The Monk’s Cowl
(This short story popped into my head when Suzanne, landlady of the Bay Horse showed some members of the writing group the exact location of a priest’s hole, and I thought, what if…?)
Amongst the clientele of the Bay Horse on Market Place, there are those who say the apparition of a monk manifests itself in the corner by the fire. Some say he guards the secret entrance to a priest’s hole, a hiding place for those fearful of their lives during the Reformation. Others say that the ghostly image isn’t hiding at all, but is searching for something, or perhaps someone.
Whatever the reason, there is no doubt (amongst those who have felt his presence) that the monk is reluctant to leave the premises. Some of the drinkers by the bar say that when lifting their glass to their lips, rough fabric from a bygone age brushes across the hairs on their arms. They whisper this eerie feeling is often accompanied by the smell of incense or holy candles wafting from the cellar, especially, they say, around Christmas time.
Old Joe, who is a regular on the dominoes team, remembers the time when he was a lad and saw the ghost during one cold morning when he slipped on ice outside the Bay Horse. Joe’s job in those days was delivering cured legs of ham to the various eating-houses of Pickering.
He says that after making his delivery to the Bay Horse, his feet went from under him, sending his scrawny body to slide under the basket of his delivery bicycle and cracking his head against the wall.
Joe recounts hearing carts trundling over the frosty cobbles, the sound of their wheels being muffled – swallowed by the density of the morning mist. He tried to call for help but not a soul came to assist him. Not a soul except that of a kindly monk.
To this day, Joe says he can recall the mixture of aromas that filled his senses as he came round from the fall. There were essences of tallow and of lanoline hidden in the hard wool of the rough-woven blanket that had been wrapped around him. When he opened his eyes, he realised he had been moved from under his bike and was propped into a sitting position, his back leaning against the Bay Horse wall.
Along the street in front of him the dark was lifting and through the mist, Joe took account of his situation. Beneath him, the pavement’s icy slabs numbed his young legs yet despite this, the large, heavy cloak around his shoulders radiated a heat like nothing Joe had ever known – not then or since. He turned his head to take a closer look and saw that what he mistook for a blanket was in fact a large cloak. A cloak overlaid by a monk’s cowl. Joe sensed a presence towering by his side and concentrated his vision until he saw that it was a young man, not many years older than he, dressed in the pale grey robes of a holy man.
Joe knew then where the cloak belonged. He got to his feet, took it from around him and handed it back to the monk. He was trying to formulate a few words of gratitude when the monk simply vanished, leaving Joe to search for signs of him amongst the less ghostly figures emerging through the mist of the wakening day.
After that, other folk began to talk about the presence of a hooded monk. Some noted the grace with which he moved around the Bay Horse, some noted how he almost glided from the fireside to the bar, and for those who knew the history of the pub, they recall the way the monk always slowed when he crossed the middle of the room, as though navigating around an invisible wall that barred his path.
Joe is one of the fortunate imbibers to have actually seen the monk uncloaked. Though he’s been asked many times, he won’t describe his features, only to say how young, how innocent he looked – how totally unblemished and unworldly he was. To Joe, the monk was like the purest angel anyone could imagine.
~
So, should you happen to partake of a glass of ale in The Bay Horse, keep an eye on the corner of the main bar, the corner by the roadside and the fire – ask the bar staff to show you where the hidden priest’s hole is located, and scan your eyes amongst the regulars – look out for one wearing a roughly woven cloak – for who knows, it could be the young man who tended Joe many years back on that dark, frosty morning.
If the area around the bar is too crowded, then take your amber coloured ale and sit to watch the logs burning in the grate. You might just catch a glimpse of someone sitting by the fire. The image will be fleeting but should you be extremely fortunate, the firelight may reflect a pair of eyes staring back at you from beneath something that looks very like… a monk’s cowl.
(c) 2024 Pat Barnett.
The tale masterfully blends local history with supernatural elements, creating an atmospheric ghost story that feels deeply rooted in Yorkshire’s rich past. Through careful detail and vivid descriptions, we experience the misty mornings of Pickering and the warm, welcoming atmosphere of a traditional English pub, where the line between past and present becomes delightfully blurred
This enchanting story comes from Pat Barnett’s collection “Creatures,” a delightful journey through myth and mystery. Born in post-war Manchester, Pat’s writing career blossomed after adventures that took her from Wales to Australia and finally to North Yorkshire. Her rich life experiences shine through in her storytelling, bringing authenticity to her supernatural tales.
If you enjoy stories where history meets mystery, where the ordinary transforms into the extraordinary, you’ll love discovering more of Pat’s tales. Each story in her collection offers a unique glimpse into the supernatural, crafted with the careful attention of someone who truly understands the art of storytelling.
