A Ghost Story for Mastchris

Spooky tidings, listeners.

I'm Sir Chantley Buffingham, and welcome to my drama parlor.

This week, broadcasting a special road show from the Azure Beach on Bill Nighy's private island.

But it's not one of those private islands.

At least, not as far as I'm aware.

And from here, atop my spine-tingling wicker beach chair and beneath my stomach-churning straw hat, I present to you that rarest of horror masterworks, a terrifying summertime tale.

That's right, this time we trade in lightning-rocked castle turrets and darkened rain-slicked avenues in favour of sun-soaked beaches and coconut-scented tanning lotions in...

The Curse of the Flying Dutchie by Roland E.

Big Doobies.

Professor Anthony Gaskill of Cambridge University was a fastidious man, notorious for a ferocious dedication to his chosen specialism in anthropology and an unyielding attitude toward every one of his inadequate students.

So as you can imagine, he was mondo-vexed a lot of the time, so he jacked in the job for a couple of weeks to go max and relax on a jamming beach in the Costa del Sol.

In his floral Bermuda shorts and his flip-flops, he sprawled out on a lounge chair like a big happy starfish and soaked up some mad rays on a beach of white sands that went on forever.

Then, this crazy shadowy figure rocked up, man.

It was nuts.

It had a white face like a corpse, and all floaty bits of raggedy cloth coming off it all over, and its aspect inspired the cold panic of certain doom upon all who beheld it swear down.

"'Gaskell!' it croaked in a voice that sounded like the last whispered plea of a drowned soul or a mad crow or something.

"'For your vanity, you will pay the price!' "'No thanks, I'm fine,' replied the professor, not even lifting the brim of his Panama hat from his eyes." A bit put out by this, the ghoul continued, My life was ended in a terrible wreck some miles out to sea from here, and the trinkets and trappings of my life became scattered by the tides.

By pilfering those gold coins on the shore, you have marked yourself, Professor.

Gaskill waggled his foot dismissively and said, "'Get lost.

I don't have any idea what you're talking about.

I'm not interested in any shipwrecks you might or might not have stumbled into, and I never heard anything about any gold coins.' The ghostly shade drew itself up to its towering full height and cried in its scratchy wail, "'Protest all you like, Professor.

You are a marked man.

You happened upon that clutch of gold coins in that seaweed-choked pouch by the reef, and with typical smugness you took them for yourself, never imagining—' "'Look, matey,' the Professor interjected, "'I never did any such thing.

I've just been sat here minding my own business getting nice and crispy in the sun.' The ghost looked uncertain." "'Oh, really? It must have been someone else, then,' the professor rejoined her.

"'Yes, it blooming well must have been.