The Country Cottage is a spooky little ghost tale about a man who is out walking one day when he is caught in the rain and decides to take shelter in a small house down a country lane.
One evening, I was out hiking in the country when it started to rain heavily. I looked around for shelter and, down a muddy lane, I spotted a dilapidated cottage with a thatched roof. When I opened the door, the inside was dark and damp. At the far end of the cottage, there was a room with a little rusted stove. I packed some pieces of wood into it and lit the fire. Just as I was taking off my boots and sitting down to warm myself, I was startled hear some footsteps in the passage outside.
Suddenly, a man appeared in the doorway. He didn’t even seem to notice me as he walked straight over to the stove and began warming his hands in front of it. He was dripping wet and his clothes were completely soaked. It didn’t seem to be possible to get so wet, even on such a rainy night. Water dripped from his old hat and sizzled on the embers of the fire. I cleared my throat and the man turned his head and stared at me over his shoulder. I could see his teeth chattering and noticed that his face was pale white.
“Not many people come here,” he said.
“Why’s that?” I asked, trying to make conversation.
“Ghosts,” he said, turning back to the fire. “The ghost of the man that lived here. It’s a sad tale. He drowned himself down in the pond by the old mill. The found him floating there and when they pulled him out of it, he was all slimy. Since then, some folks say they’ve seen him floating on the pond and other folks have seen him lurking outside this cottage, walking up and down. Drowned himself in the pond, so they say, and now he walks the night.”
The man sighed and I could hear the water squelch in his boots.
“But that’s just the story the superstitious people tell,” he continued. “I never saw a ghost myself.”
“I haven’t either,” I laughed. “I never believe the tall tales people tell.”
He looked at me again and said, “Some folks do and some folks don’t.”
The water was still oozing from his clothes, dripping all over the floor and a dank smell filled the room.
“What’s the matter,” I asked. “Can’t you get dry?”
“Dry?” he laughed weakly and his laughter turned to a hacking cough. “I can never get dry,” he cried, and with that, he thrust his muddy hands into the fire up to his elbows. The flames didn’t touch him at all. Without another word, I grabbed my boots and ran screaming out into the night.