Wimmelskafts Hill, A Caribbean ghost story, Althea Romeo Mark

By: aromaproductions on 7:27 PM

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 Wimmelskafts Hill

 

If you grew up in the Caribbean, and were born before the 70s, you grew up under the thumb of myths, jumbis, and folklore that controlled your minds and daily living.  You would have heard of the power of La Diablesse, the devil-woman, the Sououyant, Mami Water, and many more frightening creatures from the netherworld that controlled the way people lived. Ghost stories, real or imaginary ruled your behavior. So, the short story you are about to read could be real or just fantasy depending on your generation.  

                                                 

            “Clarice, Alex, wake up, the truck’s waiting down the hill to pick our things up!”

             Those were the most exciting words my father, Winston Lettsome, had ever uttered. 

             We were leaving Wimmelskafts Hill.

           “Mr. Lettsome, how you want to pack the furniture?” the truck driver called out.

           “Anyway you want,” Daddy shouted back.

          “No, Winston!” my mother, Lillian, objected.

          “You want to leave this hellhole or not, Lillian?” Daddy growled.

          Mammy didn’t argue.

   

        We had lived halfway up Wimmelskafts Hill in one of the smallest houses. The rocky hill stretched up against the sky above the central cemetery on the Caribbean Island of St.Thomas.  The hill was covered with bent mango, genip, and tamarind trees stripped of their leaves by a recent hurricane.

     

      At the top of Wimmelskafts Hill sat an abandoned red castle. Its remaining shuttered windows, held by rusty hinges, banged violently when winds lashed the hillside. Occasionally, the shutters opened and closed at a whim. The spacious houses hugging the bosom of the hill had been built by Danish stonemasons.  Hurricanes and mild earthquakes had not yet demolished them.   The houses looked over the Atlantic but despite their immense airy rooms and expansive verandas, the dwellings often remained unoccupied. When evening came inhabitants crawled into their houses like insects hiding under rocks.  Nothing stirred after eight except the wind.  On stormy nights the hills groaned, cried, and screamed. 

 

 

      

                  Alex, my younger brother and I had been terrified when our mother, Lillian announced we were moving to Wimmelskafts Hill.

        “It full a rocks.  Only goats go up there. Why we can’t move to Rotten Hill or Agnes Fancy?”  I shouted at my mother. 

         Alex, his arms folded, stormed out of the room.

       “Clarice, hush you' mouth, you paying the rent? The houses large and cheap,” Mammy said.  I stayed silent because Mammy when provoked was quick with her hands.

      “We going there till daddy get a new job. The rum factory shut down.  Me job at the bakery can’t feed us.”

     “Well, a rather live in a poor house,” I fired back. A burning pain rose from my ear where Mammy grabbed and pinched it.  

      “Just go outside.  Don’t want to hear another word,” Mammy ordered.

       I fled under the house, which stood on tall concrete columns, sat on a gray rickety crate, and burst into tears. 

 

  Our Wimmelskafts Hill initiation occurred soon after we moved there. I was drifting into sleep one night when I was woken by gunshots.  I sprang to my feet. Loud cursing stung the hot still air.  I crept into the living room and joined my parents, who were watching our neighbors, the Johannes, through the latticed shutters of our living room window.  Joseph, Johannes, his wife, Olga, and their two sons were dashing about. My brother, Alex, slept despite the clamor.

 

               “Look it there, look it there, you don’t see it?” Mr. Johannes shouted and fired his gun as he sprinted around nearby houses.  Puk! puk! puk! puk!  

              “Look, another one!” screamed Olga Johannes as she threw her hands up and waved them in the air, shouting, “don’t let it get away.” 

         “They shooting jumbie,” Daddy whispered.  Fear gripped me.  I hurried back to bed, cuddled up to my brother, and squeezed my eyes tight, hoping to shut out the noise, but in the end, I lay in bed sleepless.

             Alex and I soon learned more about the history of Wimmelskafts Hill.

            “There’s a beautiful white horse that roams about,” Fredrik Johannes, the oldest boy, said when we first met.  Alex and I sat with him in front of his house.

             “For true, I never see a white horse.”  Alex was excited.

             “It’s tall, big, strong, with long, white hair.  And has red eyes.” Fredrik had lowered his voice.

            “You see it?”  asked Alex as he grabbed his knees and listened attentively.

             “No, but my father see it.”

              “Yea?”

               “It come only at midnight.”

               “How come?”

               “Is a spirit.  It come from the houses way up the hill.”

               Goosebumps broke out on my body.  “You trying to scare us.”    

               “Is true.”  Fredrik crossed his heart.

                 I plugged my ears with my fingers but not for long.

              “You know that garden with the bougainvillea and flamboyant trees?” 

               “Yes, the branches hang over onto the road.” Alex held his knees tighter.

                “A jumbie live in the one in the middle.”

               “In the flamboyant tree?”  Alex gasped.

                “Yes.”

                 I stuck my fingers in my ears again.

               “And there’s the beautiful ghost in a long white dress that...”

              “I going home, Alex.” I rose and removed my fingers to dust my skirt. “You coming?”  I glared at him.

             Alex sat transfixed but I yanked at his arm and he reluctantly rose, towering above me.  It was getting dark.

 

                One evening when the fridge’s motor broke down, Mammy summoned me to the kitchen.

            “Clarice, come here. Here’s a dollar. Go down to Miss Inez and buy some ice.”

 

         “Now, Mammy?

          “Yes, now!”

          “Mammy, it dark. Nobody on the road.”

          “Girl, get you tail up and go.  Alex, go with her.”

            Alex pretended not to hear. He was in the kitchen reading a Beetle Bailey comic book.

                       Mammy grabbed his shoulder and pulled him to his feet.  “You going with Clarice to buy

ice.” A long rattan stick hovered over his head.

                I clasped Alex’s hand and we walked slowly downhill.  As we approached a cluster of trees, we dashed past them not heeding the rocky surface.  I tripped and sprawled onto the ground, scraping my knees, arms, and face. I sat up whimpering and wiping the blood with the hem of my dress.

              “Hurry, it getting late.” Alex’s voice was edgy.

                I struggled to my feet and leaned on him.

                Arriving at Miss Inez’s house, we shouted, “inside.”

                A large mulatto woman appeared at the door.

                “Good evening, Miss Inez, Mammy want two trays of ice.”

                 “Darling, you fall down?”

                “Yes, Miss Inez.”

               “Come inside.” Miss Inez brought bandage and rubbing alcohol. “Hold still, it going burn a little.”

               I winced as Miss Inez cleaned my wounds.   Her husband brought the ice cubes in a large tin cup.  We paid, thanked her, and left. 

 

       On our way home, we hobbled behind a woman in a yellow patterned dress and her companion who were chatting and cackling loudly.  Then suddenly the air thickened with fluttering wings. One brushed my face.  Another skimmed my hair.  Wings flapped near Alex’s head.  I tried to run but slender, knotted fingers entangled my braids and clung tighter as I struggled to free myself.  I shrieked and flailed about.  Alex hollered and flogged the air.

            “Alex, Alex,” I screamed. “The jumbie holding me hair.  Help me!”

             Alex flung away the ice and escaped.

           “Mammy, Mammy, Daddy! Oh God, save me!” I cried as I spun under the flamboyant tree.  Someone seized me and mustering all my strength, I fought back.

            “Hold still child,” I heard a voice say.  “It’s all right, hear!”

            It was the woman, in the patterned dress, who had been ahead of us.  She removed the twigs from my hair, hugged me, and rubbed my forehead. 

“Is only a branch, child.”

            “I see it,” I sputtered.

            “The bats?  Where the boy?  Never mind.  We going walk you home.”

 

           When we reached home, Alex was sitting on the front steps crying.  The woman had explained what had happened. Mammy inspected my bruises, hugged us, and thanked the woman.

        “You thought it was a jumbie?” Mammy started to giggle as soon as the woman left. 

         Alex and I huddled together, wiping our tear-stained faces and runny noses. “Come, drink you tea. It getting cold.”  She placed plates of corn-beef stew and bread on the table in front of us. “When you finish, go to bed, you hear?  Get a good night’s rest.”

            The front door slammed and Daddy, entered.

            “Where you coming from?” Mammy queried.

             “Joseph Johannes invited me for drinks. After a few Carlsberg beers, he started chatting nonsense about the castle up the hill.” Daddy joined us at the kitchen table.

           “Yes, I heard ‘bout it too.  What he say?” Mammy prodded.

            “He say, Bluebeard, the pirate, banish an unfaithful mistress to the castle up the hill and she died from loneliness and wander the hill at night searching for company.”  Daddy laughed. “Lillian, you believe that?”

           “Is true, Winston.  People see her regularly.”

           “Ha, ha, haaaaaa.  How she look?”

             Mammy bunched up her lips. “They say she always dress in white, but they never see her face.”

           “Well, they lying!  Ha, Ha, Ha.”  A coughing fit took hold of Daddy, turning his eyes red and watery.  He slid off the chair he was sitting on, gagging.

              Mammy pounded and slapped his back.  “You see what happen?  That’s a warning.”

           “I don’t believe in jumbie,” daddy whispered hoarsely. He straightened his broad shoulders,  cocked his narrow, dark head, and stood on his long, muscular legs. “If you don’t believe in them, nothing going happen.  Not a damned thing.”

 

       Life was as normal as it could be on Wimmelskaft Hill with the usual rumors of sighting spirits and we were getting accustomed to them until  Daddy ended up in the hospital two weeks later.

 

 

             “You were crying when they find you in front the castle,” Mammy said.  “The doctor think someone spike you drink.”

           “I had too much rum and God knows what else.  They always say, don’t mix alcohol. That’s a warning.” Daddy lowered his eyes.

          “Winston, Joseph say, the woman carry you there.”  Mammy stared at him.

            Daddy looked away, then sat up and told us what he remembered. He said he was returning home after celebrating a friend’s birthday when he heard a woman sobbing. He had had a couple shots of rum and thought the wind was playing tricks on his ears.   He continued up Wimmelskafts Hill leaping the granite slabs. Then he noticed a shapely, petite woman in a long, white gown walking slowly ahead of him. Her crying was agonizing. So he hurried to catch up and comfort her. He was wondering what she was doing out so late. She appeared to float over the ground and he was convinced the rum had messed his head up. He thought she was lost and wondered who she was.  He was bounding over the slabs unaware he had passed our house.  The moonlight and the woman’s white dress guided him forward. It was like sleepwalking. He found himself anchored before the castle, his head heavy, feet rigid.  The woman wasn’t visible but her crying voice was everywhere. Then he dropped to the ground. He didn’t remember what happened next.

           “They find you crumpled on the ground,” Mammy explained.

               I had never told Mammy and Daddy that Alex had been getting up every night to look out for the white horse since Fredrik told him about it. He had been peeping through the latticed bedroom window and waiting for it to appear. He always went to bed disappointed.

        But on the night Daddy returned from the hospital, the white horse invaded Alex’s dreams. He woke at noon to Mammy shaking him and us wailing.  A bay-rum soaked washcloth lay on his forehead. When the fever broke, he told Mammy and Daddy about his horse ride. Alex told us how he had gazed at it, drawn to its large red eyes, smooth coat, and thick bushy tail.  He had slipped outside into the warm night and easily mounted it, rode downhill, then up through the bare trees. Hours passed as he gazed at the city lights reflecting silver on the bay.  He had fallen asleep riding. 

       Mammy and Daddy summoned the priest who came that afternoon, prayed, and sprinkled Holy water on Alex and around the house. Daddy bought sand, tossed it outside, around the house for extra measure.

       Despite the Holy water, we slept with our parents that night. My mind drifted from one strange occurrence to another. It was 2:00 a.m. when I last stared at the clock and dozed off. 

          

            Foreday morning, Mammy sprang upright gasping for air.

           “Winston, Winston,” she called out. “A choking.”

          “Choking?”

           “Can’t breathe good,” Mammy gasped.”

           Daddy cuddled Mammy. “Relax, honey, breathe slowly.

           Mammy took deep wheezing breaths.

          “Feeling better?” Daddy asked.

          “Yes,” Mammy rasped.

           Then Daddy gazed at us and boomed, “We moving!”

          “But we can’t just move like that, Winston.” Mammy paused to catch her breath.   “We have to find a place first.”

       “Me brother goin’ help us.” Daddy insisted.  “He know what happen to me and Alex. He the one tell me ‘bout the priest.”

       “I hate this place,” Alex cut in.

       “Me, too,” I moaned.

       “Well, that’s it.”  Daddy said.  “I goin’ call me brother.”

       “But his house is a matchbox,” Mammy whined.

       “I goin’ call me brother. Story end.”

  

   

      Daddy woke us at 7:00 a.m. two days later. Everything was packed.  Family and friends carried our belongings down the hill to waiting trucks. Daddy said he didn’t want Wimmelskafts Hill’s darkness to touch us. We didn’t look back.

 

 

 

 

(c) Althea Romeo-Mark 

Born in Antigua, Althea Romeo-Mark earned a B.A. in English and Secondary Education from the University of the Virgin Islands and an M.A. in Modern American Literature from Kent State University, U.S.A., and a Cambridge Certificate in Teaching English as a Foreign Language. 

 Sample journals published in are DoveTales, Family & Cultural Identity: An International Journal of the Arts; WomanSpeak: A Journal of Writing and Art by Caribbean Women; Moko: Caribbean Arts and Letters;  POUI: Literary Journal of the University of the West Indies; The Caribbean Writer; Tongues of the Ocean;  The Antigua and Barbuda Review of Books; The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review: Poetry of The Caribbean;  Sisters of Caliban: Contemporary Women Poets in the Caribbean; Yellow Cedars Blooming: An Anthology of Virgin Islands Poetry and Calabash: Journal of Contemporary Arts and Letters.