The Leaden Pull of the Sea

I carry a darkness within me. It is the shadow of my former sins and cravings, a shadow magnified by the presence of something other...

To any who are new to these teachings, please consult my previous posts which form an account of an investigation into a haunted house, carried out by this author and some assistants in a Northern English town during the summer 2010.

In this next lesson, I wish to instruct my readers on how a spiritual experience in one location can leave an impression which draws spectral presences in another.

Last summer, I had spent hours alone in New Brighton's Magazine's Hotel. It is often quiet during the weekdays when I passed most of my time there, either deep in thought or committing memories of my Uncle’s adventures to paper. There is an atmosphere about the place. The face reflected in the upraised glass is not one’s own. A shadow crosses the gleam of a brass hanging when none has moved in the pub. A scent is detected – a hint of a floral fragrance, an odour of roasting pig. Faint sounds emanate from unoccupied corners; I have even noticed a distinct taste of rum appearing in the back of my throat, a drink which I have not attempted in years. It would appear our very senses are haunted by this building.

I was once alerted to a spectral face peering from a tiny, second floor window, by a group of middle-aged male drinkers sat at the next table in the beer garden. It appeared they were all aware of stories of a ghostly presence peering out from time to time light and when one of them called out that old ‘Kieran’ was looking out at us and began waving up at the window, they all turned and waved jovially. It appeared later that only one of the group had seen the image as a discussion followed about sunlight on glass etcetera; however I can confirm that a face, not entirely substantial, peered from that window, looking seaward. It was a tired, pinched face, that of an old man which stared so wistfully from behind the glass for several seconds, before a cloud snuffed out the window’s gleam.

I asked the gentlemen who had spotted the apparition who ‘Kieran’ was and he replied pleasantly enough, stating it was the name of the ghost which various people had claimed to spot looking from the window. Unable to provide any more information on this spectre he advised I talk to the bar staff who often complained of an uneasy atmosphere about the building, before discoursing on the superstitions around the stuffed witches hung in the bar area.

Built two and a half centuries ago, the Mags served the ‘powder village’, the community who grew around the powder store whose remnants survive in the form of turreted walls and gates opposite a row of fisherman’s cottages. Several rooms, including a space barely larger than an alcove, open off the central bar and despite its size, this layout together with the dark beams and panelling render the place a dark, snug pub. The mind that is adrift in the ebb and flow of the material realm finds something deeply reassuring about such places; something womb-like even; ale washes through the body, numbing anxiety, unyoking us from that which anchors us into gloom; pumped froth heaves into bright glasses, its swirling clouds settle into an earthen glow whose richness sets the heart singing, awakening laughter, luring us back again and again into its embrace.

If I were not an enlightened man, I would devote every waking hour to the celebration of ale; as a spiritual leader, I have cast my bond to the temporal world asunder. When I sip on ale I am not immersed in pleasure but I surrender to the life brewed into the drink itself.
What a remarkable life ale has, even in the pub alone. Kept amid the sandstone, until it is summoned forth and fleet-footed, it wings its passage up from the dark cellars to impart the produce of fertile soils and sun-nurtured hops into the shining vessel. Golden life summoned from the rock, bearing the drinker on its wing, even as it binds him to the rock.

Acting on the fore-mentioned gentleman’s suggestion I did talk to one of the chattier barmaids who expressed a general dislike of the ‘creepy’ cellar. It was a quiet afternoon when we spoke and I offered to accompany her down there when she had to change a barrel. She was glad of the company and together we descended into that dank space.

Two things struck me about the cellars. Firstly they reminded me of the catacombs below the house at St Hilary’s and they did indeed draw out the stain those dark depths impressed upon my psyche; secondly, they reminded me of a dank, cramped cell I had dwelled in when I was studying in India, a place that I do not happily recall.

Standing on the steps with dank air wafting up, accompanied by the smell of ale and stagnant water, the briney tang that laced the air with a fresher tinge, suggested we were in the hull of a boat ready to set sail out across the estuary.

I recall the self-satisfied laughter of a couple of gentlemen and the ticking of the clock in the bar drifting down but these were drowned under a flood of impressions that welled upward, poured from the rock itself: I was conscious of the porous stone which enclosed us along with the drag of tides beyond; I felt, as if they were within me, cargos hauled from the swell and then a corpse bobbing like a cork, until turning tides dragged it back across rocks, smearing fleshy residue across the matted weeds; I was the slapping, slopping tides as they retreated and as they turned, rising again, I was pounding into crevices, exploding over humps of rock, collpassing into bubbles skating across the film, skittering across the sweep of sand, until the inexorable, leaden drag of the currents gathered me. It was an impression of moonlight breaking into my senses that roused me, for as the radiance broke through me, I soared beyond the dead pull of the sea...

It was this transcendent state, that saved both of us. Aligned with the sense of the deep currents of the sea, some unseen thing burst through the cellar and dragged itself taut around us...

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My acolyte referred to himself as ‘ed.’ in the last post.

He is not an editor, he is a devoted student of my teachings which he commits to computer.

He is a typist.

He is gaining enlightenment through this service to mankind. Any adoption of titles, or hubristic meddling with my words are manifestations of egoism and they shall be replied to with a sermonising that will scatter as dust, the most impertinent of personalities.

He was correct however, to say that those few who will comprehend its guidance may acquire the history of my maternal uncle’s adventures via ‘Amazon’ on the ‘internet’; it cannot be bought in shops, even those reservoirs, nay, kingdoms of culture - second-hand bookshops!
I must not appear ungrateful of course, I have tolerated the attentions of my hosts recently. My acolyte’s good lady wife permits one evening a week when i may take advantage of their hospitality although i am forced to bathe before I may join the family for dinner. Last week, this was a necessity as I had, on this occasion, been handling the dead – all for the most noble of reasons of course which I shall divulge when you, my loyal readership, is fully prepared.