“I must say, Brigadier, I’m surprised that you should come to me, of all people,”

Durosimi O’Stoat was standing in the doorway of his rambling old house and eyeing Reggie Upton with suspicion.

Reggie gave him a little smile and smoothed his moustache. 

“You and I have crossed swords enough times to have gained some sort of respect for each other, O’Stoat,” he said. “And anyway, besides myself, you’re the only true intellectual on the island.”

Durosimi gave a derisive snort. 

“You’re comparing yourself with me?”

“It’s horses for courses, old boy,” replied Reggie breezily. “And I’d wager you wouldn’t have the foggiest idea how to climb onto one, much less plan a campaign. What I’m suggesting is that you and I are experts in our own fields.” 

Durosimi nodded, albeit reluctantly. Upton had a point, he supposed. It would be amusing to play along with him for a while. 

“So, what exactly do you need from me?”

“I am compiling a comprehensive history of the island’s ghosts,” said Reggie. “Someone suggested that you’d be a good source of information.”

“Ah, of course,” said Durosimi. “I knew the Bucket woman would have a hand in this somewhere.”

“You should feel flattered,” said Reggie. “Philomena doesn’t give praise that’s not earned.”

Durosimi nodded towards Tenzin, who was hoping to remain unnoticed.

“And our young monk, here… what’s his role in all this?”

“He is my amanuensis,” replied Reggie. 

Tenzin had no idea what that meant, but it sounded impressive. 

“Very well,” said Durosimi. “You had better come in.”

“To my knowledge,” he said, when they were settled in his study, “the oldest ghost on Hopeless is Lars Pedersen, the Woeful Dane.”

“Splendid!” exclaimed Reggie delightedly. “How do I find him?”

“He haunts Creepy Hollow,” said Durosimi. “But he’s not going to be any help, I can promise you.”

“Why ever not?” frowned Reggie.

“He’s about a thousand years old.”

Durusimi’s tone was slightly mocking.

“Ghosts fade away with age eventually. Didn’t you know?”

“Er… no, I didn’t know that,” admitted Reggie.

“Besides,” added Durosimi, “he’s totally ga-ga… nutty as a fruit cake. But he used to converse with one of my forebears. Just a moment…”

Durosimi rose and selected a small, battered brown volume from his bookshelf. 

“This is the diary of my ancestor, Ophelia Chevin…”

“Chevin? I thought the Chevins and O’Stoats hated each other,” said Reggie.

“It’s a complicated story,” said Durosimi. “And something of a family scandal, but sufficient to say, like many of my line, Ophelia had the gift of ‘The Sight’ and was able to converse with Lars Pederson. Here’s what she recorded of their discussions…”

Durosimi cleared his throat, then opened the notebook with surprising care. The brittle pages crackled softly.

“Ophelia was not given to exaggeration,” he said. “Indeed, if anything she understated matters. This entry concerns the last coherent conversation Lars Pedersen ever had.” 

He then began to read from the journal.

“Old Lars Pedersen was a skilled wood carver. He would barter his plates, bowls and spoons for furs, cloth and, more than anything else, gull eggs. The degree of art and workmanship that went into these simple utensils was huge. His spoons, especially, were greatly prized. And rightly so, for the eggs for which he traded them had been hard won (and often hard boiled).

When, one morning, Lars awoke to discover that his stock of spoons and all of his eggs had completely disappeared. He felt as puzzled as he was distressed. His home was well-furnished, he had a fine bronze torc, a beautiful copper mirror and many valuable pieces of jewellery that he had hoarded since his seafaring days. To steal only eggs and spoons and nothing else made no sense. Ever practical, Lars shrugged off the intrusion and set himself the task of replacing supplies of both. After a day or two of dedicated carving and oiling his bartering skills with copious amounts of mead he soon replenished his empty shelves with freckled eggs of various hues. Just a few nights later these too disappeared. Yet another theft was the proverbial straw that broke the pack-mule’s back. He decided there and then to stay awake and catch the thief in the act. For three long nights he lay beneath his furs feigning sleep but there was no sign of the burglar. On the fourth night, just as he began to think that the thefts had stopped for good, he heard an ominous scraping and shuffling noise. At first he could see no sign of movement in the darkened room. Despite this, the scraping and shuffling carried on, occasionally accompanied by some high-pitched, excited chattering. Still no one was visible in the gloom.

“I am bewitched,” he thought to himself uneasily.

Suddenly a pale shaft of moonlight shone through the smoke-hole of the hut, directly illuminating the strangest creature Lars had ever beheld. He described it as somewhat resembling one of the fish-egg pouches often seen washed up by the tide; the type sometimes called ‘Mermaid’s Purse’, but a good deal larger. Several sets of tendrils extended from its body. Strangest of all was the fact that the creature was actually entwining some of these tendrils around four spoons and using them as stilts. And by the intricate runic carvings along the handle they were his own spoons, no less! As his eyes became more accustomed to the moonlight Lars spotted other shapes in the dimly-lit space. There must have been eight or ten of them, each wearing spoon-stilts and carrying more eggs in their tentacular grasp. Lars could not help but let out a little cry of surprise. As one, every creature’s eyes suddenly turned towards his prone body, and now they glowed horribly with a fierce green luminescence. He couldn’t move. It was as if their baleful and malevolent gaze had frozen him to the spot. He watched in terror as the weird band of thieves scurried stiffly out of his hut, gibbering and squeaking. The wooden eating utensils tapped the ground with an ominous rhythm as they conducted their own version of an egg and spoon race.

It wasn’t until the last creature had disappeared into the night that the use returned to the Dane’s body. Although his limbs were able to move once more he was rooted to the floor, unable to remove the image of those terrible green eyes from his rapidly disintegrating mind.

Soon, all reason had drained from him. In the confused jumble that now filled his head all that made any sense was the memory of those eyes. They burned into his soul and took on the hue and shape of gull eggs. Pale and speckled, sometimes they would be a delicate blue, sometimes brown but eventually, always reverting to those dreadful lurid, luminous green orbs. Eggs and eyes became indistinguishable, portals to a ghastly quagmire that sucked him down ever further into a dark morass of madness.

‘My eggs’ he croaked,  trying to rise to his feet and failing miserably. His last actions were to reach out, clutching at thin air in a vain attempt to regain his lost eggs.

He was found at daylight lying cold and dead on the floor of his hut, a look of terror on his face and his eyes wide and staring at something that lurked beyond human vision.

For almost eight hundred long years his troubled phantom has haunted the place that has since become known as Creepy Hollow. He has witnessed the coming of the mysterious fog that seems to permanently surround the island. As the fog rolled in so the sea bird colonies deserted the rocks, and with their passing the little Danish settlement disappeared, unable to sustain itself without their bounty.

It is clear that those strange, misshapen thieves took a liking to spoons – and thus became spoonwalkers. Spoons, they found, were a vast improvement on the twigs and bits of driftwood they had previously utilised. With these, they were able to climb and hunt much more efficiently.”

Durosimi placed the book on the table and peered at Reggie and Tenzin over the top of his half-moon spectacles.

“So there you have it,” he said. “The Legend of the Eggless Norseman of Creepy Hollow.”

“Could we please borrow your ancestor’s diary?” asked Reggie, half expecting a firm refusal. “Just for a few days.”

Durosimi considered this for a moment, then handed the book to Tenzin.

“Twenty four hours, no more, or you’ll wish you stayed with Dawasandup in Tibet,” he said fiercely.

Tenzin made a simpering noise, but Reggie thanked him effusively, and left, confident that chapter one was already in the bag.

Durosimi watched the pair as they made their way down the cobbled path. Tenzin was clutching hold of the diary for dear life. The sorcerer was surprised to find himself smiling, almost fondly. 

“I must be getting mellow in my old age,” he thought.