Morely Evans was a troubled man. Every winter around Christmas he was plagued by a ghost. And not just any ghost, but a frozen female ghost who tapped at his door on wintry nights. He knew well the story of the Ice Ghost of Willoughby Lake, because she haunted him and his neighbors who lived on it.

The poor girl had fallen through the ice one bitter cold December night while crossing to a friend's house on the other side of the lake. Her body was never found, yet her family erected a headstone in the local cemetery in memory of her life. The young woman was only seventeen years of age when she perished. Her family, devastated by the loss of their only daughter, moved away from the lake to ease the painful memory.

Although the parents long since died, their daughter continued to haunt the lake in frozen form every winter in December. The icy spectre was seen gliding across the frozen lake as if searching for someone and then she would arrive at a nearby home and tap on their door. The occupants were frightened out of their wits and would slam the door in her frozen face.

But the slamming of doors did not deter the ghost. She continued to make her rounds to every home along the shore and when the night was through, she returned to her icy grave beneath the lake. Over the years, the story took on an ugly tone growing out of people's fears. The local folk claimed she was a vengeful ghost luring her victims to their doom out on the lake. The ice ghost wanted company in the watery depths below and anyone foolish enough to open their door would join her.

Every winter when the lake began to freeze, people warned one another to keep their doors locked. The ice ghost would soon be making her rounds in search of a victim and unless one did not want to spend eternity with the same fate, they had better not open their door. Morely awaited the spectra's visit. He knew she would come, because she had done so for years and the night was perfect for Willoughby's ice queen. The air was bitter cold and its frigid temperatures suited the frozen phantom. She would remain well preserved in her cloak of ice while she waltzed around the lake.

It was Christmas Eve and late in the night, the ice ghost arrived at his door and began her incessant tapping. Morely was seated by the fire and nearly spilled his brandy when he heard the familiar sound. He abruptly rose to his feet, but his legs buckled beneath him. His whole body trembled with fear and the hairs on his head stood straight up. The ghost was most persistent. She continued wrapping and tapping and even scratching at his door. Morely shouted loudly for her to go away, but that only increased her assault on the door.

Finally, his nerves shattered, he could not stand the noise any longer and opened his door. Resenting the lady's rudeness, he would invite her inside to join him by the fire and find great pleasure in watching her melt before his eyes! The moonlight allowed Morely to study his uninvited guest whose frozen fingers were ready to wrap on his door again. The ice ghost greeted him with a blast of artic air and Morely shivered on his doorstep. The lady was completely crystallized in ice and every movement of her frozen form made a sound of shattering glass. Icicles hung from her hair and tinkled like a wind chime. Her bony fingers resembled crystallized daggers that clinked and clattered as she swayed. And her eyes were like clear jeweled marbles that reflected his own. Suddenly, she sighed and moaned and Morely thought she would break apart from the effort.

The ghost raised a petrified arm and pointed in the direction of the lake. Morely became alarmed.

"Young lady, I am chilled to the bone at the mere sight of you. If you think I am going to leave the heat of my house and follow you on a frozen lake, think again!"

The ghost said nothing; she just glanced mournfully across the lake. Morely saw a teardrop roll down her frozen face and freeze instantly into an icicle. Her white lips trembled from the cold and her form took on a pitiful appearance. Her eyes shone with melancholy. It was obvious the ghost was heartbroken and she gave out a wailful cry to let the world know of her misery. Morely's heart filled with sorrow and he took pity on the poor ghost. The frozen wench was suffering and he would not rest that night til he eased her pain.

"I will don my coat and follow you, although my reasoning is insane. I will blame my madness on the cold!"

The ice ghost, clinkling and clanking, led the way with Morely grumbling behind her. In the moonlight, the two figures marched onto the lake. Morely thought of his neighbors sound asleep in their warm beds. He wished he could do the same instead of trailing on the heels of a frozen damsel in distress.

The night was bitter cold as the pair crept across the ice and stopped near a small cove. The frozen lady pointed at her feet and prayed in desperation.

"Find me, sir, so the next time I rise it will be in heaven!"

Morely stared in disbelief as she slipped below the surface and vanished from sight. Morely hung his scarf on a tree branch along the shore and trudged back across the lake, grumbling all the way.

"A fine thing to do to a man on Christmas Eve. My limbs are frozen solid!"

He returned to his warm fire to thaw out. Come spring, after the ice had melted from the lake, Morely hired some locals to search the area he had marked. Snared beneath a submerged log, they found the skeletal remains of a young woman. Morely had her buried below the headstone which bore her name. Alisha Redding had been given a proper burial. The ice ghost of Willoughby Lake was laid to rest. Morely Evans felt satisfied that he had released the lady from her icy tomb and her soul could join her family.

The following Christmas eve, Morely was startled to hear a familiar tapping at his door.

"My word! Is there any peace on this earth?"

He answered the door only to find his scarf hanging from the handle. A gift of a warm memory he would wear in her honor. Morely held it up and toasted the air.

"To you, my melted mistress, may you never freeze again!"

The Judge wrote: I loved this story and it would have come closer in the running still if it had had more that was Tudor about it. Apart from the name 'Willoughby' which I perceive as being slightly Tudor, there was nothing to ground it in the period. However the snowy, icicly feel of the story and the style of the writing gave both a shiver and a glow at the same time. The description of the ghost's eyes as being like 'clear jewelled marbles' was lovely.