Sir Humphrey’s Ghostly Head

In the annals of the peculiar and preposterous, very few tales stand out quite like that of Sir Humphrey Crafty D’Og, a ghost no longer entrapped by earthly concerns, though eternally vexed by the antics of his own disjointed body. You see, Sir Humphrey was not your ordinary spectre. While most ghosts in Swanseashire were content with wailing in the night or rattling chains, Sir Humphrey had a unique issue — his body had a penchant for wandering off without him.

This tale started one damp and dismal autumn evening. The villagers had long since retreated to the warmth of their firesides, leaving the old manor house cloaked in mist and mystery. Sir Humphrey, who had met his untimely demise in the 17th century, was restlessly floating about the manor, recounting tales of his valiant Cavalier days to the mice that scurried by. His head, a noble visage crowned with flowing locks and an impressive moustache, hovered sombrely in the dim light.  He made his way slowly through the rear wall and to where the east tower had once stood, where he had waited for Cromwell to take his surrender.  He sighed; he was always so disappointed when he got here, as the tower had long gone, and he was instead in the car park, by the waste recycling area.

Suddenly, a peculiar though familiar sensation gripped him. Where was his body? He glanced down—well, at least as well as a head can glance without the assistance of a neck—and discovered, to his dismay, that his finely attired form had indeed vanished. His body, a proud figure in velvet doublet, breeches, and holding a plume-adorned hat, had apparently decided that the confines of the manor no longer suited its sense of adventure.  It was at this point that gravity proved that it even applied to the bodily challenged, and his head drifted to the floor, coming to rest amongst the recycling bins – in between “Glass & Tins” and “Mixed Plastics” to be exact.

“Oh, not again,” Sir Humphrey sighed, his voice drifting softly across the empty car park. “Body, wherever have you wandered off to this time?”

It was not the first instance of such an occurrence. The disembodied knight had often lost track of his bodily form, which had an uncanny ability to slip away unnoticed. With a resolve born of years of spectral wanderings, Sir Humphrey would set out on his quest, gliding through the manor’s corridors with the grace of one well accustomed to his ethereal state.  However, having no legs coupled with his realisation that he had no legs, meant that this time his head just had to sit there (so to speak) and wait for the wandering torso to amble back to pick him up.  This often took some time…

At quaint yet spooky Crafty Dog Towers, which had more secrets than a magician’s hat, there was, fortunately, a kitchen maid named Blodwen. Blodwen was known for her fiery red hair, her penchant for gossip, and her uncanny ability to bake the fluffiest scones in all of England and Wales (under Cook’s direction, of course).  This crisp autumn evening, while the wind whistled through the ancient trees and the moon cast eerie shadows on the cobblestone yard, Blodwen found herself on a quest. She had been tasked with taking out the recycling—a menial job, but one that she took in stride.

As she approached the recycling bins, humming a tune that her grandmother used to sing, Blodwen heard a voice. It was a deep, melancholic voice that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once. Startled, she dropped the recycling bin lid with a clang and listened closely.

“Excuse me young lady,” the voice groaned. “Umm – I’m down here.”

Blodwen peered around the bins and nearly jumped out of her skin. There, on the ground, nestled among the bins, was a ghostly head, hovering a few inches above the ground, its expression one of profound confusion and mild irritation. From the family portraits in the Great Hall she realised that the head belonged to none other than Sir Humphrey Crafty D’Og, a long-dead Cavalier known for his wit, charm, and occasional bouts of absent-mindedness.   His kindly face was as forlorn as a rainy day, his hair and pointy beard reminiscent of Charles I, his ghostly head flickering like a candle in the wind.

“Good evening,” the head said with a slight bow, or at least as much of a bow as a head without a body two inches above the car park could manage. “I seem to have found myself in a bit of a predicament.”

Blodwen, after recovering from her initial shock, managed to stammer out a response. “S-sir Humphrey? Is that really you?”

“Indeed it is,” replied Sir Humphrey, his ghostly features retaining the gentlemanly demeanour he had been renowned for in life. “It appears I have misplaced my body. Might I trouble you for some assistance in locating it?”

Blodwen, ever the compassionate soul, agreed to help the spectral head in its quest. Carrying Sir Humphrey’s head carefully in her arms, she and her ghostly companion set off to search the yard and outbuildings of Crafty Dog Towers. The night was still and eerily quiet, save for the occasional hoot of an owl or the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze.

Their first stop was the old stable, now used as a storage shed. They scoured the place from top to bottom, moving dusty boxes and rusty tools, but found no sign of a wandering ghostly body.

“Perhaps the body has wandered off inside Crafty D’Og Towers?” Sir Humphrey suggested, his voice a blend of hope and mild frustration.

The search moved to the great hall, where the other family portraits of long-deceased ancestors watched with a mixture of bemusement and sympathy. Sir Humphrey floated in Blodwen’s arms past the tapestry-lined walls, calling out in a voice that was both chiding and imploring.

“Body! Come now, this tomfoolery must cease. We have important ghostly matters to attend to.”  Blodwen tried to get him to call out more quietly, for fear of waking up the rest of the household who were either abed or attending to their duties around the rest of the house.

However, the hall remained silent, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the distant hoot of an owl in the gardens.

They ventured next to the library, a room that had once been his sanctuary of knowledge and leisure. Here, amidst dusty tomes and forgotten scrolls, he had often pondered the great mysteries of life—and the hereafter. But the only response to his calls was the rustle of parchment and the flicker of candlelight.  And the distant snore of Mr & Mrs Crafty Dog in their room on the floor above.

“Curse these spectral whims,” Sir Humphrey muttered, frustration beginning to seep into his otherwise dignified disposition. “Body, if you do not return forthwith, I shall have no choice but to…to…”  Blodwen looked down at him.

He paused, for the threat seemed rather hollow, given his current predicament.  Had he had his shoulders with him, he would have shrugged.

The search continued through the drawing room, the dining hall, and even the wine cellar, where Sir Humphrey had to fend off the temptation to linger amidst the ghostly remnants of fine vintages past. Yet, his body remained elusive.

Finally, as dawn began to break, casting a pale light over the estate, the duo made their way to the kitchen garden. It was there, among the rows of herbs and vegetables, that they spotted it—Sir Humphrey’s body, aimlessly wandering and occasionally stopping to blindly inspect a cabbage or rare shrub.

“There it is!” Blodwen exclaimed, relief washing over her as she hurried towards the wayward body.

“Ah, splendid!” Sir Humphrey’s head declared. “Would you be so kind as to reunite me with my tiresome torso?”

With great care, Blodwen positioned the head atop the body. There was a faint shimmer, a brief moment of disorientation, and then Sir Humphrey was whole once more. He straightened up, brushed some imaginary dust from his ghostly attire, and offered Blodwen a gracious bow.

“My dear Blodwen,” he began, his voice filled with gratitude, “you have performed a most noble service. I am indebted to you.”

Blodwen smiled, her heart warmed by the spectral gentleman’s words. “It was my pleasure, Sir Humphrey. I’m just glad to see you back in one piece.”  She curtsied to the grateful knight.

With that, the ghostly cavalier took his leave, drifting off into the early morning mist, leaving Blodwen with a story she would recount for years to come—a tale of humour, mystery, and the unlikeliest of friendships forged under the autumn moonlight.