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, 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 ...
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: