The Bloody Tower

 It was a dark and stormy night, as all the best horror stories begin, and Phil Williams, 38, of the Welsh Guards, was on duty at the Tower of London. The rain lashed down, turning the ancient cobblestones into a slick, treacherous mirror, and the wind howled like a banshee with a head cold. Phil, a man whose most thrilling military experience to date had been accidentally saluting a particularly convincing garden gnome, shivered inside his immaculate uniform.

"Bloody typical," he muttered, adjusting his bearskin hat, which felt less like a symbol of regal authority and more like a soggy, oversized badger on his head. "Another night of staring at bloody stones while tourists snore in their hotels."

He was stationed near the Bloody Tower, naturally. Because where else would you put a man named Williams on a night like this? The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something else… something faintly metallic, like an old penny left out in the rain. Phil told himself it was just the Thames. Probably.

Suddenly, a faint scraping sound echoed from within the tower. Phil, whose courage usually manifested as a strong desire to avoid confrontation, froze. He squinted into the gloom. Nothing. Just the rain.

Then, a low moan. Not a human moan, more like the sound of a particularly unhappy badger being dragged through a hedge backward. Phil's heart hammered against his ribs. He gripped his rifle, though he wasn't entirely sure what he'd do with it. Ask the ghost if it had a permit for loitering?

The moaning grew louder, joined by a rhythmic thump… thump… thump. Phil swallowed. He’d heard the stories, of course. The Princes in the Tower, Anne Boleyn, Lady Jane Grey… all the Tower's greatest hits. He’d always scoffed, preferring to believe that the only things haunting the Tower were over-caffeinated pigeons and the lingering smell of medieval sewage.

A spectral, shimmering figure drifted out of the Bloody Tower. It was headless, which, Phil thought, was a bit rude. Especially since it was holding its head under one arm, like a particularly gruesome rugby ball.

"Evening," the head croaked, its eyes rolling in a distinctly unnerving fashion. "Bit nippy out, eh?"

Phil, who was now sweating profusely despite the cold, managed a strangled, "Good evening, ma'am. Sir. Whatever."

"Name's Anne," the head said, with a distinct sniff. "Anne Boleyn, if you must know. And honestly, this weather is doing wonders for my complexion. Or what’s left of it."

The headless body did a little jig, which, combined with the head’s nonchalant chattering, was utterly surreal. "Just popping out for a bit of a stretch," Anne continued. "Been cooped up in there for centuries. You know how it is."

"Right," Phil mumbled, trying to maintain a semblance of professional composure. His training certainly hadn't covered spectral headless queens complaining about the weather.

"You wouldn't happen to have a spare scarf, would you?" Anne asked, her disembodied eyes fixed on Phil’s bearskin. "This breeze is playing havoc with my… well, with my neck. Or lack thereof."

Before Phil could respond, another figure emerged, this one smaller and clad in a rather dusty velvet doublet. It was dragging something that looked suspiciously like a tiny, spectral pony.

"Richard!" Anne shrieked, her head swiveling to face the newcomer. "Not again! You know you're not supposed to bring your invisible ponies out after curfew!"

The small figure, who Phil vaguely recognized as one of the Princes, looked sheepish. "But he needed a trot, Anne! And it's so boring in there!"

At this point, Phil realized his career was probably over. Or he was having a particularly vivid dream after too much cheese. Either way, he was a Welsh Guard, and a Welsh Guard does not, under any circumstances, engage in casual conversation with headless queens and spectral pony enthusiasts.

He snapped to attention, saluting the empty air. "Apologies, ma'am, sir! Duty calls! Must ensure the proper maintenance of… historical artifacts!"

And with that, Phil Williams, the bravest man to ever contemplate feigning a sudden and violent allergy to historical masonry, turned on his heel and marched as quickly and as dignifiedly as possible in the opposite direction, leaving the spectral figures to their bickering. He didn't stop until he reached the mess hall, where he promptly requested the strongest cup of tea they had and a very large, very stiff drink. He’d probably never look at a bearskin hat the same way again. And he was definitely going to ask for a transfer to something with significantly fewer historical decapitations.