three short ghost stories: a trio of troubling tales. by tony crowley

8/14/2019 Three short ghost stories: A Trio of Troubling Tales. by Tony Crowley

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Victor Ludorum RIP Within a few days of my arrival at the educational

institution that was to be my home for six years, the

new boys were given a conducted tour of the school

buildings and grounds. I should add that it was the

kind of place that if you absconded, you were severely

beaten so we were quite apprehensive of the rather tall

head boy who was our tour guide. In the dining hall,

he paused under an imposing painting of orphans

marching through the main gates and delivered a short

history of the school. Invariably our attention began to

wander and several of us noticed a panel on which were listed winners of the Victor

Ludorum Trophy. Who was Victor Ludorum? piped up a small voice from the

restless throng. The head boy stared coldly at the youngster for several seconds and

then replied, Victor was a boy at this school who passed away under tragic

circumstances. He was very popular and his heartbroken mother donated this trophy

which is awarded each year in his memory. ! Try to remember him in your prayers. !

We gazed in awe at the trophy before being ushered away to view the toilet block and

the chapel. !As the days passed, however, some of us recalled the tour, and, needing

to satisfy our curiosity, enquired about poor Victor and his untimely ending.

Though memory fades, I think I was told that Victor had been searching for a

masters favourite dog on the cliffs overlooking the bay. ! Stumbling around in the

darkness on a wild, wintery night, Victor had fallen several hundred feet down the

cliffs onto the shingle beach below. ! His last resting place was in a nearby village.

The dog? ! Sound asleep in its kennel the whole time . ! I had made friends with Joe, aboy who was later sent to work on a farm in Australia. Oh, how we envied him!


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When I !told him about Victor, he looked puzzled and said that there was no grave.

During a particularly violent gale, Victor, with no thought for his own safety, had

jumped fully clothed into the local harbour to rescue another boy who had fallen from

the pier. Though the rescue was successful, poor Victor himself had been swept awayand was never seen again. Some onlookers were sure they heard him singing the

chorus of the school song until it faded away, drowned out by the howling wind.

Play the Game, Play the Game, Play the Game.

Somewhat puzzled, we shared our versions with another friend who said that we were

both completely wrong. He told us that during World War 1, brave Victor had rushedto the rescue of a German ghter pilot whose plane had crashed on the sports eld.

Having been dragged from the burning wreckage, the pilot stood up, pulled out his

luger pistol and shot poor Victor through the heart. Curse those dastardly Huns! we

cried in dismay. ! But it gradually dawned on us that we had been duped and, with the

passage of time, yesterdays gullible newcomers were to become tomorrows artful

storytellers.

Indeed, the ways in which our hero met his unfortunate end were limited only by the

imagination of those whom the newcomer consulted. For example, you could hear

how he had missed the bus from town and, not wishing to be late for prayers in the

chapel, had taken a short cut through a tunnel and been run over by a goods train

laden with pig iron. A 1936 Silver Jubilee Locomotive - type 4-6-0 to be exact. You

might even have heard how he had perished whilst rescuing members of the wealthy

and well-connected Ludorum family who were trapped in a hotel re. Unfortunately,

the ladder caught re just as he hopped out onto the top rung. ! Then there was the

sad tale of how he had taken the wrong turning during a cross-country run, lost his

way in the snow and, not only missed his tea, but died of hypothermia within sight of

the schools gates. They would have been locked, anyway .


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Victor Ludorum?

Sometimes, the causes of his premature departure beggared belief but the audience

would listen spellbound. Apparently, Victor was keen on making large kites and wasalways willing to demonstrate their ying capabilities to the younger boys. One gusty

afternoon, during such a demonstration, he and his magnicent kite were lifted by the

wind and carried some distance away. Cheering his maiden ight with enthusiasm,

the young lads ran after him and then watched in horror as he plunged to earth and

was impaled on spiked railings which bordered the schools southern boundary. You

get a great view of the castle from there. Or, whilst suffering pangs of hunger, he

crept out of the dormitory one night and broke into the kitchens where he choked on a

stale piece of bread. Or did he fall into a vat of porridge? Anyway, whatever the

cause, he met his maker that night. Alone and in his nightshirt.

My own contribution was quite modest. One wet afternoon, he had engaged in

horseplay with friends and had accidentally been crushed. Unfortunately, no one tookhis cries for help seriously. He was a very good actor for his age and would have

made a superb Hamlet . The unfortunate fellow died in agony trapped between two

iron bedsteads. By a strange coincidence, the scene of his tragic departure was always

the very dormitory in which the story was told. Which two beds? Well, to be honest, ! its yours and that one next to it


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" " " " " Victor Ludorums?

Was there a photograph of young Ludorum to be seen anywhere? There were literally

dozens of them. Almost any boy in an old school or sports team photograph would

do. Victor could be extremely tall or very short, ! fair or dark haired, light or dark

skinned, ! exceedingly good looking or utterly repelling, studiously intellectual or

grinning like an idiot. As sweets were rationed, a sharp lad could easily boost his

weeks supply by offering to point out Victors desk, coat hook, favourite library

book, seat in the dining hall, or even the euphonium he played in the school band,

Such a wonderful musician. Had he lived, he could have played ! for the Royal

Philharmonic. ! For an additional contribution, you could be taken to the exact spot

where Victor fell. ! Some attention to detail was required here; not much use showing

a disused railway line to those eagerly anticipating a rusty spike.

Had anyone seen his ghost? Well the ghastly third verse of the school song virtuallyguaranteed it.

And though our lonely grave be dug in some far distant land.Our spirits will return again and hover close at hand.

And the boys will hear us whisper and the boys will understand.Play the Game! Play the Game! Play the Game!


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It used to give me nightmares. It still does. ! Many a newcomer must have spent an

uncomfortable night foregoing the call of nature than risk seeing Victors spirit

hovering close at hand. Oddly enough, though Victor generally departed on a wild

and stormy night, he never contemplated suicide. I dont think the poor lad ever hadthe time to consider it.

Victor Ludorum?

And so, as the years rolled by, more newcomers arrived at the school and were taken

on the grand tour. Another head boy would stand in the dining hall paying homage to

the memory of our heroic lad, and more tales of his brief but busy life would unfold.

I sometimes wonder just how many painful and tragic endings the poor lad suffered

since that day nearly sixty years ago when I stood under the portrait of the marching

orphans and gazed in wonder at the trophy. An award which we all eventually

discovered was presented annually to one particular student: the schools athletics

champion, the winner of the games, or as they say in Latin, the Victor Ludorum .


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Now there is a curious twist to this stale. Not long ago, I received a letter from an old

school friend. It was from Joe, the one who had emigrated to Australia to enjoy life

on a farm in the warm sunshine. Unfortunately, it wasnt quite the paradise that he

imagined it would be. For all the beatings he received, he might as well have stayedat the school. Anyway, he had returned on holiday to England and had visited the

place for old times sake. Later, he went exploring the elds and villages of our youth.

In a churchyard, he discovered a sad little row of long-forgotten graves. The stones

were barely visible amongst the ivy and undergrowth, but he had managed to clear a

path to them. To his surprise, he found they were the nal resting place of boys who

had died at the school many years before we had arrived there. Gently brushing awaythe lichen, he found he could just about decipher some of their names and ages. The

last one in the row was a lad of fourteen, a Victor Ludorum .!!

Tony Crowley

Adapted from The Yorkist 2001

three short ghost stories: a trio of troubling tales. by tony crowley

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