“PUT YOUR BACK INTO IT!”
The phantom of Toerning Mill

David Elvar

Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 David Elvar

Smashwords Edition License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free e-story. It may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes provided it remains in its complete and original form, and that the author and Smashwords are given full acknowledgement.

Author’s note: Toerning Mill actually exists and this short story is inspired by a long-standing legend associated with the place. You will find it near the village of Hammelev in the South Jutland area of Denmark, between the towns of Vojens and Haderslev. It is well worth a visit, set as it is in a rural tranquillity that can only be described as stunning. Trust me.

~oOo~

“PUT YOUR BACK INTO IT!”
The phantom of Toerning Mill

Mark well this tale. Let it serve as warning, for such indeed do I intend it.
My name is Hans Henrik Fromm. As any who know me will tell you, I am a wealthy man, my fortune made from honest dealing in corn. On the night of this tale, I was travelling between Christiansfeld and Noerre Hostrup, intending to further my business interests by engaging a new customer of whom I had had good report.
It is a long journey, and though my private carriage is comfortable, it is not swift, and horses and driver would need to be rested at some point along the road. So it was that, as the evening sun hung low in the sky, we clattered into the courtyard of a wayside inn, to find food and lodging for the night.
‘Ho, there!’ my driver shouted as he reined us to a stop, and two boys came running from the stables to begin the unharnessing of the horses before leading them away to their own well-earned rest. My driver, meanwhile, was already leaping down from his perch and opening my door.
‘I know this place, sir,’ he said as I stepped down. ‘The beds are soft and the food, while not the best to be had, will fill the belly to its content.’
‘It is for but one night, Nis,’ I replied, ‘and man and belly can then endure what may be thrown at them. See that the horses are well cared for, there’s a good fellow, then see to your own needs, for I would have all three of you refreshed and rested for the morrow.’
‘That I will, sir,’ he grinned as he slammed and secured the carriage door. ‘And I will bid you a good night.’
I nodded acknowledgement of his good wishes then turned to look upon what was to be my home for the night. If the legend writ large above the door was to be believed, this was the Toerning Inn. It looked a sound enough place, being stoutly built of red brick and slate roof, and looking out over the most pleasant aspect of its own lake. But as I gazed upon it, I felt a slight shudder, as though some unnameable fear had brushed my soul and passed on into the evening air. I took little notice of it, thinking it but a momentary chill, for though it was still high summer, the day was indeed drawing to its close.
So lightly was it dismissed, with such ease did I merely shrug it away and make for the alehouse door.

Nis was right: the meal was plain but wholesome, being a simple plate of mutton and potatoes. But it was filling and was helped down by a large mug of a local ale that was most passable.
So it was that I sat at my ease, my plate pushed back on the table, my hand resting loose round a second mug of an ale that was growing more excellent with each swig.
I had few companions and none, it seemed, willing to engage me in light-hearted discourse. At the next table, an old farmhand staring into his mug, his face weathered, his hands callused, his eyes sleepy and doubtless drifting towards thoughts of bed. Across from me, two younger men quietly playing dice, their expressions switching between expectation and satisfaction with each throw. None were interested in me, a stranger in their midst, one of many who doubtless came and went, passing this way but once with neither thought nor need of return.
So I sat there alone, my own eyelids growing heavy, for the day had been long and the ale strong, and I was perhaps too ready for the room that I knew had been prepared for me. But the night was still young and I had no mind to pass it in solitude just yet. I just sat there. At peace with the world. At one with my contentment. It was an illusion, one that was to be shattered all too soon.
I remember the door of the inn slamming open. Then someone shouting ‘Ho! Landlord!’—and he looking up, startled.
A man lurched in, hauling in his wake another. And attached to this second, a third. And I saw that these first and last were not two parts of a drunken trio but rather the support and succour of the second, as though they were holding him up, so much a wreck of a man did he seem. There was need here, any could see it.
The landlord rushed from his refuge behind the bar. ‘What has happened here?’ he was demanding. Then, as he peered more closely at this poor unfortunate: ‘Why, it’s old man Jensen’s lad. What’s happened to him?’
‘The post,’ the third breathed in hushed terror. ‘He tried rocking the post.’
Suddenly, all in that place were staring at these three in new wonder—my dozing farmhand, my two gambling friends, all were fixed upon them in wide-eyed disbelief. The landlord broke the spell with a single command.
‘Into the back room with him! I’ll bring him something presently!’
They hustled him forward, this wretched figure of a man, half-dragging him through a curtained doorway and out of sight. As for my companions—and I glanced at them in turn—they seemed troubled not one whit by this strange turn of events: with sighing and shaking of heads, they merely turned away again, settled back into ale and dice. But I was not so easily satisfied. I hailed the landlord. He shuffled up to my table, half-expecting to be asked, I was sure, for more than just ale.
‘Is there something I can get you, sir?’ he said uncertainly.
‘Perhaps,’ I replied easily. ‘That man, who was he?’
‘He…’ A hesitation, as though deciding how much to give away. ‘…he is a local farmhand, sir. No one of consequence.’
‘He seemed somewhat in distress,’ I persisted.
‘Too much ale, I think, sir. Nothing more.’
‘And yet you had him taken into your back room where you would “bring him something presently”, as I recall you saying. Do you normally treat your drunken guests with such consideration? And with more ale?’
He didn’t answer. Trapped he was, but more by his own actions than any art of mine.
‘There is a tale to be had here, I think,’ I went on, ‘and I would have it from you, whether willingly or no.’
‘Perhaps you will, sir,’ he said finally. ‘But I would counsel you to leave well alone in this instance, for it is a tale beyond bearing. Here, let me refresh your mug.’
‘I prefer a clear head for the hearing of stories,’ I said, holding up a warning hand, ‘and I will hear this one. Or perhaps you would prefer that the events of this night were broadcast abroad, for my business interests take me far and wide, and it would then perhaps be better for you to give account to one man rather than many.’
He took a moment to reflect upon this prospect then was nodding resignedly. ‘As you will, sir. A moment, if you please, to settle my other customers and I shall be back.’
I accepted this graciously and he left. I settled back in my seat, content with my small victory, and waited.
He returned not in a moment but some minutes later, bearing a jug of ale and another mug. As he sat and refilled my mug and filled his own to his content, he said nothing. He was reluctant to be doing this, I knew, but little choice in the matter did he have. He took a long draught of ale, wiped his sleeve across his mouth and began.
‘The young man you saw being brought in,’ he said, ‘his name is Niels Jensen. As I told you, he works on one of the farms in these parts, and he young and foolish, young and very foolish.’
‘This concerns this…this post his companions spoke of,’ I said.
He nodded slowly. ‘Look out your window and you will see it, jutting up from the lake there.’
I looked: there was indeed such a post, standing perhaps a metre proud of the water. It looked innocent enough. And yet, there was something about it, something almost…I felt again that shudder, and I dragged my gaze away only with some difficulty.
‘So what of it?’ I said. ‘What dreadful meaning attaches to it?’
He looked down, his eyes closed, his face heavy. ‘It is a curse we have lived with, this past century and more, sir,’ he said. ‘That post holds down the ghost of one Peter Christian Holm, one-time administrator of the mill here and the surrounding farms.’
‘Holds down the ghost!’ I repeated, aghast. ‘But how? And why?’
‘Let me tell you the story, sir. Let me take you back into our past...’

What he told me need not be repeated in detail here, save to say that it appeared this peaceful village of Toerning was not always so, and this was due in no small part to this Peter Christian Holm. Indeed, the picture my landlord painted was of a most unpleasant man.
It is said that what sets us above animals is a measure of civilised behaviour, of compassion and consideration for one’s fellow man. But Holm, it seemed, was bereft of these, of even the most basic tenets of the decency that define both us as a species and the society we have contrived to build for ourselves. By such standards, Holm was not human.
If there was profit to be had from selling short, he would sell short. If there was an extra hour’s labour to be had from squeezing a tenant farmer, he would squeeze. If there was a court case to be won by the telling of lies, he would tell lies.
And many were the court cases brought against him, mainly by disgruntled tenant farmers no longer willing to accept his tyranny. One was brought because (and this does not bear believing) he beat farmers for refusing to enclose common land for his own personal use, land that was there for the benefit of all. He won, partly by lying, mainly by bribing many to speak on his behalf. It was to be a familiar pattern in the years to come.
The miller had cause to know this more than most, perhaps. He objected to Holm using mill land to pass from his house to the inn. It came to court, a drawn-out affair during which Holm bribed many to say that a right-of-way existed there, had always existed there. So the miller lost. And if this was not enough, he was ordered to repair and maintain the way, which effectively meant the digging of a new road through the earthworks of the old castle here.
One farmer, tired of the constant harrying and bullying, tried to organise resistance. Many joined him, some did not—those that didn’t being called plate-lickers, I was told. There was the inevitable court case. No fewer than three hundred were called as witnesses, several being in Holm’s camp, having first been suitably bribed, including eight from Gram and four from Ustrup—both many kilometres away and therefore outside his writ. The farmers, though it need not be stated, lost.
He treated the men tied to the land here as slaves, demanding that they work for him for free.
He denied his own daughter’s choice in marriage, demanding she marry instead a man of his choosing, one more profitable to his ends.
He used ungodly words at every opportunity, except when in the company of his superiors, to whom he was fawning and servile in the extreme.
But through it all, his favourite command would echo time and again—“PUT YOUR BACK INTO IT!”—till all who lived here found themselves working harder and harder for fear of merely hearing them.
Such was Peter Christian Holm. He was a rogue in the worst sense of the word. He was a liar, a cheat and a bully. He was selfish, self-centred and self-serving. He was such a man as I had never thought it possible to exist. But he had. And his deeds were slow to fade in the memories of the people of Toerning…

‘Such a man!’ I gasped when my landlord had finished. ‘Was there nothing to be done with him?’
He shrugged. ‘’Twas said that death alone was fit for one such as he. As I say, the Devil himself looked upon him as one of his own, it seemed, and what mortal can stand against such an ally? But there came a time when the justice that so many thought fit was served.’
‘You mean…?’
‘I do, sir. There came a morning when his long-suffering daughter went to wake him and found she could not. It is said that she knocked on his bedroom door and, on getting no reply, pushed it open to be greeted by a scene of the most ghastly horror.’
‘Why? Was he murdered?’
‘Better perhaps for him if he had been, sir. No, what the daughter saw, she later described. He was lying back on his bed, she said, his body arched upwards and rigid with death. But it was his face she marked most. A mask of terror it was, she said, his eyes rolled up in their sockets so that only the whites could be seen, his mouth thrown wide, the lips dragged down at the sides, the whole giving the aspect of one having screamed his very life away.’
‘The Devil had come to claim his own,’ I murmured.
‘So it was said, sir. The Devil had given his friendship and the payment for that friendship was now due. He came. He took. And Peter Christian Holm was no more. No longer would he hold in thrall all those around him, no longer would he make a misery of the lives he touched. Or so it was thought.’
‘You mean there is more?’ I asked. ‘He was not yet finished, even in death?’
‘Did you not guess as much when you heard mention of the post? But no, sir, you have it right: he was not finished. You recall how his daughter found his body? Arched upwards and rigid with death?’
I nodded.
‘Well, that body had to be made fit for its coffin, if you take my meaning, sir. There are ways, as I am sure you will know, and so it was that his reviled frame was made straight so it could be encased in wood. But when they lowered the lid over him, a strange thing happened: his back arched up again, throwing the lid off to land with a thunderous crash on the floor.’
‘This happened?’ I said, incredulous.
‘It happened, sir. It was almost as though Holm was denying his own death, refusing his own burial. Three times only did they try before giving up and calling in help from the Church, and it took three priests reciting prayers while holding down the lid as it was screwed on before Holm was finally fit for burial.’
‘A strange tale you tell, my friend,’ I breathed, ‘for I have never heard its like before. Did they then bury him?’
‘They did, sir, and in haste. But even then it was not over, and this is where this tale takes on a new horror.
‘It was his daughter who discovered what lay in store for Toerning and all that lived here. She was trudging her way back from the funeral, where she had thought to see the last of him being cast into the earth, when she heard behind the sound of a carriage at speed, the horses being whipped along at a full gallop. On instinct and without looking back, she stepped aside and off the road to let it pass. As it did so, she looked up to see who it was who was in such a hurry…and there was nothing there. But the sound, that was there. Infernal it was, filling her ears, piercing her gentle heart with a roar of wild hooves and thundering wheels. Then it was gone, a sudden bitter chill filling the air in its wake.
‘“Oh God,” she murmured. “Oh God, no!”—for she guessed rightly the meaning of this portent. It was, could only be, one of evil. And in her young and innocent life, she had known but one evil.
‘She rushed home and threw open the kitchen door. And there indeed was the ghost of her father, sitting in a corner and laughing aloud. Terror had she endured from him in life and his death had brought no release, and it was too much to bear. She picked up a pan and threw it, only to watch it pass straight through him and clatter off the wall behind.
‘“What are you doing here!” she cried. “You should be lying still and sleeping in the cold earth you have deserved for so long!”
‘At this, his shade laughed even louder. “You think the grave could hold me? I who have held sway over this house for so long?” he said. “Nay, lass, I cheated you of the satisfaction of your life and I will cheat you of the satisfaction of my death. Now get my breakfast and look sharp about it!”
‘But the daughter did not get his breakfast. She turned and ran for help where she knew it could be found, help in the shape of the Hammelev priest of the time. He came running back with her, bible and uncertainty in one hand, holy water and cold terror in the other. Together, they found him as before, sitting in the kitchen and warming his ghostly hands over the fire. He looked up as they entered.
‘“Ha! So you’re back!” he said. “And you have brought company! Well, pull up a stool, preacher man, and warm yourself. ’Tis bitter cold this morning, is it not?”
‘“Cease this impiety!” he snapped. “Go back to the grave! Go back and have the judgement you deserve pronounced upon you!”
‘Holm laughed again, but grimly, as though sneering. “Judgement? By whom? Your judge or mine? I denied one and promised myself to another, yet neither shall have me while I take this unearthly form. I have cheated them both, do you not understand? So do your worst, preacher man! None can touch me now, do you hear me? NONE!”
‘The priest paid no heed to this threat, he took his courage in his hands and stepped forward, unstopping his bottle of holy water as he went.
‘“This is your final warning!” he cried. “Repent this evil and go back to where you belong or have the will of the Lord upon you and go back perforce!”
‘“I have a better idea,” said Holm brightly. “Bid my daughter bring us breakfast both and we shall feast the morning away together.”
‘The priest didn’t trouble to answer, he simply threw his holy water over Holm’s shade. But what happened next was not to be believed. Both priest and daughter marked it well, giving good and terrified account of it later. For the water, instead of passing straight through the wretched shade, seemed to land on it as though it was solid flesh. And as it landed, it began spitting and bubbling and turning to steam, the shade remaining as clear as ever. And all the while, Holm was laughing, taunting them for their pitiful efforts.
‘“Is this the best you can do?” he was crying. “Put your back into it, man! Let us see some work here!”
‘Priest and daughter, both of whom had heard these words too many times in the past, turned and fled, Holm’s laughter ringing anew in their ears. He had won this, the first battle to send him back to his grave. There would be more to come.’
He paused and took more ale. I joined him, for I suddenly felt my mouth curiously dry. It was some moments before either of us spoke.
‘This story is not yet ended, then,’ I ventured.
‘You have it right, sir,’ he said, ‘and in more ways than one. Neither story, mine nor Holm’s, is ended.
‘The news of Holm’s refusal to die travelled swiftly, as bad news will. There were many who lived those early days in mortal terror, casting terrified glances over shoulder during the day, barring door and window at night—though they knew these were no barrier to a phantom set on having its will. And Holm did indeed have his will. For ten years, he had his will.
‘Not a milkmaid could attend her pail without Holm’s ghostly figure suddenly appearing beside her, commanding her to milk it harder, girl, to squeeze the cow dry if need be but just get the milk out of the beast!
‘No farmhand could come to the end of ploughing a furrow and pausing a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow without Holm being there, demanding that he cease his idleness and get the rest of this field ploughed before sunset, damn you!
‘Even the administrator, comfortable in the post that Holm once held, was not spared. Many a decision that perhaps did not meet with approval would be met with a sudden rush of ice-cold air, often bringing with it a loud laughter that was becoming as familiar as it was unwelcome, and it would continue until the decision was reversed or changed to one of Holm’s liking. Yes, even he who was master here was rendered slave by Holm’s mischief and malice, and he was but one of many. It could not be allowed to continue thus.
‘So it was that a call went out, to any priest anywhere with the courage to tackle such a malevolent spirit and the means to succeed. There were but two responses, one from Riis, near Aaabenraa, the other from Skrydstrup, some kilometres west of here.
‘The Riis priest was the first to arrive. He stopped his carriage at the head of the valley and said to his driver: “Wait here. The Devil is at work this day so move not an inch until someone tells you to drive on in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
‘And with that, he armed himself with the three bibles he had brought and went down into the valley. He found Holm’s ghost sitting on a gate. And the ghost was waiting for him.
‘“Ah, another preacher come to tame me!” it said. “Well, man of God, I wish you well in your endeavours, futile as they will prove.”
‘The priest ignored this jibe, opened the first of his bibles and began reading from it. Even before he had managed to utter the first words, Holm stopped him in his tracks.
‘“You once kissed a girl in a church porch,” he said.
‘The bible flew out of the priest’s hands and landed in the mud.
‘“How do you know this?” he demanded.
‘“I am a ghost,” said Holm, “I then know all things of those I meet.”
‘“Then you will know, too, that though I have indeed kissed a girl in God’s house, I later married her.”
‘Now a little nervous, he took his second bible and began reading again. Again, Holm interrupted him.
‘“You stole eight shillings’ worth of bread from a woman while you were studying in Copenhagen.”
‘The second bible flew out of the priest’s hands and landed in a puddle. He looked up at Holm.
‘“That I have also done,” he said, “but it was out of necessity, for I was starving and had no money. But when I had money again, I was careful to put eight shillings in her purse without her knowing.”
‘Now even more nervous, he took the third bible and read on. This time, Holm did not interrupt. And as he read, the priest wondered at this, that this very embodiment of evil should be merely standing aside and allowing him to bring about its destruction. And he grew yet more nervous.
‘At length, he finished reading and looked up at Holm, excited and frightened both. He threw out a hand, pointed a trembling finger at the ghost and cried: “I exorcise you down into the earth unto eternity!” What happened next, he did not expect.
‘His third bible flew from his grasp and went spinning off into a field. And the ghost of Holm, far from disappearing, remained where it sat. He stepped back, full of fear and wonder, for this had never been known to happen after the reading of the exorcism ceremony.
‘“How—?” he blustered. “Why—?”
‘Holm smiled, an evil smile full of knowing. “In your haste to be rid of me for fear of what I might next reveal about you, you read wrongly,” he said. “You do not have the authority to cast me into the earth unto eternity, preacher man, only unto the Day of Judgement. Only then and only by your God can I be condemned to be exorcised unto eternity.”
‘All at once, the priest understood. He also understood that, having tried an exorcism and failed, the ghost could now lay claim to his soul, even grip him in its power and use him to its own ends. He said no more, he turned and fled.
‘At the head of the valley, meanwhile, the Skrydstrup priest had arrived. He was chatting amiably with the driver that had been told to wait when there was a sudden flurry on the path, and both turned to see the Riis priest gasping his way towards them. He didn’t bother with greeting, he just leapt into his carriage and shouted at his driver: “Drive on! In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, drive on!”
‘But the Skrydstrup priest stayed the horses with his hand and demanded to know what was wrong.
‘“Leave this place!” cried the Riis priest. “There is an evil here that none can contain. Now get you gone while you can and PRAY! Pray for us ALL!”
‘Then he was yelling at his driver to be away, to make haste, so anxious was he to leave. As the Skrydstrup priest watched the carriage rocking wildly down the road, he took a moment to ponder what he had just witnessed. He differed from other priests. He was widely travelled and had learned much so was perhaps shorter on piety and longer on practicality than most. He knew things, things that many of his calling would likely have dismissed as heresy, and he knew that, here, prayer and bible would not be enough. He started down the path, ready for an encounter with a departed spirit that had already sent two of his brothers running.
‘He found it as before, sitting on a gate and apparently taking the morning air. It looked up as he approached.
‘“What?” it said. “Yet another preacher man come to help me pass an idle day? Your God must think well of me to send me such sport!”
‘The priest just smiled at this and leaned against the gate. “My God thinks well of every man. It is then for the man to receive His grace.”
‘“Grace? Pah!” Holm snorted. “What need has a man of grace when he has himself?”
‘“Because a man himself is not enough,” the priest countered immediately. “Without his God, a man is nothing.”
‘The ghost didn’t answer: there was something about this priest that unsettled it, something that was too worldly, perhaps even too close to itself for comfort. It looked into his soul and was surprised at what it found.
‘“You have done much, my friend!” it said eagerly. “How came you to the cloth with such a past?”
‘“I know well my past and am ready to answer for it before God,” the priest replied calmly, “as must we all, soon or late. So tell me, why are you still here?”
‘“Why?” said Holm. “Even a man such as you must know where he is well off.”
‘“Indeed. But even a man such as you would know where he is not wanted. Tell me, what have you done of late to make the people here want you to stay? What kindness have you shown that would make them stop and say ‘Ah, there is a good man…’?”
‘Holm was silent for a moment, as though this had never occurred to him before, to give rather than take? Such a thing he had never done, and it felt strange to be considering it. “This would profit me in some way?” he asked tentatively.
‘“Who knows?” the priest replied lightly. “If nothing more, it would mean the end of your having to deal with my brothers trying to exorcise you. Do you know how many priests there are in Denmark?”
‘At this, Holm laughed. “And such sport would I miss! But you have it right: there are more worthy ways to spend my valuable time than to keep sending the Church packing. What must I do to gain acceptance here?”
‘“What needs doing?” said the priest. “Are there fields to be harvested?”
‘“Many,” said Holm. “But of them all, which should I choose and how many? No, something involving less work, I think.”
‘“Are there roofs to be mended?” the priest asked next.
‘“Many. But the weather is fine, no need to keep the rain at bay just now. No, something more useful, I think.”
‘“Or more worthy of you, perhaps,” said the priest. “Tell me, what position did you hold here in the days of your life?”
‘Holm told him, that he was the administrator, charged with overseeing the mill and the surrounding farms.
‘“Ah, a mill!” said the priest. “Then there must be a lake nearby to feed it!”
‘“There is,” said Holm. “Why?”
‘“And are there nets stretched across the channel that leads into the millrace? To catch the fish that would otherwise be smashed to pieces by the mill-wheel?”
‘“There are,” said Holm. “And many a good fish supper have I had from them. Why?”
‘“Then there must be posts in the water, holding the nets up. Is there one amongst their number that perhaps needs replacing?”
‘“Indeed is there one!” said Holm brightly. “I know this to be true for I was only yesterday trying to persuade a man that he should get off his back and see to it. Lazy fellow. It was only just past midnight, after all.”
‘“Then perhaps you should do it for him.”
‘“And this would be an act of kindness?”
‘“It would,” said the priest. “And the people here might then wish you to stay. Take me to this lake.”
‘Holm took the priest to the lake, the very lake you saw as you looked out just now. There, they stopped, ghost and priest turning to each other.
‘“So, what would you have me do, preacher man?” said the one.
‘“Tell me how these posts are erected,” said the other, “for I have never seen it done.”
‘Holm obliged, describing in detail how two men would row out to where the post was to be dropped, towing it along behind them. Then they would turn the post upright, one would hold it in place while the other hammered it down…
‘“…but we are not two men,” he finished with a grin, “we are one and a ghost.”
‘“Then the job will be done that much better. Come. I will row and you will tell me where to stop.”
‘They clambered into the boat, the priest took the oars and they were soon out in midstream.
‘“Stop rowing,” said Holm. “Here is the place. Can you upend the post?”
‘“That I can,” said the priest. “But who is to hold it if I am hammering it?”
‘“It will be no great task for you to do both. And I will be here to guide you.”
‘“That will be help indeed,” said the priest. “But since we must be sure to make a good job of this, do you know of a way to make sure that the post is perfectly upright?”
‘“Is it important?” said Holm.
‘“If we are to make as good a job of this as to make the people here think well of you then yes!” said the priest. “Perhaps, since you are a ghost and can then enter where you will, you could guide me from beneath the water, looking up at the post to see that it is indeed upright.”
‘“That I can,” said Holm. “Come! Let us have done with this, for I am eager to have my presence here accepted!”
‘As Holm sank into the water, the priest upended the pole and let it down as far as the muddy bottom.
‘“Is it upright?” he shouted, and from the deep came a reply.
‘“It is. As far as I can tell.”
‘“So let us be certain,” the priest shouted next. “Move closer.”
‘Holm moved closer. “It is upright…I think.”
‘“No, no! We must be certain! You are a ghost, can you not lie on your back so the post passes through your body, and look up at it from all sides?”
‘“Do you think really that necessary?” said Holm.
‘“The good job we must make of this…?’ the priest reminded him.
‘There was a moment’s silence then another reply. “I am in place. The post is upright. Start hammering, preacher man.”
‘“Will this not harm you?” said the priest.
‘Holm laughed. “I am a ghost. There is naught you can do that would harm me.”
‘The priest nodded and started hammering.
‘ONE!—TWO!—THREE!
‘“Is that enough?” he shouted.
‘“One more stroke!” Holm shouted back. “Then it is done.”
‘The priest picked up his hammer again.
‘FOUR!
‘“It looks well,” Holm shouted from the deep. “What think you?”
‘There was no reply, for even as Holm was speaking, the priest took a bible from his pocket—
‘“Are you there, preacher man?”
‘—and started reading from it.
‘“I exorcise you unto the Day of Judgement.—”
‘“NO!” Holm shouted when he realised what was happening.
‘“—I exorcise you to be held by wood and water until that time when your spirit shall stand before Almighty God—”
‘“NO!” Holm screamed.
‘“—to have His will pronounced upon it, damnation eternal or resurrection into His grace.—”
‘“NO-O-O-O!”
‘“—And may He prove merciful where I this day could not. Amen.”
‘There was one final, terrible scream as Holm understood the magnitude of his defeat, a bitter shriek that pierced the air, stirring the wind in the trees and setting the birds fluttering. Then it was fading, echoing into a silence broken only by the sound of water lapping at the sides of the boat. It was done.
‘The priest looked down and around, scanning the water, just to be certain, just to be sure. He nodded slowly to himself, satisfied at last, then took up the oars and began rowing for the shore.
‘There, the people of the village were gathering, for they had heard Holm’s final scream and come running to see what was amiss, and on seeing a priest stepping ashore, they guessed what had transpired.
‘“Is it finished?” they asked hopefully. “Is it now over?”
‘And the priest turned to them and replied simply: “No. Now it begins.”
‘And he told them that the village must stand guard for all time over his work if it was to keep Holm bound. For, as long as the post remained stabbed through Holm’s ghostly heart, he said, his spirit would be held fast. And there it lies to this day, and any foolish enough to row out into the lake, take hold of the post and rock it back and forth will hear Holm’s voice rising from the deep, bringing with it the words we had never thought to hear again.’
‘Ah!’ I said, understanding. ‘And this is why your lad Jensen was so badly shaken: he heard a reminder of the terror that once held sway over these parts.’
‘No, you mistake me, sir,’ he said heavily. ‘The voice, mark well what it says—PUT YOUR BACK INTO IT! It is not a reminder but an exhortation, a command to rock the post harder and harder and harder still so that it might become loosened and fall away, allowing Holm’s damned spirit to rise and wander abroad again, to begin his reign of terror anew. He is with us still, Peter Christian Holm, demanding from us that which we dare not now give. That is his will, that is the servitude he now demands from us.’ He paused to glance up. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, sir, I have customers to attend.’
I waved him away blankly, suddenly aware that there were people passing in through the doorway. Such a tale, such unholy terror—even now when I think on it, it passes a shudder through my being. And then, fresh in its telling, far from home and surrounded by strangers…I looked out again at the post and its new meaning, and felt the cold of the night close round my heart.
I wrenched my gaze away, in mind no more for company and ale. I rose from my table and sought out my room.

I spent a sleepless night in that accursed place, rose next morning with fear and fatigue resting heavy on my brow. We left after a hurried breakfast that was somehow tasteless.
I wished to be away, to be as far from Toerning and its terrible past as swiftly as possible. But as Nis trotted the horses along at an easy pace, I felt myself growing ever more impatient. Damn the man, what was wrong with him this morning! I leaned out my window and shouted at him.
‘Put your back into it, fellow!’ I said. ‘Let us have some speed here!’
And poor Nis, who was unaccustomed to being spoken to by his master in such a manner, turned in his perch to look down at me, a most pained expression creasing his face.
‘But the horses, sir,’ he called back. ‘We have yet a way to go and—’
But I heard no more. Instead, I was hearing something else, something almost unearthly. It came as laughter, faint and distant, as though echoing down the years from a time long past, following me along the road and taunting me, goading me into exercising a tyranny that was mine for the taking. And I knew it well.
I said no more, I just waved acceptance of my excellent driver’s protests, sat back in my seat and left him to his job, for he needed no harsh words from me to do it well.
This, I was resolved, was to be understood by Peter Christian Holm.

~oOo~

Just a final word, the post that is reputed to hold down Holm’s ghost is still there. You’ll see it in the lake, not far from the shore and close to the museum building, the one-time inn mentioned in the story. Photograph it by all means but please, don’t try rowing out and rocking it…

For other short stories, keep checking my page on Smashwords. I’ll be uploading more. And if you have kids, check out my children’s books.