The ghost of
St. Mary’s
The headland at Scarborough is dominated by the ruins of the twelfth century
castle, impenetrable from the sea, as the rock face is sand and virtually
sheer.
This is a story not of the fight for the fort but for a lost soul.
Just below the castle is the church of St. Mary's. In a far corner
hidden from sight lies a broken gravestone, this is the sad story of a
schoolgirl, her grave, weed-ridden and long forgotten.
This story
started for me about six years ago when I was doing some research. The reason
being, I was trying to find things to do while I visited Scarborough for the
Jazz festival. I needed something to do on Sunday, this the worst day with most
shops closed.
In making a few general enquiries, I learned from the Tourist
Information board that at the edge of the North bay is a series of flattish
rocks called Betty Moffat rocks, the fact they had a name and not just a
general term such as Scapa Flow, the Skerries or the Needles, always intrigued
me. What had happened to cause the rocks to get such a name?
As things went that year, I never got to Scarborough but the name stuck
with me and has haunted me since. Anyone who knows me will tell you if I get a
mystery, I like to try to get as much information on it as I can. If for no
other reason than personal satisfaction and the knowledge that I did me best.
After many years of trying to return to the site of many happy memories
from childhood, I finally got back to Scarborough, from there the story grows.
In the
preceding years, nobody at the Tourist Information or any other organization could
find any links to the name of the rocks, so interest for me was very strong,
maybe I could shed some light on the mystery.
I left Bristol on the 10:30 train for York, my head filled with thoughts
of what a lovely time ahead, even if only for a few days. This was a rushed
trip organized in February and set for late September. Partly because the
holiday season would be over and partly because I wanted to be by the sea to
say farewell to a lovely lady, I had known in Canada. Knowing the area well I
was prepared for the stormy weather, this was one of the reasons for going that
late in the season.
We arrived at York on schedule, not knowing the station as the last time
I was there was on my way south from Scotland in my RAF days. At that time York
was a nightmare to get around. I remember having to carry the kit bag and
suitcase over every line from one side to the other, he thought of an eleven
minute gap between trains was daunting to say the least. The years had taken
the toll and my health had deteriorated badly, however the worry was for
nothing as the change was easy, down the lift across under the lines and back
up, in plenty of time to get the train to Scarborough.
Since passing Sheffield I had the feeling of returning to home, but now
that feeling was even stronger as we headed to an area I knew and loved. Memory
plays strange tricks and as we sped across the moors covered in lovely heather,
I could remember my good times. I just hoped things had not changed too much,
as the main seaside venue on the North-East; Scarborough has to move with the
times. I was just hoping she had not lost her soul to the tourists and become
tacky.
The train pulled into Scarborough station on time, as always I had
checked the area online, as I was unsure of directions even though the guest
house was only thirty-five minutes from the station. All I had to do was head
for the cricket ground, and I was almost there, as the house was only a few
streets away. All went well for the first few minutes, then I hit a snag, there
were road repairs in use, this entailed a detour and here came the problem, as
this took me off my route, the more I tried to get back on course, the more I
lost my direction until I was so confused I had to ask the way. By this time I
was tired and sweating despite the late September weather, once I got directions
to Columbus ravine I knew where I was going I had planned to avoid walking up
the ravine, which is a long winding road, my route would have taken me across
the top edges of the ravine, here I was now at the bottom of it, tired and
sweating
After arriving at the guest house, I was very pleasantly surprised to
find it was only a short walk from Peasholm park, an area of town that held
many lovely childhood memories for me and one of the destinations I wanted to
re-visit this trip.
The first night went well, until about 03:15, when there was such a loud
thunder clap, anyone would have thought a bomb had gone off. When we went in
for breakfast on the Friday, all the talk was about the thunder as all of the
guests had been woken. I was woken as I had only just gone to sleep, I had been
chatting to a friend in America, the time lapse meant her 9:00 pm, was my 2:00
am.
Most
of the guests had come for the jazz festival and by the chatter, were regular
visitors. Some had come from Surrey and had been there for the week, they were
waiting for a friend coming down from Scotland.
I explained that I had tried to get tickets back in March but they had
been sold out, as this is festival second only to Cheltenham in the UK for popularity these days, the main
difference being Cheltenham is an International festival, whereas this is a
British festival.
Once
we had got talking that morning, I told my new friends, that I had to make a
rushed plan for personal reasons and despite not getting tickets, I had decided to make the trip as I had
wanted to return for so long. I could not remember a year when it was not on my
mind to come back.
After breakfast on the Friday, I
took the first of my many walks along the North bay area up to Scalby Mills and
the sea life museum. The day was windy and walking along the front was hard in
the face of a force three to four headwind with sand lashing my face but the
feeling of being at peace inspired me to write. I had not felt so alive; my
spirit was alive with the elements and flowing.
Looking down from the top of the cliff walk on to the beach I could see
the North Sea rolling in and with her the waves high as a man a mile out.
Scarborough has two bays. They are so totally different.
North bay is rocky with large areas of jagged rocks, she catches most of
the winds ( as I was to see later).This is the non-tourist part, there are no
amusements or rides here, which suited me as the calmness was what I needed, in
2005 the council had to replace half of the North Shore walk, there was a
terrible gale and the tides ripped out the pavements, if you look it is easy to
note the alterations, the council has also laid down massive layers of huge
boulders, to break the force of a rolling tide.
While the North Bay gets the high winds and waves, just half a mile away
on South Bay you would think you were in a different town altogether, on one
day I witnessed the big differences. I walked along North Bay with the tide
rolling in, waves crashing against the man-made defenses and sounding like
thunder. Around the point, South Bay was as calm as calm could be, surfers
paddling out ¾ mile in water so shallow a child would be safe. So calm hardly a
ripple stirred the great expanse of empty sands showing what the tourists came
for, her lovely beach, golden sands and fresh sea food stalls.
Walking to Scalby mills that first morning, my mind was free to roam,
maybe that is the reason I saw (or thought I did).
Rounding the point by the sea life museum, I thought I heard a voice.
Turning, I thought I saw the figure of a child on the rocks but it could not
have been right as there were waves crashing in.
Being
of an inquisitive nature, I do not discount the possibility of ghosts and
spirits, especially when you are in such a large area of shipping and steeped
in so much history going back to Roman times. During the Victorian era, she
boomed as the north-east coastal centre, since then she has thrived and always
will I hope.
Did I see this child? Or was it just my mind playing tricks on a tired
soul with a vivid imagination, only time would say.
As I walked that morning, thoughts forming as to my plans for the
weekend ahead, I stopped by the point at the sea life museum, just standing
watching waves and sensing the power of the sea, it is true what sailors say, “Once
you have the sea in your blood, you can feel her pulling you back, you are
never happy on land,” I had known for years the pulling
forces of nature, and nowhere more so than here, facing the wild and rolling
North sea.
While I walked back to the castle, images and sounds of the vision
played through my mind.
“Had I really
seen and heard the child playing? Was it a trick of my mind? Was this just the
sea spray and waves, making me hear and see things?“Why did I see what that
girl? And, why had I seen her?”
These questions plagued me all day; the walk up to the castle can be
undertaken two ways. The first is the easier route, straight up from town, it
is a straight road, and the way I was taking was for more precipitous. This
route took you along the edge of the rocks and left you open to the high winds
that were now blowing down the steps. I had taken this route, not out of choice;
it was the nearest for me and saved about twenty minutes walking back around
the walls. Necessity was the main reason, as I was tired from my walk along the
sea front. The views from the castle are spectacular, on the North view you can
see all across the Vale of York as far as Lockton and as far north as Scalby, to
the south you have a clear view of most of the town and as far south as Filey.
My first call was going to be back at the church but that could wait
until tomorrow, my legs were aching and I wanted a meal. Nothing too pricey, as
money was scarce so I just had fish and chips from the shop just down the road
from the guest house. While waiting in line I noticed that they had been
awarded a plaque for the best fish and chips in town, a big prize with so many
competitors and none more famous than Harry Ramsden’s on the sea front, Harry
Ramsden's shop is a well used establishment and the name alone ensures a
regular turn over, for this trip I could not afford their prices.
Saturday came, although the day was still cold and drizzly, to me it was
lovely. I had a great sleep, unusual for me in a strange bed as usually the
first night is terrible. At breakfast most of my friends were chatting about
lat night's performances at the festival opening and who they wanted to listen
to today. One of the ladies turned to me and asked “What do you have planned
for the day, Alan?”
I drank my coffee and replied “I am going to walk South bay to start
with, then have a look around town, there is such a lot to see here.”
Getting to South bay is a good walk in itself from our guesthouse; we
were on the North shores away from all the tourist area. After breakfast I took
my regular walk up the road and along to the cliff edge over looking North Bay,
a view that always enthralled me. This was what I came for, not the tourist bit
but the rugged coastal area with the howling wind in my face.
After about forty-five minutes just sitting and watching, I decided to
go back to the room for a coffee. With my illness I cannot stay on my feet too
long, so our guest house was the ideal spot for me. After my coffee I set off
for the South bay area and the sandy beaches, my walk took me past another
place I had always wanted to visit, the Scarborough cricket club. As a Yorkshire
man, I should have really had the urge to visit headingly in Leeds, to see the
test ground but this had for a long time been my desire. Probably because for
years I had watched cricket and the matches at Headingly in Leeds were
televised. Or was it because the idea of seeing a local ground near the beach
enthralled me? I have no idea. The ground is easily seen from the road, I took
a few minutes off my route, just to see what it is like there.
The thirty-five minute walk across town to the South Bay was an
intriguing walk through a mix of old cobbled streets with shops that had been
there for generations, mixed in with the new shopping mall complete with all
the usual shops you see in most towns.
I arrived at the South Bay via the old iron bridge above the funicular
railway, one of only two in the country, the other being at Lynmouth in Devon.
With the rain beating in my face and the wind blowing from along shore, the
beach was empty apart from some surfers who were either brave or foolish,
depending on how you view the sport. Here they had to walk out about half a mile, then paddle out about the
same to get the waves.
Walking along the sea front, I stopped at one of the many stalls selling
fresh sea food and bought some crab sandwiches. All the time, imagining all the
thousands upon thousands of people that had visited the town and never got
further than the beach, “Not for me” I thought. When I visit anywhere, I
like to see and feel the place.
The main object in view on the south bay, is the lighthouse, which over
looks the secluded harbour, usually the sea walls would keep the winds at bay,
today the sound of ships bells could be clearly heard as I rounded the corner.
A sure sign that Mother Nature was telling us that stormy winds were to be
expected for the weeks ahead.
As I walked, thoughts of the girl I had seen still plagued
my mind, I did not get a good view of the clothing but was sure it was early
Victorian by the dull and plain design of the dress, worn more for
functionality than to look smart or pretty. Yet all I could think about was the
girl and why had I seen her?
When I rounded the point below
the castle, I was awakened from my thoughts by a huge wave, so big that the
wave NOT the spray
broke over the road, getting me soaked in the process. Before I had gone twenty
feet, another one caught me. To give some idea of the power of the wave, the
sea front walkway is about twenty feet above sea level, at an angle of
elevation of about twenty-five degrees and the path is about fifteen feet wide,
the waves broke over the path. I was soaked through and in a rush to get back
to the dry to dry off now.
At breakfast on Sunday the chatter was about the music, here I made a
discovery. My friends agreed that one of the performers I was really looking
forward to seeing was actually a terrible singer.
“What a
let-off!” I thought.
My friends asked what my plans were for the day, when I mentioned the
sighting and what I had in mind, interest started to gather, as this was
something new to them and of great curiosity. As my friends gathered in their
rooms and chatted about how to see the most for the ticket price, I made my way
up the street to the café, and turned towards the cricket ground, on my way to
the North Bay.
The walk to the sea life centre was one of the calmest of the weekend,
even though the tide was running high and strong, the off-shore winds were very
calm. I walked past the changing rooms on the sea front, all empty now and with
the paint worn, showing the ravages of the winds and sand blasting.
Having got soaked through the previous day from the huge waves, I was
still aching but wanted to know if I had seen the girl. When I got to the North
point, looking into the waves, I thought I saw the face of the girl again,
crying out to me, with arms stretching out in front of her. If begging for my
attentions.
What were her intentions? Her face was not angry, as if she was trying
to claim my soul as hers and drag me to the watery grave. She was more pleading
with me for something.
Over the waves, I thought I could faintly here her say “Please find me,
bring my soul to rest!”
These words haunted me. Who is this little frail figure? And why is she
leading for her soul?
I walked up the hill to the church, thoughts running wild in my mind. I
decided to have another look at the graveyard and the lonely forgotten grave. Maybe
that would give me a start for the quest I had taken on.
All that revealed was that the body had been placed there sometime in
the early part of the 1800s, as all the engraving work had long since been
eroded and faded. The vicar told me that church records couldn’t help much as
at that time the records only recorded notable deaths. “How sad” I
thought. “That this can happen and the poor girl can have no peace.”
Time was against me this trip, but my interest had been piqued, to me
that am a great incentive. After talking to the vicar, I had been given some
contact information but neither of us expected too much.
Still the face from the spray haunted my mind's eye and her pitiful
voice crying too me.
“Why had I been chosen? Was I just the person who chanced on the vision
for no reason? Was it because I had an enquiring mind and would do my best to
find things out to help others? Did I see her, or did I just imagine I did?” All of these questions I kept
putting to myself as I walked back to my room. In two days all I could hope for
was a starting point, I was not expecting to make any headway at all. Looking
at maps, all I could find was the rocks had been named the Betty Moffat rocks,
this was a start, even though I had no dates, I had a starting point.
“Was she the girl in the broken grave?” What did she mean by “Please find me and put my soul
to rest?”
On Sunday, I went to St. Mary’s church, to pray for guidance to help
with the mystery and to pray for the soul of a lost child, who I never knew
existed before this week. That is how much my spirit was affected by the sight
and pleas of this poor girl; I was sure I was in no danger mortal or otherwise
and had no need of either exorcism or spiritual protection from this girl.
After the service, as the congregation was leaving, I stayed a while to
re-visit the graveyard. In among all the kept graves, this poor one had my
heart. “Who lay there? And why did the family care so little for the grave?”
While I stood thinking of what to do next I heard a voice from behind me
“Good morning my son, I haven’t seen you here before, are you new to the
parish?” It was the vicar.
“No, Father, I am but a traveler who has come to seek some answers and
maybe to solve a puzzle?”
“Is there anything I can do to help?’
“Father, is there a record of who is buried here? The grave is so lonely
and small.”
“That is something I have been trying to solve for a decade. All I can
find in the records is that in the early 1820s, a small child was buried there,
name unknown, no family, an orphan on the streets of a town that had begun to
thrive .If I maybe so bold as to ask, what is your interest in this grave my
son?”
“Father, there is no problem. I was walking by some rocks on the North
Bay point area and thought I saw a face in the spray. I thought I heard a
little girl pleading with me to find her and put her soul to rest. This is the
local church; I thought it would be a good starting point, especially as there
is an unkempt and very old grave here. It’s in a lonely corner, out of sight of
the main graveyard.”
“The grave had been kept up by the church for over a hundred years,
nobody knew the reason but when funds got too low, we could not afford to do it
any longer. I know it is a shame to let it go that bad but with no family help
pay for it, we had no other option.”
“I understand, Father .”
The
sight of the broken grave called to the root of my soul, I was hoping that my
experiences and this grave might be linked, or was that too much to hope for.?
After a short history lesson on
the church and its history as we walked across the graveyard and through the
church. It was becoming obvious to me, that if anything was to be found, it was
going to be a long journey and one in which I was very willing to take part.
This was as much a pilgrimage of love as going to Lourdes is one of faith.
A soul was lost at sea and had asked me for help. Why? I had no idea why
I had been asked, the only way my mind would rest, would be either to solve the
mystery of the girl... Or convince myself that I had done my utmost to bring
her to rest.
I thanked the father for his helpful talk, and left the church, taking
one last look at the grave as walked up the path between the graves.
As
I walked out of the churchyard and turned back towards the castle, heading down
to the bay, time was on my side for now. I walked down one of the paths that
had been worn down the cliff side over the years, catching the stiff breeze
full in the face; it was so stiff it almost knocked me over. The waves were in
full flow now, crashing over the stalls on the front and the few cars foolish
even to be driven along.
Walking
was just as hard as on Friday, I walked to the North point, not really thinking
of anything. Drawn to the area by some unknown force, when I reached the point,
I looked out to the sea. I was standing there, lost in thought, watching the
waves crashing against the rocks and thinking.
“Who are you? Why ask me? How can I help you rest your soul?”
Was I taking on something that I could not finish? Would this mystery plague
my mind for ages? If I could just make a start that would be a huge help, at
this stage I had no information, no idea how or where to start. All I had was
just a few jumbled ideas and thoughts, hoping they could join the dots and go
somewhere.
The only noise to be heard was the roaring of the waves. Why did I see
her on the rocks that afternoon? What was the meaning of seeing the small child
in the plain clothes of an early Victorian schoolchild, plain grey dress, white
shirt, hair all a mess and straggly. Look beyond the first impressions and you
can see a flower was plucked before her time.
Standing on the rocks, lost and lonely, with pitiful eyes she looked up
at me and with her arms wide, she mouthed something but the wind and waves
drowned her out. It was easy for me to see, she meant no harm to me. Her face
was sad and lonely, begging for my help, not at all angry at having gone before
her time as she might have been. Maybe she accepted that her death was a better
place than the poor life on the street as a beggar. To many, it would seem odd
that a time when the town was beginning to flourish, in many parts children
like her were still begging for a pittance.
The wind was whipping my face with salt water. It was a lovely feeling,
yet to some extent I felt at a loss. In a place and with no worries to clog my
enjoyment, I should have been totally at ease but this was beginning to be a
project I needed to see some movement in. With the autumnal nights and the
storm clouds rolling in, the sky darkened quickly and it was time for me to
head back to the guest house. I knew there would be nobody there, my friends
had made plans for the festival. Today was the climax for them, tomorrow they
would be on their way back. I still had one day left before I had to leave and
I had planned to walk both bays before I left. This walk I couldn't do
until Monday, due to the festival barriers.
When I got in, I made a coffee in the room, and went down to the front
room, to sit and do some writing; I sat there lost again in my thoughts. While I typed our landlady came in for a
quick chat.
“Are you from Northallerton?” I asked. “I have an aunt from there and
your accent is very similar?”
“No, I'm from Bradford; Andy my husband is from Hull.”
It turned out that in-between my making the booking in March and my
arrival in September, the guest house had changed hands and Nicki and Andy did
not know much about the town.
The
town is a lovely mix of old history in the back streets and down the lanes, and
a totally modern shopping area, with all the usual shops you expect in any mall
in the UK.
With only one day left on this trip, I realized this may take a further
journey and serious researching. Walking down to the breakfast room that final
morning, I was sad to know my new friends would be leaving. They had been here
for the week and had seen the Jazz festival, so they would be happy, even if
some of the artists were not as good as they hoped. The overall view was that
it had been a great festival
We got to chatting about their journey home, a long trip down to Kent
for some; one of them was staying though, as he had only arrived late on Friday
night and wanted to make the journey from Scotland worth the trip. He would be
returning on Tuesday he told me.
My objective had been to walk the bays from North to South via the point
under the castle but I had made a change to the plans. I intended just to go to
the North point, sit and look at the sea and try to fathom out why I had seen
the apparition and what her meaning was.
That morning I went to the point, sadness in my heart as this would be
my last time this year and I was making no progress with the puzzle set me. My
only hope was the lonely grave, after much deliberation on the point and not
seeing her again. I walked up to the church, and went to pay the grave a visit,
on my way I bought a bunch of flowers. Slowly walking to the grave, I knelt
before it and placed the bunch on the grave.
As I stood taking it all in, I said to myself “I will try to help
bring your soul to rest.”
I said it so quiet, the words hardly formed, almost like a loud thought
more than the spoken word.
As I stood there, I heard a voice say to me “I know you will, I can
sense your feelings and how this haunts you.”
Before leaving, I took the time to go back in the church “Father, have
you just returned from the graveyard? “I asked as the priest approached.
“No, my son I have just come from the vestry. Why do you ask?”
“I was out there and thought to myself, “I will try my best to help
this poor soul find some peace” when I heard a voice saying I know you
will.”
“I can assure you my son, it wasn’t me.”
While we pondered the meanings to this, we decided to walk to the
graveyard and see if we could find a reason, but none came to mind.
At this point my mind began racing as I thought this was a sure sign
from the girl, that we had made a psychic connection. This was the first
forward movement, she knew I would try to bring her home and find the peace she
deserved.
Through the coming months, I contacted various people in the area, both
local and in the Yorkshire records; there was no record of a Betty Moffat
having had the accident I thought she could have had, for the naming of the
rocks. This just made me more determined to find out.
All attempts
from home via letters, emails or the internet were coming up blank. This was
going from mere curiosity and heading into obsession now, WHY would the rock outcrop have such a
personal name?
In the spring with still no more information at hand I returned to
Scarborough, the wind was still blowing and the seas were rolling but now it
was a gentler breeze with a warming.
My researches had come up blank, so I had arranged with the curator of
the museum to be able to check old maps of the coast for the period 1800-1850,
as the records office had already said that they had the name as early as 1850,
and the girl was definitely in early Victorian clothing, this I knew from my
days working in museums down in Bristol. I was in the museum examine the documentation
for hours just trying to find a link. Could the spirit have been Betty? Was
there a link here? Somewhere in the maps was there a link to the mystery?
As the museum closed for lunch and I had been there for over three hours
looking at the maps, with still no link appearing. I gave my thanks to the
curator as I left and went to get some sandwiches from one of the fresh sea
food stalls that are along the south shore. Sitting on the sea front looking
out at the surfers and wind sailors, I was more than ever certain that I had been
picked for this research because I believe in spirits and because I had had
some contact with the spirit world in the months after my friend Faye’s death.
All my life I held the view that I did not discount the presence of
spirits, over the previous years, I have had a few contacts with the spirit
world from meditation to déjà vu, then Faye and now this. Many of you dispute
the existence of a soul, I do not, if we did not have a soul we would not have
love, compassion or empathy for fellow people and our pets, we would be a
robot. A soul is a chemical energy force and as such it cannot be destroyed in
my view. It can change into other forms; I won’t go into high science about the
soul. It is personal if you believe; you do not have to be religious to believe
in the soul.
After finishing my sandwiches, I walked along the promenade past the
lighthouse, stopping to look at the boats rocking gently in the breeze, bells
softly jingling, thinking what a difference from last time, with the high winds
and raging seas. It was dangerous to walk too near the seawall.
Here in the
late spring, was probably the best time for me, it was getting warmer, but not
too warm. There were not too many tourists, as most of the children were in
school. Walking past the lighthouse, where in a few weeks the children would be
on the many rides. I could not forget that autumn visit, when I first saw the
spirit of the girl and again found myself drawn to the spot, would I see her in
this fine weather? Or was her spirit to be seen just at high tide?
At the point, I stopped for a while to look at the rocks, it was then I
saw what I was meant to see.
There she was playing on the platelets of rock, this little frail
schoolchild, so thin and weakened by hunger, she was looking in the pools, as
children do. When from out of nowhere, a freak wave hit her full force. She had
no chance of survival, a schoolgirl so frail; the cotton clothes absorbed the
salt water so quick. She went down like a rock, never surfacing again. At this
sight, I was so horrified, I sat and cried for her soul for about ten minutes,
head bowed low. I still did not fully understand the true meaning of the
visions but I did have an idea of what I was meant to do.
After recovering, I decided to walk into town, to try and find the
offices of the Scarborough Evening Post. Maybe in the local newspaper archives,
I could find what I wanted. On arriving at the offices, I had a talk with the
men at work and explained that I had made an appointment to view the archives;
finally I was allowed to be taken down to the archives to search. I now thought
I knew what to look for, I was just hoping to be right after all this time. It
took hours of searching through their database to get to the pages I needed,
and I knew the descriptions would be vague, but all I needed was the outline to
prove my theory right.
And there it was. June 15th, the headline read:- “The
body of an unknown girl aged between 5 - 8 has been washed up on the rocks, the body is unidentifiable owing to sea damage.
The head is missing, the church has agreed be a burial at St. Mary’s church on
June 20th.”
Feeling half way to completing the research, I had now got the reason
for the visions, the poor girl was drowned and never identified, all I had to
do now was have a talk with the father to confirm this. As I walked to the
church, a sense of purpose now exuded my soul.
Could I finally put this poor girl to rest after nearly 150 years? It would be so nice to feel I could achieve
this for her, it was her plea, my quest and her release from a watery grave.
On arrival at the church, I met
with the father. “Hello my son, I see you have come back to us again, is your
soul at peace now, as when you left here last year, I remember the look of
mystification that held you?”
“Father, I feel I have the answer we have been looking for, but need the
church records to confirm it.”
“How can we help?”
“Can you check the records for the date June 20th 1847 please, what I am seeking is notification
of the burial of a headless body between the ages of 5-8.”
“Do you think this is the reason for your visitation last year?”
“I am now almost sure father, and just need this to complete my
thoughts.’
The father left me alone in the church for a while, during this time I
sat and prayed, for the lost soul I hoped we had found and hopefully could put
to rest. Whist deep in prayer and contemplation, the father returned.
“My son, you are right, on that date a small body was buried here. There
was no family, the church buried it in a secluded corner, over the years, it
has had a few visitors, but none so curious or determined as you. What made you
so determined?”
“There were many things ranging from plain curiosity to the need to put
this girl to peace, Father. The search started many years ago, when I first
tried to get tickets for the jazz festival. I noticed on the maps the name of
the rocks, out of curiosity, I enquired as to the naming of the Betty Moffat
rocks. What intrigued me, was why they were named after a lady, I did some
researching and unfortunately all attempts come to nothing, there is no record
of an accident in which a girl or lady died on the rocks, all records after
1850 have the rocks named. Then as I told you, I was walking along the north
bay and saw the vision. Being on the rocks, I hoped she was Betty but maybe
that was too hopeful. I then became my quest, to find and put this poor soul to
rest. I have found our restless spirit and we know why she is restless We need
to find her head and I think I know where, but we will need someone with diving
experience to get it.”
“Why is that my son?”
“I think it is buried under the rocks and only a diver can get to it.”
“It will take a few days to set this up but we can do it.”
I walked back to the lighthouse to sit and ponder the next few days, what
we had achieved. My mind settled down for the first time in many months, I had
almost completed this search, putting her soul to rest would be such a
wonderful feeling.
On the Thursday, I got a call from the father. “It is set up for this
afternoon my son, at 4:00pm low tide will be out, so the diver will go down for
us.”
I thanked the father, and gave him my assurances that I would be there
for this wonderful moment.
At the appointed time, the diver went down, at the spot where I had the
visions, after about ten minutes, his hand broke the surface. In it was the
tiny broken but still recognizable shape of a child’s skull.
We carefully took it back to the church and laid it on the altar. The
Father led a short prayer of thanks and asked the Lord to take this child’s
soul in his arms as she had been waiting too long.
When we left the church in the afternoon glow, a cloud shaped as a bird
appeared in the sky. Chance OR a sign, readers you can make your decision. I know what I thought The next day I had my usual
walk to the point, in the calm seas and gently rolling waves, no longer did I
hear her crying to me. I heard the gentle rhythm of thanks and as I watched the
rocks, I saw her one last time.
This time arms wide and waving
goodbye, with a gentle smile
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