping to confront the trickster who was dogging my footsteps for I knew not what purpose. Again, I found nothing. Except that, from behind me, in the direction towards my cabin that I had been facing a second earlier, there came the distinctive voice of a little girl whispering.

I cannot tell you what she said. If truth be told, I am not sure, now, that she actually said anything that could properly be classified as words or phrases that you would recognise. But there was a menace in her voice. A cold and deadly thing, I turned to face this wretched child and she was there, right before my face, her nose almost touching mine. I gasped, drew in a breath to scream, and in the blink of an eye she was gone once more. Now a weight, like a stone dipped in rank dread, sank to the pit of my stomach. Goosebumps raised all over my skin. Terrified, I hurried for my cabin, reached it, locked the door and bolted it. And then I climbed, shivering, into my bed.

My dearest brother, I fear that by the time this letter reaches you it may already be too late for me. You will, I am sure, be surprised that such as I, who normally scorn the supernatural and all that it stands for, have had my head filled with such notions. But I have felt them. Moments ago, I saw them again. Here, in my cabin.

I close, my dear John, with a ray of hope. I have met a man, a doctor, who tells me that there is nothing to worry about. That everything will be better in the morning. Someone who has, perhaps, known the bitter taste of these wraiths and who may offer both them, and myself, a deliverance of sorts.

I hope that I shall speak to you again on my return.

 

Your loving sister

Irene

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