Spirits from the other side

It was a few days before Hallowe’en. A package came through the mail. There was only a short note, saying that my late uncle had wanted me to have some tapes he’d recorded on a trip up north.

Uncle Clark was always interested in ghost stories. And for a time he had a mania for recording them. You’d see him in an old pub, trying to get the locals to tell him about strange noises in the cellar. Sometimes they played along, sometimes they didn’t.

I don’t know which pub this was. Somewhere up in Geordieland, to judge by the accent. We can’t here Clark very well, it’s all a bit muffled. But we can hear his drinking companion loud and clear. Very loud, in fact. So loud, you’d almost suspect he’s trying to convince himself.

Transcript

[background noise, chatter. A clatter of glass and a raucous shout of ‘Weeeey!’ drowns out Clark’s voice]

[drinker, replying to Clark] Wye man, bollocks man! Ghosts? Haddaway. That’s fer bairns, that.

Yer reckon some soft lad’s been saying this place is haunted, like? Nivvor in the world. Ah’ll tell summat fer nowt. Aal this tark of ghosts, it’s just some dafties having yer on, man. Yer see it loads. Some owld bugger reckons he’s seen summat he cannit unnerstan. But yer divvint want to lewk like a divvy in front of yer marras. So you mek up some slavva aboot ghosts and goolies.

[adopts a posh, wavery voice] Ooooh, spirits from the other side. Knock, if there’s anybody there!

[resumes usual voice] Tell yer wat. It’s nowt to dee wi’ nee ‘great divide’. Spirits from the other side of that bar, mebbes, but not the other side of owt else. Heh! That’s a belter. Put that in yer bewk! Folks see owt when they lewk through the bottom of a glass.

[inaudible question]

Haddaway and shite, man! Dee yer knaa how owld this place is? Hunneds of years, man! Course yer get funny noises. Them big wooden doors gan aal creaky. And they fair bang if yer let ‘em swing shut. Worraboot that big owld fireplace? Comes with a big owld chimney, like. Get some wind bla’ing? That’s yer moanin’ and groanin’, right doon the chimney inta the bar. Gans like ‘Wooooo!’. That’ll be yer caald spots anarl. This place is proper owld, man, it’s gonna get draughts. Nowt soopa-nachural aboot that. It’s arnly nachural, like, place this owld.

[the background noise has quietened down during that last speech, but the next comment is still inaudible]

Atmosphere? At-mos-fi-ya? Ha’way. Ah reckon some daft lad’s been havin’ yer on, kidda. There’s nee such thing as ghosts, man. Not yar, not neewhere. Like ah say, that stuff’s fer bairns and dippity wee lasses. It’s nee crack fer a propa gadgie, man.

[a muffled thump in the background. Possibly the cellar door closing with a thud?]

‘Ow, sup up, lad. Lewk aboot yer! There’s aalmost neebody left in yar, like. And yer divint want ter be the last one in, mind. Ah nivvor like ter be the last in yar. Howay, get crackin’. It’s ower time to gan yem, man!

[A final decisive thud of glass on beer mat. A scrape of a stool. Footsteps. A door creaks. A low hum, then a click at the end of the tape. Silence.]