Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You

The CampfireThe openingFree

There was a professor at Cambridge named Parkins. A serious, practical man. He didn't believe in ghosts. When people at dinner talked about the supernatural, he got annoyed and gave a little speech about how there's no such thing.

One spring he went to the seaside by himself, to a little town on the east coast of England, to play golf and get some fresh air. He took a room at an inn. It was a big room, with two beds in it.

Before he left, a friend joked, "If you're going to be near the old ruins down there, have a look around. There used to be a church of the Knights Templar on that coast. See if you can find anything."

So Parkins said he would.

The inn was right on the shore. Flat, empty beaches stretched for miles. Sand dunes, gray sea, an enormous sky. In the evenings the wind came in off the water and you could see a very long way, and there was nobody in it.

On his second day, walking back from golf along the beach at dusk, Parkins found the ruins. Low walls, mostly buried in sand and grass. He poked around a little with his walking stick, the way you do.

And in a crack in the old stones, he found a little metal tube. About four inches long. Old bronze, crusted with dirt.

He put it in his pocket.

As he walked back along the empty beach in the gathering dark, he looked back once, and he saw a figure behind him. Far away. Very far. Someone else walking on the beach, in the same direction, toward the inn.

It seemed to be having trouble moving. Stumbling. Hurrying.

But it never seemed to get any closer.