![]() ![]() Every evening a pint of beer would be left on the countertop and, more often than not, when the staff opened up the next morning it would be gone. John liked to visit the pub after closing time and have a drink. It was the same, save for the removal of some of the viler details. I rested my forearms on the bar and leaned in to her.Īs she set my pint down she took a deep breath before launching into her own retelling of the tale, ignoring my question. I held a hand up in silent acknowledgement and took a moment or two to blink back the tears. “I’m so sorry pet, I thought it had been taken down.” The barmaid glimpsed the look of horror on my face and raced to remove it. I was in the Grotto, at the wake, ordering drinks when I saw a tankard hanging on the wall behind the bar. ![]() It wasn’t until I returned home for Mel’s funeral that I heard the name John the Jibber again. He was always watching, waiting to take his revenge. She’d follow that with a warning to never speak ill of John. However, pull her up on one of the many inconsistencies that crept into the story over time and she would deny that there had ever been any deviation from the way in which she told it in that very moment. The three of us took silent solace in the fact that the little details she revelled in revealing appeared so malleable that the entire thing must be a work of fiction. It was apparent to us even then as small children that this late night horrorshow was designed more for her amusement than our entertainment. You could recognise when one particularly gruesome detail was being formulated in the back of her mind as the corners of her mouth curled into a sadistic half-smile. On one occasion she claimed they hobbled him so he would lack the mobility to even try to escape, and on another that they pulled his fingernails out so the agony of trying to scale the walls of the pit would be too great. The punishment meted out to poor old John prior to being dropped into the darkness would get more and more violent depending on her level of inebriation. Her favourite was a particularly gruesome tale about a smuggler-turned-informant who was lowered down a mine shaft and left to starve by his fellow felons once they discovered his duplicity. From there she’d hold court regaling my sister Mel and I with stories from her youth. Late on Saturday evenings she would come back from the pub, pour herself a dry sherry and curl up in the wingback chair in the corner of the room. My gran was the first person to tell me about John’s lost soul haunting the town. The only thing everyone appears to be able to agree on is that once you see him there is only one way to rid yourself of him. I’ve heard some say that they saw him standing atop the limestone stack staring out toward the ocean, while others have claimed he was trapped in the barrel in which he died, his face a mask of horror, screaming into the dusty blue void. In what manner he will be there depends on who you talk to. Time it well though, just as the sun kisses the horizon, and the locals swear blind that he’ll be there. It needs to be a clear day, preferably during the summer, and you’ll need to be stood at the correct angle. ![]() There’s an legend around my way that if you take an early morning trip to the coast and look out towards Marsden Rock, in the right conditions you’ll see the ghost of John the Jibber. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |