The Hitchhiker

A silly variation of the vanishing hitchhiker story type, heavily inspired by M.R. James and John Finnemore.

As there still seems to be some confusion as to what ghost stories have to do with Christmas, I believe I have another tale that you may find at least somewhat relevant if not particularly interesting.

The incident in question began on the night of Christmas Eve, after returning home from a year long tour of big game hunting in the New World.  I had received telegram shortly before my arrival at port that my good friend, Captain Morris (or, as we were on first-name basis, Maurice), had been deployed to Ceylon, and had left his car at the port with the hope that I may find it useful in conveying my goods and my person back home, and so that he need not accrue 12 months of parking fees.  Upon landing, however, I discovered that the car in question was a Morris Minor, and was therefore barely able to fit my plethora of trophies from my extended sabbatical.  I also discovered a note on the dashboard from my friend, conveying the news that he had, as a result of his deployment, been promoted, and we would be celebrating properly on Christmas next.  Once everything was packed, I hopped into Major Maurice Morris's Morris Minor, and proceeded into town.

My first stop was, of course, my old club, where I decided to show off the enormous domino that I had bagged in Ding Dong, Texas, the humungous marble that I had snatched in Walla Walla, Washington, the giant bishop that I had picked up in Boring, Oregon, as well as the giant chess piece bishop that I found in Ohio -- please do not ask me which part, it is impossible to distinguish one part of that state from another.  It was a night of music, merriment, and not a small number of ribald stories, many about which I still blush to think, and many told by the prodigious Oregonian holy man.  Eventually, though, the evening concluded and I found myself back behind the wheel in Major Maurice Morris's Morris Minor, which will henceforth, for the sake of brevity, be referred to as simply 'the car'.  

Upon exiting, the club's carpark, I discovered a young woman standing beside the gate.  I could not think of what a young woman would be doing there, as it would be unthinkable to admit a woman in our club -- beyond it being a club of gentlemen, we simply had not accommodations for women to do, well, whatever it is that women do.  No, best to keep it to gentlemen and, well, whatever it is that the wait and cleaning staff are.  Commoners, I think.  Anyway, this young woman wearing little more than a simple dress, and carrying, for some reason, what appeared to be a maid's outfit.  Perhaps she was going to a costume party.  In any case, she was hardly dressed for the late December weather, and, having spent a year amongst the uncouth and unrefined people of America, forgot myself and decided to address her without introduction.

'Excuse me, miss,' I said, 'do you require assistance?'

'Perhaps!' she replied. 'A friend was supposed to pick me up after work, but it's been an hour and I've not seen sign of her.'

Social norms having already been thrown out the window, I asked, then, where she lived, and if I might be able to give her a ride back home.  She informed me that she lived in Blankingstoke, thankfully just a short drive from my own residence.  I removed the giant Battleship peg and as well as the giant Monopoly battleship to the space in the back seat formerly occupied by the bishops, and opened the door for her to take a seat.  Once she did, it was clear that she was frozen stiff from waiting, and I offered her my coat, as well as one of my hats.  Once it became clear that the giant Monopoly hat was good for neither warmth nor comfort, I offer her my regular hat instead, which she gratefully accepted.

Feeling emboldened by my times in the States, I decided to try to broach conversation by asking her name.

'Caitlin, sir,' she said.

'What brought you to the club this evening?'

'A Ford Prefect,' she answered.

'Ah, I see.  And what is it that you do?'

'I am a charwoman, sir.'

'Please, Nithercott will do quite well,' I said, perhaps a bit too familiarly.  'Where and what do you char?'

'I work at the club, Nithercott.'

'Nonsense,' I replied, 'we don't allow women into the club.'  She gave me a look I could not quite translate, but it is a look that I often see on the faces of my clubmates when we speak.  And on my colleagues.  And quite a lot of people in general, if I'm honest.  However, she replied with a simple, 'as you say,' and we spent the rest of the trip in a comfortable silence.  

She directed me to her house in Blankingstoke, and made to return the coat and hat.  'Don't be absurd, Caitlin,' I said, 'it is still cold walk from Major Maurice Morris's Morris Minor (I had not yet invoked calling it 'simply "the car"') to your front door.  Keep them for tonight, and I will pick them up tomorrow.'

'Yes, Nithercott, thank you, you're very kind.'  She gave me a quick smile and departed my car, and into her house.

It took only another twenty minutes to drive to my own estate, where I proceeded to empty my car of the remaining trophies, and relax for the night.  I made a cup of tea, some Darjeeling with a spot of milk, and put on some toast as well, a rye that I had picked up in New York that, what?  Look, you may think this is extraneous detail, but I promise that it is extremely germane to... yes, very well, I'll 'get on with it.'

The following morning, I awoke and did some very important stuff around the house which I'm sure you'd not like to hear about, but you're missing out, I promise you.  By noon, it had warmed up nicely, and I decided to travel to Blankingstoke to visit Caitlin and retrieve my belongings.  I picked a bottle which I hoped might make for a good Christmas present -- a Châteaudix, which I was assured by a very insistent street vendor was one better than a Châteauneuf.

Upon knocking on her door, however, I was greeted, not by Caitlin, but by an older couple.

'Excuse me,' I said, 'I was looking for Caitlin.'

'Caitlin?' the woman said. 'You won't find Caitlin here, I'm afraid.'

'No,' said the man, 'you'll find her, I fear, in the old churchyard.  Our daughter, Caitlin, died five years ago, last night, frozen to death while waiting for a ride home from work.'

'But that's impossible!' I said.  'I gave Caitlin a ride last night from my club to this very house!'

'What jape is this, young man?' exclaimed the old woman. 'Quit our door at once and leave us to our misery!' And at that, they slammed the door in my face.  Confused, I went back to the car, and drove until I found the old churchyard, and there, indeed, did I find a gravestone bearing the name 'Caitlin Weathersby', with a death date of Christmas Eve five years before.  And on that gravestone were hung my coat, and my hat.  And as I stood there in wonder, I felt a tap on my shoulder, to which I started violently.

'I'm so sorry,' said Caitlin, 'I hardly meant to startle you.  But what brings you to my sister's grave?'

Once I had regained my composure, my breath, and had reassured myself that the dampness in my trousers was from falling on the wet earth, I responded. 'I visited your house this morning, and your parents informed me that you had died five years ago!'

'No,' she said, 'my sister Caitlin, died five years ago.  I'm Caitlin with a "K".  There were five of us... well, four now: Caitlin, Kaitlin, Katelynn, Catelin, and Caitlyn.  My parents, I'm afraid, were very creative with spellings, but not very creative with names.  I do apologise for leaving your coat and hat on the gravestone, but the weather had warmed up, and I decided to take brief walk around the church grounds before going back home.'  

We both had a small chuckle at the misunderstanding, and I presented her with the bottle of Châteaudix.  I never saw her again, but sometimes, while I'm at the club, I do see a maid who bears a striking resemblance to Caitlin -- excuse me, Kaitlin -- and I wonder if the maid might be some distant, unmentionable relation.

Oh? 'Where was the ghost in this ghost story?' you ask?  Well, I was going to tell give you a vivid depiction of the activities of the poltergeist that haunts my kitchen, but no, you were more interested in the story of the hitchhiking girl.  Well, now you'll never get to hear it.  So there.