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A Ghost Story

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Eulalia

Eulalia

Poet Laureate
Staff member
it's the darkest time of the year,
the season for scary stories,
so, if you fancy a spinechiller
with a sadistic sting,
pour yourself a drink,
turn down the lights,
and come with me to a dark place -
a very dark place ....

Single Ticket to Vasos​

a ghost story by Eulalia​

"Single ticket to Vasos, please." The ticket woman looked up, her expression seemed startled. "Vasos, single, please," I repeated, wondering if my Greek learnt in Athens wasn't easily understood by these islanders, they have a very thick accent. "Vasos?" she still sounded incredulous. "Yes, please." Her face was set, expressionless as she handed me the ticket. "Six euros."

I paid, and walked over to the harbourside to wait for the ferry, still wondering about the woman's reaction. Of course, Vasos isn't a tourist island, too bleak and inaccessible, no sandy beaches, no landing-place for cruise ships or car ferries, no airport, just cruel, harsh rock. That's why I'm going, to be quiet, away from everybody, so I can write. But her expression seemed more than surprised, it was as if my asking to go there had awakened some disturbing, painful memory.

Somehow, as I munched on the piece of honey-cake I'd bought at the harbourside cafe, gazing out across the cluster of fishing boats for the ferry that was already overdue, my thoughts drifted to the heroine of my planned historical novel, Teresa of Avila – how as a kid she'd longed for martyrdom, she'd run away from home and made it to the Straits before the ferryman refused to take her across to be martyred by the Moors, and she was packed back home again. Well, I thought, no-one's going to stop me now, soon I'll be heading across that purple water, not quite the kind of fate Teresa lusted for, but what the old monks called green martyrdom, living as a hermit on a remote, rocky island.

Eventually it chugged into the bay, a small, functional, rather military-looking vessel that had seen better days, absurd beside the state-of-the-art boats that sweep tourists off to the honey-pot islands. Three elderly passengers and half-a-dozen wooden fish-crates came ashore, I followed four equally geriatric passengers and one scrawny dog aboard. They all huddled in the cabin, but I sat outside in the stern, enjoying the cooling breeze above the dark waves, feeling content, excited at the prospect ahead, yet strangely vulnerable in my light summer frock, all the other passengers were wrapped in the hefty clothes the old islanders seem to wear all year round – and I was well aware that the only young man aboard, the second mate and general dogsbody, was peeping shyly through the back window of the cabin whenever he thought I wasn't looking.

It was a long crossing, three or four hours, the sun was quite low by the time we spluttered into the little fishing harbour which is the only landing place on Vasos. Certainly not geared for the tourist trade, I had to throw my pack onto the harbour, then grab at a rusty iron ladder and clamber up from the boat, feeling embarrassed that the other passengers, so much older than me, seemed to manage like it was second nature. On the quayside as on the boat, I had the strange feeling that no-one was taking any notice of me (except the boat-lad), yet they were all aware of me, with looks that seemed to mingle hints of terror and deep sadness.

There was a beaten-up old car at the head of the quay, two of the people from the boat were climbing in. "Taxi?" I asked, the surly-looking guy leaning on it nodded, "Where?" "Vila Pikra." "Vila Pikra?", his previously somnolent eyes suddenly widened, I noticed the two passengers glance up sharply at me. "Yes please." "H'm," he shrugged, I loaded my pack in the boot and squeezed in the back seat alongside a massively plump, garlicky grandma. She, and her husband in the front seat, gossiped with the driver in a broad dialect I couldn't follow, but I heard "Vila Pikra" a few times, they seemed to have plenty to say about it.

We drove along a bumpy track between jagged outcrops of rock and narrow strips of herbage where goats were grazing, and eventually reached a small stone-built farm cottage where the two old folk climbed out. I wished them "Good evening," but they just looked at me with that same unnerving mixture of terror and sorrow – whatever is it I'm bringing into their minds?

We must have travelled three or four miles further, along an increasingly narrow, poorly-maintained track, till we came to a place where I could see the sea on both sides, and then we turned sharply down a steep way into a narrow valley that had more vegetation than most of the island, and ground to a halt on rough gravel by a high, wide metal gate, through which I could see, at the end of a drive, a fairly grand, if rather dreary and decrepit, nineteenth century residence. "Vila Pikra," grunted the driver. I paid him, retrieved my pack, and – with some difficulty, pushed the gate far enough open to squeeze through. The car turned and sped off, he seemed eager to get away from the place.

I trudged up the stony drive, feeling a kind of compulsion, something was drawing – or driving – me here, I sensed this was a place where I'd discover new depths, in myself, in the mysterious world – just what a novelist needs!

It was nearly dark in the overhanging porch, I felt for the door handle, but was suddenly illuminated by bright white light. I glanced round anxiously, the light went out, then came again – must be a lighthouse on the headland. As it flashed a third time, I looked again at the door and spotted a key already in the keyhole. I let myself in, and was relieved to find the lights worked, the place looked bright and clean and welcoming. There was a bowl of fruit and a vase of flowers on the table in the kitchen, and a note that said "Dear Ms Anderson, welcome to Vasos. Hope you like here. Is food in fridge. I come tomorrow, if you want before phone 9640. Maria.'

Well, I thought, that guy in the Government Tourist Office who organised my booking seemed pretty competent, everything's fine. The fridge was indeed well-stocked, nice fresh salad, spicy sausage and goats' cheese. I made myself a hearty supper, then went straight into the bedroom, just unpacked my toothbrush and paste for a quick wash, everything else can wait till morning – I haven't even brought night-clothes, I always sleep nude when I'm alone. So, feeling very weary, I fell on the bed and was soon asleep.

more tomorrow -
it's a typical eul slow build-up ...

 
Last edited:
I love ghost stories! Someone suffered so much pain and suffering, mentally and physically, that their soul was.completely damaged!
 
  • Like
Reactions: Pia
sympazero2 said:
Thanks! Good luck trying to sleep tonight!​
Click to expand...
asleep and dreaming -
like in the story -
I always sleep nude when I'm alone
Click to expand...

bar in 090.jpg

(thanks to Tree for that image,
couldn't resist nicking it,
it's so right!)
​
 
2​

I woke with a start – a scream, a high, thin, piercing, unearthly scream. Had I dreamt it? No, it came again. Not in the house, but not far away. A third time, weaker, fainter. Then silence, deep silence, only the sigh of the distant sea.

I felt cold, shivering yet sweating, in mynakedness. I hugged the soft eiderdown around me. It was dark, through the window- I hadn't even drawn the blinds – I could see the bright night sky, Cassiopeia triumphing over Andromeda. For a few seconds they were upstaged by the three brief gleams of the lighthouse.

I lay there quivering, telling myself to be sensible, get up and fix a hot drink in the kitchen – but I didn't dare, my mind was racing, what was it, that terrible, tormented scream?

I must have lain awake till dawn, thinking wild thoughts, dozing into disturbing dreams then waking again in terror. As the sky outside grew light, the stars faded, reason gradually returned, there must be some simple explanation – some animal, some bird, perhaps? But I didn't feel reassured.

Still, I got up and dressed in shorts and vest, didn't want any more though the morning air was fresh and cool. I found a big tub of yogurt in the fridge, honey in the cupboard and some very good coffee, felt better after those and decided to look around outside.

The grounds of Vila Pikra were lusher than most of the rest of the island, neglected and quite overgrown, but among the weeds and scrub there were gnarled old olive trees, oranges, lemons and peaches, an untended grape-vine had gone rampant, clambering high over the boundary fence – which was indeed a good four metres, high enough to keep out the ubiquitous goats, I thought, that's why so much is growing! There were bunches of little grapes, I tried one, sharp but juicy, when I reached for another I scratched my hand on a rusty point, only then did I realise the fence was barbed wire, and not just strands, it was a sturdy network, more than just goat-proof.

Around the other side of the house I could see the sea, there was a gravel path leading in that direction, but a few hundred metres down the slope it passed through a group of buildings, ugly concrete-block structures, must be workshops or stores to do with the estate, I thought. But I'd better get on with unpacking and getting my life here organised, so I didn't explore any further.

While I was checking my laptop worked – it did, though I couldn't access the internet, didn't expect to, I just wanted to get on with my writing – I heard a knock at the door, a cheery woman's voice called "Ms Anderson?" "I'm in here – hi, you must be Maria, I'm Lusi."

Maria was very helpful with practical things. She showed me in a little shed at the side of the house where there was a bicycle, an old-fashioned sit-up-and-beg model with a basket in front, but that'll be fine for getting down to the harbour where there's a shop and all the other basic necessities.

I made another cup of coffee and we chatted in the kitchen. She said she and her husband Ghiorgos aren't locals, he's posted here as a police inspector, he'd gone into that job after serving in the army. I asked her about the house, she seemed a little hesitant, or just vague, but at least she didn't show the strange expression it seems to provoke in the islanders.

She told me it had been built by a wealthy newspaper-owner from Peiraias, and had belonged to his family for many years. Then, in the time of the Colonels, the army used it. Her voice seemed to quaver slightly as she said this, I looked intently hoping she'd say more, but she quickly went on, "now it belongs to an old, retired army officer. He used to come with his family, his children and grandchildren, but they haven't been for a long, long time. No-one comes ...." she paused, a sad, distant look crossed her face for a moment, then she gathered herself and went on, "it was a nice surprise when we got the message that an English woman was renting it for the winter."

Her mobile rang. "It's my husband, home from his shift, impatient for a meal, I must get on my byke! Anyway Lusi, you be happy here – anything you need, you've got my number, if it's urgent, ring the police station and they'll put you through to my husband, Inspector Panopoulos." I thanked her for her help and waved as she rode off up the drive, then returned to the room I was going to make my study, time to start writing!

I'd planned on teasing you by posting short sections nightly up till Christmas (10 in all),
but my computer's behaving in an increasingly scary - indeed, spine-chilling - way,
I'd better get the whole story up before the old banger grinds to a complete halt.
I'll be getting a new one in the New Year.

 
Eulalia said:
2​

I woke with a start – a scream, a high, thin, piercing, unearthly scream. Had I dreamt it? No, it came again. Not in the house, but not far away. A third time, weaker, fainter. Then silence, deep silence, only the sigh of the distant sea.

I felt cold, shivering yet sweating, in mynakedness. I hugged the soft eiderdown around me. It was dark, through the window- I hadn't even drawn the blinds – I could see the bright night sky, Cassiopeia triumphing over Andromeda. For a few seconds they were upstaged by the three brief gleams of the lighthouse.

I lay there quivering, telling myself to be sensible, get up and fix a hot drink in the kitchen – but I didn't dare, my mind was racing, what was it, that terrible, tormented scream?

I must have lain awake till dawn, thinking wild thoughts, dozing into disturbing dreams then waking again in terror. As the sky outside grew light, the stars faded, reason gradually returned, there must be some simple explanation – some animal, some bird, perhaps? But I didn't feel reassured.

Still, I got up and dressed in shorts and vest, didn't want any more though the morning air was fresh and cool. I found a big tub of yogurt in the fridge, honey in the cupboard and some very good coffee, felt better after those and decided to look around outside.

The grounds of Vila Pikra were lusher than most of the rest of the island, neglected and quite overgrown, but among the weeds and scrub there were gnarled old olive trees, oranges, lemons and peaches, an untended grape-vine had gone rampant, clambering high over the boundary fence – which was indeed a good four metres, high enough to keep out the ubiquitous goats, I thought, that's why so much is growing! There were bunches of little grapes, I tried one, sharp but juicy, when I reached for another I scratched my hand on a rusty point, only then did I realise the fence was barbed wire, and not just strands, it was a sturdy network, more than just goat-proof.

Around the other side of the house I could see the sea, there was a gravel path leading in that direction, but a few hundred metres down the slope it passed through a group of buildings, ugly concrete-block structures, must be workshops or stores to do with the estate, I thought. But I'd better get on with unpacking and getting my life here organised, so I didn't explore any further.

While I was checking my laptop worked – it did, though I couldn't access the internet, didn't expect to, I just wanted to get on with my writing – I heard a knock at the door, a cheery woman's voice called "Ms Anderson?" "I'm in here – hi, you must be Maria, I'm Lusi."

Maria was very helpful with practical things. She showed me in a little shed at the side of the house where there was a bicycle, an old-fashioned sit-up-and-beg model with a basket in front, but that'll be fine for getting down to the harbour where there's a shop and all the other basic necessities.

I made another cup of coffee and we chatted in the kitchen. She said she and her husband Ghiorgos aren't locals, he's posted here as a police inspector, he'd gone into that job after serving in the army. I asked her about the house, she seemed a little hesitant, or just vague, but at least she didn't show the strange expression it seems to provoke in the islanders.

She told me it had been built by a wealthy newspaper-owner from Peiraias, and had belonged to his family for many years. Then, in the time of the Colonels, the army used it. Her voice seemed to quaver slightly as she said this, I looked intently hoping she'd say more, but she quickly went on, "now it belongs to an old, retired army officer. He used to come with his family, his children and grandchildren, but they haven't been for a long, long time. No-one comes ...." she paused, a sad, distant look crossed her face for a moment, then she gathered herself and went on, "it was a nice surprise when we got the message that an English woman was renting it for the winter."

Her mobile rang. "It's my husband, home from his shift, impatient for a meal, I must get on my byke! Anyway Lusi, you be happy here – anything you need, you've got my number, if it's urgent, ring the police station and they'll put you through to my husband, Inspector Panopoulos." I thanked her for her help and waved as she rode off up the drive, then returned to the room I was going to make my study, time to start writing!

I'd planned on teasing you by posting short sections nightly up till Christmas (10 in all),
but my computer's behaving in an increasingly scary - indeed, spine-chilling - way,
I'd better get the whole story up before the old banger grinds to a complete halt.
I'll be getting a new one in the New Year.
Click to expand...

This so much fun Eul! My mind races trying to guess where this is leading?
 
3​

For the next week or so, I settled into my new home quite happily, getting on well with my writing, enjoying the quiet, the sense that there was no-one anywhere near, the nearest farm was half a mile down the rough road. I experienced no more disturbed nights, heard no more screams – or whatever it was that woke me that first night.


But I'm naturally curious, I wanted to know the story of this house, I felt it had secrets. The rooms I was renting were only part of the ground floor, quite sufficient for my needs, but I resolved to explore the rest – it could do no harm.


So one morning after breakfast, before starting work, I took a little tour. The other rooms weren't locked, though the lights didn't work, only my apartment had power. They were furnished with heavy, old-fashioned stuff, dusty and cobwebby, the pictures on the walls were mostly romantic landscapes, with a few old photos of moustachioed men and old women in traditional Greek costumes.


Nothing seemed to draw me until I went upstairs and looked in the several bedrooms. One, though dirty and dingy now, had been more brightly and colourfully painted than the rest of the house, it had a "young" feel, probably once was a child's or a teenager's room. There was a chest of drawers in a corner near the window, I felt attracted to it, walked over and pulled open the bottom drawer, which hadn't been properly shut.


I wasn't surprised to find it was full of girl's, or young women's, clothes. But they were museum pieces, clearly from the 1960s! Miniskirts, short dresses with bold stripes and polka dots in bright primary colours, big buttons down the front, blouses with chantilly lace, hippy shorts - it was like a dressing-up box!


I looked in the other drawers, they were all stuffed with girls' things from the same era. Well, I thought, whoever these belonged to couldn't have been short of cash, leaving so much behind. But it must be a very long time since whoever she was stayed here.


I gazed out from the window, I could see that the sea formed a bay below the villa, with the headland stretching out to the lighthouse, and between the shore and the villa that group of unlovely concrete buildings, with the pathway running through. It's a beautiful morning, I thought, it's time I checked out the beach – I'll take my tablet down there, I can start drafting my next chapter while I enjoy the sunshine.


I had mixed feelings as I approached those buildings, I didn't want to go near them, I wished I didn't have to go through them to get to the sea, yet at the same time they fascinated me, seemed to be summoning me. As I drew close to them, I trod carefully, trying to stop my sandaled feet from crunching on the rough gravel.


I passed between the first two buildings into a courtyard, walls of blank concrete pierced by windows covered with rusty security netting, and paint-peeling doors mostly shut, a couple ajar. A rat scurried under a broken board in the bottom of one. They probably had been, as I thought, estate buildings, but looked to have been adapted for military purposes. There was a cold, harsh atmosphere to the place, I shivered and hurried on.


Through the gap on the sea-side of the yard the path was concrete, albeit crumbling and cracked in places. It led down steeply to the rocky shore and a small, rickety lading stage built of steel sheets on an iron framework, red-rusted, coated with barnacles. It could never have been a very safe quay, now it was a death-trap, slowly disintegrating into the dark weed-filled water below.


I gazed at the bay, the headland with its lighthouse to my left, a rugged sweep of cliffs to my right, gleaming white in the sun. The sea shimmered like a rich blue grisaille window. Well out from the shore, near the middle of the bay, surf was breaking and a few seabirds circling around a dark rock, a volcanic relic no doubt, quite unlike the white limestone of Vasos. It was smooth and rounded, bulging at one end, sloping at the other, like a brown girl's breast, the warning beacon on its summit like a nipple, proudly erect.


I turned aside and scrambled over the rough, jagged rocks – there was no sandy beach, only rough stony rubble - till I found a place shaded by an overhang where I could perch in reasonable comfort, my tablet resting on my thigh, looking out to the breast-shaped rock for inspiration from the sea-spirits.


I managed a good morning's work, took a break for a pitta sandwich. The sun was high now, and quite warm, I felt ready for a rest. No-one about, I thought with a smile, so I stripped off and stretched myself out on a coarse-crusted platform tilted nicely to expose my nakedness to the sunshine.


As I drowsed, thoughts of Teresa still in my mind, the sensation of my bare softness against the cruel hardness of the stone led me to think of her much earlier role-models, Julia crucified on Corsica, Eulalia ripped and roasted alive on her cross in Spain, Lucia – my name-saint – blinded and breast-bereft in Sicily, I feel a deep empathy with these Mediterranean girls, blazing volcanoes of passion bursting through the hard coldness of Roman rule.


Suddenly my daydream was interrupted by the sound of a motorboat, quite a big and powerful one, it seemed to be approaching rapidly. I rolled over and peered around the bay, but couldn't see anything. The sound paused, gave way to an idling chug, it seemed to be in the vicinity of the old landing-stage, but still I couldn't see it. Then it started up again with a roar, and gradually faded into the distance.



Weird, I thought, I don't think there are any other landing-places on this headland, and this one's pretty dicey. Perhaps it was fishermen inspecting lobster-creels. But it's strange I couldn't see them. Ah well, better get back to work.


I seemed to be distracted that afternoon, less able to concentrate. The scream in the night, the mystery of the motorboat, my uneasy feelings about the concrete buildings, that drawerful of girls' clothes ...


The sun was lower in the sky now, a cool breeze coming off the water, I decided to call it a day. I got dressed, packed my things in my shoulder-bag, clambered back over the rocks, and climbed the concrete path up towards those buildings. As I walked, I felt discomfort in my upper arms, hardly a pain, but a sensation as if someone were gripping them, holding me tight, pushing me to move faster. What's the matter with me? I thought, but reflected, I've been doing a lot of typing, must watch out for repetitive strain.


All the same, I increased my pace. As I passed through the courtyard, I glanced nervously at the bare, blind buildings around me, shivered again – what is it about this place? I really don't like it. I hurried on out to the gravel path, back to the security of what I was now calling my home.
 
the plot thickens! ;)

4​

In spite of some strange experiences and the bleak harshness of the place, I was growing to love "my" island of Vasos, enjoying my bumpy rides on the antique byke among its jagged outcrops and steep goat-pastures sweeping down to precipitous cliffs. It was sad to see how many farmsteads were deserted, their buildings slowly tumbling to rock-piles. Even in the little town clustered around the harbour, some former shops were boarded up, several houses locked and shuttered, only used as holiday homes.

The population was too obviously in decline, there seemed to be a "hard core" of very aged people, who eyed me with that unnerving mixture of horror and deep sadness I'd experienced as I approached the island. There were few middle-aged and very few younger people, and they, while perfectly civil, seemed to clam up whenever I tried to enquire in any detail about life on the island – "I don't know, I don't belong here, I'm from (another island, Athens, etc.)" was the stock reply.

Mavros, who ran the only café, was the most sociable, I'd chat with him while I enjoyed a coffee and baklava. He too was a recent incomer, he'd owned a restaurant in Corinth, had to sell it off for a rubbish price when the Greek economy collapsed, and found this little place offered on e-bay to anyone who'd take it – he was the only bidder, bought it for 50 euros. "It's better than doing nothing," he said with a shrug.

But he too avoided conversing about the island, questioning me instead about my life and about England, or chatting about whatever football was on the café television. When I commented that it was sad how few young people there are on Vasos, what a shame they have to move away to find work, his face turned anxious, he gazed sadly out at the sea for some moments then just replied quietly, "Yes, sad" – "pikros" was the word he used, not just "sad", but "bitter", like the name of the house, Vila Pikra.

I'd commented on the strange name when I'd arranged the booking with the Government Tourist Office. The guy there showed me a map, we saw the headland is called Pikra, the villa's just named after it – still, it's a cruel name for a house, I thought to myself.

Still, I was happy there, making good progress on the novel. We had some unsettled weather, even stormy, so I stayed in most of the time, but when a calm, sunny spell came I resolved to go down to the shore again, telling myself I was just being childish with my fear of those buildings.

I made my way down, sat on the rocks, and spent a good day drafting. No strange incidents, no invisible motorboats, just the sighing of the sea, the cry of seabirds over the breast-shaped rock way out in the bay.

The sun was dipping to the horizon when I realised it was time to pack up. As I made my way up the concrete path, I felt no tight grip on my arms like I'd done the first time, but I did feel a compulsion, a struggle seemed to be waging in my subconscious between my urge to understand and come to terms with this mysterious place, and a deep, visceral, unreasoning terror.

I paused in the courtyard, told myself not to be stupid, told myself how brave I am, and turned towards the door that seemed to be the main entrance to the biggest block, a door that was loose on hinges, a door that swung half open as I approached.

I went in. On the ground floor, a pair of rooms to right and left, nothing in them but dust, scraps of waste paper blown into a cobwebby corner. Ahead of me were some steps, down to a cellar. I tried the light switch, no power, but I could see some light was reaching the bottom of the steps, there must be basement windows.

I descended, found a cellar to the right that was indeed dimly illuminated by the rays of the setting sun through a narrow barred opening near the top of the end wall. A seriously large spider scuttled across the floor. "So this is the place," I heard myself say, then stopped short – why did I say that? Whatever's going on in my head?

I glanced around. Bare walls, tiles on the floor, a dripping water-tap, a drain. Otherwise, just a store-place for forgotten furniture – a big old-fashioned writing desk, an old iron bedstead, no mattress, only its bare wire-sprung base, and a wooden bench near where I was standing.

I was about to go out again when the room became suddenly brighter – the lighthouse had started flashing. In its light I glimpsed more - some small metal clips, a pair of tweezers, and an old pad of steel wool, in the dust on the desk, a panel of electrical controls on the wall above the bed, with dangerous-looking cables dangling loose - but I knew the power was off - and, on the bench beside me, something grey and shapeless, just a filthy old rag?

I picked it up gingerly, fearing more spiders, held it up in the third flash of the lighthouse. A pair of girl's knickers! I chuckled, someone's been having fun down here! But it was a long time ago, they were faded from white to grey, stained with rust-coloured smears. I went to put them back on the bench, but an impulse compelled me to keep them. They might be a clue, I rationalised, not even convincing myself, but I stuffed them into the pocket of my shorts, then turned to leave.

At the foot of the stairs I could see an entrance on the opposite side, but whether it was to a room or a passageway I couldn't tell, it was pitch dark, so I began to climb, then froze. Sobbing, I heard it quite clearly, a woman sobbing helplessly, desperately! "Hello!" I shouted, sure it was coming from in that darkness, "Hello! Are you all right? Can I help you?" My voice echoed, there was no more sound. At once I was seized with cold terror, no further brave thoughts, I hurtled up the stairs, sprinted along the gravel path back to the safety of my flat, and locked the door.
 
Last edited:
Eulalia said:
the plot thickens! ;)
I like your story, wonder which ghosts that will appear from the dark shadows....santa crux?? Looking forward to the continuation!!!
4​

In spite of some strange experiences and the bleak harshness of the place, I was growing to love "my" island of Vasos, enjoying my bumpy rides on the antique byke among its jagged outcrops and steep goat-pastures sweeping down to precipitous cliffs. It was sad to see how many farmsteads were deserted, their buildings slowly tumbling to rock-piles. Even in the little town clustered around the harbour, some former shops were boarded up, several houses locked and shuttered, only used as holiday homes.

The population was too obviously in decline, there seemed to be a "hard core" of very aged people, who eyed me with that unnerving mixture of horror and deep sadness I'd experienced as I approached the island. There were few middle-aged and very few younger people, and they, while perfectly civil, seemed to clam up whenever I tried to enquire in any detail about life on the island – "I don't know, I don't belong here, I'm from (another island, Athens, etc.)" was the stock reply.

Mavros, who ran the only café, was the most sociable, I'd chat with him while I enjoyed a coffee and baklava. He too was a recent incomer, he'd owned a restaurant in Corinth, had to sell it off for a rubbish price when the Greek economy collapsed, and found this little place offered on e-bay to anyone who'd take it – he was the only bidder, bought it for 50 euros. "It's better than doing nothing," he said with a shrug.

But he too avoided conversing about the island, questioning me instead about my life and about England, or chatting about whatever football was on the café television. When I commented that it was sad how few young people there are on Vasos, what a shame they have to move away to find work, his face turned anxious, he gazed sadly out at the sea for some moments then just replied quietly, "Yes, sad" – "pikros" was the word he used, not just "sad", but "bitter", like the name of the house, Vila Pikra.

I'd commented on the strange name when I'd arranged the booking with the Government Tourist Office. The guy there showed me a map, we saw the headland is called Pikra, the villa's just named after it – still, it's a cruel name for a house, I thought to myself.

Still, I was happy there, making good progress on the novel. We had some unsettled weather, even stormy, so I stayed in most of the time, but when a calm, sunny spell came I resolved to go down to the shore again, telling myself I was just being childish with my fear of those buildings.

I made my way down, sat on the rocks, and spent a good day drafting. No strange incidents, no invisible motorboats, just the sighing of the sea, the cry of seabirds over the breast-shaped rock way out in the bay.

The sun was dipping to the horizon when I realised it was time to pack up. As I made my way up the concrete path, I felt no tight grip on my arms like I'd done the first time, but I did feel a compulsion, a struggle seemed to be waging in my subconscious between my urge to understand and come to terms with this mysterious place, and a deep, visceral, unreasoning terror.

I paused in the courtyard, told myself not to be stupid, told myself how brave I am, and turned towards the door that seemed to be the main entrance to the biggest block, a door that was loose on hinges, a door that swung half open as I approached.

I went in. On the ground floor, a pair of rooms to right and left, nothing in them but dust, scraps of waste paper blown into a cobwebby corner. Ahead of me were some steps, down to a cellar. I tried the light switch, no power, but I could see some light was reaching the bottom of the steps, there must be basement windows.

I descended, found a cellar to the right that was indeed dimly illuminated by the rays of the setting sun through a narrow barred opening near the top of the end wall. A seriously large spider scuttled across the floor. "So this is the place," I heard myself say, then stopped short – why did I say that? Whatever's going on in my head?

I glanced around. Bare walls, tiles on the floor, a dripping water-tap, a drain. Otherwise, just a store-place for forgotten furniture – a big old-fashioned writing desk, an old iron bedstead, no mattress, only its bare wire-sprung base, and a wooden bench near where I was standing.

I was about to go out again when the room became suddenly brighter – the lighthouse had started flashing. In its light I glimpsed more - some small metal clips, a pair of tweezers, and an old pad of steel wool, in the dust on the desk, a panel of electrical controls on the wall above the bed, with dangerous-looking cables dangling loose - but I knew the power was off - and, on the bench beside me, something grey and shapeless, just a filthy old rag?

I picked it up gingerly, fearing more spiders, held it up in the third flash of the lighthouse. A pair of girl's knickers! I chuckled, someone's been having fun down here! But it was a long time ago, they were faded from white to grey, stained with rust-coloured smears. I went to put them back on the bench, but an impulse compelled me to keep them. They might be a clue, I rationalised, not even convincing myself, but I stuffed them into the pocket of my shorts, then turned to leave.

At the foot of the stairs I could see an entrance on the opposite side, but whether it was to a room or a passageway I couldn't tell, it was pitch dark, so I began to climb, then froze. Sobbing, I heard it quite clearly, a woman sobbing helplessly, desperately! "Hello!" I shouted, sure it was coming from in that darkness, "Hello! Are you all right? Can I help you?" My voice echoed, there was no more sound. At once I was seized with cold terror, no further brave thoughts, I hurtled up the stairs and sprinted up the gravel path back to the safety of my flat, and locked the door.
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5​

I had a sleepless night. At first, I was in a panic. My hard-headed rationalism was crumbling, yet I couldn't take the supernatural seriously, there must be some rational explanation – but could it be that I'm going mad? Staying here, all on my own, straining my imagination day and night as I wrestle to empathise with elemental passions of Teresa, maybe it's folly?

I half resolved to pack up and depart, at very least to check the ferry sailings. But other voices were pulling me back. The runaway success of my first book had been a greater surprise to me than anyone else, winning the Prix Justine for the French version was a great boost, the money from that plus a generous advance from my publisher had made this sojourn on Vasos possible. I don't want to let people down, that's engrained in my character, I don't want to let myself down ....

And there were other, deeper, less coherent feelings, a burning desire to fathom this mystery, to come to terms with this place. As I lay naked on my bed in the early-morning light, still quivering and sweating from my spasm of terror, I felt a fateful determination to face up to whatever it is that's calling me, tormenting me with these strange signs, no matter what it may demand of me.

I tried to get to work on the next chapter, but couldn't concentrate. Best to take a break, cycle down to town, do some shopping – maybe even find some clue, at least make another effort to get behind the wall of silence that seems as stony as Vasos itself.

In town, I was happy to meet Maria, she was with her husband, off duty and helping grumpily with her shopping. I invited them to join me for an ouzo at Mavros's café. Ghiorgos, Inspector Panopoulos, was another taciturn type, letting his wife do the chattering, but I could see his expression brighten at the prospect of a drink with a young lady.

We talked over our ouzo and meze about this and that, I tried to gently steer the conversation towards the Vila Pikra, maybe they could tell me a little more? But Maria looked anxious when we got anywhere close to that topic, glancing about her, and her husband stayed mum.

At last she went in to the toilet, and I took the chance to enquire, just casually, "Ghiorgos, what did the army use Vila Pikra for?" His expression turned grim, he too glanced anxiously up and down the deserted street, then shrugged, "I don't know." Another disappointment, I thought, but then he leaned forward and said in grating whisper, "They brought prisoners ..."


At that moment, Maria returned, she intuited the heavy weight of our brief exchange, hastily changed the subject, "Look Lusi, I buy new shoes!" She hauled the shoe-box out of her shopping bag, Ghiorgos rolled his eyes, gave me a meaningful grin.

We finished our drinks and exchanged farewells, Ghiorgos's hope to see me again soon was more than a polite formality! After they'd gone, an idea occurred to me. Mavros had an elderly computer with a dial-up connection, on the strength of which he sported a poster in the window proclaiming it to be the island's internet café. He asked a silly charge to use it, I haggled him down a bit, sat at the keyboard.

Searching for anything more than bland basic facts about Vasos that I already knew proved frustrating. Through the clash of civilisations, the rise and fall of empires, Vasos seems to have remained a backwater, a mere footnote to history. I homed in on the time when the army was here, 'the time of the Colonels', 1969-74, but it seemed as if there'd been a deliberate news blackout on Vasos.

I was about to give up when I hit upon one brief item in the archive of Kathimerini, Athens' daily broadsheet. Sycophantic to the Colonels and heavily censored at that time, it was a dull paper, but one short item caught my eye: '17th December 1969: a serviceman of the Greek Army, Sgt. Petros Galanis aged 24, has been found murdered on the island of Vasos. Military Police are investigating.' That was all. Try as I may, I could find no more. No report of anyone arrested, of any trial, complete silence.

I paid Mavros and added a tip, best to keep in with the old rogue. As I cycled up the steep road out of the town, I kept thinking about that ominous phrase, "The Military Police are investigating." In the time of the Colonels, their methods of investigation were not delicate.

At the top of the hill, the road passes the island's church, a squat, ugly little building of no architectural merit nor much historical interest, though its site, perched on a precipitous crag, visible from miles out at sea, spoke of great antiquity, no doubt it had been a place of ritual long before "the triumph of barbarism and Christianity".

I hadn't looked inside yet, so, in the thoughtful mood induced by the fragments I'd learnt this afternoon, I felt perhaps I should. I parked my byke and pushed open the creaky wooden door.

Inside I found it had dreary, uncared-for atmosphere, heavy with incense and candle-smoke, dimly lit through plain, blue-tinged grisaille windows, the once starry roof and painted walls were sooty and faded. The doors in the iconostasis were locked, I could only peer through the grille into the nave and see the further, grander screen that hides the sanctuary.

I inspected the row of fairly run-of-the-mill icons, their rich tints and gold leaf dimmed by a veil of greasy candle-soot, trying to identify which saints have this little island under their protection, when a sound froze me to the bone ... a woman sobbing!

Hardly daring to turn my head, I peered back into the shadows. The sobbing ceased, but I saw in the direction from where it had come a dark, hunched figure, apparently kneeling before a small icon on the wall in the far north-west corner of the narthex.

In my agitated state, I was having to tell myself firmly that I wasn't seeing a ghost. Then there was flicker of brightness, a candle being lit on the shelf below the icon. The figure remained a few minutes more in an attitude of prayer, then slowly rose and shuffled out, a very aged woman.

I crossed over to look at the icon where she'd prayed, it was a rather brighter, cleaner and more striking image of the Mother of God nursing the Christ-child, someone has been taking a little trouble to care for it.

Beside the candle the old lady had lit, and a few burnt-out ones, lay a book in a faded mock-leather cover. A Liturgy, I assumed, but when I casually flicked it open I found I was wrong. It was an old-fashioned photograph album, a portrait on every page.

Some were, or had been, black and white, a few were faded Kodachrome. All were young people, half a dozen boys. the rest girls, dressed in the gaudy fashions of the 1960s. I turned the pages, their dark Greek eyes looked out at me with the bright hopefulness of youth. One in particular held my attention, a slender girl with long black hair, her striking large eyes seemed anxious, yet her lips held a firmness of quiet determination . She was seated. Below her lacy white blouse, her hands rested, demurely folded, on her lap, though she'd made sure her legs were in shot, revealed by a riskily short red miniskirt.

Under each portrait was a name, written in gold ink in a small, neat cursive Greek script, and below that a pair of dates in Arabic numerals. The first dates, obviously dates of birth, varied from the late 1930s to the early 50s. The second – a knot of horror gripped my stomach as I realised this – was the same in every case, 31.12.1969!

My hands were shaking as I closed the book. Forgetting my rationalist upbringing, I genuflected to Our Lady, and hastened out into the sunshine.
 
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