THE MILLER OF CHESTER-LE-STREET'S TALE

Durham, England, 1632

Do some poor souls linger on earth? Are they tied to this world because they have some unfinished business down here?
Let me tell you the story of Ann Walker. Then make up your mind.

The market town of Chester-le-Street stands by the River Wear. And down by the river stood a water mill. And Miller, James Graham, lived by the mill in 1632.
The miller worked hard and he worked long hours. It was midnight as he put the last corn in the hopper. A chill winter's night and a damp mist rising from the river.
He came down the creaking wooden stairs and he stopped.
There was someone down there on the flour-dusted floor. Yet he knew that the door of the mill had been locked.
"Who's that?" he called and he peered down into the gloom. The figure made no reply. He turned up the wick of his lantern and took a step down.
He could make out the shape of a longhaired woman. And as he drew close he could see that her hair was dripping. But where the droplets hit the floor they made no mark in the thin layer of flour.
"Who are you?" he asked and the lantern trembled in his hand.
The woman raised her head. Her pale face was stained with red. It wasn't water running down her hair but blood. The miller stared and made out four or five deep wounds that scarred her head.
No one could have such wounds and live. "Sweet Jesus, save me!" begged the miller.
Then the woman raised her bloodied head and looked him in the eyes. "No, do not be afraid," she sighed. "I am just the spirit of the murdered young Anne Walker. Sit down, sir, for you look too shocked to stand."
The miller sank down on the lowest step and placed the lantern on the old mill floor. "In God's name, tell me what you want!" he gasped.
"I want revenge," the woman said. "I cannot leave this world while my cruel murderers walk free. I need the help of you, James Graham."
"I'll do my best," the miller said.
"Then listen to my tale," the spirit said. "I lived near here in Chester-le-Street. My uncle, Joseph Walker, is a farmer. Joseph took me to his house. I worked there as his maid. But Joseph took my innocence and . . . I found I was with child."
The miller started to forget his fear. He shook his head in horror at her tale.
"My uncle said I'd have to go away. He said I'd have to leave to hide my shame. He promised I'd be well looked after and then return to keep his house."
"He broke his promise?" miller Graham asked.
"I left the house about this time of night. The last new moon - two weeks ago. He sent his friend to guide me in the dark. A miner called Mark Sharp. Sharp is a tall and fearsome man. Hair black as the coal he digs and shoulders wide as a doorway. I should have been afraid of him, yet I was more afraid of travelling down that moonless road alone. We set off on the road to Durham. My guide did not have much to say. His strides were long and I stumbled as I tried to keep pace with him. I begged him to stop when we had gone five miles. And then he told me that he knew a quicker way. It meant we'd walk across the loneliest part of the moor. But I was tired, so tired, that I agreed. The road was quiet at that time of night. The moor was quieter. Only the sounds of owls and something scuttling through the rough grass. A loose sheep scared me half to death. I asked him how much farther. He told me he could see a light. He pointed to the distant hill. As I leaned forward Mark Sharp stepped behind me. He took his pick and struck me on the head. He gave these wounds that you see on my head."
Her apparition shuddered and the blood dripped to the floor. "The law will not convict those two unless we find your body," Miller Graham said.
She nodded and her hair fell forward. Quietly she told the miller where her body lay. "He threw my body in a coal pit, then he hid the pick axe in a bank near by. He tried to wash the blood from off his shoes and stockings. But he could not get them clean, so he hid them by the pick."
The ghost began to walk towards James Graham. He scrambled to his feet and he backed towards the door. "No one will believe me!" Miller Graham cried.
"But you must try. And try again until they do!" Anne Walker's ghost protested. "Or I shall haunt you till your dying day and then beyond the grave!"
The man tore at the bolts and stumbled down the moon-washed path. He dared to look behind and saw he was not followed. He hurried home and shivered in his bed.