The Faceless Nun of St Leonards

The Grim of St Leonards
By Caith and Weasley-Detectives

Stepping into The Castle Tavern, the tall, thin Irishman almost shivered with the slight chill that greeted him. The fire was petering out to mere glowing coals and the air was sour, like rotten vegetables and vinegar. He had met with warmer welcomes in graveyards.

The Irishman grimaced and pulled the black collar of his long coat up around his chin and closed the door firmly behind him, shutting out the roar of the storm and the sea crashing against the cliffs.

'An evil night to be out, what.'

The Irishman turned. A portly gentleman, predominantly made up of two large circles, a bristley moustache and a broad grin, waved merrily from his seat. He was middle-aged, a great thicket of fluffing grey hair on his head, but the eyes behind his spectacles were bright and mischievous. He raised a mug of beer to the Irishman.

'Pull up a chair. Kari's breath is foul on winter nights like these. What a devil – the gods have no respect for the gentleman's hat. Lost mine on the way over here. Brand new, can you believe!' He put down his pint and stuck out his fat hand. 'Edward Nox.'

The Irishman raised a black eyebrow, then took the seat across from him and grasped the large hand with his own pale one. He did not give his name. 'I see you know your folklore,' he said instead.

Edward puffed with pride. 'Quite so. I'm rather terrific when it comes to spinning a good yarn. Particularly over a wee dram…' he said, with a large hint. The Irishman promptly ignored it.

'I hear St Andrews is possessed of a prodigious number of supernatural appearances.'

'Indeed.' Edward beamed. 'Barely a bairn who hasn't grown up fearing visions of the Priory Ghost or afraid to look out their windows after dark less the Veiled Nun of St Leonard's lidless eyes are peering back.' He took a hefty swig from his mug. 'Do you believe in ghosts, sir?'

The Irishman wrinkled his nose and closed his eyes with an air of impatience. 'I believe in a great many things, Mr Nox, including stupidity.'

'Come, come now-'

'I grant you this, sir. When people talk to ghosts, it's called eccentric. When ghosts start talking back, it's called schizophrenia.'

'Ah, well,' Edward nodded sagely. 'True enought that madness takes or leaves us by the sea. But she is real. Quite real,' Edward lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. 'Indeed, I had a run in with her this very night…'

'In bonnie Mary's time, there was a young girl who lived with her family up in South Street, not a minute's walk from here. She was a fine thing, admired for her wit and beauty, but alas, as these tales go, her young lover disappeared. When it seemed he would never return, she resolved to become a bride of the Holy Church instead, vowing never to love an earthly soul again. When her young man heard of her vows he returned to St Andrews immediately, but on arrival received a terrible fright for his once beautiful bride, so devastated at his seeming betrayal, had cut away her face. Her once fair cheeks had been branded with cruel hot irons; her nostrils were slit wide; her eyelids and lips had been hacked away. It was a gruesome sight to behold – one that broke the poor man's heart and he fled away to Edinburgh, guilt gnawing at his heels for what he had done.'

'Soon after, our lady received word that he had committed suicide and she too faded away with grief. Ah, but her spirit – that remained. Haunting these very streets is her wraith, the mutilated face hidden from sight by a veil until a foolhardy passerby bids her good evening. For we all know that to greet the dead is to forfeit your own life…'

Edward paused, as if remembering something distant. 'My own encounter is somewhat blurry, I confess. I decided to cut my evening stroll short, for the sea har was tumbling in. It was on Pends Road that I noticed a light approaching me. Thinking it to be a fellow in need of assistance, I stopped to greet them.' Edward picked up his mug with a trembling hand. 'Never will I forget that dreadful face, sir. I knew at once what she was, long before she raised that veil and emptied those impossibly sad eyes on me. T'was like staring into cold and emptiness, and forgetting. She twisted bonelessly towards me, fluid as smoke and pitch as night, her jaws gaping horribly wide in that slit mouth of hers.'

He chortled, but it was a mirthless laugh. 'Many things leave a footprint on this world long after they're dead. I must confess, I fled here as fast as my fat legs could take me.'

Then he looked up into his companion's dispassionate eyes and froze. The Irishman's gaze was something solid and real, like fingers ranging over him, through him, under him. Dark shapes slipped through the shadows at the edges of things inside The Castle Tavern.

Edward knew then that he was dead.

He wrinkled his bushy moustache. "Well damn it all, we're not going anywhere without my bloody hat!"