Whitby Abbey

Whisps of thick fog curled around my boots as I approached the base of the hill. The early morning sun did little to help with the visibility around my current surroundings. Veritably, I was left with my own sense of orientation and the landmark erected above serving as my compass.

A salt breeze temporarily parted the mist and revealed the path ahead of a steep staircase. 199 steps greeted me, awaiting eagerly for someone, anyone, to dare such an attempt of climbing the long-neglected stepping stones.

I took one last glance behind my shoulder; the village below was still dormant. Bakeries chimneys had their smoke twirl into the sulking sky. I could spot a few fishermen perching their rods along the pier. The crowds have not yet begun to swarm towards the coastline or gift shops.

Solitude greeted me and urged me to venture to what awaited perching overhead.

The stairs hungrily rumbled beneath my weight, delighted of the warmth exuding from the soles of my shoes. The wind whistled in my ears as I began my ascent. I stumbled slightly when I thought I heard what resembled my name being carried away in the sea breeze.

With every step, the fog began to clear bit by bit. I decided to rest against a lamppost halfway up; a perfect lieu of respite. I looked up towards the peak of the hill, mesmerised by the sight offered in front of me.

Whitby Abbey’s hallow stone façade crept behind tall grass and thin clouds of mist. These gothic ruins served as a pilgrimage of those in search of a recluse. It stood atop a cliff facing the North Sea exposed to the harsh oceanic elements. Once a place of refuge for monks back in the 7th century, Yorkshire’s first monastery was destroyed by the order of King Henry VIII. Furthermore, the fascinating historic site had its roof and pillars demolished by German ships during the 20th century. The ancient grounds were initially cultivated with intentions of peace, yet it had become a target of violence and destruction in later years.

The lamppost’s light bulb flickered momentarily, drawing my thoughts away from the abbey’s story.

“Did you know that pallbearers used this very spot to rest when they had to hall coffins up this hill?” A hoarse voice travelled from below.

The hairs on my arms raised in fear when I nearly jumped at the sound of the stranger’s sudden presence. I turned around carefully to be met with a white-haired man, looking up at me in a slouch.

“No, I have not,” I uttered softly.

I tightened my grip on the lamppost as I sensed a wave of vertigo creep up when I focused my vision on the infinite stairs below. Upon the man’s revelation, I had the urge to quickly continue my journey upwards. As I observed the odd fellow, I wondered how such a person was able to catch up with me so quickly.

With a tight smile and a nod, I kindly dismissed the old man and decided to take the remaining steps in long strides.

The air felt thinner in higher altitude, making it difficult to calm my erratic breathing after climbing the infamous 199 steps. My hand landed on the nearest boulder where I could lean on to quell the aching in my legs. The stone beneath my hand nearly crumbled at the touch. I quickly withdrew when I realised that I had disturbed a decrepit tombstone.

The churchyard welcomed me. Neglected graves marked with skulls and crossbones littered the grounds. My footsteps emitted not a sound as I ventured the graveyard. Many weatherworn tombstones were illegible, their names washed away from centuries of enduring harsh sea storms.

“Some claim that pirates were buried here,” the voice informed me once again from behind.

“I’m assuming they’re the ones marked with the skulls?” I asked in turn as I rotated to face him.

I froze in place when I was met with the stranger once more.

“Could be, while others speculate it symbolises those who were struck by the plague,” he replied with a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders.

The man who stood in front of me was no longer slumped, his greying hair was now black. The journey up the stairs seemed to have rejuvenated the old man, morphing him into a youthful version of himself. I was starting to believe that the lighting must have been really poor near the lamppost down below.

“While a few who fancy themselves a bit of make belief,” he said as he began to approach, circling towards me. His proximity revealed to me his dark eyes, rimmed with a red halo. Fear prickled along my skin which drove me to step back. The heel of my boot came into contact with the surface of cold stone. My eyes darted to the ground, noting that I stumbled on a tombstone with its marble slate gaping wide open.

“Those rare few are convinced that this is the chosen place of Count Dracula’s lair,” he revealed with a sharp smile. “A beautiful resting spot, isn’t it?”

Before I could utter a word in response, I felt the tight muscle against my throat retract and collapse. I didn’t feel the impact of the wet ground as I fell, nor the tall grass brushing against the palms of my hands. I was void of all feeling, senseless.

The ruins of Whitby Abbey loomed in the distance, its gothic structure clinging onto life, documenting history etched onto its rubble as it absorbed another’s.