He was certainly the oldest man in Whitby. Occasionally the odd cub reporter would be sent by the editor of the local rag to try and get a story. “Silly old bugger won’t ever tell us anything, but you have a go. Fresh face and all that.”
But he was never one for talking. The last thing he wanted was for people to start digging up the grounds inside the ruins of the abbey, to discover the coffins that lay beneath, the coffins from the doomed ss Dmitri, the undead ready to rise and wreak havoc, the bodies of his siblings.