The Storyteller: When local legends and nightmares collide

When I joined forces with the writer, Stephanie Austin, to do our Halloween Ghost Walk, I was intrigued to find out how living in Ashburton, the town she writes about, had inspired her writing. Then we joked about the “Midsomer Murders” effect, how, if you continually bump off people from the same locality, you might risk running out of victims...and I could quite see how this could become

A Writer's Nightmare

Tammy Becket and her husband, Thomas, had just spent their first Christmas in rented accommodation in the heart of Bovey Tracey, the bustling Dartmoor town that they hoped to soon make their permanent home. She was an aspiring novelist, whilst he was an accomplished artist, who both decided that their work could do with an injection of southern inspiration that they hoped the wide-open ruggedness of Dartmoor could offer them, taking them away from their northern roots. Tammy was already fed up with the locals, those that would deign to talk to her, trying to place where her accent was from, so she had resigned herself to saying she was from up north.

Tom had found his people straightaway, as the town has quite a vibrant arts scene, offering quite a variety of subject matter on the doorstep, without having to stray too far up on to the moors above. Tammy, on the other hand, was struggling. She had researched all the local folklore books before moving down, as fantasy was her thing, but she didn’t just want to regurgitate the known stories; she needed to come up with a different twist. So she spent her days wandering the area with their black Labrador, Ben, who rather enjoyed accompanying his mum on her quest for inspiration, as he quite liked meeting the locals, even if she didn’t, as they all seemed to be dog lovers.

Many of their walks started on the new Indio Fields housing development, as they were hoping that one of the properties might come into their price bracket, if only they could persuade their new bank manager that they were worth the risk with a mortgage. Artistic types were a bit too unpredictable for most financial institutions’ tastes, so Tammy needed to find this inspiration, not only to prove herself worthy to her literary agent but to the bank as well.

Her research had shown that Indio means “in the name of God,” so it was no surprise to find an old priory preserved on the vast estate. Once housing possibly monks, but definitely nuns, as stories of ghostly nuns, seen in the vicinity, abounded.

On one such walk, Tammy came across a young couple deep in discussion about a dilemma the girl had regarding their upcoming nuptials. Intrigued by their style of dress and their turn of phrase, Tammy secreted herself behind a tree to listen, only just managing to keep Ben by her side, preventing him from wandering over for fuss. She thought they must be preparing for a production at one of the local schools, as it all seemed a little overdramatic. The girl was saying she couldn’t possibly get married and move away with him, as her patrons relied on her sewing skills for their income, and without her they might not be able to keep the school open. The lad’s response seemed somewhat brash, Tammy felt, as he claimed he could provide a substantial acreage of land for the growing of crops, more than making up for the loss of her handiwork. This seemed to be the correct answer, as the girl’s mood lifted at once, and, gripping her beau’s arm, they literally skipped off into the trees. “Aww, how sweet!” Tammy thought, racking her brains to try and recall which Shakespeare play that scene was from...

Next stop was the churchyard of St John’s, the local Catholic church, that looked so beautiful inside, but it was one of the statues in the graveyard that had captured her imagination. It was a memorial to the three Gurney sisters, who all drowned when their boat capsized during a night storm on the River Nile during the 1800s.

Above: The statue of the Gurney Sisters 

When she had told one of the locals that she was a writer, the response was, “Oh, you ought to read up about them Guerneys, it’s like something out of a horror film!”. Tammy had done just that, and was saddened to learn that, although he had survived the tragedy, their brother, Edmund, had tied his fate to theirs, by spending the rest of his life, and possibly beyond, intent on getting a message from his beloved sisters, by enlisting the help of many Victorian mediums and psychics, both genuine and fake, to achieve this. His determination was to be applauded, even if his methods were a little creepy. Every time she stared up at the statues of the three angels, each bearing the name of one of the sisters, she couldn’t help imagining them coming to life, and walking, menacingly, towards her... a bit like something out of a Dr Who episode. Maybe, one day, in one of her books, they just might...

Above: Inside St John's Catholic Church 

Another favourite walk, found them at Parke, site of the National Park offices, and, if you go back further, where one of the ancestral homes of the De Tracey family once stood. Many beautiful walks, frequented by the local dog walking fraternity, wend their way around the grounds, and it was whilst following one such trail, through a more secluded part, that, suddenly, a small white rabbit hopped across their path. “That’s so cute!”, cooed Tammy, trying to restrain Ben from running after it. No sooner had she uttered those words, than the peace of the day was shattered, by the violent neighing of a horse, and, as she turned, there was a horse rearing up over her, the rider trying desperately to control its steed, at the same time brandishing a gleaming sword. Tammy threw her arms up instinctively, not only to protect herself from kicking hooves, but also from the sight that the rider was minus a head...

Waking with a scream, Tammy found herself sitting bolt upright in bed, her husband lying next to her. Her moment of relief, realising that the headless horseman, brandishing his sword, was all part of a nightmare, was short-lived, when she saw another sword in the hands of a figure, standing over Thomas’s sleeping body. As he slowly raised the sword over his head, his intention to murder, clearly obvious, he said, “You are only a Becket, nobody special, just a Becket, but still a meddlesome priest to my king, a nuisance he wants rid of, and so it is my duty to carry out his biding!”, with that he swung the sword downwards. Instinctively, Tammy threw herself on Tom’s unflinching body, screaming out, “Nooooo! Not my husband!”, and for the second time that night, she awoke with a scream. This time Tom sat bolt upright beside her, demanding, “Oh my God Tam, what on earth is the matter?”. Throwing her arms around him, if for no other reason than to check this version was real, she sobbed, “It’s ok, it’s just a stupid nightmare brought on by too much research!”. She vaguely remembered her history, that the real Thomas Becket was murdered at his altar, shortly after Christmas. Had she just imagined some sort of weird culling of anyone called Thomas Becket, just after the festive season? Whatever, she felt she had a pretty good idea of what she was going to write about now...

If you fancy joining me for a walk around Bovey Tracey, and hearing all the stories featured in Tammy’s nightmare, plus more besides, I’m hosting one on Wednesday 8th January, on the eve of the Battle of Bovey Heath. Please get in touch for further details, and to book, via my email address davidtiptrips@gmail.com