A Ghost story is a real wonder, pure imagination or abject truth, I’m never sure? Personal belief is that it is a genre of pure fiction, but I am always open to persuasive discussion on the subject should the matter arise. The reason for my negativity lies simply on one cornerstone –  never have I had the physical pleasure or presence of mind to be in their company. That’s not to doubt the existence of the spiritual entity, it’s just that one has never shown its face to me. That said, writing about them is a completely different matter, a process I have spent many hours trying to perfect through the myths and legends and those elements of age-old tradition that are unexplained and abundant in the folklore of this great country. Through countless millions of words and inspiration come the creation of several fictional stories, but nothing ever comes close to the strange facts of the real thing. But I’m sure, and it has been impressed upon me by several leading authorities that devious and mischievous spirits which linger in a half-life between the living and the dead are with us everywhere and we cannot escape tumbling over them headlong from time to time, but in all honesty I never have, but I wait in anticipation of the experience. My father, however, says that reality took place for him many decades ago. A secret he never told me before in all my years, but chose one winters evening when the fire was roaring away up the chimney to regale a time during the second world war when he was stationed in Naples with his REME unit near the catacombs of the city.  This is his story, the year 1943 and the allies had just liberated the city of Naples, the German forces running for their lives as the multinational forces swept through to the roar and welcome of its inhabitants.  Are ghosts real you may ask or is this tale just further fiction? Hard to say if you have never been a party to their tricks or is this just another fantasy made popular by writers of the day ( like me ) for readers and voyeurs needing some spine-tingling and hair-raising sensationalism in an otherwise dull existence? It’s not for me to judge, that’s purely up to your sentiments and application but read this and make up your own mind. Fact or fiction there is certainly something that hangs between worlds that cannot be disclaimed or proven by science. I still await my personal evidence but father swears the events of this tale are true and I have no reason to doubt him. Gather your drinks and treats, wrap up warm against the winter chills, put another log on the fire and let my father’s narrative test your understanding and search for the truth:-

‘We never had much in our house, your mother did odd jobs, cleaning, washing and helping the old lady’s down the street with their chores. It was unforgiving toil but she never moaned and looked after me the best she could and I loved her for it.  Working in the mill was hard graft, not much of a job but it paid regular as clockwork week in week out and to be fair life was right enough. Not much to write home about I guess looking back, but we had a good carry on. Better than some and a damn sight worse than others but in them days you just got on wi’ it. Never saw them dark clouds looming over Europe though, never saw the news or read the papers, we had enough to contend wi’ without worrying about Hitler and his cronies. We knew it would go away, just a flash in the pan they all said when we heard about it. It’d blow over in a couple of months, so did we worry? Nah. But how wrong could they be ‘cos on 3^rd September 1939 Chamberlain said them words we can never forget “this country is at war with Germany.” What a stunner, can you imagine what was going thru our minds, our heads and worst of all what was gonna happen next and how that might affect the lot of us? Mother was in hysterics and I couldn’t calm her, she kept saying “we’re all gonna die horrible.” And I didn’t know what to say because she could be right, ‘cos we all remembered the Great War and those that never came back. Millions of ‘em dead and buried in the fields of France, cut down by bullets and shells. I never saw, but me dad did and he were never the same after coming back from Flanders Fields. ‘Is head had gone, shaking like he had summat wrong he was half the time, angry outbursts of rage and often I’d find ‘im hiding in corners of the house petrified of some noise or light that brought all the horror back. He were lost, never did recover and all he could say as he lay dying in ’is bed wi’ us all around him was. “I’m sorry, please forgive me?” And we never knew if that was his repentance for being difficult with us or him looking for redemption from the Lord for what he done and saw on the battlefields of France. Shame that son, ‘cos that’s what war does, destroys lives in death and in the living too, because nothing is ever right again.

Anyway, enough of that, the war meant decisions had to be made and I got called up fairly sharpish in November 1939 because of me age. That letter dropped through the letterbox one morning and straight way we knew what it said inside. I held it at arm’s length like it was summat deadly, had a bomb or poison inside. I just looked at your ma and she burst into tears ‘cos we’d only been married a year and she knew that single piece of paper could bring it all crashing down on top of us like a house of cards. And in her heart, ‘cos we’d talked about it a lot, she thought I might never come back and that would be it, the end of it and me a forgotten corpse in a distant field and you lot would never exist, well not wi’ me as your father that’s for sure.

So one dismal morning she waved me off from the doorstep with a hug and tears in her eyes as me and Harry Beckinthwaite and a few other went down for the medical and guess what? We all passed with a clean bill of health. “Your A1,” they told me. I couldn’t decide if I was happy or sad or what emotion I was feeling. All I knew was that life was gonna change in a big way and there was no getting away or going back to my ordinary life in the mill. We were in the war up to our necks, pack drill, uniforms, discipline with training and getting up at the crack of dawn and Sergeant Majors bullying the shit out of us like we was school kids and I suppose looking back we were. We knew nowt then, all us young men desperate to get into battle, ironic that innit? Death and mutilation on the battlefield was something we’d heard about, it wasn’t real though was it, couldn’t be? What we’d really seen and taken in as foolish brits was the glamour and the glory of them heroes in American war films. The bullets and shells were never gonna get us ‘cos they never killed the brave man in them films either. Real life had passed us by in our little domestic world of terrace houses and our closed community. I’d been nowhere, seen nowt, achieved nowt and then here I am faster than a rat up a drainpipe sailing away to another country I hardly knew owt about wi’ folk I didn’t know going into God knows what. Scared you ask? No! It all seemed like one big adventure, like scouts going camping on a weekend or a midnight hike across the moors and then early one morning – bang, noise and smoke like I’d never hear or seen before. We got pissed on wi’ shells and planes wi’ bombs and that ship we was in sank in a whirlpool of fire and chaos and screams. Scrambling around we were in that icy water, wi’ no one to help us, me and several hundred others panicking for our lives. Thinking it was all over before the war had even started in the freezing mayhem of a burning ocean slick with grime and oil and bodies of the dead. We made it out of there, lots didn’t and suddenly I’m a man, I’ve grown up in the space of a whole day. It took death, losing some mates going down in that stinking blood red water to change me and that was the start of thinking I was never going back home – so I better make the most of it before I die?

This tale about Naples. Sorry son I get a bit sidetracked, must be me age eh? Well, I could tell you a million more about the war an’ all if I had the time and maybe I will later. ‘Appen I should write a book son, a memoir of me army days, you know like them other authors what done it and made money? Milligan, Churchill, and that American actor hero Audie Murphy. It were a mixed world of fear and excitement as we crossed the med in September 1943 heading for Salerno in southern Italy. There were thousands of us in boats and the Yanks in their planes, airborne troops landing on the beach. What a sight it was, ships of all sizes packed with anxious men holding their guns and ammo hoping they wouldn’t die as soon as they touched land. “Today we are liberating the beautiful city of Naples,” came the call to arms from the duty officers. So we landed on the beach and got off them boats sharpish to almost no resistance, just a few bullets scattered across the sandy shore. The fighting was quick and over without much shouting and we overran that place in no time. Then we marched the 35 miles to Naples on a beautiful autumn day. Who’d have thought there was a war on, not us, as we whistled and sang to the constant clatter of our boots on the ground. Mount Vesuvius, we walked right on passed it, a sleeping giant of a volcano sticking way up into the sky gushing dark smoke and what else I could only guess at the time. Then we marched on passed Pompei, you know that place where all the inhabitants lie like stone statues on the ground and in their houses dead from the ash and soot from that volcano that constantly keeps watch over that place and then finally into Naples we rolled. The beautiful city – no son – it was one big shit hole. Nothing left there, just bombed streets and houses destroyed by the German as they ran for their lives when they knew we were on ‘em. We had to clear up their mess and look after the citizens who were still trying to live there. What a battleground, just street after street, mile after mile of devastation and ruin, just rubble and timber and mothers weeping and old men cheering when they saw us. Kids screaming and hugging their parents in relief at seeing friendly welcoming faces and not them Jerry bastards anymore. Brought a tear to my eyes I can tell you, them kids reaching out to touch us like we was God’s from heaven giving sanctuary. We put up our camp, it wasn’t easy in all that mess and destruction. Little did we know then that the entrance to one of the catacombs was just a few hundred yards away. A dark foreboding place it was when we first came across it. Not a place that made any of us feel happy knowing there were thousands of skeletons and God knows what else in them underground passages. Makes the hairs at the back of me neck stand on end, even now when I think about what we found down there. You’d never get me back in a million years after what I saw.

The first few days passed in glorious autumn sunshine, not much for us to do but repair some vehicles and pull bits of jeeps and trucks out of ditches and do some guard duty around the place, make sure it was safe and secure from any stray Jerry troops. Easy work for us lads to do, so me and Harry set about building up our repertoire of songs. Me on the guitar, him on the old piana. A bit of entertainment for the lads on them cool evenings like. We was good an’ all, should have gone and done it after the war, might have made a living out of it. But we didn’t much think about it then ‘cos we didn’t know if we was gonna make it out of that place alive or not. Anyway, the commanding office didn’t care said it was okay to do it, ‘cos it took the lads minds off the nasty work some of ‘em had to do. Finding bodies in buildings, kids an’ all, heart breaking stuff it was – burying the dead. The stink was everywhere, made you want to retch it were that bad, sticking in your nose and the back of your throat like cold grease. Anway, we made ‘em happy doing our bit of an evening, getting ‘em all to join in with a sing song and some wine the locals gave us in bucket loads. Nice folks I have to say, but more on that later as things could have turned out a lot different son for you and your brothers and sisters?

We poked around the entrance to them catacombs late one night. Our unit had to guard ‘em every night, the CO was worried there may be some left-over Jerry hiding in there waiting to catch us out. But we never saw nowt, just heard horrible noises as we stood outside in the moonlight of the early morning hours, pitiful cries it were, weeping and wailing come drifting out of that ornamental entrance. We’d look at each other and shiver in the cold ‘cos it was menacing like there were ghouls, you know the undead in them dark tunnels. Made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up just wondering what the hell it could be. Whether it might be real and jump us when we wasn’t watching. Never did though, but I was glad when daylight came, the noises just stopped when we got relieved. Me nerves were right on edge like summat was haunting us or may be taunting us like it wanted summat. One or two others from the unit said we was soft, laughed at us, and them pretending to be hard went into that eerie doorway and walked straight into the darkness without a care. Yeh, hard my arse, out they came running like they was being chased by some monstrous spirit of the damned. Never did get a proper tale off ‘em, they got moved to another part of the city for some rest, CO said they’d gone a bit mental like. That just made me and Harry more determined to have a proper look see and we did, several times, but I wish we hadn’t as it proper screwed us up. Harry was never right after that, scared of dark places he was and moody and I’m sure my hair turned a bit white, but we’ll get to that in a minute son.’

At this point he stopped talking, lit a cigarette and drained his half full whisky glass. I could tell he was struggling to put his thoughts into words as though he was reliving the time he spent there all over again. I’d never heard this story before, in his aged years on this earth this was the only occasion he’d spoken about the time he spent in the catacombs of Naples with his friend Harry Beckinthwaite. He looked out of the window for a few minutes gathering his thoughts, I guessed, and then sat again facing me with an expression of sorrow or pain. I wasn’t sure which and kept quiet not wanting to break the man’s concentration as I was enthralled of what was to come next, but never expected what I was about to hear.

‘Some things are easy to explain son because you can see and understand what is happening. Bullets and shells and bombs can rain down or flood the peaceful countryside with noise and chaos that kills people, that’s war created by fascists and dictators for reasons of power and wealth. I saw it, understood it. Hated it for the deaths it caused and the destruction of course, but it was real, I could touch it, see the hatred and anguish in the people’s eyes and faces. But this noise, fear and dread I felt in them tunnels, in them catacombs that are thousands of years old? There was no answer, no explanation I could reason to say what it was. It just was, something horrible and vile. Hidden away, cursed and secreted into the very structure of the place like a virus from the depths of where – I don’t know? Nobody talked about it, the people of Naples knew though, they really knew but never uttered a word for fear of repercussions from the Lord or the Devil, who knew which, that might come and visit whilst they slept in their beds. We kept it to ourselves, pushed that fear away to a safe place in our heads. They said never to go in there ‘cos what was there was unexplainable, full of evil and despair like the first cries we heard as if it had lost something precious. If you go in there they said, you might never come out. But what did we care it was just some superstitious story to scare us on a dark autumn night. Yeh, right I thought, but tell that to Harry if you can? It was different for him. Much different, much worse.

Them Italians have a playful nature about them, all that wine and sunshine and olive oil makes then mischievous and we thought them noises and wailing was just some local lads having fun and a laugh at our expense and that was it, story solved. There was no other explanation see, ghosts and spirits are not real. Me and Harry knew what the truth was, so we decided one night to have a little fun ourselves, get our own back on them bastards in them tunnels, you know the drill eh, son? We’ve all played tricks at someone else’s expense at some point right, but make no mistake we took our rifles in there just in case. They’re a pretty bunch the lasses over there, cannot say otherwise and we was all tempted. Married or not, made no difference. Nobody was gonna find out and if they did well we might be dead in a month or two so we just got on with it, no point in caring when there could be a bullet wi’ your name on it. Like I said earlier our time could have been cut short and stopped in a breath so we got on and had our fun while it lasted and me and Harry caught on with a couple of likely girls that come round regular of an evening with some rough wine and fruit to see what us soldiers were all about and I can tell you they weren’t disappointed. Couldn’t understand a word they said mind and they had not one word of English between ‘em, but sometimes language doesn’t matter, does it, when all they wanted was some fun-lovin’ English guys to keep ‘em warm and we was happy to provide that and plenty more. And I can’t say that I regret it, whatever you might think, they were bad times son, full of grief and anxiety and humility for our Italian friends who’d been under terrible fascist rule for years. We got what pleasures we could out there in that shit hole and gave it back in spades to them that wanted it. Enjoyed every second we did, when it came our way, ‘cos we all though our days was numbered.

Here’s a shocker son, I nearly stayed after the war you know, you could have been an Italian bambino, but I didn’t. My father, your granddad had words, said I had to get my ass back home and I knew your mother would have hated me to my dying day if I didn’t, but it was a close call ‘cos Isabella stole my heart. I can see her now, beautiful she was like a film star. Like Sophia Loren, with that sophisticated look on her. Was I blessed, you bet, so lucky with that girl and I was struck big time. I fell for her you know, in love an’ all. What she saw in me I’ll never know, some rough arsed northerner, made no sense. Either way one of the girls was gonna get let down real bad and in the end it were Isabella and I broke her heart. Ranted and raved in that hot headed Italian way, screaming and carrying on, arms flying everywhere when I told her. Cried myself to sleep that night and many nights after that. It hurt that did, inside my guts the emotional pain crippled me. Not sure I made the right choice at the time mind you, but now it’s all different with you lot and I don’t ever regret that son, believe me. She disappeared one night and I never saw her again, but that’s a different story I’ll come to, never managed to contact her, nor her me either and I wonder if she’s still alive after all these years, what she looks like and what she’s been doing all this time since the war? I often wonder what would have become of us if I’d gone back there after peace was restored. Maybe she’d have found somebody else after what we went through in those final day, not interested in me and would it have lasted anyway? Might have been like one of them Hollywood romance films, you know all glamour and tearjerking, slow motion running back to each other and then it all just falls apart ‘cos it was only infatuation after all. Just a flash in the pan perhaps, us being conquering heroes an’ all. I can tell you all this now your ma’s not around anymore, cancer sucks son, wouldn’t wish that pain and suffering on my worst enemy, how she coped I’ll never know. She was a remarkable woman your mother, I can’t take that away from her. One in a million. Perhaps I did make the right choice eh son?

So, we took that wine we’d been given, Harry and me to keep us warm and we set off into them tunnels, guns at the ready with some lanterns to flush out the darkness. But there was nothing to see in there, just bones. Nobody, not an animal, not a soul, not any evidence of someone or something hiding out there. Yet the atmosphere was brooding, cloying like something was waiting and watching for the right moment to seep out of the walls and do us some harm. The further we went in, what we saw made us shiver. It was cool and dusty and them skulls stacked up like tins on a supermarket shelf and white bones, thousands of them laid out in neat dry piles like someone cared enough to make them lost souls comfortable in death. It were real creepy, paintings all faded away on the stucco walls and Christian symbols all over the place hammered into the plaster and stone. Couldn’t wait to get out, it felt like something was hanging onto my shoulders dragging me back into the darkness like I was its prey. A weight on me it was, all oppressive like it was attached like another coat wrapped around us. We didn’t take the girls that first time and I can tell you after the fearfulness of that place there was never gonna be a next time either. We decided it was a one-off look see and I left that place feeling clammy and bothered, like the hand of the devil had finally ushered me out patting me on the back that I should never return. But we did, not just once but several times.

It were perfect see, nobody else in the unit went there, they daren’t, we’d scared ‘em off with our little tales of ghosts and evil spirits messing with our heads. But the girls wanted to taste it, think they felt safe with us and it was a bit of excitement in their mundane lives, all alone with us and candles and the shadows and them weird noises coming out of them caves. The hours just flew by, our surrounding didn’t really matter. We took no notice ‘cos we was otherwise occupied. Know what I mean eh? So one night Harry and me decided to have a deeper look, see what we could see as we had the night off, not much going on at the base, so the CO said make yourselves scarce and grab some fun. So we did, armed with lanterns and candles we went farther in, maybe a kilometre, maybe less, not that it matters. We just tried to follow those sounds, the pitiful cries and wails seeping out of them dark plastered walls. Perhaps it was an echo from the other side, some distraught woman or a trapped animal, there is always more than one entrance to tunnels. Suddenly the ground under us and above shook like crazy nearly knocked us off our feet, just like a blast from a bomb gone off close by. I thought the whole place was gonna cave in, so we ducked down and found some cover in a great stone archway scrambling deep into them bones and skulls that clattered all over the ground like we was not supposed to be there. And it continued, the earth shaking and rumbling like artillery explosions and me and Harry looked at each other and our first thought was the Germans had returned to recapture the place. So we ran like our arses was on fire back down them dark passages as fast as we could go and then there it was – that presence again on my shoulder as we ran, right at my heels it was following me, touching me, like little hands in my hair, grabbing at my clothes, tugging and pulling as we made our way back to the entrance. I told Harry to stop fooling around but when I looked back he wasn’t there. He’d gone, just disappeared and I didn’t have a clue where he was. So if it wasn’t Harry, then what the hell was hanging onto my coat tails? Shit me up good and proper that did, stopped me right in my tracks sharpish. And I could see something, an outline, a dark shimmer of a silhouette right in my face leering at me and I could smell its ancient breath. ‘Cos that’s what it was, I could tell, something old and ancient attaching itself to me like sticky glue that I would never shake off.

So I went back, scared to death I was gonna die as them shells was going off above, retraced me steps in the half light and there he was, Harry, stood still like a statue staring at a hole in the wall. The rumbling and shaking of the ground was still going on all around us, felt like it was pounding our ears. “What’s up, are you okay?” I said to Harry. “What you looking at?”

He turns to me, shock on his face. “Well look, don’t you see it?”

“What this hole?” I says noticing the scattered skeletal remain cast out into the passage.

“Wasn’t there a minute ago and look at this . . .” And then I realised it’s not just a hole in the wall but an entrance into what looks like a room, but I can’t see nothing else ‘cos there’s no light in there.

“That’s a room,” I says. “Shine your light in there so we can see if there’s owt inside.” And he does and we both nearly jump out of our skins ‘cos what we see is bad, real bad and it’s making me nervous now just thinking and talking about it ‘cos in all my days I ain’t see nothing like that. A medieval murder that’s what it is. A monk stretched out on a rack, his legs and arms gone and neatly placed by his torso, an expression of horror and pain pulled across his mummified face. All leathery and dry it was, cheek bones peeping through holes where rods had been forced through ‘is skin. Nasty, unworldly it was, I didn’t really want to look, but I had no choice ‘cos it was an horrible end to some clergy’s life and it seemed to cast a spell on me. But why was it uncovered now, nothing we’d done I can tell you, must have been the ground shaking loosened the walls and made ‘em collapse. We’d forgotten about the battle going on outside. “We’d better go,” I said. “This is not right and we’ll be wanted outside. So let’s hop it Harry. Come on.” We ran, our legs burning, our heads full of fear.

We kept it quiet when we got back outside ‘cos we didn’t want nobody poking around there till we had a proper look at that room we’d discovered and that mutilated monk. So we never spoke about it and everyone’s attention was on summat else anyway, summat much bigger and more interesting. Jerry hadn’t come back to march us into the sea for revenge, no, it wa’ that but bloody mountain Vesuvius blowing its top. What a show, seen nowt like it. We watched it in the darkness, flames and ash and lava shooting high into the sky like a giant firework display. It were like New Years Day on the BBC had come early. Rivers of red-hot golden lava streaming down the mountain burning everything in its path. Some poor buggers that got in its way stood no chance, their houses were gone up in smoke in minutes, nowt left but a burning shell. Look what it did to Pompei, they’re still digging that place out today thousands of years later. But my God what a spectacle and it went on for days right out of the blue no warning and it were scary, the noise battering our ears and the ground shaking and quivering like something monstrous was breaking out from beneath our feet. The CO said we’d be foolish to go back down them catacombs again. It be right dangerous he said they might collapse while we’re in there. But we did, we had to, nowt was gonna stop us ‘cos there was summat we needed another look at. It was driving us crazy, the pictures in our heads of that poor chap stretched out on that table with his arms and legs hacked off. Not a nice way to go eh? We thought we might find out who it was and then tell the authorities, get some recognition. A big discovery of somebody important like. But we never did find out properly at the time, but since maybe we have.’

At this point he stopped to catch his thoughts and refilled his whisky glass putting a drop in mine at the same time. He looked tired and pale as though the retelling of the tale was taking its toll on his stamina. I asked him if he wanted to stop and finish the story another night. But he said if he didn’t end it today then it might hang in the ether unfinished for ever. I tried to ask what he meant by that remark but he just huffed and waved his hand away at me. At the time it puzzled me as there was no resolution to the remark.

‘”Do you wanna have a look at what we found?” I asked Isabella, pulling her gently across the rubble near the entrance hand in hand hoping she’d say yes and come along. I think she caught our drift understanding the few Italian words we’d learned these past months since we’d first met, but I could tell there was some reluctance in her eyes. It was obvious the superstitious tales of ghosts and demons down in that place was putting her off and then there was the continuing eruption of that bloody mountain making her real edgy, her thinking we might get trapped and die in muck and plaster with lava flaying our skins off surrounded by skulls and creepy bones and shit. Any road, come what may we went in there again, against the CO’s advice and we nearly had to drag them girls by their hair to get ‘em inside that bloody cavern. Screamed them girls did, all the time, like kids on a big fairground ride when they saw that deformed monk stretched out on his wooden bed like he was sleeping and them skeletal arms and legs all neatly placed, sort of ritual like, next to him. The wailing and crying of that thing had followed us all the way in, surrounded us, echo after echo every tunnel we passed through. We had no idea where them eerie noises was coming from, seemed to come from everywhere at once and then that thing attached itself to me again. I could feel its presence clambering all over me, digging into my soul like it was searching for summat, whispering in my ear in some old Italian language I didn’t understand a word of. I shouted out to the others. The girls had no idea what I was on about but Harry knew, said he’d felt summat creepy and itchy, like a big hideous tongue, same as you get on a cat, licking his neck and head making ‘is skin crawl. So you see it wasn’t only me it had its claws into, it were Harry too, though what it wanted we didn’t know. We must have been sensitive to spirits and ghosts eh son, the lot of us?’

 He laughed loudly, but I could visibly see the return of a nervous smile as he took a glug of whisky from the glass and wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve to hide any unforeseen embarrassment. He was finding the whole moment difficult to recall.

‘ So we crawled into that dusty little room all four of us, the girls hiding behind us fearing the thing on that table might leap at us and horribly murder the first one it catches, but that hideous mummy he’d been dead a long time, it wasn’t going no place. Wore a monks habit, the hood partially covered its face, all ragged and torn from torture and the body was tiny and short, deformed somehow, like its spine was all bent out of shape. It was real creepy ‘cos the room was dead silent, black shadows moving around like smoke in every corner and them dust motes, millions of ‘em, swirling in the lantern lights we was holding ‘cos we’d just disturbed the shit out of that eerie mausoleum. The only sound was Vesuvius rumblin’ away shaking that place to bits. It was just like an army of tanks constantly passing overhead, plaster crumbling all around us. I just hoped the place was sound and wouldn’t collapse burying us all alive or trapping us for something more grotesque to finish us off. Isabella was desperate, the fear in her eyes gave it away, ragging away at my arm and shouting in my ear she was. She wanted to leave sharpish, but that was never gonna happen ‘cos I just had this fascination to look closer and everything around me was a blur, just totally blanked out. I had to rummage, the desire was overwhelming to have a right nosey, get some clues of maybe what happened. It didn’t scare me no more as it laid there like it had just been dug up from the grave and I think Harry felt the same though he wasn’t saying much, think he’d switched off, just kept his arms around his girl, comforting like as I could see she was ready to skip out of there if the shit hit the fan. It was still our big secret, our discovery just me and Harry’s to do what we wanted before the authorities came. We knew once Isabella and her friend got out of there, they wouldn’t be able to keep their gobs shut and that would be the end of our little adventure I can tell you straight.

So Isabella’s clinging onto her mate, both of ‘em quivering and squabbling in Italian like them fiery Mediterranean types do, and Harry’s holding their hands trying to keep ‘em happy as I pull out me rifle bayonet and start digging and poking around inside that rotted thing. Suddenly it moves with a jerk right there on that wood table like it’s had a shock of electricity. One of its severed arm falls off and lands on the ground at my feet with a bony clatter and a puff of dust. And its head slowly turns sideways to face me. It’s staring straight at us, right at me face, with its demanding eyeless sockets drilling into me like its saying I should leave, like we’re intruders and shouldn’t be there, ‘cos something is gonna suddenly harm us. Trespassing on sacred ground, thems me thoughts swirling around in me head banging away, telling me – go – it says – leave now. We all jumps a mile, hearts pounding ‘cos we think that things come alive, ready to sit up in its bag of bones and suck the life out of us. There’s sudden sweat trickling down me forehead and back, cold panic in me stomach ‘cos I’m glued to the floor not moving an inch, and then blood curdling screams coming at me piercing me lug holes. I turns quick like and see Isabella dash from that room like there’s a banshees on her back and runs down the passage into the darkness beyond as if that evil force is whipping the life from her. Then her friend, can’t remember her name, not that it matters much, is laid out sparko on the floor as if she’s had a belt in the face and Harry is there gently shaking her shoulders, calling her name. “Wake up,” he’s saying all dramatic and panicky as if she’s dead. “Wake up.” He says louder with each call but she don’t move a muscle. And then he’s looking at me, all hurt with droopy eyes that I should be helping or because it’s all my fault she’s laid flat out on the deck and what am I gonna do about it. But what am I supposed to do, it wasn’t me that scared ‘em, they didn’t need to come down here, it was their choice at the end of the day – right? More trouble than they’re worth sometimes I say as much as I love ‘em to bits, but never should have coaxed ‘em in, they weren’t up for it, scared shitless both of ‘em and now look, ones running for her life and the other all but dead on the floor. Didn’t stop me doing what I was doing though picking through them old bones, pulling apart the rotten cloth of that monk’s habit, dust falling from the ceiling like confetti at a wedding and that constant rumble seeping out of the ground growing louder as the minutes passed. I though the Devil was burrowing up from hell, come to pacify his curiosity at who was desecrating the resting place of this clergyman. Was he ever a good man, this monk, I think to me self? I guessed not at the state of that corpse, tortured to hell he was, ripped apart limb from limb in a way I’d never seen done before, so there would only be the Devil to rescue ‘is soul. God probably passed on that one thinking hell was the only home that would take ‘is tortured evil soul?

There was nothing there in that tangle of dried leathery flesh and bone, just decay and that evil feeling bleeding out of the ground like a cold breath on me crawling skin. I needed to leave. Me whole body was telling to go and quick, but I couldn’t ‘cos I was blind to what was going on around me with the other three, like what they were feeling and doing, all that chaos was just smoke to my senses. Didn’t see it, didn’t hear any of it, I was just captivated by them empty sockets in that skull. They just kept on watching me, drawing me in with their sightless stare and gaping toothless mouth. There was something to get, I just knew it – had to find it. And then it was there, a brief glint of something metal at my feet half hidden in the dust with them dried up arm and finger bones. A ring, gold with stones. I picked it up and brushed it clean on me tunic. Red stones, rubies maybe and some diamonds all on a gold band.’

“This one,” he said lifting his right hand up to show me and placing it flat on the table. “Never taken it off since. Been with me all them years, like a friend to me, a reminder of them horrible months in Naples with Harry and Isabella and them catacombs. I need to tell you about him don’t I?” I didn’t recall seeing that ring before on any previous visits, but that’s not to say it wasn’t there. Perhaps I’d just not taken much notice.

‘Couldn’t believe my luck really, ‘cos it was odd that it had been left there and not stolen by any of the monk’s torturers. You see that thought kept going round and round in me head that I was doing something wrong, teckin’ liberties, stealing from a dead corpse.  Grave robber – me? Maybe I should have left it there, hidden in the ground covered with all that dust and grime, ‘cos maybe it was cursed in some vile way. Still – my head got round to telling me summat different, so I took it – but perhaps I never should?

So Harry Beckinthwaite he was always me best mate, we grew up together on the same street, went to the same school from being little ‘uns till we left. Funny how we ended up in the same unit during the war, thinking maybe him up there had a bit of a hand in that somehow, but there again I think that fellow down below had different ideas about Harry. Best man at me wedding he was, did a good job too considering he weren’t the brightest, but we all loved him. Did I ever show you the pictures? Handsome chap, never had any problems with the ladies ‘cos he had the chatter see. You know the old gift of the gab. He could charm them with his big smile, that cheeky grin. He’d got all the sweet talk in the world, it were a gift and they loved it. Knew how to treat ‘em an’ all, so he always had a girl on his arm. More an’ likely a new one every week. Left me in the cold, I couldn’t compete wi’ that, so I just hid in ‘is shadow and clung on to them shirt tails of ‘is, hoping some speck of charm would rub off on me, bring me some good female luck on them cold dark nights but it never did. I was just an amateur compared to him. Never got married neither Harry, no need had he? Never without a new lady – had no reason to settle down, what was the point any road – he was having too much bloody fun. Have to tell you though, own up like, we got in trouble lots of times with his rough and ready ways. Barred from a ton of pubs ‘cos he liked a bit of a Saturday night scrap sometimes with the locals, or anybody if he had a mind to, but it could get out of hand and vicious. He never knew when enough was enough, had no pause button when he knew the brakes had to be applied. Ashtrays, broken bottles and glasses, anything that came to hand he would use you know. It were nasty and bloody, some got hurt real bad, cut from glass and beat with chairs but he didn’t care. No remorse there – it were just a big game to him. I had to step away and not get caught up in it ‘cos it want my kind of fun. Fightin’s for idiots any road! They all knew him though, he could be real evil after a skin full, so most stayed out of his way. Yet there’s always one young hopeful comes along, like you see in them old western movies, thinks they’re tough enough to have a go and get the better of ‘im. Nine times out of ten, they had false hopes and rued the day gettin’ carted off to hospital most of ‘em wi’ a copper looking for a story. It’s hard to find a good reason for it when your face is cut to bits wi’ broken glass. Trouble was one Saturday night we got proper boxed in, nowhere for us to run, thought I was gonna die painfully that night I can tell ya?

He’d been rowdy all night Harry, swilling down ale like it were in short supply, chatting up any girls he liked the look of, chancing his arm that he might get summat and insulting any of the boyfriends that got in ‘is way. I saw their eyes, hateful, jealous, and the snide muttered comments. They glared at him, eyes wide, shocked they were lettin’ him get away with the humiliation. Then came the huddling, nudging one another in agreement and whispers of retribution. I could feel the tension, that weird atmosphere in the air and it was building up comin’ electric and I didn’t like it, not one jot, kept saying ‘we need to get out of here.’ But he wouldn’t listen, never did. Was ‘is own man, nowt I could do to change that and I never would just go and leave him. But these Irish lads, traveller types I reckon, not locals, looked well menacing and I could see something was gonna kick off with Harry sooner or later chatting up their birds and talking back awkward like, spilling their beers and bumping ‘em, like they was nothing, just outsiders, you know riff raff and the like? Any road the last orders bell rang and we get a couple in for the road, for the walk home to keep us warm like and then we left all casual through the front door, no worries to Harry ‘cos he thinks he’s invincible, afraid of nowt or no one. It were real dark outside, cloudy with some drizzle in the air, wetting us quick, drops of water clouding up me specs making it hard to see owt as we walked through the car park, Harry singing his little tunes struggling to walk straight in the dim moonlight. It were unlit with overgrown bushes around the edges and then it started out of nowhere. The heckling, verbal obscenities about us and our mothers, you know the stuff, shaking the branches of them bushes hard, trying to scare the shit out of us. Then five of ‘em steps out to one side of us, them Irish lads come to make amends, get some recompense for what Harry had said and done and me the innocent bystander who just ‘appens to be there. I’m for it now I thought, no keeping out of this one?  There’s cars behind us blocking our way, nowhere to run as a fence is cutting us off from the path. Nicely worked out lads I thought, no exit, we were kinda trapped big time. Got a beating right and proper in that car park, but we took a couple of ‘em out, then a knife appeared, a nasty looking thing with serrated edges and about eight inches long. That made me stop dead in me tracks, a killer blade if ever I saw one, fearsome thing it was, hadn’t had me hand on a bayonet by then so it were real new. The lad holding it was hunkering down in that aggressive stance like he knew what he was doin’ and swearing, real hostile, giving it the ‘come on then, you want some of this do ya’ talk and he runs straight at us with his mates, in for the kill that wild look in their eyes. I gets cut on the arm and leg, blood pissing out of me all over, then Harry manages to land a clean shot to that blokes chin, bam like a professional, and down he goes like a sack of tatties. Hard bastard, scary sometimes, even when he’s drunk. So he bends down, kicks the guy in the ribs real vicious, grabs that big knife and sticks it right in the other fellas back no messing, no thinking about it, just does it. Bang, it was done and he was down on the ground screamed ‘is head off, horrible it was blood chillin’, him writhing around on the floor like he’d been hit with a truck. We ran, hell for leather out of there, no chance us waiting around for the coppers to turn up. Didn’t know if the lad was okay or not, you don’t think much about that when your young and stupid. Thought my time was up that night though. A right mess both of us, cuts and bruises all over, but we survived and it never did teach Harry a lesson. Think it made him worse. Had a vendetta then against anyone giving him the eye, he just dived in before they had a chance to start owt, whether they meant to or not. Still best mates, even after that experience, then the war came and I think that suited him just fine. A rifle and bayonet to hand, made him feel superior, you know, like some warrior of a lost tribe. Any road, enough of that, back to the tail ‘cos it takes a turn for the worse and leaves me in a right state.

Deathly it was, the silence when we spoke about going back in there again. That place was like a magnet drawing us back in like we had no choice, no way of saying no, no way of not doing it. Them girls had a different view, said they was never going back in there again, they were terrified, both of ‘em, said that thing was vile and haunting them in their dreams at night as if it were alive and visiting them in their beds. Me and Harry though, we went in there a couple more times just to check, just to be sure it was all real. Vesuvius was still blowing its top, there was ash and lava coming out of that thing day and night, lighting up the night sky like a great firework display. The CO said we should move camp, but we never did. The unit stuck it out which was good as we could do some more digging around that tomb, incognito like, but we never found nowt else, just dust, grime and an overwhelming sense of oppression and dread every time we entered that little chamber with that monk on his death bed. Except this one thing, Harry had a love of playing practical jokes, liked his bit of fun at the expense of the other lads in the unit. So one time when we was down there searching, coming away with nowt, he goes and takes the cloth habit of them old monks bones, half of the damn dried up things clattering all over the floor in the process with a noise that coulda woke the devil ‘is sell. Messed up that skeleton good and proper he did, and still them sightless sockets in that ancient skull burrowing into my soul from where it stayed fixed on that table. I could feel the hatred from it, something was telling us to get the hell out of there and never come back. Loathing like crackling electricity was biting into me from that thing like there will be consequences you know, if we stayed? We shouldn’t have taken them things, I know that now, but at the time I thought I was just sensitive to the place and never thought them old bones could do us any real harm. It was just a skeleton of a tortured monk put to rest hundreds of years ago, what harm could it do? Now I know different and every day I feel those eyes stare at me from every dark corner at night and when I’m asleep I see them bones get up of that wooden table and come for me. They clatter and crack together as they move towards me like a theatre marionette, skeletal arms reaching out to me drawing me in. I wake up sweating, before it reaches me, it’s a nightmare that won’t go away and it comes back night after night. What would happen if it does get to me, am I dead, is that the finale son. The end? You see I think it’s looking for me and this ring, challenging me, demanding – but I don’t know why after all these years. Does it still want it back son, is that the reason ‘cos I took it without consent? Its history now, God help us, but its driving me mad, the visions have got worse over the last few months and that’s why I’m telling you this tale now. Its killing me. That’s the honest truth.’

He puts his head in his hands like he’s really troubled and I ask him if he’s okay, does he want to stop. “I just need a minute,” he says to me. He gets up fills his glass and I note about half the bottle has gone already. That’s not a good sign. “I need to go pay a visit,” he says, gets up and leaves the room and I look around. Nothing seems to have changed in twenty years, the paint, wallpaper still the same, stained insipid brown by cigarette smoke. It’s not a place I would like to come back to, but once it was home and I loved it then.

‘So he takes that old cloth, surprisingly still in one ragged piece, all dirty and frayed and stinking of God knows what. Death and rotten flesh and the endless screams of a tortured man seem to have gotten stuck fast in that fabric. But Harry takes it, he doesn’t care, the joke is what matters and he knows its gonna scare the shit out of the other lads when he puts it on. So he bursts open the barracks door and crawls in, then kneels there silently for a couple of minutes like a spectre from another world, hood pulled up tight over ‘is head hiding most of ‘is face. That mouldy habit wrapped around him and him on his knees like a dwarf ‘cos that monk was small and the material needed to touch the floor, cover up ‘is uniform, make it look real. Wow, what an entrance, I couldn’t keep my face straight, Harry starts moaning and groaning like a ghoul, whispering words under his breath, as if reciting an incantation for raising something evil that’s likely to plunge all the lads to the depths of hell – but oh my God –  see ‘em scatter? Talk about run, jumping out of their skins most of ‘em hiding behind tables and the bar, some of ‘em looking for weapons. They thought a demon from hell was ready to take their souls. Hardened soldiers – ha, I think a couple of ‘em pissed their pants, but when the joke was up they was mad as hell, gave him a bit of a slap and then dumped him in the latrine pit out back as a warning. What a mess, covered in shit and piss head to toe, but Harry didn’t care he’d done the joke and got the laugh he needed. That’s all that mattered to him, a shower soon cleaned him up.

We had no duty roster a couple of nights after that, so we went down the NAAFI, a bit apprehensive like, for a couple of beers to waste away the evening hours as we had an early call the next morning. The lads cheered when he went in there, so I guess they finally appreciated the gag and had properly forgiven him for scaring them half to death. Suppose it was more fun than waiting for a snipers bullet to rattle your brain? There was something bothering him though when we sat down with our beers. He was quiet and that was not like him. Preoccupied with a problem I’d say, something was on his mind but he never said. “What’s up?” I asked genuinely worried about him, ‘cos it wasn’t like him to be the worried thoughtful type. He was right out of character and then he said with fear in his eyes. “It has to go back.” I must have looked real puzzled. “What does?” I asked taking a gulp from me glass. He looks up at me, real concern in his eyes. They darts about like he’s watching or waiting for something to turn up. “It’s coming back you know. Keeps whispering in my ears, it’s getting in my head that thing is. In my dreams an’ all telling me things, ordering me about doing real bad stuff. Then I tell it straight I’m doing nowt like that ever. Not ever. A jokes a joke, fair enough . . . but this stuff, it’s evil. ‘Take it back,’ it says to me. ‘Take it back or . . .” Then Harry’s gone, up and off in a second, chair clattered to the floor and everybody looking around to see what’s going on and he’s just gone. I didn’t have time to ask him what the hell he was doing or to wait, he just flew out the door of that NAAFI building in a breath. The truth is he never showed up for duty the next morning so I had to tell the CO ‘cos I was more than just worried. It was not like ‘im see, he was regular, like a clock. They searched his billet in the early hours. He wasn’t there, hadn’t been there the guys said. Bed was still made up from the morning before, it seemed he had disappeared, so we went to look for him as he could’ve been injured or taken by some stray Jerry unit. I asked the CO if I could look in the catacombs, so me and a couple of guys went in there as I remembered what he had said the night before and it began to really nag at me that there was more than just bad vibes in them tunnels. I needed to find ‘im, he was me mate, me best pal and all. No one goes missing in the army, your either dead or a deserter and I knew he was no deserter, so I kinda feared the worst, but I had to look, be certain like ‘cos maybe he was just hurt and lying injured some place with nobody to help him. My best bet was them catacombs had come down on him from the vibrations of Vesuvius or the silly bugger was up to his old tricks again and somebody had pulled a fast one and taken him out?

As we went into them tunnels I could hear that wailing and crying again, like I said before a wounded animal or a lost child, but it had more of a joyous tone to it than before. Still, it was eerie, sent them shivers right down my spine. Scary it was, one of the lads couldn’t take it and skipped out, did a runner, he was shitting himself with them noises. The atmosphere in there seemed a lot worse than before, the air cloying and thick, the light from the lanterns struggling to penetrate the blackness as we moved. Us fumbling against the walls as we went deeper in, the darkness clinging to us like fog on the moor tops not able to see the feet at the bottom of your legs. The sensation was drawing me in though, pulling me ever closer to that hideous vile thing. The skeleton of that deceased monk. It wanted me to have one last look, to see it, to fear it the rest of me life because I took that ring and that thing was never gonna let me forget I should never have done it. I was as bad as the man’s torturers, I robbed ‘is tomb, it were a bad mistake, but I didn’t have that ring on me to give back. Slowly as we made our way, the gravel and dust crunching under our feet, the rhythm of it sounding like a voice whispering  ‘put it back, give it back.’ Nervous as hell I was, something was getting into me ‘ead, encircling me like a cloak, them fingers pulling my hair, touching and probing my clothes. For no reason I looked at Jack behind me and his face said it all. He was terrified, in ‘is fight mode, bayonet on his rifle ready for an attack, ‘is head bobbing up and down looking everywhere like something was gonna rush ‘im but he was prepared though. I knew what it wanted, it wanted me. I was the thief and I needed to be punished.

When we finally got there, through the darkness and the unrelenting fear that threatened to turn us into crying babies and we stood in the entrance to that tomb, that room deep underground in the catacombs surrounded by the dead of centuries past, I stood horror-struck as the eerie light from those lanterns drove dim light deep inside. I dropped my rifle, the hairs on my neck and arms standing on end and I felt panic begin to rise in me guts and chest like the swell of a large wave. What I saw was more than I could ever imagine, yet it was real, I saw it. No illusion, or hallucination created by God knows what. It was the truth, there in the half-light and I went rigid, felt sick to my stomach. “What’s going on?” Jack said with a little hesitation. Well, I was numb, no words to say, I just looked at him dumbfounded. I think I pointed. “Look,” I said eventually, “just look.” ‘Cos there it was that monk on the table all dress again in ‘is habit, severed arms and legs neatly placed by the side of ‘is torso and dust raining down like snow from that bloody mountain rumbling away above us like thunder in the night. I could have sworn those sightless eyes turned to me and it groaned like it was saying my name, its icy hands and fingers touching me all over making me squirm and claustrophobic. Jack says to me with a stutter “Bloody hell, d-d-did that th-thing just move?” I looks at him terrified. “Run,” I says quietly. “Just run, get the hell out of here.” And we did, nothing was gonna stopped us leaving that place, like we was running for our lives chased by some wild animal in the jungle. It was insane, the two of us whooping and hollering scared stiff, I never looked back, daren’t for fear of seeing that thing floating in the air hell bent on ripping the skin from our bones – we couldn’t get out of there quick enough. Who had put that monk back in its place all tidy like, dressed him up, habit ‘an all that Harry had stole? Was he playing tricks again on his old mate, that was my very first thought? Or someone else using that place as a holy shrine, somebody we never saw, just picking up the pieces of what we’d destroyed. I don’t know son, but the truth as I sit telling you this tale is we never saw Harry again. Lost, killed or just swallowed up by them tunnels and what was hiding in there, I’ll never know. All I do know is that I’ve never seen him since the moment he left the NAAFI that night, petrified with a look of pure panic on his face.

In the days to come we put out a wider search for Harry, the CO contacted the other units in Italy just in case summat had ‘appened and he’d lost ‘is way like, but he was gone become invisible. I had my own suspicions and thoughts see, but they was too unbelievable to be believed. I’d have been put away, out of sight like I had shell shock or PTSD as we know it now. So I kept quiet about it, but I knew it was revenge. That dead monk getting back what was ‘is and punishing Harry for what he’d done. I got talking to the locals there and the clergy who were very protective, like they knew something but didn’t want to say, a secret. I felt I was treading on holy ground I had no business to unearth, but a few of ‘em said some stuff. Bits, you know, rumoured stories and maybe snippets of the truth. Was it Monaciello of Naples one high ranking priest said to me behind closed doors? “Who is Monaciello,” I said to ‘im puzzled. He told me the legend, said it was the spirit of a small man believed to be a monk who would bring bad luck to any person seeing the manifestation of his soulless body. What truly worried me after that conversation was the priest informed me ‘is resting place had never been found as far as he knew. Was that it, had we unwittingly been privy to the opening of the final resting place of Monaciello? It’s obvious to me now that that burial chamber should never have been found. Because that monk was walled up and hidden for a reason. If it was Monaciello then he was an evil man they told me. He’d plagued the Vatican and the brethren of the Catholic faith with filth and slaughter in the name of God purely to justify his own personal vendetta against religious doctrine and the church, but those that truly knew said he was in league with the Devil and his disciples. So they’d tortured and mutilated him for days in that tiny room dismissing his screams and cries of redemption to get the ghastly truth. It was only Vesuvius erupting and the vibration in them old catacombs that caused it to break open and we just ‘appened to be there when it did. Should we have been tempted by what was there, ‘is personal belonging wrapped in evil devices, no sir, we should not. Pestilence was released back into the world, I realised later, when that wall came crashing down, heaven knows the damage we caused and the suffering from that stealing, but we was ‘elpless to it, something demanded it . . . now it wants it back. Harry’s long gone, the girls? Never saw ‘em again. Scared off perhaps by the events of those dark months and what they saw, or did that thing play its part on them too, we’ll never know ‘cos we got shipped out from Naples after that to North Africa and never went back. I should have after the war, see if Isabella was still there but I got stopped see. I got lent on as I said earlier. Father had a big hand in that.

That’s the story son, the truth about the ghost of Naples, as best I can remember. I lost my best friend and the love of me life all in the space of a couple of days. Heartbreaking it was, took some time to get over that I can tell you, but I’ve still got this reminder. ( He showed me the ring again and laughed long and hard. ) It wasn’t all bad you know, there was some good times in between the bad stuff.’

I left it there, shook his hand and thanked him for an entertaining evening. I didn’t think it the tale of a confused man, on the contrary it was anything but. Advancing years had not weakened his mind, it was still clear as crystal. His reminiscence of those months in Naples and his discovery made sense, however, I assumed part of his rhetoric was fictional and embroiled by the years with some distillation of the facts. So I called around, just to check on him, a week later after a short stop off at the local off-licence. Thought I would take him a nice bottle of Scotch as a thank you as I’d realised how difficult the objective had been to retell the story. Heartfelt and emotional, I’d seen that in the couple of hours I spent in his company that night, I knew it had drained some strength, had given him some mental fatigue, so I thought the bottle might help. I’d taken to having my own key, but the door was unlocked and all was quiet as I went inside. No lights left on, no TV or music playing in the background and that suddenly worried me. This was not a house with no noise ever and when the cat came scuttling around my ankles I knew he was not fed and alarm bells rang.

“Dad, are you here?” The silence was deafening. “Are you okay?” I charged up the stairs, nervous as hell and barged open the bedroom door and gasped. There he was dead, lying on the bed like a well-presented corpse at a wake, arms neatly folded across his chest wearing a suit taken from his wardrobe. The early evening sun was shining through dirty windows reflecting off the myriad dust motes that hung in the air like they were glued to the very atmosphere we were breathing. I was shocked, understandably so, as there were no other living relatives but me, no helpers, no friends that would call to speak of and nothing left to advise me of circumstances. So who had done this, dressed my father in this elegant manner fit for burial? The sight stunned me, my father dead only days after the previous visit where he was healthy, active and vocal. What had happened, what did I not understand? Then I saw writing on the dressing table mirror as I focused my eyes through the dusty haze slowly settling in the room. Getting closer it made no sense, then I recognised the spelling. It was Italian, a message in scrolled italics “Lo riprendo.” The only words written on the filthy glass. I took out my phone and looked at the translation in English and shook my head in disbelief. “I take it back,” is what it said and then I looked at my father’s body lying prone on his bed like he’d been there forever. The ring was gone.