Who is Tulovski? (standard:horror, 3921 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Nov 04 2003	Views/Reads: 4282/2706	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
(Rewrite) A ghostly tale that will interest the historians.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

had stepped over the wire fence and was standing far too close to the 
edge of the cliff. 

“Good morning,” I shouted to him.  There was no response, so I edged
closer to the strange man. 

“Good morning.” Again, he ignored me. My conscience would not let me
abandon him, for I could have been witnessing a suicide attempt. 

“Are you okay there?” 

I gasped when the man stepped off the edge of the cliff. I straddled the
fence, yelling loudly to wake Holly. My fear of heights prohibited me 
venturing to the cliff edge, so I lay on the ground, crawled carefully 
forward and peered downwards. The tide was out and my eyes scanned the 
rocks, searching for his body. 

“What are you doing, Adrian?” came the voice from behind. 

“Holly! He jumped.” 

“Who jumped?” 

“There was a man standing here a moment ago. He jumped, well not exactly
jumped. He stepped off the edge of the cliff.” 

Holly sauntered to the edge, oblivious to the danger and looked down,
her red hair and nightdress fluttering as the wind strengthened. “I 
cannot see anyone, Adrian. Are you sure?” 

“Of course I'm bloody sure... We've got to contact the authorities
immediately.” 

No body was ever found, and I was forced to apologise to the police for
wasting their time. I was eyed suspiciously and asked if I had been 
drinking the night before, or if I had taken any illegal substances. I 
had not endeared myself to the local police and was branded a potential 
junkie and trouble causer. No matter how hard I tried, I could not 
erase the incident from my memory. 

That evening, we decided to call at the local pub, as Holly reckoned a
drink or two would help me deal with my daunting experience. 

There was a graveyard silence when we entered The Lord Admiral. My
thoughts were of the movie An American Werewolf in London, as I browsed 
the inquisitive customers and offered a false smile. I felt as though 
we were walking the gauntlet when we shuffled slowly towards the bar. 
An obese, red-faced man awaited our request. 

I cleared my throat. “Er, a pint of bitter for me and...” 

“A Tia Maria and coke please,” smiled Holly. 

“We don't sell those fancy drinks here,” said the proprietor in a deep
voice. I half expected him to sing a chorus of Wandering Star. 

“Well, I guess I'll settle for half a lager,” said Holly. 

As he poured the drinks, the landlord spoke. “You're the young couple
who've just bought Saltwick Cottage aren't you?” 

I nodded. “Yes, that's right.” 

“That incident this morning. You don't want to be wasting precious
police time anymore.” 

“Anymore? I don't expect this is an everyday occurrence. Anyway, I know
what I saw.” 

A loud laugh from behind did not help to abate my rising anger. I turned
to face an old man who was sporting a flat cap. He sat in the corner 
playing dominoes with three others. He had a very large, bulbous nose, 
and the absence of his teeth reminded me of one of those gurners. 

“I don't think this matter warrants laughter, do you?” I asked. 

Holly grabbed my arm and shook her head. “Leave it out, Ade.” 

“What do you do for a living?” asked the landlord. 

“I'm a journalist, or I should say, I'm training to be one.” 

“A journalist! You aren't going to write any lies about the incident are
you?” 

“Relax; my work hasn't yet progressed past the task of making coffee and
running errands.” 

“Oh, that's all right then.” 

I was now curious. “Who used to live in the cottage before us? My wife
is doing some research on its history, and I wondered if you could give 
her a name where she could start?” 

Holly joined in. “Yes, I can't seem to find any records of the cottage.”


“Nobody's lived there for years,” shouted a middle-aged attractive woman
who was sitting with a bald man. 

“Really? Who then is Mr Tulovski?” 

By the looks on their faces, I had upset the natives. 

“Who?” asked the landlord. 

“Tulovski. A letter came to our address this morning addressed to him.” 

“Tulovski. That's Russian isn't it?” queried Holly. 

The landlord spoke up. “We know of no such person. Fetch me the letter
and I'll gladly return it to the post office.” 

“Mr er...” 

“Call me Horace.” 

I beckoned for the landlord to come closer and he leaned over the bar.
“Well, Horace, how come the address was correct?” 

He shrugged his wide shoulders. “Who knows? Like I said, bring the
letter to me and I'll return it.” 

We took our seats not too close to the blazing log fire, as it was a
warm evening. Every now and again, I would catch a customer staring at 
us, and then they would quickly turn away after realising that they had 
been detected. I, by now was having second thoughts about living 
amongst this reticent community. 

The change in the weather when we walked back to our cottage was
unexpected, and the orange skies were replaced by black, drifting 
clouds. A flash of lightning illuminated the abbey to our right, and 
then the deafening sound of thunder made Holly jump. She increased her 
pace when the rain came down, slowly at first, and then with more 
urgency. 

Holly could look over the top of a cliff or chase a mouse, but when it
came to thunderstorms, she became a nervous, quivering wreck. She held 
my hang tightly, her fingernails unbeknown to her digging into the cold 
flesh of my hand. 

I afforded a glance towards the abbey that was lit up by another flash
of lightning and halted abruptly, almost pulling Holly's arm from its 
socket. I felt my bowels loosen as I saw the black-robed man looking 
towards us. His face was indistinct, but it was definitely the same man 
that I had seen stepping over the edge of the cliff that morning. 

“Do you see him, Holly, do you see him?” I shouted, above the loud
explosion of thunder. 

“See who, Ade? Come on, let's get home.” 

I reluctantly heeded her advice, for I could no longer see the
mysterious man. I am normally a realist, but common sense told me not 
all was right here. I was convinced that I had seen a ghost. 

We lay in each other's arms, an afterthought after our bout of
lovemaking. Holly liked to indulge in a session of passion during a 
thunderstorm as it took her mind off it. She was now soundly asleep, a 
luxury I unfortunately could not partake in, as my thoughts were of the 
strange man. His attire was of someone not of this era, and even though 
his face was obscured, something told me that I had seen this man 
somewhere before. It was a similar feeling to when you visit a city for 
the first time and know what is around the corner. 

I must have lain motionless for hours, before I eventually dropped off.
The wind and rain rattling against the window pain roused me, and I 
glanced at the clock to see that it was three-fifteen. Again, I closed 
my eyes and felt a sudden chill. The temperature in the bedroom had 
dropped rapidly. I had made up my mind to find out the reason for the 
coldness, when a stale odour, which I can only describe as a rotting 
carcass reached my nostrils. 

I turned onto my back, careful not to disturb Holly, and the repulsing
stench seemed to grow stronger. I have no rational explanation for what 
happened next. I heard the mattress squeak and felt it being depressed, 
as if someone was on the bed with us. My instinct told me to lift my 
head, though dreading the consequences of what I might see. I found 
myself unable to do so. It was if I was paralysed. I swivelled my eyes 
towards the foot of the bed and shivered violently with the coldness. 

The ghostly figure of the black-robed man was sitting on the end of the
bed, his mesmerising eyes staring straight at me. He had long, dark 
hair parted in the centre and sported a lengthy, straggly beard. His 
unhealthy pallor gave me the impression that he was an ailing man. I 
sensed that he was a monk or holy man. 

I tried to speak to him but was unable to, as the paralysis rendered me
unable to move my mouth. As hard as I tried, I could not utter a word, 
and attempted to scream, but again, no words were forthcoming. 

How could Holly not feel this freezing temperature and not smell the
rotten nauseous odour? The monk stared at me emotionless for what 
seemed like hours. He said nothing and eventually rose up like a wisp 
of smoke. I feared the worst and felt my body soaked in perspiration, 
even though the temperature must have been below zero. 

He approached the window and looked back at me before he faded away. The
temperature rose and the odour was absent. A bolt of lightning lit up 
the bedroom and I felt myself able to move again. A strange sensation 
similar to pins and needles flooded through my body. I approached the 
window and looked out into the darkness, watching the sky as it once 
more was illuminated. The lightening silhouetted the monk, who was 
standing close to the cliffs edge and looking out to sea. 

I looked at Holly and roused her, as I needed confirmation that I was
not losing my mind. 

“What is it?” she mumbled, her eyes still half closed. 

“Come here, Holly. You've got to see this.” 

She reluctantly clambered out of bed and approached the bedroom window. 

“There, by the edge of the cliff. Can you see him?” 

“See him? See who, Ade?” 

“Wait for the lightning, Holly. You must see him.” 

My eyes searched her petite face when the sky once more was illuminated.
“Well, do you see him or not?” 

I punched the air when she nodded. 

“Who is he?” 

“He's the man I saw going over the cliff this morning... I don't know
how to tell you this, but he's been in our bedroom tonight. In fact, he 
was sitting on the end of the bed.” 

“Stop it. You're scaring me.” 

“I don't think he means us any harm, Holly. I think he's a monk or
priest; and since when have holy men been evil?” 

“What are we going to do?” 

I gazed out of the window. “Get your coat. I think he wants us to follow
him.” 

“Are you crazy? No way, Jose... The thunderstorms bad enough, never mind
a bloody ghost.” 

“Come on, Holly. You were the one who wanted to know the history of this
cottage. I'm certain he won't harm us.” 

“I don't know, Ade.” 

I took her hand and convinced her to wrap up against the cruel elements.
As we left the cottage, the gale force wind almost blew us off our 
feet. The driving rain conspired with the wind, as if to prohibit us in 
our approach. I could no longer see the monk, but something told me 
that the answer to this enigma lay at the bottom of the cliff. 

We stepped over the wire fence and we both lay on our stomachs; me
because of my fear of heights, and Holly, because it would be dangerous 
to stand close to the edge, owing to the strong wind. We crawled 
forward, screwing our eyes up against the rain that was being driven 
into our faces. 

We clasped hands. The sight that befell us rendered us speechless. A
large, old sailing ship was being blown about in the raging tide and 
was in danger of capsizing. We watched horrified as it headed for the 
rocks. The human screams when the ship impacted with the sharp rocks 
were audible above the storm. Bodies were strewn along the beach, the 
lucky ones crawling to safety. The ship was no more and the wreckage 
was dispersed along the shoreline. 

Gradually the image faded and we lay there motionless, both deeply
engrossed in our own thoughts. We walked hand in hand back to the 
cottage, sorrowful and stunned by the piece of history that we had just 
witnessed. As we entered the cottage, Holly gazed at me with tearful 
eyes and threw her arms around me, sobbing uncontrollably. Our question 
had been answered. Who is Tulovski? 

The Whitby Maritime Museum was quiet, as it had just opened its doors.
We shuffled slowly along the impressive row of cabinets, carefully 
inspecting each photograph and plaque in our obsessive quest to solve 
the mystery of Mr Tulovski. We came across a cabinet dedicated to 
shipwrecks, and my eyes fell upon a very old photograph. It showed a 
group of eighteen survivors from a shipwreck off the coast of Whitby in 
1917. 

The name of the ship filled me with excitement and I clutched Holly's
arm. “The Empress Alexandria! A Russian merchant sailing ship that sunk 
off the coast of Whitby in 1917. It all fits.” 

My eager eyes settled upon a photograph of the survivors, and my
heartbeat accelerated when I looked at a man who was standing towards 
the rear of the group, his black robe partly obscured by others. 

“That's him!” I yelled, feeling slightly embarrassed, as an elderly
couple craned their heads to see what the commotion was. 

“My God! My good God,” spluttered Holly. 

I looked down at the list of names and was overwhelmed as the name Boris
Tulovski registered. I looked across at Holly who appeared traumatised. 
“Are you okay, Holly?” 

I noticed that she was trembling uncontrollably. “That man. Do you know
who he is?” 

“Yes,” I answered. “Boris Tulovski.” 

“Look again. You must recognise him,” she urged. 

I stared into the penetrating eyes of the bearded man and again a sense
of familiarly came over me. “What are you getting at, Holly?” 

She looked across at me, a frightened look on her face. “That is
Rasputin!” 

“Don't be ridiculous. Rasputin was murdered.” 

“Ade, I took a degree in history remember, and one of the subjects I
studied was Russian history. I'm telling you that is Rasputin.” 

I studied the photograph once more. “Granted, he looks a little like
him, but come on. Rasputin in Whitby?” 

Holly continued. “Three conspirators attempted to poison him in 1916.
After that failed, they shot him several times, but still he survived. 
They eventually bound him and threw him into the Neva River, where he 
was believed to have drowned.” 

“Exactly.” 

Holly was adamant. “What if he didn't drown? What if he survived?
Rasputin was thought to be a mystic and to possess healing powers. 
Maybe they couldn't kill him after all. He could have fled Russia and 
sailed to England.” 

I was not convinced. “Maybe, maybe. You're telling me that after he was
shipwrecked, he lived here under a false name?” 

“It would explain why the locals are staying tight-lipped.” 

I pondered. “Wasn't Rasputin an evil man?” 

“Exactly. All the more reason for us to leave the cottage.” 

We headed back to the cottage along the cliff-top, still mulling over
our remarkable findings. The sun had made a welcome appearance from 
behind the clouds. We passed an old man who was seated on one of the 
rickety benches. He was apparently looking out to sea. 

“You know don't you?” he muttered. 

I stopped abruptly and faced the old man with the large, bulbous nose,
recognising him from the Lord Admiral the night before. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You were overheard in the Maritime Museum,” he said. 

“But how did you get up here so quickly?” 

“I didn't. Wonderful new fangled things these mobile phones.” He filled
his pipe and we joined him on the bench. “You see, we are as I'm sure 
you've already gathered, a humble, close community. We just want to be 
left in peace... What purpose would it serve to have outsiders coming 
here and nosing around? What has been done cannot be undone.” 

“So Tulovski really was Rasputin?” probed Holly. 

The old man continued. “After the shipwreck, all the survivors returned
to Russia, all that is except one. Tulovski... He was a strange man, 
but was eventually accepted by the community, including my grandfather. 
It turned out that Tulovski was a priest of some sort and soon exerted 
his influence on Whitby. After healing a dying young girl, word spread 
of his alleged mystical powers. Despite this, many despised him. He was 
a dirty man and an alcoholic. Before long, he was using his hypnotic 
power to seduce young girls. One such girl was my mother. She was only 
sixteen, and after a secret meeting in the Lord Admiral, the villagers 
decided to do something about it.” 

“They murdered him didn't they?” I asked. 

“Murdered? That's too strong a word. No, he was executed. He was
overpowered, and they thought it apt to dispose of him where he had 
been found, two years earlier. They carried him to the cliff opposite 
your cottage and threw him off. He was laughing loudly, even on his 
descent to his death.” 

“How do you know this?” I quizzed. 

He lit his pipe and tears were forming in his eyes. “My father told me.
Anyway, there you have it. If you want to dig up the past, then so be 
it... My grandfather and numerous other people will be branded 
murderers, and the media will swarm Whitby. I beg of you, for my 
mother's dignity, rest her soul. Do not disclose of what you have 
learnt today.” 

Holly spoke first. “Don't worry. Your secret is safe with us.” 

The old man put his liver spotted cold hand on hers. “Thank you dear.” 

“One other thing. Rasputin? How did you know it was him?” I asked. 

The old man smiled. “You obviously haven't opened the letter addressed
to Tulovski have you? I don't know if you're aware, but Empress 
Alexandria of Russia was Rasputin's lover. He wrote to her often and 
she wrote back. The village postman saw the Russian postmark all those 
years ago, and his curiosity got the better of him. Of course, at that 
time, the villagers knew little of Rasputin. When news of what sort of 
a man he was reached Whitby, there was a great feeling of relief.” 

“So the cottage is haunted?” quizzed Holly. 

“Oh, he's harmless enough. His ghost has been seen ever since that
tragic night. Ghostly letters are still posted to the cottage. We know 
not where they come from. He's an evil man, but can do no harm now. 
You'll get used to him in time.” 

“I don't think I want him sitting on my bed too often,” said Holly. 

“Where was he buried?” I quizzed. 

The old man puffed on his pipe and pondered before facing me. “That's
just it. He wasn't. They went down to the beach the next morning and 
there was no body. The tide was out, so there was no chance that his 
body could have washed away.” 

“Maybe he is immortal after all,” I said. 

The old man struggled to his feet up and shuffled slowly along the path,
looking towards the sky. “It's going to be a canny day.” 

Holly held my hand. “What are we going to do, Ade?” 

“The choice is yours, Holly. We can sell the cottage if that's what you
want.” 

We did eventually get used to Rasputin. We sometimes just sat and gazed
at the black-robed figure as he stared out to sea. We were in awe of 
this remarkable man, who once had so much influence on the Russian 
Empire. One thing that did keep crossing our minds though. If Rasputin 
was indeed immortal, then our visitor was not a ghost! 


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