The Ghost Yeti of Blankingstoke Pass

Yet another Christmas ghost story, heavily inspired by M.R. James and John Finnemore.

As there, yet again, seem to be questions about what 'scary ghost stories' have to do with the winter holiday season... you really should have listened to my first two stories.  I think they rather neatly explained... what?  The first was a shaggy dog story resolved by a literal deus ex machina and the second involved no ghosts at all?  Very well, then I shall tell you a third tale that I believe you might find appropriate to this particular line of inquiry.

My story begins as I sat at the bar in my club, nursing a gin fizz, tending to a vodka tonic, and doctoring a whiskey and soda, when what should draw me out of my reverie but a ghostly voice from just beside me.

'Nithercott...' it said.

I started and turned, expecting to behold a horrid sight, and indeed I found old Applewhait beside me, taking a draw from his flagon of ale and getting more on the floor than in his person.  Clearly, he was well into the quaffing portion of the evening's activities.  Applewhait was the club's bore; although I was told that another member was set to inherit that spot, although, oddly, none of the other club members would tell me who that was.  He was the sort to corner one with some ghastly pointless story when one was simply looking forward to a quiet evening and... oh?  You know the feeling?  How delightful I have an audience who can commiserate.

'Nithercott,' he continued, 'allow me to regale you with the story of how I searched for the Ghost Yeti of Blankingstoke Pass!'

I sighed into my gin fizz, muttered into my vodka tonic, and stared morosely at my whiskey and soda.  'Very well,' I said, 'if you must', and pointedly checked the time on my watch -- yes, exactly as you are doing now.

'My party consisted of myself, Hartstein, Brunel, and chap we simply called "Joe".  We had met in the Blankshire Flugelhorn Appreciation Society, and discovered that we had a single interest in common--other than the flugelhorn--the discovery and capture of the Ghost Yeti of Blankingstoke Pass, the most feared spectral snow beast between  Blankhamton and Blankstershireford!  Hartstein was our electronics expert, inventor of a number of novel devices designed for the detection of ghostly apparitions.  Brunel was our hunter, a skilled marksman, just returned from Crimea, prepared just in case we were mistaken in our assumptions and the Ghost Yeti of Blankingstone Pass was, in fact, just a Regular, Fully-Alive Yeti of Blankingstone Pass.  And Joe, well, we certainly had no clear use for Joe, but we adored his delightful presence, and the way he would blow his flugelhorn in a celebratory manner whenever he was excited.  Oh, and there was another fellow who carried all of our belongings--our tents, our bedding, our supplies, our equipment, our flugelhorns--O'Hare, I think it was, or something foreign in any case, but he hardly counts.

'Anyway, Hartstein, Brunel, Joe, and I began our trek up Blankfell Pike to the treacherous Blankinstoke pass on New Years Eve Eve Eve, or, as some Philistines prefer to refer to it, The 28th of December.  On the first day, the weather was brutal, with temperatures twenty degrees below freezing and snow falling at foot an hour!  On the second day, the temperature dropped another ten degrees with wind blowing snow at 30 knots, but we continued our climb!  On the third day, the weather was worse still, at 40° below, wind from the Ninth Circle of Hell itself, ice and snow obscuring our vision so we couldn't see the noses in front of our faces, nor anyone else's noses either, but we continued our climb!  On the fourth day, New Years Day, the weather was rather pleasant, just above freezing with the sun out and bright and the wind calm, and Hartstein, Brunel, Joe, and I spent a delightful day sledding in turn on Joe's flugelhorn case and having snowball fights.  On the fifth day, the storm returned in full force and it occurred to us that perhaps we had not made the best use of the previous pleasant weather.  But at last that afternoon, we reached the Blankingstoke Pass!  And there, before us, the mouth of the cave that was fabled to be the home of the Ghost Yeti of Blankingstone Pass!

'Hartstein, Brunel, Joe, and I entered the cave carefully, but nary a sign of the creature was there.  However, as we shone our torch light along the walls of the cave, what could we see, but mummies!  And not ghost mummies, either, but the regular kind you can find in the museum!  Hartstein began unpacking and setting up his paranormal scientific equipment, Brunel began unpacking and setting up his normal-normal guns, and Joe unpacked and set up his flugelhorn.  But then, what appears before us, but this towering figure all in white step out of the shadows into our torchlight, bearing down on us, a growl emanating from behind the massed tangle of hair covering the creature face!

'It coughed!

"Hullo," it said after clearing its throat.  "Hello, and welcome to the Blankingstoke Pass Mummy Museum And Not At All Mummy Smuggling Waypoint."

'"The what?" I asked, dumbfounded.

'"Um... probably just best to stick with the first bit.  Sorry it's a bit of a mess, we don't get many visitors up here," he said, shaking a layer of mummy dust from off his jacket.

'"We were looking for the Ghost Yeti of Blankingstoke Pass," I explained.

'"Oh?" he said, "The Ghost Yeti of Blankingstoke Pass?  That's just a story, I'm afraid.  Just a sort of tale that we let out to try to keep scare away... um... Well, let's just say you're not the usual lot we get up here.  It's normally four kids and a dog... this place is often lousy with groups of four kids with their dog during the summer months."

'"Why would you want to keep out quartets of children and their canine companions?" I asked.

'"Well.. you know... kids are annoying... always touching things... and dogs'll chew up the mummies.  It's definitely not because they're up here trying to bust up our mummy smuggling operation.  Which this isn't." he said.

'The delightful fellow then agreed to give us a tour of the Blankingstoke Pass Mummy Museum And Not At All Mummy Smuggling Waypoint, with its collection of dozens of mummies, and machinery that he assured us had nothing to do with mummy processing operations.  Afterwards, he even gifted us each a pack of souvenir tea bags, though, I must admit, they looked like the regular sort of pack of tea bags you can get at the shoppe.

'Finally, though, our tour being at the end, we packed up our equipment and left the cave to discover that the weather had cleared up marvelously.  After such a thoroughly enjoyable tour, and finding such lovely conditions, Joe put his flugelhorn to his lips, and blew a resounding blast for the pure joy of the day.  Unfortunately, we had failed to consider the extra snow that had accumulated during the storm of the past several days, and the sound of the horn loosed an avalanche that covered the cave, the museum, and the team, leaving no survivors.'

'Ah,' I said, sipping my sufficiently doctored whiskey and soda, 'I fear I must ask... if there were no survivors, then how are you here to tell this story?'

Applewhait let out a little chuckle. 'Oh well,' he said.  'You caught me.  I hope you'll forgive my little joke, and enjoyed the tale nonetheless.'  And at that, he quaffed another draw of ale, which seemed to pass right through him, soaking instead his seat and the floor around him, and he floated noiselessly away and through the wall, next to the club's entrance.

Actually, now that I think about it, I don't think that story has any ghosts in it either.  I'm not sure why I thought to tell you about it.  Oh well.  Goodbye!