The Hundred-and-Eight Steps
Nothing much happens in Macclesfield. A small town in the west of Cheshire that you may or may not know of either due to our shite football team or as home to several musicians such as The Virginmarys, the late Ian Curtis and the notorious Macc Lads, or as one of the last stops when traveling from Euston Station to Manchester Piccadilly. Oh, and the birthplace of Hovis, though the company has long since gone. Other than that, we’re pretty unremarkable.
We used to produce silk, more so than anywhere else in the United Kingdom. Many homes contained tiny silk mills in their attics to maximise production. Many mills still stand today, converted into flats or offices or whatever else; not much use for the many mills of Northern England these days.
Some say the old mills are haunted. I don’t believe them, not even the rumours about ghosts in the old burned down carpet factory — the only thing you’ll find in that husk of steel and concrete are tramps and smack heads. I’m amazed it’s still standing; as anyone who does their weekly shop at Tesco can attest to, it’s an eyesore that ruins the view of the River Bollin. Just cross the car park and you can see the great rusty wreck. It’s been over fifteen years since the blaze and the council has done nothing. Shame on them.
Nah, I don’t believe in ghosts.
Long walks at night, those I can enjoy. Macc has plenty of places one can ramble; along the Bollin (if you ignore the ruined factory) and along the Middlewood Way towards Manchester, along the canal and passing through numerous villages and hamlets, or head westwards, towards the Peak District and the town of Buxton. This does, however, involve walking along one of the most dangerous road in Britain, the A573, the views however make it worth the risk. I haven’t feared that road since I was a child, when my dad’s car got stuck up there when he took my brother and I sledging in the hills after heavy snowfall.
Walking along the canal isn’t dangerous either. Some people fear it after the murders in Salford over the past few years that involved people, usually pretty inebriated, being pushed off of the quays. But those are in Manchester, not Macclesfield. It’s a shame; daybreak at the canal-side is something to behold.
I came out of the Nag’s Head one night, having had a bit too much to drink. My friends remained inside and carried on their night out as they had planned, which meant I could go straight home rather than walk past the train station and away from town. So, instead, I turned right and down the side of the pub, intending to stagger up the Hundred-and-Eight Steps.
The name was a lie. I remember once, at school, we were taken around town and were made to climb The Steps and count them. There were One Hundred and Ten. Or Twelve. I don’t remember. But there were more than the name implies, even if not by much. Still, the name for the centuries old cobbled staircase had stuck.
Being a night in early winter, fog and mist could have been expected. But something was off as I started climbing. A haunting light emanated from one of the old lampposts, the fog whirling around it in the breeze. I found it a little enchanting, drunk as I was, and stood there staring as if something wondrous was happening.
I could have sworn I heard something whispering my name in the distance. At first I assumed it was one of my mates that had seen me leave the Nag’s and come to check I was okay. Then I remembered all my mates are drunk, forgetful and arseholes.
No, there was something sinister about that voice. It was too soft, too distant and quiet. I decided to move onward, further up The Steps while clinging to the old handrail.
I passed the voice off as a combination of the wind and my drunken imagination and climbed the steps and staggered past St. Michael’s Church, towards home.
I couldn’t sleep that night.
Normally when I get home off my face I just fall into bed and have no trouble falling into a slumber and then waking up ten hours later with a monster of a hangover.
God. How I wish that was the case.
Every time I closed my eyes I was haunted by visions of the steps. The same swirling mists around the lamps, the same gentle and chilling breeze; the same voice, whispering in the distance.
This time it was different. The lamps were lit by gas, the little flames dancing behind mist and glass, and the voice was not calling out to me, but to someone else; I saw a man climbing up the steps. I had never seen his face before, and his clothing was not modern, that was for sure.
He adjusted his flat cap as he stared at one of the lights as I had. I was unsure how long he lingered there, but I felt it was far too long. The whispering became less distant. It came closer and closer over a brief period of time until it almost sounded like a quiet scream.
The man turned, and then vanished.
My eyes opened wide. Wider than I thought possible. My body lying in a pool of sweat.
An odd compulsion made me go back that night. All day the skies had been clear, yet as I approached the Steps it grew colder and colder, fog hanging in the air. It welcomed me, and illusion of an open door that I stepped though as tentative as I could, though my body had a will of its own.
The lights were lit and shone brighter that I had ever seen them. I couldn’t help it, but I stop and looked at them and the swirling mists that danced a haunting and indescribable jig around the glass casing. A chill gripped me as the voice began to call. Nothing I tried made my body move; I just stood there, awaiting what would happen next.
The whispering got closer and closer until it seemed right in my ear. I turned.
Blue, cold faces greeted me. At first they seemed to smile; among them was the man I had seen before when I dreamt of the Steps. Soon the faces twisted and wailed, teeth bared, eyes dead, skin wrinkled and decaying. Their arms reached out, and my body moved towards them.
Everything turned dark and frozen.
Countless voices called out in unison.
I saw a woman climbing the Steps. I did not know her, yet knew her name. I began calling for her after she stopped to gaze at one of the lamps. She did not react as I shouted louder. She turned once I was behind her; my arms reached out and she walked into them.
I pleaded, as countless souls did.
Help us!”
She joined us, and would return. As we always would, forever more.
