The Ribbajack

Triggered by the sound of her own fear, Maggie bolted and ran. Avoiding the girl, she fled, knocking aside the stepladder in her path, sending books spilling across the floor. For an awful second, which seemed to last an eternity, Maggie fumbled with the door handle. Then she was out of the library and tearing headlong down the corridor. The building boomed to the sound of her feet pounding the floor. Maggie’s legs went like pistons as she hit the main door, sending it slamming back on its hinges as she shot out onto the gravelled path. Unreasoning horror lent wings to her feet, while her breath rasped out in sobbing gasps. Out onto the sidewalk she sped, as if the hounds of hell were on her heels. A truck rumbled by on the road, its engine noise bringing her back to the world of normality.

Maggie stumbled to a halt, teeth chattering, legs wobbling, her whole body shaking uncontrollably. But somehow or other, she was still holding tight to the coat. Maggie grasped the bars of the school railings, staring back at the building, scarcely able to believe what she saw.

Across the lawn, beyond the big leafless sycamore, behind the library windows, the ghastly girl was staring back at her. Bathed in a pool of pale spectral light, still holding the rose, still waving with that beckoning gesture . . . and still smiling that smile which encompassed deep, limitless evil.

Maggie turned and hurried swiftly away, her face buried in the coat. The beautiful coat her mother had bought for her—it smelled like home, comfort and all the everyday things of life. No scent was ever sweeter.

It was late Saturday evening when the security patrol informed the caretaker that his school was left unlocked. He came out to secure it. However, he did a quick check of all the rooms to make sure nothing was amiss.

It was not the first time the old building had managed to unlock itself, though the caretaker blamed shrinking woodwork and the wind. He made a note to inform the school governors.

Only the library looked as if anybody had been there. Mr. Ryan, the caretaker, noticed the open door. Switching the lighting on, he went to investigate. Fallen stepladder, some old books scattered about, no harm done really, probably a strong gust of wind from down the corridor. The books were big, ancient, dusty volumes from the top shelf, where reference archives were kept. He gathered them up and stacked them on a table. The last book lay open, the way it had fallen. Mr. Ryan picked it up, sat down at the table and began reading from the open pages:

The present school is built on the site of Frederick Edward Tranter’s family mansion. His magnificent library was preserved and forms part of the Leah Edwina Tranter School. Leah, the Tranters’ only child, died in mysterious circumstances when she was only fourteen. Many of the locals were convinced that she poisoned herself. Not much is known of Leah, save that she was a solitary girl. She was never popular with the local children, many said that she frightened them.

Leah had a private governess who was responsible for her education. She left within six months of taking up the post; no other ladies ever came to replace her. Leah spent a short but lonely life, as her parents, Frederick and Marguerite, were prominent socialites and travellers.

On returning from a tour of Europe one November, Frederick Tranter discovered his daughter’s body in the library. She had been dead several days, and lay concealed behind a bookcase, holding a red rose in one hand. The servants, cook, gardener, butler and footmaid swore they had not seen her for some time. They assumed she had gone off to stay with relatives. Frederick Tranter was so affected by the death of his only child that he became a recluse.

His wife left him and went to live in Georgia, the state of her birth. None of the servants would stay in the big house with Frederick, who took to drinking heavily and staying alone in the library for days upon end. After his death it was found that he had left a will and the remainder of his money. His wish was that a school would be built on the site of his home. It would provide educational facilities for the local children. He stipulated that the building be named the Leah Edwina Tranter School, as a memoriam to his daughter.

The All Ireland Champion Versus the Nye Add

I WAS TOLD THIS TALE BY MY FATHER’S SON,

so I’ll tell it as he told it to me.

I can recite the thing word perfect,

’cos I’m an only child, you see?

The stream starts up in the mountains, and like all sensible water, it runs downhill. It’s there that it joins the river and flows into the great, wide ocean. Which is how nature ordained it should. A little village stands near the riverbank with a grand view of the ocean, no more than two miles away. Now, if you sit still and listen, I’ll tell you a tale which comes from that very village itself. Are you listening?