“I was visiting the quaint seaside town of Whitby at the behest of Reverend Patrick O’Sullivan. He had written to me about a “malevolent creature” who had chilled him to the bone. Not only did this pique my interest, but it also gave me a chance to visit Fortunes Smokehouse - an establishment that, without a doubt, produces the most beautiful Kippers one will ever taste.

I left Fortunes, as hoped, with a large number of paper-wrapped bundles oozing a heady smoky scent. The owner informed me that the delicacy is best served warm from the oven, covered in butter, with fresh crusty bread and a large pot of strong tea. But such a treat would have to wait. It was but a few yards from the shop door to the foot of the 199 steps to St Mary's Church. With the large bundle of kippers, alongside my clockwork lantern, its stand and my notebooks, I feared that my ascent to meet the reverend would be arduous. In reality, I managed only a third of the journey before I began to struggle with the weight and size of my packages. Mercifully there were several viewpoints offering a pause along the journey and I decided to set up a basecamp at the first one to gather myself. With my breath rattling in my chest and my brow damp with sweat, I decided to have a pinch of tobacco to restore my vigour. As I brought the clay pipe to my lips, I noticed a large gentleman staring intently at me.

“Do you need a hand sir? I fear you are suffering from the climb”. His voice had a thick Irish lilt. I replied that I had overloaded myself with items and asked if he would be able to watch over my belongings whilst I delivered my heaviest item to the top step. At this he laughed and exclaimed “if you are about to meet The Good Lord himself after only managing to climb a third of these steps, I fear that repeating the journey may be the end of you entirely. These steps were designed by the Devil himself, or so it seems as you near the top. Perhaps I could carry your camera for you?” I failed to correct him as explaining my lantern’s use often prompted more questions than I could easily answer, but gratefully accepted his kind offer.

The air in the dark refectory then suddenly grew cold and the reverend’s face became serious. He began to recount the dark events surrounding the mysterious apparitions of “The Creature” which he had mentioned in our correspondence. Each occurred on a full moon. With the moon a glowing orb in the midnight blue sky tonight, I took my leave to trek across the mossy graveyard to the pool of water that lay before the abbey. Abraham, his interest captured, joined me whilst the reverend remained in the church and, it would seem, with the remainder of the whiskey bottle.

Eventually, a while after the reverend had found another bottle of liquor, Abraham and I summoned the courage to return to our respective lodgings. The descent was far less taxing so, as we walked, I asked Abraham for his thoughts on the evening’s events. “I have been inspired by your investigation”, he divulged “and you must stop calling me Abraham, that is my mother’s name for me - well actually she used to call me Bramble - call me Bram. After what we have just borne witness to, I believe we are now friends”. We parted with a handshake, exchanging promises to meet again to discuss other mysteries I encountered. I believe that Mr Stoker from Dublin had his eyes opened that night and his life would never be the same again.”