In Competition No. 2542 you were invited to submit a ghost story entitled ‘The Face of the Horse’. I read the entries by flickering candlelight in a bid to recreate the atmosphere of the dean’s rooms at King’s College, Cambridge, where M.R. James gave Christmas Eve readings of his stories to a group of friends. By all accounts these were jocular, camp occasions punctuated by laughter, pranks and abstruse jokes, so perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised by the comedy — intentional or not — in your entries; G.M. Davis’s speaking horse was a stroke of comic genius.
James’s interest in ghosts was awakened in childhood by the sight of a toy Punch & Judy set, and Brian Murdoch’s malevolent wooden rocking-horse certainly gave me the willies. I also liked his Poe-esque reference to cosmology. Equally disquieting was D.A. Prince’s slow-burn portrait of her protagonist’s mental disintegration — the understated, Jamesian approach more effective than full-on Gothic schlock-horror. Ghost stories are not everyone’s cup of tea, though, and Noel Petty’s entry takes an entertaining pop at the genre.
The winners, printed below, get £30 each. The extra fiver goes to Brian Murdoch and commendations to Gill Holland, Joseph Altham and Paul Wigmore.
Two errors. First, astronomical features never look anything like their names. Wrong, in the case of the horse-head nebula. Second, old-fashioned rocking-horses with deranged, toothy faces rock by themselves in attics when ridden by long-dead children. Wrong reason.
The Old Priest-House had a rocking-horse in the attic. No one knew why. The house had never had children. When it rocked, the incumbents assumed rats, wind or alcoholic overindulgence. After the Trust acquired the house, it renovated the attic, cleaned the skylights, admitting fine views of the stars, and kept the horse. Only an alarm system mounts guard at night.
The horse still rocks. And on nights when the unimaginably distant, ancient and world-controlling horse-head nebula shines, anyone observing would perceive an even more manic, demented grin — which is the true face of that malevolent extra-galactic entity — on the face of the horse.
Brian Murdoch
She had had a long jaw and a large nose, and had lived her life with equine epithets at her expense. Even at her funeral, there were sniggers. ‘Put down in her prime.’ ‘Sadly knackered.’ ‘Gone to the glue-factory in the sky.’ And these were the polite ones.
That night, the neighbourhood echoed to the sound of hooves. The tarmac rang with them. The so-called friends (and relatives) of the dead woman woke from nightmares in which they saw the face of ‘The Horse’, as they’d called her. They gathered, ashamed, at their breakfast bars and kitchen tables, sleepless, at five in the morning.
At about seven, their children woke from more innocent dreams. Parents pricked up their ears, preparing for the new day, laying the table, calling the youngsters to get ready for school. They stiffened. From every youngster’s bedroom came a soft, uncertain whinny.
Bill Greenwell
Some say the horse’s face never really appeared and that any claims to the contrary are nothing but fictional fancies. Had they seen what I saw, high on Bone Hill in the dead of night, they would soon change their tune. It was bitterly cold with a swirling mist, silvered by milky moonlight shrouding the moor, when that ghastly and ghostly face met mine. And yes, he was indeed ‘making his will’ deep into the turf, pawing curses on each of those drunken sots whose weight, combined, had hastened the creature’s demise and caused him to collapse. It is said there were eight but, assuming ‘and all’ be true, we shall never know how many madmen mounted that burdened back. Small wonder, on winter nights in the Rugglestone Inn with the Widdecombe wind sweeping down from the moor, the haunted face of that horse still stares up from my glass.
Alan Millard
He snatched a glance, hoping to catch Claire’s photo off guard. Of course it was her. No doubt. Taken that last day before Mountjoy, startled by some reckless driver, threw her. ‘Accidental death’, and everyone understood when, maddened by grief, he’d shot the horse himself. There she smiled, her mane of hair … mane? But no: this was Claire. Her smile; her teeth — had they always been so …large? If he stared into the frame it was Claire, but if he glanced away the face seemed to blur. Had she always had such a long nose? Almost velvety? No one ever asked about the car, the driver; just sympathised that his sole inheritance of their parents’ estate could never make up for his sister’s death. In the photo long ears flicked, the face dissolving into the thoroughbred features he’d consigned to the slaughterhouse for disposal. From the silver frame, Mountjoy glared back.
D.A. Prince
The cognac was superb and the logs were blazing finely. ‘Oh God,’ I thought, ‘that means a ghost story.’ ‘Talking of horses,’ said Carew — we hadn’t been — ‘I had a splendid stallion in Bengal, name of Blaise. Turn on a sixpence, knew my wishes almost before I did. Lost him at Cawnpore, poor fellow. Then years later one of those Indian ragamuffins around camp singled me out. Sabeli, he called himself. More use than a batman, actually, knew exactly what I needed and when, but with a haunting look I couldn’t place. Then one night I woke suddenly and realised he was Blaise — long face, chestnut colour, wide eyes and a lock of dark hair over his forehead. And Sabeli is a whatsitsname for Blaise. Damned rum. But rummer still was …’
Utter silence had fallen on the room. I was the only one still awake.
Noel Petty
No. 2545: Compensation culture
You are invited to submit a letter written by a well-known literary character to an insurance company making a personal accident claim (maximum 150 words). Entries to ‘Competition 2545’ by 15 May or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.
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