Hannibal House (haunted/ghost story)

Hannibal House

Hannibal House
Copyright David Nicol 2012 - All Rights Reserved

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******

"Now that's a nice house!" Troy Gilbert-Jones said to no one in particular, and no one in particular listened. If they had, they would have realised that his accent wasn't from the West Wales coast. Troy's accent wasn't from anywhere in Wales, just like the rest of him. Although to look at him, most observers would have realised that he wasn't from around these parts.

This particular coastal village, New Quay, was mostly inhabited by farmers and, when the season was right, city professionals took up temporary residence in their second homes. Neither of those tribes generally wore a mix of hiking boots and corduroy, topped off with a Seattle Seahawks baseball cap. Although they weren't mutually exclusive, the combination marked a visitor to the area, especially the baseball cap. Most caps worn in the area bore logos relating to New York, or Chicago. Seattle was a rarity.

Troy was twenty-six; tall and slim, and somewhat average in the looks department. What he lacked in looks he made up for with his pleasant smile, and warm personality. Troy was the kind of person that people just couldn't help but like. However, his easy manner masked the grief that led him here.

When his father died, Troy decided that he needed to broaden his horizons. Using the money he received as inheritance he chose to visit Wales, the country of his ancestors.

Once there he chased his roots. Pontypridd was the first destination. A dozen miles north of Cardiff, Pontypridd was the town his family hailed from in the 1830s. Despite the history of the place, it was plain to understand why his great-great-great-great-grandfather would have wanted a fresh start. Ironically, about twenty years after his predecessors left the area, Pontypridd became known as the Wild West.

Disappointed by the town itself he explored the surrounding areas. He travelled back to Cardiff, but found it quite soul-less. Modern buildings popping up everywhere; redevelopment swallowing up the history of the city.

He travelled west to Swansea where he found a confused mix of town and country. A city that didn't know which direction it should go. He didn't know what he was expecting to find, but so far the towns and cities hadn't lived up to the picture he had painted in his mind.

While in Swansea he decided to take a trip to an area called Gower, a peninsula designated as an area of outstanding natural beauty. On top of Cefn Bryn he stopped to have lunch at a megalith. A collection of boulders carefully arranged on top of one another that had once been covered by earth to form a large burial mound known as Arthur's Stone. Now denuded by the elements, the flat rocks made an impromptu picnic table. As he sat on one of the stones Troy looked out over the Loughor Estuary towards, he checked his map, Llanelli and Burry Port. He opened up the map fully and saw that he had only seen a tiny amount of the country so far. Perhaps the place that he was looking for was further north, or west. After all, he'd only visited the areas that housed the industrial heritage of his forefathers in the South. There must be more.

As he sat there, admiring the view, he was joined by an old man. Troy nodded to him and went back to eating his sandwich. The old man made a series of noises that sounded like he was trying to recover from breathing in a fly. Troy turned to him: "Are you okay?" he asked.
"I'll take that as a 'no' then." The old man said. "And judging by your accent, you're definitely not from around here. Are you one of those.....Canadians?" The old man looked at him with watery blue eyes, the pupils faded with age and the onset of cataracts.
"Ah, no sir. I'm an American. I'm sorry, did you ask me a question?"
"Yes. I asked you if you spoke Welsh."
"You did? I thought you were clearing your throat."
The old man laughed a throaty laugh, that moved to his chest and ended with a coughing fit.
"Yes, I suppose it can sound like that." He smiled. "So, you're a Yank are you? Saw plenty of your lot back in the war. Not so many down this way other than at the radar station, but still. What are you doing b'here now then?"
Troy had to think for a moment to work out which parts of what the old man had said were questions.
"I've come to eat my lunch." He decided was a reasonable answer. The old man laughed again. "You came all the way from America to eat your lunch?" The old man was laughing so hard that Troy was concerned he might do himself an injury.
"Oh, yes, I see what you're asking now. I came to Wales to see where my family came from."
The old man was suddenly serious.
"From Wales are you? What part?"
"Pont ee prid." Troy replied. The old man smiled.
"Pont ee preeth" The old man corrected.
"I don't understand..."
"The double 'D' at the end of Pontypridd is a 'th' sound, so it's Pontypreeth, not Pontyprid. If you want to go travelling around here, then you'd better start pronouncing things properly, otherwise we'll treat you as if you were English."
Troy just looked at him, in utter confusion.
"Okay, you were looking at your map when I was walking over. Over the water there, what's that place called?" The old man challenged him.
Troy looked at the map.
"Lan eh lee....?" He said, unsure. The old man laughed so loud this time a sheep that had been hidden in some bracken poked its head up to see what the noise was.
"Llanelli. Clan ehch lee. Say it."
"Clan... ehch... lee?" Troy said, the old man nodded at each syllable.
"That's it, bach. Double 'L' is a 'hch' sound in Welsh. Just remember those two and you'll be half way there."
"Ahh, okay. Thanks." Troy said, smiling. "I'll try and remember that."
"So how's Wales been treating you so far then?" The old man smiled, his eyes twinkling.
"I'm sorry, I don't know what you're asking me."
"How are you liking it here? Is it what you expected?"
"Oh! Ohhh. Well no offence to you, the people are great, but it's not what I thought it'd be."
"Well what were you expecting?"
"I don't really know."
"Well, where have you been?"
"Pontee..... Pontypridd, Cardiff, Swansea, here..."
"So you haven't been anywhere then! And the places you have been are all proper towns. By the sounds of it you need to get off the beaten track a bit."
"Well, yes. But where should I go?"
"What do you want to see?"
"I don't know. I just want to experience a bit more of the spirit of Wales I suppose. Other than this place, all I've seen is towns that want to be better than they are. Nowhere seems to be happy as they are. It's as if they just want to shrink-wrap the culture rather than live it, and then put up a load of soul-less modern buildings."
"Oh you definitely need to think smaller then. You need to be going north, or west, or both. Head around the coast, then up North, but the further north you get the more it gets like the South. They'd never admit that up North though. Don't forget, a lot of the places on the coast are tourist destinations so they're geared towards your shrink-wrapped culture seekers."
"Okay, thank you. I appreciate the information, and the Welsh lesson. I'm Troy, by the way."
"Troy? That's good Welsh name." The old man said with a little smile.
"Is it?" Troy asked, pride puffing him up.
"No, not really. I'm Ivor, they call me Ivor the Caravan around here, but it's just Ivor to most people. I'll wish you the best. Good luck in your travels, Troy. I hope you find a little bit of what you're looking for." Troy and Ivor shook hands before Ivor hobbled off down the path towards the road. Troy finished his sandwich and looked at his map. "West or bust" he said to himself.