Growing up, the highlight of my summers was visiting my grandpa at his Yorkshire farmhouse. For a boy from Manhattan, it was a magical experience, like something out of a fairytale. There were woodlands teeming with red foxes and badgers to explore, creeks to fish, and a ruined abbey to play in. Every evening, my siblings and I would gather around my grandpa and listen to his most wonderful stories. My favorite was the tale of Irish Jim.
Jim was the groundskeeper when my grandpa was a boy. He had come over from County Cork in 1932 and was trying to save enough to bring his darling wife and six children over to England. He was a hardworking man, never drank or gambled. Never missed a day of work. He was saving up every last penny to send back to his family, whom he adored more than anything in the world.
On the morning of July 17, 1933, Jim did not show up to work. One of the farmhands checked his cottage, located about 200 yards from the main house. There, they found him lying in a pool of blood, holding a pair of garden shears. Jim had cut off all his toes and four of his fingers before falling unconscious and bleeding to death. A dirty sock was stuffed into his mouth, presumably to muffle his screams.
Why would a seemingly sane man do such a thing? The answer was in a letter on his bedside table. In it, his wife said that she did not love him and planned to run off with his younger brother, Dan. That wasn’t the worst of it. She also said that she suspected that Dan was the father of her children.
It was said that, on some nights, if you peeked in the cottage windows, you could see the anguished Jim mutilate himself. But, my grandpa warned, you were never to go inside the cottage at night, especially on the anniversary of his death. In 1941, a nine-year-old boy named Jack, who had been evacuated from London to escape the Blitz, was foolish enough to venture inside. The next morning, he was found dead, a pair of rusty shears piercing his neck.
I never really believed my grandpa’s stories. He tended to stretch the truth, especially when he had too much whisky (which was nearly every night). But I still peeked into the cottage, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jim. I never did.
The summer I turned 11, I finally mustered up enough courage to go inside the cottage, which was now a storage shed. On the night of July 16, I snuck out of bed and into the cottage. I waited for hours, lying on sacks of grain. Eventually, I fell asleep, without seeing the legendary specter.
I was woken by sobbing. A burning candle illuminated the figure of Irish Jim, who was sitting a few feet away from me, holding a letter, tears streaming down his face. He appeared solid, not translucent like a ghost in a cartoon. Then he noticed me. Without saying a word, he picked up a pair of garden shears and rushed over to me. I tried to move but was paralyzed from fright.
When the shears were a foot from my chest, the door opened. My grandpa stepped inside, holding a bottle of whisky. Jim glanced back, long enough for me to regain my senses and roll out of the way.
“Run, lad!” my grandpa yelled.
I scrambled up and sprinted towards the door, about fifteen feet away. Irish Jim followed, his footsteps getting closer. I thought I wasn’t going to make it. When I was five feet from the door, my grandpa hurled the bottle. I heard the sound of grass breaking and a muffled cry.
“Don’t look back, keep going,” my grandpa shouted.
I did. But Jim quickly regained his footing. When I was nearly at the threshold, the phantom grabbed my shirt. My grandpa, with surprising strength for an old man, yanked me away from Jim and we tumbled outside. The ghost stood in the doorway, staring at us, but he made no attempt to follow us outside.
“You’re safe,” my grandpa said. “He can’t leave the cottage. I encountered him myself when I was about your age, just barely escaped. Hadn’t seen him since the war, thought he finally found rest. Luckily for you, I stepped outside for some fresh air and noticed a light coming from the cottage. Thought that some local lads might be drinking inside, so I decided to investigate. Come, follow me, let’s head back and try to get some rest. I’ll have the cottage demolished tomorrow, maybe then, Old Jim will finally be able to find peace.”
We walked back towards the house, my grandpa holding my hand. When we were about fifty feet from the cottage, I took one look back. Irish Jim was standing in the doorway, tears streaming down his face.