Femme Fatale

When Pamela stepped off the bus she to fathom the different scenes before her. Where she stood the sky was bright with the low winter sun almost blinding her: yet across the road along Market Place, a thick white mist was rolling in.

Haar Pamela thought, bringing to mind the ancient word for the North Sea’s white fog. This dense mist, she had read, enabled the early Viking invaders to enter our shores unseen.

Pulling her collar up around her ears she fastened the top button and strode into the thick fog. It was weird. Barely an hour ago she had been sitting on her friend’s patio, enjoying the warmth of an extended Indian summer.

The Monday market traders gathered up their wares. Like dark shadows they stashed their knitwear and winter boots into boxes and loaded them into the backs of their almost invisible vans. They had sold all they would sell today. Pamela’s father had been a market trader and the instinct to pack up at the right time ran through her veins.

She flicked open her mobile. The signal was weak, better, she decided, to call in personally, let Sharon or Amber know what she really wanted to be done to her hair on Wednesday.

Whether it was the absence of vehicles, this being market day and closed to normal traffic, Pamela couldn’t say, or whether it was the fog that deadened the sounds she couldn’t be sure, but the whole street felt somehow – strange. Whatever it was, between the muffled silence and the sudden chill she felt uneasy. Giving her collar another tug she held it close around her neck. Perhaps she was coming down with something. She quickened her pace and decided after calling in on her hairdresser, she would go straight home.

She was about to cross the road when the sight of a woman caught her attention. Before she could give her a second glance, a group of people hurried in front and when they cleared her view, the woman had vanished.

The fog grew thicker.

A shiver ran up her spine when she saw the woman again.

Now Pamela could see why she stood out. She wore clothes of an era long gone, perhaps from Regency times and when she turned her head, Pamela saw how utterly beautiful she was; and in comparison to the shadowy figures around her, she shone through the fog as clear as if lit by brilliant sunshine.

Pamela wondered if someone was making a film and the woman was the star. She looked up and down the street. No camera crew.

She allowed a smile to curl her lip, was it the wine Sandra had given her at lunchtime or was she going mad?

The woman loitered outside of the photographer’s shop. Perhaps she was soon to be a bride. Perhaps she was having a theme wedding, dressed in period costume. Perhaps.

Another shiver – definitely flu, she confirmed.

The woman moved on, she appeared to be lost, as if she was trying to locate her whereabouts. She stopped outside of the hairdresser. Now was Pamela’s chance to find out who she was. She stepped into the road but was pulled back just as a market trader’s van drove by.

‘Oh my goodness,’ Pamela caught her breath, ‘that was close.’

‘The fog,’ whispered the young man, ‘it softens the noise. Sorry if I startled you.’

‘Thank goodness you did.’

‘The van was so close to you. I acted on instinct. Sorry again.’

Pamela’s heart was thumping as she watched her saviour disappear into the mist and when her eyes focused onto the salon again, the pavement was empty of pedestrians, including the costumed lady. Yellow light spilled onto the flagstones welcoming Pamela in, and the amusing name of the barber’s section, Something for the Weekend Sir, made her smile. Feeling better, she relaxed, crossed the road with care and entered the shop.

On the following Wednesday and after having listened to Sharon’s advice Pamela was undergoing her new look. Amber was showing off her new Dyson hairdryer and as they were chatting over its smooth hum Pamela’s eyes turned towards the stairs.

‘What is it?’ Amber asked turning to where Pamela had gazed, ‘you heard something didn’t you?’

‘I just thought someone…’

‘…someone was coming up?’

‘Yeh.’

‘It’s freakin’ me out. Freakin’ us all out. We look to see but there’s never anyone there.’

‘Old buildings,’ Pamela assured, ‘they creak and groan all by themselves.’

‘Last Monday, right, just before you came in, we heard it on the stairs.’

‘Yeh, I remember last Monday,’ Pamela agreed, ‘with all that fog, I thought the whole town felt creepy. I saw a woman in period costume just outside your door. I thought she was an extra or something – like you get in films. Whoever made her up did a fabulous job.’

‘Anyway,’ Amber continued, ‘Charlie Broadbent was having his haircut and he said he felt a presence and he’s going to ask the clergy to come and investigate.’

‘Ooo – how exciting.’

‘No, Pamela, I don’t like anything like that.’

‘Not many of us do, but if a Priest comes and puts the poor soul at peace, then you have done it a favour – it will be grateful.’

‘I don’t like it – I wish it went to haunt somewhere else – wish it went as far away as possible.’

A week later Pamela was selling raffle tickets. She popped into the salon and was mildly surprised to see the young man who had rescued her on that foggy Monday. He appeared not to recognise her so she came to the point of her visit and kept her chatter brief.

She was writing down Sharon’s telephone number on the raffle ticket stub when something caused her to slump, almost faint.

The young man was sitting in one of the barber’s chairs facing the reception counter, his back to the mirror. Pamela didn’t know why she looked up but she did, and though the mirror reflected the room and the black leather chair, it did not reflect the man sitting in it.

‘Pamela, are you okay?’ Sharon had come to her side. ‘What is it?’

Nausea swirled through Pamela’s body, making it difficult for her to focus. ‘I’m er, I’m okay,’ she whispered, ‘I went dizzy for a while. I’m fine now.’

When her vision cleared, the young man was no longer in the room. She wondered whether her mind was playing tricks on her again, or whether something strange was really going on in the building.

Two weeks later Pamela caught sight of the young man.

He was walking down Willowgate and nodded a ‘good morning’ to her as they passed each other. Pamela turned and asked, ‘Was is you I saw a while back in the barber’s shop?’

‘Possibly.’ He walked back to greet her and she noticed the dog collar partially hidden by a thick-knit pullover under his coat. ‘I’ve been asked to look into a problem the whole building is having of late. I deal with unusual sightings – the paranormal – ghosts mainly.’

Pamela’s mind reeled with visions from old movies, where crotchety middle-aged fogies armed with a crucifix warded off evil spirits and vampires. The young man in front of her seemed nothing like them – yet there was something unusual, possibly paranormal about him.

‘I’m sorry if that scares you,’ he said, reaching his hand to rest on her arm.

‘You keep apologising to me.’ Pamela tried to control the feeling of unease that was swirling once more inside her body, ‘there is no need. I’ve been fighting the onset of flu for a week or two. Perhaps I’m not winning or perhaps I’m just growing old.’

‘You look so pale. Perhaps it is the steep incline, I will walk with you. Do you live close by?’

Nodding, she fought to keep the dizziness away. She was connecting the attacks with his presence. A few steps up the lane, she paused, ‘It has passed,’ she lied, ‘I’ll be fine now – thank you for your kindness.’ He retracted his hand from her sleeve, bowed and smiled. As he turned to walk down the hill, she caught a sense of deep regret coming from him.

The following day Pamela was returning her library books when she overheard someone mention a ghost that had been seen on Smiddy Hill. The man was treating the rumour with joviality whilst the woman beside him was insisting it wasn’t funny and some people had been physically sick by its presence. Pamela recalled what she had experienced and wondered whether his job as an exorcist marked him out to be different: like say, being a taxidermist or an embalmer. In her heart Pamela felt the young priest knew he had this effect yet could do nothing about it.

These thoughts were drifting through her mind when one of the browsers knocked a book from the shelf to land with a thud at Pamela’s feet. The loud noise caused a collective, ‘ugh!’ which was followed by total silence. Even the sceptic was dumbstruck.

Pamela bent to pick up the book. It’s cover showed two halves of a locket with hand-painted miniature portraits in each. The woman’s eyes shining with happiness: the man with handsome features, his clothing depicting he was a man of god. Pamela held onto the book unable to let it go; unable to digest the title, so fixed was she on the young curate’s face.

‘Do you wish to take Femme Fatale?’ asked the woman who had knocked it off the shelf.

‘I, er, I thought you wanted it.’

‘No, it just toppled off the shelf as I was looking for another book.’

‘Then, yes, I think I will take it.’ Pamela held it close. Femme Fatale, she thought, yet when she looked again at the lady in the locket, she didn’t portray the image of a dangerous woman but one of a loving, beautiful young lady who was obviously in love with her beau. Destiny had thrown it at her feet, she would take it home and read every word.

It was the build up to Christmas and with parties and dinners to attend, Pamela returned to her hairdressers to book appointments. The barbershop was busy with more men having their hair cut in the hope of catching a glimpse of the now famous ghost: the beautiful lady in the long dress covered by her silky cloak.

Charlie Broadbent was waiting for his regular trim. He had become a celebrity with his description of the ghost and the lurid details of what it felt like when she passed through his body. He didn’t know it, but he was becoming a bit a joke with each rendition becoming more fanciful than the last.

‘If they carry on like this, the ghost will up-sticks and go elsewhere,’ chuckled Pamela as she crosschecked her diary for a slot on New Year’s Eve.

‘It’s gone,’ whispered Sharon, ‘we’ve got Charlie to thank. He brought the priest in who went through everywhere with a fine tooth comb.’

‘Ha ha very witty, fine tooth comb in a hairdressers,’ Pamela could laugh now that the fear of the ghost had turned to amusement. She still had the book and had read it twice – a work of fiction with all the best ingredients. It was a story of great love that ended in tragedy. Pamela had come to the conclusion that the woman in the fog a couple of months back must have read it too and wanted to look just like the heroine for her own wedding. She had more difficulty in brushing aside the coincidence that the fictitious hero of the story was so like the curate brought in to exorcise the Femme Fatale from the building. ‘What did the curate do?’ she asked Sharon.

‘I don’t know, he came on Tuesday which is my day off. And because of his bad leg, he couldn’t climb the stairs, so he did it all from here. Anyway, it worked.’ Keeping her voice low, ‘but don’t tell.’ The outside door opened and Pamela turned to see an elderly priest taking off his hat. Sharon nudged her, ‘He’s our ghost buster.’

‘But I thought he was the young chap?’

‘Pamela,’ Sharon smiled, ‘you’re nothing but a dreamer. Anyway, he must have been young once.’ Sharon closed the desk diary. ‘Right – all booked for your parties.’

Pamela left the busy salon and began to walk back up the hill her mind on the library book and the characters in the story when the sickly feeling warned her she was not alone. She turned round, expecting to see the young cleric but all she saw were people rushing about, Christmas shopping on their minds as they hurried past her. Still feeling strange, she tried to shrug it off but when she turned back to the hill and saw the white fog she knew something unnatural was going to happen.

The haar was rolling in fast.

Those around her were looking more ghostly as they faded out of focus and became engulfed in the silence. Pamela’s thoughts returned to the day a while ago when a similar white mist had caused her eyes to play tricks. She was about to laugh out loud when the beautiful femme fatale appeared outside of the photographer’s shop. She was staring at a point just past Pamela’s head and that was when she knew the woman could not see her – nor could she see the people rushing by – nor could they see her. Pamela stood with her feet rooted to the pavement. Was it the woman’s radiance that caused Pamela to falter? As she stopped walking, a man from behind crashed into her. Immediately the nausea returned with full force.

‘Sorry,’ whispered the familiar voice in her ear – then an intake of breath, ‘you found her – how can I ever thank you? You found her.’ Leaving Pamela to sway to and fro, the cleric ran ahead and took the glowing woman in his arms, swirling and twirling into the mist until they evaporated in a mixture of snow flakes and white fog that receded up the hill taking the pair of lovers with it and out of sight.

Pamela put a hand out to steady herself and found it rested on the glass window of the photographers. On an easel in the shop’s display was a framed photograph of a bride and groom. She knew their faces, their mode of dress and had spoken to the groom. A cold hand slid into hers, she looked to her side and smiled at the concerned face of her grandson.

‘Are you okay, Nana?’

‘Yes, love, I didn’t know it was time for school to come out.’

‘You look pale. Like you’ve had a shock.’

‘I have,’ she pointed to the wedding photo, ‘those people are ghosts, they’ve just wafted into that mist up there above the hill.’

‘Not ghosts, Nana, time travellers.’

‘Call ‘em what you like. They made me feel groggy.’

‘You must’ve been chosen by them. That makes you very special.’

‘Is that what they teach you at school nowadays?’

‘Nah – learnt it from Dr Who. Have you forgotten I’m coming to your place for tea?’

‘Er – no.’ Pamela lied and did a quick mental check on the contents of her freezer. ‘Tell me more about time travel,’ she said, as they made their way together, ‘especially the bit about me being specially chosen.’

“Femme Fatale” is a masterfully crafted ghost story set in the historic market town of Pickering. Through the eyes of protagonist Pamela, we witness the mysterious appearance of a beautiful woman in Regency dress during a haar (sea fog) rolling in from the North Sea. The narrative weaves together elements of romance, supernatural mystery, and time-slipping as Pamela encounters both the spectral woman and a young priest who seems equally otherworldly. The story builds tension through atmospheric descriptions and culminates in a poignant reunion of long-separated lovers, leaving readers to ponder whether they witnessed ghosts or time travelers.

“Creatures” by Pat Barnett showcases the author’s remarkable talent for finding magic in everyday moments. Drawing from her rich life experiences across Manchester, Wales, and Australia, Barnett crafts tales that blur the line between ordinary and extraordinary. Now settled in Pickering, North Yorkshire, she transforms local legends and personal observations into compelling supernatural stories that captivate readers. If you enjoy stories where reality shifts just enough to make you wonder “what if?”, you’ll find yourself enchanted by this collection of tales that masterfully blend the mundane with the mysterious.

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