Hypnogoria: Hypnogoria Halloween Advent Calendar - Door 25 -The Librarian's Tale Part IV

Further extracts from the diaries of Mr Michael Dalby, head of the the Centre for Local History Studies, Redvale Library

22nd October 2023

Glad not to be going into work today. Had another dreadful night, Whatever respite the pills from the doctor’s afforded me seems to be waning severely now. Sleep was very hard to come by. Last night I found myself at first feeling restless and then oddly disquieted. Getting very tense and starting at every little sound. Not sure why I was listening so intently. Twice when I did manage to drift off, I was instantly awoken when I thought I heard something. The first time I am fairly sure it was that ruddy owl hooting near my window again.

The second time I was sure I heard those voices from the library the other day, tittering and whispering in the hallway. I got up and made a complete search of the house - foolish perhaps, but better safe than sorry.

Eventually when I did finally drift into sleep, I was back in a grey misty reflection of this world again. This time I was in what looked like a vaster yet younger version of Chapel Hill Cemetery. I say younger because the trees all seemed smaller, the bushes and foliage sparser. It was like the place was relatively recently planted, perhaps only a few decades old. And as a consequence, one could see far further than one can now, and if there wasn’t the ever-present shroud of dream mist, I imagine you could have seen a vast landscape of tombs and headstones.

I remember, in the earliest part I recall, I was walking down a familiar path, the one that takes you past a distinctive Victorian mausoleum constructed of white stone. Indeed, I think that was how I knew I was at Chapel Hill. And much like the other night, my tall guide - I hesitate to write the word “friend” - was once again click-clacking faintly ahead of me, a mere sketch on the fog. But once again, following some logic in the context of the dream I now forget, I knew I must follow. A soft breeze lazily stirred the plumes of mist as I crackled down little paths strewn with crisp fallen leaves. Dew glinted on the branches like pearls, and occasionally dropped with a little splash. It was almost restful, or rather it would have been if not for the occasional strange noises among the headstones. Low chuckles and little coughs and barks. Occasionally I would just catch a glimpse of something moving - literally just the edge of what might be a head or an arched back. From the colour of the flesh, I was glad I could not see more of whatever… persons… were scampering stealthily around.

My mystery guide led me to a little glade, I am not sure where, for in the fog I had lost all my bearings, and the cemetery seemed, well, boundless is the correct term I think here. For usually one will catch sight of the old Victorian red brick walls that enclose Chapel Hill, but on this dream walk through the grounds I never once saw the boundary walls or gates, just more little paths weaving between tombs and monuments. This little glade contained naught but a stone grave. Or rather a large square of rough hewn stone, spotted with endless years of overlapping lichens. I dimly remembered that this old monument was reputed to be one of the oldest in the cemetery, carried over from the old Tudor chapel churchyard it had replaced. I seemed to remember that at one time, it was thought to be maybe a Roman grave marker. However this version of the stone differed from its waking world counterpart in one important regard. Like the rest of this dream Chapel Hill, it too seemed younger, less weathered, less encrusted with moss and lichen. Stooping to investigate this anomaly, I found I could make out some faint writing on its surface, a single word carved into the stone’s face. With a little difficulty, I picked away flakes of lichen and strands of mould, and uncovered the inscription, if that is what it was. A name perhaps - AMBROSIVS.

I remember seeing it so vividly, and indeed I made a point of scribbling it down as soon as I woke up for fear of it melting away as dream details so often do.

However, that was not the end of the dream. A distinctly unpleasant chuckle at my back made me whirl round, and I just caught sight of a rather horrid little gnarled face disappearing behind a nearby headstone. In fact, the shock of seeing those almost human features jolted me awake. And the lingering memory of that twisted little figure sliding back behind the headstone was enough to put me off attempting to get any more sleep.

I took a shower and after some toast and coffee, went over the notes I had jotted down on waking. I was not inclined to take a walk to Chapel Hill even though today turned out to be one of those mild autumn days filled with gentle sun. I know it is foolish to allow a dream to have such power over me, and perhaps it would have been better to make the trip and confront my fears.

I did, of course, want to investigate the matter of the inscription, but another thing that conveniently excused me from a stroll around the cemetery was that I knew full well that we had several excellent photographs of that square stone monument in the library archives. In fact, there were many photos of Chapel Hill taken in several different decades by the late Mr George Nesbit. Thankfully we have made good progress in digitising the collection and with a couple of clicks I could access what we have scanned already.

As I suspected however, the photographs showed no sign of any writing. However in one of the earliest - a Victorian sepia print - it did look like one could just make out the remains of several letters. Just fragments really, the peak of ‘a’, the curves of a ‘b’ and a ‘s’. If you didn’t know what you were looking for, you would have never been able to spot them. Most curious.

I will check on the history of that stone when I get a chance tomorrow. And that word - or is it a name - Ambrosius - rings a vague bell too. However I decided to leave any further digging until the morrow. Will pop out for a pint or two tonight I think, and treat myself to a take-away.

23rd October 2023

I am not sure whether it was the ale, a large greasy meal, or the pills, but I slept much better. Was pretty much dead out as soon as I hit the pillow. Felt a little rough this morning but nothing a good cuppa and some toast and manuka honey didn’t fix. Pleased to say I was, as usual, opening up the library bright and early.

Had a pleasant morning, and a welcome visit from my namesake at the radio station. He is a smarter fellow than his on air persona suggests and has always been a big supporter of our endeavours here. Today he had an enquiry about Chapel Hill funnily enough. It is for the hugely popular ghost section he has been running, and thankfully I knew the answer off the top of my head. I think it will make for some interesting radio!

At lunchtime, I found the original sepia print in the archives. and went over it with a magnifying glass. Yes, there the remains of the inscription is definitely just visible. And I got Kath and Sanj to have a look too, just to confirm I wasn’t merely seeing what I wanted too. I consulted a few other books and my memory was correct - it had been thought that the stone was a Roman grave marker for many years, however tests and carbon dating done in the 1970s had pretty much ruled that out. Instead it was now thought to be late mediaeval at the oldest. However there was no mention of any inscription. I’m guessing the letters had been almost gone by the time early antiquarians were taking an interest in such matters.

As for the inscription I saw in my dream, I cannot be certain from the visible letter fragments that the word is ‘ambrosius”. There are too many gaps to narrow down what it could be. However I did some digging to try to find some mention elsewhere. But so far, an exact match has eluded me.

But I did identify what I think it reminded me of. In the Aisling Chronicle, there is an early mention of Haggleton, which is chiefly concerned with the life and death of one Frater Ambrose, an ascetic - possibly a Cistercian monk for the chronicle refers to him dressing in a grey or undyed habit. He dwelt in a hermitage in what was then called the Great Thistledown Forest. He gets a mention thanks to reports of his unusual death, for it was said that this holy man was carried off by “winged messengers of terrible aspect” from the top of Ringstone Hill, at Hallowmas, in the year 1272.

Our chronicler notes that while there was much talk of his good works, including playing a part in the slaying of “a girt wyrm”, the Church Fathers were undecided as to whether his miracles were the work of the Almighty or the Opposition. Apparently his virtue was doubted because it was said he had claimed that he would be bodily resurrected to walk the world again, and our chronicler records there was much discussion on whether this was a blasphemous claim to begin with. Furthermore, the fact that the supposed miracle did not occur also counted against him. And therefore it was decided not to sanction a shrine in his memory.

Perhaps I am making too many connections, but could the square monument be some local memorial to him, something crude and simple, so as not to attract the wrath of the church authorities maybe? I am fairly sure though that it is this reference that I am thinking of. However, I have a little nagging feeling there might be another that I am forgetting.

24th October 2023

Last night I took a double dose of pills. Risky I know but before I retired to bed, I suddenly got a terrible bout of anxiety, and was very apprehensive of having more troubling dreams. I think what set me off was the fact that just as I was brushing my teeth, it suddenly hit me how bizarre things are getting. I mean, I dreamed of finding an inscription and then seemingly found proof that once, a very long time ago, there was something etched upon that stone. Something unknown to generations of historians and scholars. I forgot to mention, that yesterday I had overheard more talk of bad dreams in the town too.

As it was my strategy did pay off, I slept, not well but I slept, and while I did dream something, this morning I cannot quite recall what. And that suits me fine to be honest.

Writing this down now in the morning, before I go to work, it all seems so ludicrous, but last night it all seemed terribly plausible and I was almost convinced that something strange was unfolding, something I am following a few steps behind. It is probably nothing. Will write more this evening.

24th October 2023 - Later

I know I don’t normally write in the middle of the day but sorry diary I need to vent a little. Was chatting with Sanj about the various Hallowe’en activities in the works, and talk turned to this year’s lantern parade. Anyhow, he mentioned that this year, as well as the usual parade, there would be fireworks and a bonfire too. I raised an eyebrow at this, and made some remark about it being a bit early for that, and he replied that with everything going on lately, it had been decided to amp up the festivities this year, and send off Hallowe’en with a bang.

I must admit I thought that that was a good idea. But then he let something else slip - at the bonfire there is going to be a guy of sorts - an effigy of Dr Fell. I couldn’t believe it. I suspect I must have looked like old Mrs Riddell did all those years ago the first October I was here.

Now I totally get the thinking. It all happened over a century ago now, and it’s time to move on, and indeed the community has been moving on over the last decade or so. And burning Dr Fell would be a sort of exorcism of the shadow he has cast over this town for far too long.

But...

But there is something about this that really needles me, and I can’t really explain why. Just a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that this is actually the worst possible thing to do. Totally irrational I know. Is it perhaps just some deep seated resentment that I put in so much work on a book on the Fell case, but shelved it because I love this little town so much, and now it rankles that after being He Who Is Not To Be Named for so many years, suddenly he's the star attraction in a Hallowe’en parade? Actually writing this down now, I rather suspect that might well be the case. But we cannot always help how we feel, even if we can rationalise why we feel that way. Indeed I spent the rest of the day stuck with that horrible anxious feeling about the whole business.

25th October 2023

I double dropped again last night as the kids would say. But this time two lots of pills were to no avail. On the upside, I suppose at least I got to sleep quickly and easily. But what followed was far from restful.

I was late apparently, and what's more I was lost again. Back in that massive misty version of Chapel Hill, a Chapel Hill that seemed to continue on in all directions. In something of a panic, I looked around for my guide, but I could see naught but mist.

A rustling, or rather several rustlings, sounded from several directions around me, and I suddenly felt it would be a very good time to leave. And very swiftly. So I started to run, trying to find one of the main paths that lead out to the gates. However, both gates and walls remained stubbornly elusive.

I ran quicker and quicker, and my unseen followers seemed to be keeping pace and getting louder in their cackles and barks. I caught sight of a monument I recognised, that large pale Victorian mausoleum. I remembered that the main path was not too far away, and doubled my pace, feeling that escape was close at hand.

However with the perversity of dreams, the geography of this version of Chapel Hill did not match the one I knew. And no matter what direction I tried to run in, I kept on passing that imposing white mausoleum again and again. And all the while my pursuers, loping between the headstones, were gibbering and barking in obvious delight each time the path I had chosen had managed to loop me back once again to that pale tomb.

Eventually I just stopped, exhausted and panting. I was, of course, completely terrified, but too tired to go on. I closed my eyes and waited for whatever danced and capered among the graves to come and get me. I heard nearby rustlings, getting nearer, and then they stopped quite abruptly. There was a long pause, and then I heard sounds like my thankfully unseen followers were all scampering off in different directions, directions away from me.

I stood stock still and listened. There was nothing, only the drip-dropping of falling dew, the sigh of the breeze and the rustle of the trees. But then I heard some else, the sound of distant footsteps. I opened my eyes and caught sight of a figure, a human figure. A boy, with sandy blond hair, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, in a red anorak and carrying a haversack, wandering away from me down one of the paths. I was overjoyed. I think this was the first time I have seen another human being in my dreams for several weeks now. He seemed so, well, normal, mundane, the product of a world, where things with mottled dead skins don’t lope about graveyards, mocking the meat they wish to feed on.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I dashed after him, knowing that a few more steps would see him vanish from sight. However I could not make up the ground in time, and he vanished round a curve in the path. I pelted round and discovered that once again I was outside that pallid mausoleum, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. I whirled around, looking in every direction. But as I turned, out of nowhere, I found myself face-to-face with a pair of huge luminous round eyes in a great feathered and furry shape, and a gigantic shrieking beak filled with gleaming sharp teeth let out an ear-splitting sky-ripping screech…

...And at that point I woke up, having literally thrown myself out of bed in an attempt to escape the terrible horror that was bearing down upon me...

Needless to say, once again I sat up until dawn. I think I have a problem. And I cannot shake the irrational fear that this problem is not just my own. For I have seen that final horror from my nightmare before, that towering shape with the body of a wolf and the head of a monstrous owl. For it is embossed on the red buckram cover of Dr Fell’s book...