The most common form of ghost in Malta seems to be a Turk with a missing finger, who offers money to one of the family members, usually the mother. Known as the ħares, he would threaten the person with physical violence if they ever told anyone about his presence. The source of money would also dry up.
There are many stories of people finding tin boxes full of money under a loose tile somewhere, just as the ħares promised, only to open them one day and find only empty snail shells or cockroaches.
The ħares was incredibly vindictive, according to the stories I have heard. One person told me about a whole room full of wedding presents that had been inexplicably smashed, in a locked room with no open windows through which a cat might have crept in. There were many, many stories of women who appeared with black eyes, refusing to say who was responsible.
But most of these stories are second-hand, recounted by great-grandchildren who remember bużnanna rambling on and on. This is the first time I came across a first-hand account of a Turk appearing and even then the context was different.
It was just a normal night, like any other. Dorothy’s father had closed the dog up in the bathroom and she and her parents were fast asleep in their flat, high above Tower Road in Sliema. Originally the area was the site of one of the oldest buildings in Sliema, but now the flats were modern and offered all the latest conveniences.
But perhaps something still lingered from the site’s past...
In the dead of night, the dog suddenly woke them all up with his furious barking. One after the other, the bedroom doors opened. Dorothy’s mother was tying the belt of her dressing gown tightly around her waist and her father stood trying to shake off his drowsiness in case there was something wrong. But there did not seem to be anything untoward. All the doors leading on to the wide corridor that they used as a living area were still shut and there was no noise from outside the flat that could have disturbed the sleeping dog.
Dorothy’s father walked over to the bathroom to let the dog out to see what was wrong. All this time, Dorothy had stood transfixed at her doorway, her mother standing silently beside her. But when her father walked across the corridor, she had to summon up every last bit of courage to stifle her scream.
Couldn’t he see him? He had walked right through him...
For Dorothy could see, in the middle of the corridor, the hazy figure of a Turk.
The memory of the Turk’s impudent grin stayed with her for a long time afterwards
He seemed to be a grown-up and was wearing a turban and a deep purple, richly embroidered shirt. He was full size although his legs were virtually transparent and Dorothy does not remember whether they were firmly planted on the ground or not.
He stood there with his arms folded, looking straight at her with an expression of curious amusement, as if waiting to see what she would do.
Dorothy was frozen in terror. She was praying inside, hoping against hope that she was imagining things. She turned her head away but when she looked back, the grinning Turk was still there. She tried closing her eyes and opening them again. Still there.
Dorothy realised from the way that her parents were staring at her that they could not see the stranger in their midst. They must have thought she was crazy. But she couldn’t have been. The dog knew that there was something there too. It was still barking madly, chasing around and around the corridor, sniffing at the bottom of all the doors.
The few minutes that had ticked by since the dog had woken them up seemed an eternity to her. But then she decided to stare at the Turk, hoping to somehow intimidate him. It must have worked. With a final grin, he evaporated into thin air.
It was a while before she could speak. She grabbed her mother’s arm: “Didn’t you see him?”
“Who? What did you see?” her mother asked, taking hold of her terrified daughter’s arm.
It was only then that she realised that the dog had calmed down.
No one had seen the Turk and had it not been for the dog’s inexplicable reaction, Dorothy would probably have persuaded herself that she had been seeing things. But the memory of the Turk’s impudent grin stayed with her for a long time afterwards.
She would suddenly feel a strong sense of oppression, of fear, and it was only by closing her eyes tightly and praying inwardly: “Please, please, don’t come back again!” that the feeling would ebb out of her, leaving her feeling tired and drained.
Did she really will the Turk to stay away? She will never be sure. The incident happened when Dorothy was in her late 20s. Over 10 years have passed. The family still lives in the flat and none of them has ever seen or heard anything unusual again.
This is the 26th in a series of short stories The Sunday Times of Malta is running every Sunday. It is taken from The Unexplained Plus (Allied Publications) by Vanessa Macdonald. The first edition was published in 2001 and reprinted twice. It was republished, with added stories, as The Unexplained Plus. The Maltese version of the book, Ta’ Barra Minn Hawn (Klabb Kotba Maltin), is available from all leading bookstores and stationers and from www.bdlbooks.com.