In all my travels, I have only one tale to tell that could be called a ghost story. It was after the battle of Torkan. I had been stripped of my armor, taken prisoner, and my king was dead. Yet, I would not that I be led to their foreign lands and made a slave. Indeed, as I was marched in a caravan toward the sea, I often thought of my dear wife and our children, my home and my lands. I thought on them and wept. I cried to God, day and night, for some rescue.
Well, I knew we were a day’s journey from their ships, and I said in my heart that it was better to die here in my blood where I was born than to live to an old, bent age in some foreign kingdom. But that was not all. We were then camped by the Dark Woods, a place long known for the mischief of fairies. I had some thought that those spirits might harbor more sympathy for me than my captors who were invaders here.
I rose up against a guard and strangled him in the night, but his cry was heard. The alarm went up, but the camp fell into disarray. Whether the confusion was from God or the devils, I and many other captives made a desperate run into the Dark Woods.
Many strange and deadly perils met us. The unknown monsters of shadows consumed the purser and pursued alike. In the morning, alone, exhausted, and half-mad, I fell forward onto the dried nettles of the forest floor and knew no more.
When I awoke, I was in a bed, a room. There were soft curtains and the light of candles. The tapestries showed a strange history. A king whose throne was the mouth of a demon, whose crown wore him and his successors. Then came a hero to slay the monster, who broke the crown and gave the pieces as prizes to his servants. I wondered at this story, but the tale told there is not my own.
Shortly, there came a fair maid into my chamber, whose face was so white that it seemed to glow as the moon. She felt my brow, and said my fever had broken. Her hand was cool, like a river on a hot day when the snow is melting off the mountain.
Then I spoke, and my voice surprised me by its harshness; and I said:
“What is this place, and where am I? Are you, fair and glowing maiden, a spirit? Have I passed beyond the realm of mortal men?”
I had, in my speech, taken her hand, and this she withdrew from mine before giving answer:
“Brave Sir Mong,” there was laughter in her voice, “could you return home if you knew? Winter comes from such small seeds.”
Here the white maiden left my side and moved toward the door.
“You are well now,” she told me. “You will find your way.” She opened the door and went out.
It was strange, but I would follow her. There seemed a smile in that radiant face beckoning me. I leapt out of bed and ran through the portal, half in fear of being left alone and half to know more from her of where and who I was.
But beyond the threshold lay only ruins, a deserted keep the forest had overrun, and behind me, when I looked back, the colorful curtains had fallen to the mouths of moths and long decay.
I fear you are disappointed. I have nothing so very frightening to share, nothing to match your inventions. But I did return home, and that is a great wonder to me.
Tale Told 