After listening to yet another story about a so called medium scamming someone out of their money, I urge you to be very careful when dealing with these people. As a writer of the Gothic novel, I love the thrill of the ghost story and sharing my imagination with my readers, but there are those who do very real harm by feeding off the suffering of those who have lost someone they love. These people do not, I repeat, Do Not, speak to the dead. There are those who will take offence at this, but to them I say, go to the James Randi Foundation and prove it. They offer a million dollars to anyone that can prove they have paranormal powers. In all the years they have offered this very tasty incentive to those who believe they have such powers, they have never found anyone who could prove it. So take the challenge or get a proper job like the rest of us.
Haunted Houses
All posts tagged Haunted Houses
Twilight seems the favorite time for ghosts. In those last few minutes, as day surrenders to night, they are allowed to roam. It’s understandable, when you think about it, as the sun sets and shadows deepen. They belong to this place, the land of shadow, caught between light and dark, in a world of endless night. We must pity these poor soul and leave them be. Nothing could be worse than their timeless wandering, and we must pray that our own fate never mirrors theirs.
It will soon be that magical time of year again, Halloween. The shops are filled with costumes, giant spider webs and broomsticks, though they have to vie with the early addition of Christmas goodies. Still, we welcome any reason to celebrate as the dark night come ever closer. The air has changed too. It now smells of wood smoke and at night, the first hint of frost makes its clean and fresh. The weathermen predict the onset of winter this weekend and the crying of its wind always brings to mind ghostly tales. Don’t worry about that tiny glimpse you catch from the corner of your eye. It’s nothing more than the scurrying of nocturnal creatures or the way the shadows fall. Or is it?
There was nothing beautiful about the house, but it obsessed her from the moment she saw it. Its fascination had nothing to do with anything strange or otherworldly; it was just that she had never had anything of her own before; not a house, a room, not even a bed. Everything had been leant to her; as though the giver warned “this will be yours for a while or for as long as I say.” Well, all that was at an end and she was now the proud owner of Bracken House, a Gothic monstrosity set in a remote location and lacking any of the charm that such buildings can sometimes have. The front of the house was a mismatch of tower rooms and angles, as though the builder, uncaring of where he placed each brick, let the house rise from the foundations of its own accord. This gave it a rather simple, moronic look and were it to vie for place among other buildings of its era, it would, in all honesty, be thought of as the court jester, it’s misshapen limbs a joke among the majesty of finer houses. Still, its new owner saw none of this and after the bare cells and cold stones of the convent; she saw only her new home and the start of a new life.
It had come as quiet a shock to the Mother Superior and her other sisters when she told them she was leaving. The look of outrage and disbelief on each face still sent her in to giggles of delight and she relished the upset she had caused by abandoning what was a depleting calling.
“But, you’re sixty eight years old,” Mother Superior gasped.
“It’s never too late or so they tell me,” Sister Anne, as she was then known, replied.
“Where will you go; what will you do?” The Mother asked.
“As you know, my mother recently died and it seems she has left me her whole estate, “Sister Anne said. “I intend to use the money before it is too late.”
“We are always short of funds, Could you not stay here? It had been your home for over fifty two years after all, and it seems only fair that the other sisters should share in your wealth.”
“I have no intention of sharing one penny with any of you,” Sister Anne replied, before getting to her feet.
The Mother Superior’s face was ashen in the fading light, her lips drawn in to a thin line of anger and Janet; she had reclaimed her old name, wonder if it were not for the large, mahogany desk that divided them, would the woman have struck her? How glad she was to leave the office that day and know that she would never return. The image of that room was imprinted on her retinas and the smell of trapped heat and old books seemed to have lodged itself in her nose. The idea that she would share her new found wealth with others! But then, Janet had never been one to share anything. Truth be known, she would not be missed by those she lived and worked beside and she knew that there was those who had breathe a sigh of relief when she walked out through the gates of the convent. There was nothing wrong with her; she decided many years ago, it was other people who had the problem. She had no time for the fake friendships they offered and the harlots who were placed in her care were a burden to be endured. She was a strong woman with even stronger principles and if they thought of her as cruel in her treatment of others, that just showed their weakness in both morals and spirit. It was time to go anyway, as the years changed and the unmarried mother was no longer an outcast and therefore of no value to her order. The other sister had become fat and lazy from decades of inactivity, while she stayed lean and unbending in all, especially her beliefs.
The rather stupid young man in the estate agents office had tried to dissuade her when she picked out the house from a stack of leaflets. It was very remote; he said and had the audacity to add, for a lady of her age and should she need help it was miles away from a hospital.
“I have never known a day’s sickness in my life,” she snatched the leaflet from his hand. “And I don’t intend to start now, even at my great age,” she added.
He had the grace to blush then and agreed to take her to view the house. Even as they drove, he pointed out, what he believed were more suitable properties, but she had ignored him, refusing to turn her head to look.
She loved the house on sight.
“Your photograph does not do it justice,” she told him.
“Really?” He stared from the leaflet to the house and scratched his head in wonder as she drank in the mottled brickwork, trailing ivy and peeling wood. “It has quite a reputation round here.”
“In what way?” She thought this just another ploy to put her off buying.
He shuffled from foot to foot and kept his eyes on the ground.
“Come along, young man. I have no time for dawdlers.”
“They say it’s haunted,” he mumbled. “That’s why no one wants to buy it.”
“How ridiculous,” Janet huffed. “Haunted indeed!”
One of the former sister’s downfalls was, like all salesmen familiar with a particular product, she knew all its faults and so it was when it came to spirits and religion. She feared nothing and no one and if that young upstart thought he could frighten her away with his tales of hauntings, he had quite another thing coming.
“I would like to see the interior now,” she said, her lips drawn in to their usual line of disapproval, her eyes thin slits in her skeletal face.
There was no arguing with someone like his present client and the young man took a large, rust-stained key from the glove compartment of his car and led her towards the house. Whatever Janet’s beliefs, the house did have a bad reputation. It was well known that it was haunted. In fact, it was the glue that held most ghost stories together. It was included in most tales of terror and one told by the old women of the surrounding area, round winter fires they whispered its name and crossed themselves with fear, to add substance and terror to the telling.
Janet felt a delicious thrill when he opened the creaking front door. The hallway smelt mouldy and clouds of dust rose from the threadbare carpets and muffled their footsteps as they descended further in to the house. She scanned each of the downstairs rooms, making a shrewd assessment of what it would cost to repair and what she might knock off the asking price.
The rustling ivy outside the windows sent darting shadows across the bare walls and their grotesque shapes made her shiver. It was all that young man’s fault; she glared at him for putting such thoughts in to her mind. The noises in the wainscoting were nothing more sinister that the scuttling of mice and the creaking floorboards overhead signalled that other wildlife had made there home within the house. She was right; there was a life of sorts within the house, but it was not one that could be easily explained away.
Purgatory Part 3
A thin mist hovered over the grass and the air was chill when Kitty opened her bedroom window. The sun was a hazy, orange ball against the backdrop of the surrounding trees and it struggled to dispel the last of the night’s lingering darkness. She could have stayed in bed for another hour, but her sleep had been restless of late and it was easier to get up and not lie about tossing and turning. The house was silent and other than the first calling of a songbird there was nothing to disturb her morning prayers. Kneeling down beside the bed she made the sign of the cross and laced the worn rosary beads between her fingers. She asked the usual things of God, protection for her family and those she loved and peace for those lying beneath the earth. Her last plea was one she had repeated over and over for the past three months, but she knew it would not be answered; not now, if the screams echoing across the fields were anything to go by.
Running to the window, she looked across the garden and the wraith-like figure staggering through the mist. The Mister would hear her for sure and then there would be hell to pay. She tip-toed down the stairs in her bare feet, cringing at each creak of the old boards. The cold, stone flags on the kitchen floor burned her warm flesh, but she ignored the discomfort in her need to get outside. The grass was wet with morning dew and sharp stones nipped at her feet, but she took no notice as she ran across to where Ruth had fallen.
“What happened?” Kitty tried to pull her up, but she refused to move.
Ruth’s sobs echoed in the still air and Kitty cast a furtive glance back at the house, praying the Mister wouldn’t hear.
“Stop,” Kitty shook the weeping girl. “Your brother will hear you and you know what will happen then.”
There was no need to ask again what was troubling the girl. It was as Kitty had suspected since the beginning.
“He’s left me,” Ruth beat her hands against her face.
“Stop that,” Kitty pulled her hands away and held them before she did herself harm.
Ruth’s cries had woken Joan and she came running across the grass, her expression a mixture of confusion and fear.
“What in the name of god is wrong with her?” She looked from Kitty to the weeping girl.
“The gypsies have gone,” Kitty hugged Ruth closer as she struggled to break free.
“Come on,” Joan took Ruth beneath her arm and between them they managed to lift the prostate girl. “We’ll take her over to the barn. God help us all if the Mister hears.”
They half carried, half dragged Ruth towards the yawning mouth of the barn. The hay-filled building would be more soundproof and help to muffle her cries. They laid her down in a pile of hay and stood looking at one another, unsure of what to do.
“He said he would take me with him,” Ruth sobbed. “I was to meet him at dawn, but he had already left.”
“I knew this would happen,” Kitty whispered to Joan. “There was something not right about that man.”
She knelt down beside Ruth and took her hand.
“It’s going to be all right,” Kitty said.
“No, it’s never going to be all right again,” Ruth took a handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress and wiped her nose. “I loved him, I really loved him and he said he loved me.”
“Aye, they all say that,” Joan shook her head at the girl’s ignorance.
“I thought he meant it,” Ruth’s voice was hoarse from crying. “We were supposed to get married. I ran down the road trying to find him, but there was no sign of the caravans.”
For a while the two women sat beside her and offered what little comfort they could until Joan said.
“I’ll have to go back inside. The Mister will be up soon and expecting his breakfast.”
Kitty walked with her to the door of the barn.
“What am I going to do with her?” She looked back to where Ruth lay.
“Keep her here until he’s gone. I’ll come back once the coast is clear and we can get her to her room. At least the Mister doesn’t know about this and that’s one thing we can be thankful for.”
“He may find out,” Kitty’s eyes were wide with fear. “She’s been sick these last few mornings.”
“No,” Joan brought a hand to her mouth to still her cry. “You don’t think…?” She left the sentence unfinished.
“I do,” Kitty felt her own eyes fill up with tears.
From inside the barn Ruth sobbed and cried out.
“I don’t want to live any more. I want to die.”
“She should be careful what she wishes for,” Joan said. “When the Mister finds out there’s going to be murder.”
Ruth’s pregnancy became impossible to disguise and by her sixth month her brother was beginning to notice that something was wrong. He teased her about growing fat, but his eyes strayed from the few morsels of food on her plate to her ashen face. Joan and Kitty stood outside the dining room door and listened as he roared with rage. “How could she bring such shame on the family?” He bellowed.
Ruth sobbed and begged him to forgive her, but he would not be placated.
“You’ll name the culprit,” John said. “And by god he’ll marry you.”
The women edged closer to the door and tried to hear Ruth’s reply, but it was obvious from what happened next that she told him the truth. There was the sound of furniture being overthrown and the door crashed open.
“I suppose you knew about this?”
He didn’t wait to hear the women’s answer, but rushed by them and out in to the yard. He returned in seconds holding a bamboo cane.
“Please, Mister,” Kitty tried to catch his arm as he passed, but he shook her aside.
He went in to the dining room where Ruth still sat in shocked silence and slammed the door. Her screams mingled with the swishing of the cane as it fell again and again until the women could bear it no longer.
“Stop,” Kitty screamed, and grabbed on to the arm welding the cane.
He was so strong he lifted her off the floor, but she held on.
“You’ll kill her and the child,” Joan said, as she helped the injured girl to her feet.
“Good, I hope she dies,” John was crying with temper. “Her and her bastard.”
He was so overcome with rage and disgust that he made no attempt to stop the women as they led his sister from the room. They took her upstairs and pulled off the torn clothes to get a better view of the damage. Ruth’s back, legs and arms were criss-crossed with the marks of the cane. In many place the skin had split and was bleeding. Joan went to the kitchen to fetch the things she needed to tend to the injuries.
“What’s going to become of me?” Ruth looked up at Kitty.
“I don’t know pet,” Kitty reached out and brushed a lock of Ruth’s sweat-soaked hair from off her forehead. “We’ll have to wait until your brother calms down.”
“Look,” Ruth lifted the blanket that the women had covered her with. “He even hit the baby.”
An angry-looking welt was raised high on Ruth’s swollen belly.
“The baby will be all right,” Kitty assured her, but she was wrong in that assumption.
John did relent in the end. After much pleading from Kitty and Joan he decided that his sister could remain in the house, but she was never to step foot outside the property again. When the child was born it was to be sent away for adoption. Ruth had no other choice than to agree to these conditions at a time when there was no outside help for women in her position. From the moment John learned about his sister’s pregnancy, he never spoke another word to her unless absolutely necessary and this would remain so up until the day he died over forty years later. From then it became a house of whispers and long, dead silences. It was worse after the birth of Eve, Ruth’s daughter. Kitty and Joan looked down at the newborn and crossed themselves with fear. It was obvious from the child’s face that something serious was wrong. They went to the Mister and begged him to get a doctor, but he refused. Still, the child lived.
“Such a strange-looking baby,” Ruth stared down at her sleeping child. “Don’t you think she looks like a fairy?”
“If you say so,” Kitty did not want to voice her opinion.
The child would remain with her mother as John realised no one would want to adopted, what he considered, a monster. He spoke to Ruth just the once on the day after Eve’s birth.
“Your baby is cursed,” he told the distressed girl. “You will be reminded every day of your sin, when you look in to her face.”
As the time passed the child’s disabilities became more obvious. She was unable to sit up unaided until she was a year old. It was later still when she took her first tentative steps on legs not designed for walking. Ruth saw none of the child’s flaws and greeted each action as any new mother would, but soon even she had to admit that there was something very wrong with her daughter. Eve’s eyes were mere slits and a large forehead dominated her little face. Her mouth was twisted so her teeth grew crooked. She dribbled when she tried to form words that never made any sense. Despite her suffering Eve was a pleasant child who thrived on the love and support of her mother and the other women. She knew nothing but love as she played around the house and the small section of garden that John made available to her. There were never any callers at the farm now as John had erected No Trespassing notices. He had also sold all of his stock, so there was no need to take on any more seasonal staff. He planted crops where the sheep had once grazed and other than the few farm hands tied to the cottages on the estate; there was no one to witness what he called his shame. Eve had no idea who he was, and other than running from him whenever he appeared, she stayed out of his way. Something primeval warned that he was a bad man. Sadly, this was true. His sister’s shame had changed him and he was bitter and spiteful. The anger he felt came to a head one particularly bad winter when the trees hung heavy with snow and the crying of the bitter north wind heralded many to their graves. Eve’s coughing echoed through the house until he was forced to shout at his sister to “keep that bastard quiet.”
Ruth sat in bed holding the child and listening to the wheezing that accompanied each gasping breath. Kitty and Joan gave what little money they had and sent for a doctor who diagnosed pneumonia. The child would need medicine and certain foods if she was to recover. Despite the cold, John had forbidden the women to light the fire in his sister’s room so the air was freezing, the bedclothes damp to the touch. This was just one of the many tortures he liked to inflict on Ruth and her child. Worried to distraction, Ruth went to him one evening as he sat beside the blazing kitchen fire. She explained her need for money and begged him to help her. Without replying John stood and went in to the room he used as an office. He returned carrying an old shoe box and sat back down beside the fire. Ruth felt her heart swell with relief when he removed the lid to expose its contents. Layer upon layer of banknotes lay inside.
“I don’t need much,” Kitty and Joan heard her say. “A few pounds will make all the difference. Just enough to buy the medicine that Eve needs.”
“Let me show you exactly what I think of you and your bastard,” John said.
Ruth watched in open-mouthed horror as he picked handfuls of the notes out of the box and threw them on the fire. The green of the pound notes, the red of the ten shilling notes were scattered in to the fire where eager fingers of flame reached out for them. She ran sobbing from the room unable to watch such an evil act, sure that because of it her daughter would die. John did not get his wish and Eve, despite his worst efforts, recovered. She lived in to her fifteenth year and during that time the women never left her side. They surrounded her with love and guarded her like feral dogs. It was because of this care that she lived as long as she did. It was obvious from her disabilities that she was not meant to reach adulthood and her passing was a gentle one. She went to sleep with the feel of her mother’s kiss on her cheek, but she never awoke. Ruth was by now in her thirties and all signs of the beauty she once was had flown. The death of her daughter aged her still as she mourned her loss for the rest of her life. Kitty and Joan paid for the small plot in the graveyard and other than Ruth; they were the only ones there to mourn a child that few knew existed.
Decades passed, seasons came and went, but everything stayed the same within the house. Joan became too old to continue with her work and went to live with her sister in the next county. The loss of her going was hard on Ruth and Kitty and they moved like silent ghosts between the kitchen and the bedrooms, the centre of their world. What money they had came from the few geese and turkeys the Mister allowed Kitty to breed in one of the outbuildings. Any leftover milk was churned to make butter that she sold when she went to market each Saturday. John no longer cared where his sister went so Ruth had free rein within the yard, but she went no further. She was terrified of the neighbours prying eyes and pitying looks.
John became ill. It started off as a cold and then, like his poor, neglected niece it turned in to something much worse.
“It’s the consumption, I’m afraid,” the doctor informed the women.
Everyone knew about the disease called Tuberculosis and the way it ravaged the sufferer’s body.
“It’s bad,” the doctor continued. “I can’t see him lasting for much longer. The only thing you can do is keep him warm and try to get him to drink plenty of fluids.”
Kitty felt her blood turn cold when she saw the way Ruth’s eyes hardened at the news.
“We’ll see to him,” she assured the doctor.
That night the women, both by now in their early sixties, sat by the fire and listened to the barking coughing overhead.
“I’ll take him up a cup of tea,” Kitty eased her way out of the chair.
“Stay there,” Ruth waved her back in to her seat. “Remember what he did when I asked him for help?”
Over the next few days Kitty tried to smuggle the odd pitcher of water in to the sick man’s room, but more often than not Ruth stopped her.
“I’ll see to him,” she told the frightened woman.
John’s bed was awash with blood. It stained his pillows and sheets and had caked on to his slivery whiskers where it lay like fire on snow.
“Will you get me a drink for god’s sake,” he rasped up at his sister.
“You want some water?” she held out the pitcher.
“Yes, please, I’m dying of thirst,” his lined tongue licked parched lips in anticipation.
“Here’s your water,” Ruth tipped the pitcher and allowed the water to cascade on to the floor.
Her brother looked up at her in confusion.
“Remember the night I came to you asking for money for my child,” her body shook with anger. “Remember what you did with the money?”
She didn’t wait for a reply, but hobbled away as fast as her aching bones would allow. By morning he was dead.
As his only surviving relative Ruth inherited the estate. Those who still worked on the farm were paid off and given the deeds to the cottages they lived in. There were sufficient funds to keep Ruth and her faithful Kitty in comfort till the end of their days and at first they enjoyed the freedom this gave them. The luxuries they had so long been denied were ordered and the wine cellar restocked. The first few months after John’s death were not the happiest that Ruth had ever known, because she would never be truly happy again, but there was a sense of peace. Until the anniversary of his death. It was winter and a fire burned brightly in Ruth’s room. Outside an angry wind screamed around the house and the first patters of snow rapped on the window pane. She was sleepy after a good dinner and a few glasses of port, when the gentle rapping on her door roused her.
“I think there’s someone downstairs,” Kitty poked her head in.
Living in such an isolated area, the terror of intruders was never far from their mind. Slipping on her dressing gown, Ruth reached for the loaded shotgun she kept under her bed.
“Stay behind me,” she whispered, as they made their way down the creaking stairs.
The hallway was dark and freezing, much colder than seemed possible. Their breaths rose in white plumes before them as they inched their way towards the light that was coming from under the kitchen door.
“Did you leave a light on?” Ruth whispered.
“No, and the fire was low, so there must be someone in there,” Kitty’s said.
Placing herself in the centre of the closed door, Ruth raised the rifle.
“Open it now,” she whispered.
Kitty pushed hard on the wood until it swung open and bounced against the wall behind it. The sound of the crash hung in the air, but did nothing to distract the intruder.
“Sweet Mother of God,” Kitty brought a trembling hand to her heart.
Ruth lowered the gun and staggered against the wall, where she stayed leaning for support. Neither woman could believe what they were witnessing. The fire was blazing as it had in the past and seated before it was the ghost of John Nesbit. His face was as young as it had been on the dreadful night and his actions unchanged as he threw handfuls of banknotes in to the leaping flames. Once again the green and red fluttered in some unholy draught before being shrivelled to ash. Seemingly pleased with his work he turned to where the old women stood and his smile was a leer of pure evil.
How long the vision lasted Kitty doesn’t remember, but it faded within seconds she imagines. I shivered and tried not to look out at the darkening sky. The pattering of rain on the window seemed amplified in the quiet of the kitchen.
“How’s that for a story?” Tom asked.
I shook my head, too overcome to speak. Kitty sipped at her whiskey before wiping a tear from her eye.
“Not done with tormenting her in life, he wouldn’t leave her alone in death,” she sighed. “Every year after that, on the anniversary of his death he comes back to haunt her. Well, not any more,” she looked again at the empty chair beside the long-dead fire.
“Why didn’t she leave?” I asked.
“She was as stubborn as he was, and it was only the one night.”
I couldn’t believe what she was saying. Only the one night!
“I used to lock myself in my room, but Ruth, she went down and faced him every time,” Kitty said.
“It’s terrible,” I said. “And in a way they were both cruel.”
“Oh, I make no excuse for Ruth, but tell me something,” Kitty leaned closer to me. “What would you be capable of if someone harmed your child?”
I knew she was right. None of us knows what we are capable of in such circumstances, but still, I like to think I’d feel some compassion.
“It’s stopped raining,” Tom looked towards the sky and small ray of sunlight trying to part the dark clouds. “We better be off. Do you want to come with us, Kitty?”
“No, I have a few things to sort out here and Timmy Rush is coming to collect me and take me to the station.”
I shook her small hand, the flesh paper thin so I felt the bones beneath.
“I hope you’ll be happy,” I said.
“I will, child,” she assured me. “Ruth left me well provided for and the sale of the land will make sure I never want for nothing.”
“What are you going to do with all the furniture?”
There were some fine antique bits and pieces lying around and it seemed a shame to let them rot.
“I’m sending the bigger pieces to auction,” Kitty said. “You’re welcome to take something as a keepsake if you like.”
“No, thank you,” I said. “I didn’t know Ruth well enough for that.”
“You’ll see to that?” Kitty nodded at the chair in the corner.
“I will indeed,” Tom assured her.
With that we left her and walked out in to the welcoming coolness of the evening breeze. The world had that fresh washed feel that it does after the rain and it was glad to be free of the cloying confines of the kitchen.
“It’s a strange old place,” Tom said, sensing my unease.
We stopped for a moment and looked back at the house. I could have been taken by its beauty, had I not known its history. It is beginning to show signs of neglect and nettles grow along the walls. Once we walked out through the gate I was aware of the silent fields surrounding us and imagined the past ghosts of grazing sheep.
“I remember I saw Ruth once,” I linked my arm through Tom’s. “She was in the shop in the village. Tell me about her?”
“No one knew her really well other than Kitty,” he said. “She seemed old before her time. I can’t say I spoke to her more than a handful of times and only then to pass the time of day. She had a nice face. It showed little of her suffering, but she had a resigned look. I imagined her as kind, I don’t know why. She appeared to be one of those women who wouldn’t dream of putting anyone to trouble on her behalf, do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I remember her as tiny and sort of bent,” I said. “She was dressed all in black when I saw her.”
“That was the way she always dressed,” Tom said. “She never stopped mourning the death of her daughter. In later years her shoulders were slumped under the weight of her grief. It was a sad, little life.”
“What does Kitty want you to do with the chair?” I asked.
“She wants me to burn it,” he smiled. “She’s afraid that if it goes to auction it will be haunted.”
“Don’t you think that’s possible?”
“No, he’s done with tormenting her now. Well, in life that is. None of us know what happens in the next world.”
Our voices startled the birds as we walked beneath the archway of trees. They rustled the leaves and squawked their annoyance at our intrusion. The canopy provided by the trees, that I once thought pleasing now seemed to be closing in on us. The darting shapes of the birds overhead provoked anxiety rather than pleasure, and I was glad when we reached the end of the lane and heard the normal, everyday sound of traffic.
Copyright©2012 Gemma Mawdsley
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- Purgatory Part 2 (gemmamawdsley.wordpress.com)
It’s strange how hauntings begin. One imagines they happen because of some dreadful, violent act, the sudden spilling of blood and taking of a life, but this is not always the case. The worst haunting are those of love turned to hate, when anger and misery eats away at the soul and strips the spirit of its most human qualities. But the young know little of such things and Kitty never imagined, as she set off that first morning, that she was about to become entwined in a nightmare from which there was no waking.
Kitty Morgan carried the small bundle that was made up of all her worldly possessions round the back of the house. Despite the warm weather she felt cold and nervous as she tapped on the door. She had just reached her sixteenth year and after much negotiation on her parents’ part, she was offered the job of live in maid at the Nesbit house. It was one of the finest in the district and she knew she was lucky to get taken on there, but this was her first time away from home and she was already missing her family. Her knock was answered by a stern-faced old woman, who stood eyeing her from head to toe.
“Well, what do you want?” She asked.
“I’m Kitty Morgan, Mam, I’m supposed to start work here today,” Kitty said.
“Ah, Mary’s girl,” the woman’s face brightened when she realised who Kitty was. “I was in service with your mother years ago. Come in girl and sit yourself down, I’m Joan by the way.”
It was a relief to find the old woman’s sour looks belied her true nature and within minutes they were chatting away like old friends. Kitty was to have a room at the top of the house and next door to Joan. It was a thrill to have a room of her own and so unlike at home where they were packed in like sardines. Once she had unpacked her few belongings Kitty went down to the kitchen.
“There’s just the two of us to run this whole place,” Joan told her. “So you’ll have your hands full fetching and carrying.”
“I’m no stranger to hard work,” Kitty assured her.
“I dare say you’re not,” Joan smiled. “Not if you’re anything like your mother.”
The hours flew by as Kitty was taught what her duties entailed. There were just two people living in the house, Joan informed her, a man she called The Mister and his young sister Ruth.
“You’re about the same age,” Joan said, opening a door on the first floor. “This is her room.”
Kitty was dazzled by what she saw. She had imagined a room such as this, but only in her dreams. A heavy wine, brocade quilt covered the bed and sunlight gleamed off the polished mahogany furniture.
“Have a look in here,” Joan whispered, opening a wardrobe.
Kitty gasped at the rainbow of coloured dresses hanging inside.
“Miss Ruth has over twenty evening dresses,” Joan stroked the rich fabrics lovingly, her own thoughts mirroring those of Kitty’s.
What they wouldn’t give to have just one of the fine dresses.
Both brother and sister were out at a local fair and wouldn’t be back until that evening. It would be Kitty’s job to help at table and she was anxious for her first glimpse of her new employers. She worked in the kitchen beside Joan for the next few hours, helping prepare the food for the evening meal. Her heart began to beat faster when she heard the sound of horse hooves on the yard outside.
“They’re back at last,” Joan’s face was flushed from the heat of the stove as she brushed a lock of hair from her face. “And about time too. The dinner would have spoiled if they’d been any longer. Run up and help Miss Ruth change,” she said to Kitty.
The hallway was silent as Kitty climbed the stairs. She tapped on the door to Ruth’s room and waited for her order to enter. The young woman sitting at the dressing table was as lovely as her surroundings.
“Hello, who are you?” Her blond curls bounced as she turned and surveyed the new arrival.
“I’m Kitty,Miss.I’m the new maid.”
“Someone my own age at last,” Ruth dazzling blue eyes filled with delight. “You have no idea how boring it’s been with only Joan to talk too. Come and help me with my hair, Kitty.”
Ruth talked non-stop as Kitty brushed and piled the hair in to order, so by the time she was finished she knew most of what there was to know about her new mistress. Later, in the dining room, she saw her new master for the first time and she was taken aback by the difference in the pair. Anyone who didn’t know them might mistake them for an unlikely married couple. John, the brother, was a big fellow and would have passed for handsome were it not for his eyes. They were small and set deep in to his face giving him a mean and watchful look. Perhaps it was this that caused the local girls to shy away or it may have been something more primeval, a sense of danger that warned of things to come. Still, he seemed content with his lot, according to Joan and the love he showered on his sister could not be faulted. Ruth was fourteen years his junior and tiny compared to her brother. Their mother died shortly after giving birth to Ruth and when their father passed away ten years later it was left to John to take the place of both parents, a job he did well and without a grumble. Kitty saw very little of him as the weeks passed. He worked on the farm most days and came in to the house only at meal times. Ruth on the other hand, became a good friend and the young girls were forever whispering and sharing secrets. Joan had to scold Kitty on numerous occasions and remind her that was there to work and was not a guest in the house. And so the months passed. Happy, carefree months filled with wonder for the young Kitty until He came. It started out innocently enough. It was lambing season and both Joan and Kitty were run off their feet providing meals for those hired on to help at that busy time. One night, as she served at table, she heard John tell his sister.
“I took on some gypsies today to help out. There’s not as many able bodied men about since the war and they seem a decent lot.”
Gypsies, the young girls stole fleeting glances at one another, how romantic.
“They’re parked in the field behind the orchard,” John continued. “There are three men, a father and two sons and a woman I take to be the mother.”
“Do they have horse drawn caravans?” Ruth asked.
She had only ever seen gypsies in books and expected them to live up to her imaginings.
“They have, but that’s no business of yours Miss,” he scowled at his sister. “You’re to keep well clear of them, understand?”
“Yes, John,” Ruth pouted. “I was only asking.”
“That’s all well and good, but I don’t want to hear stories about you hanging around there.”
“I won’t,” she winked at kitty.
The lure of the gypsy camp proved too much and later that night when John was gone to the pub, Ruth came down in to the kitchen.
“Is it all right if Kitty comes for a walk with me?” She asked Joan.
“Yes, a bit of fresh air will do her good,” Joan nodded at Kitty. “Off you go.”
The girls were soon running hand in hand across the fields and out in to the orchard. Using the trees as shields, they crept closer to the wall dividing them from the gypsies and hid behind the bushes. The air was cold and a fierce fire blazed in front of the caravans. There were two men and a woman huddled round the flames. The girls watched as a door opened in one of the caravans and a man stepped out. He was huge and the wooden steps groaned under his weight as he climbed down. His hair fell in coal black curls to his shoulders and despite his size he walked with graceful, panther-like movements towards the small group.
“Let’s go back,” Kitty urged.
She had a strange feeling in her stomach. It was unlike anything she had felt before and she longed for the safety of her room.
“No,” Ruth hissed. “I want to see his face.”
“Your brother will kill us if he finds out,” Kitty hoped this would break the spell.
“I don’t care,” Ruth said, louder than intended.
Her voice carried in the still, night air.
“What have we here?”
They looked up from their hiding place and in to the blackest eyes they had ever seen.
“I’m Ruth, from the house,” Ruth stood up, pulling Kitty with her.
“Won’t you come and join us ladies?” He waved towards the fire and his watching family.
“No, we have to go back,” Kitty said.
“We have time,” Ruth turned and glared at her.
“Let me help you,” he leaned over the low wall and scooped Ruth up in to his arms.
Her squeals of laughter echoed as he lifted her over and placed her down beside him.
“There’s a gate further down,” Kitty said, when he turned to her.
She turned and ran down the length of the orchard and by the time she got to the campfire Ruth was sitting beside the dark gypsy and gazing up in to his eyes. The family were friendly enough and at any other time Kitty would have thought the whole thing a wonderful adventure, but not now. Not when she saw the look on Ruth’s face as she stared in adoration at Rory, the man who would destroy her life. No one could have predicted the meeting would lead to a chain of events so horrifying in their cruelty that they would linger on for decades and reach with searching fingers from the silence of the grave.
Prologue
“I’m seven-years-old and I’m tired of the taste of my own blood.”
The child’s eyes were bright with tears, and the fingers he used to stop them overflowing, looked red and sore.
“They come for me at night,” he sobbed. “I’m hurt and I can’t sit down. Won’t you help me?”
He glanced over his shoulder then turned back wild-eyed.
“They’re here, don’t let them take me. Oh, help me.” His tiny hands reached out in supplication for mercy, and receiving none, he turned away and was slowly enveloped by the darkness, until only his pleas echoed from out of the abyss. “Jesus help me, Holy Mary help me.”
It was then the screaming started.
Sarah fought her way back to consciousness and bolted up in the bed. Her nightdress was bunched around her waist and she tugged at the sweat-soaked material, but it was useless. In her weakened condition this small task left her breathless, and she knew she would have to get up to untangle herself. The room glowed white in the pre-dawn light, and the cold air pricked at her fevered skin. Brushing the perspiration from her forehead, she swung her legs on to the bare floor and struggled up. The uneven, wooden boards caused her to lurch, and she grabbed at the headboard for support. The only sounds within the room were those of her laboured breathing, and the wake-up call of the birds in the trees outside. But she had heard someone screaming.
Her legs shook as she walked towards the window. The thin curtains were almost transparent in the harsh light, and their rose pattern became crimson bloodstains. Unsure of what she would find waiting, she closed her eyes and with trembling fingers grasped the material and drew it back.
The early evening mist had overnight turned to a fog that swirled and twisted, causing small shapes to move within it. Just above the skyline, she could see the tall spires of the old school, gothic, dark and forbidding. The latch on the window was rusted and stiff with age and she hit it with the palm of her hand, until it gave way. Freezing fog crept in to the room and wrapped itself around her like a wreath, she gasped at its touch. Outside nothing moved, the silence deepened and even the birds had stopped singing. The sheer loneliness overwhelmed her, a feeling so extreme and absolute she almost cried out in pain.
It was then, in that quiet time, when the world struggles between sleep and wakefulness, when the air lies heavy with dreams and the wind whispers its promise of tomorrow, that Sarah was reminded of her own unbearable loss. The memory sent her staggering back to bed and she lay shivering beneath the heavy duvet and tried to forget the nightmare image that woke her, but it was useless. Every time she closed her eyes it was there. The figure of a small, naked, bloodstained boy, his hands outstretched, pleading and surrounded by a dark malevolent evil. She reached out to him and for a moment felt his fingers brush against hers before he was snatched from her grasp. Lecherous hands moved across his pale flesh and sinister, mocking laughter mingled with his cries. The bed shook with the force of her sobs, as she recalled his face as it was swallowed by the darkness, blue eyes wide in terror. His voice calling her name over and over until it faded into nothingness, and only then did she realised the screams she had heard, had been her own.
“She called her home Purgatory and it was an apt name, trapped as she was between heaven and hell.”
I stood in silence and watched as Old Tom drew the back of his shovel over the earth, smoothing the mound and patting the last bit of loose dirt in to place. His thoughts became words, as though he no longer cared that anyone was listening.
“Her hell was him,” he nodded towards the headstones on the other side of the graveyard. “And her heaven,” well,” he gave the earth a final pat. “She’s lying beside her now.”
I watched as he took a grey handkerchief from his trousers pocket and wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead.
“I’ll just put this away and we’ll be off,” he nodded at the shovel. As an afterthought, he turned and looked at me. “You’re very quiet.”
I shrugged, overcome by the sadness of the day and the small turnout for the funeral.
“It was good of you to come,” he smiled, “And fitting as it turns out. This is the young one who likes a ghost story,” this was addressed to the other mourner who had stayed to watch as the last shovelful of earth was heaped on the grave.
I didn’t recognise the old woman who stood by my side and her soft sigh at Tom’s words carried across the listening graveyard. Despite the brightness of the day its sound was chilling and I felt the familiar unease that warned worse was to come.
I turned, introduced myself and held out my hand to the bent figure.
“I know your people well,” she said. “I’m Kitty Morgan, I was housekeeper to Ruth,” she nodded at the burial mound.
“I only knew her in passing,” I said. “I’ve lost track of people since my grandmother passed away.”
“She was a hard woman to know,” Kitty took my proffered arm and we started to walk down the graveyard’s stony path. “Will you come back to the house? I’ve prepared a lunch, but I imagined that I’d be catering for more than three. I would be a shame for it to go to waste.”
“Of course I will,” I said.
“Good girl,” she nodded, pleased.
We stopped outside the gate and didn’t have long to wait. Tom crossed himself as he passed the new grave and even at a distance I could still smell the rawness of the earth. The mound looked like a dark stain against the green, lush grass.
“Kitty asked us back for lunch,” I informed him.
“Grand,” he pulled the gates closed and the screech of their rusting hinges sounded like a scream in the silence. “I’ll have to oil them.” Tom said.
My car was in the little parking area across the road from the graveyard, but Tom decided that we should walk to the house.
“The lane is overgrown and rutted,” he said. “You might break a spring or something and it’s not far.”
The woman on my arm was tiny, but I was aware of her weight as we walked down the hill and her bony fingers dug deep in to my skin, as though she was terrified of letting go. We turned off in to a laneway and I saw that Tom was right. The old ruts left behind by bygone tractor wheels were carved in to the earth. Grass ran down the centre of the track and on either side the bushes ran riot, their spiky branches and pointed thorns kept us to the centre of the lane. Even though I was wearing flat shoes, I stumbled twice on the uneven ground and it was only Tom’s hand on my elbow that kept me from falling and taking the old woman down with me. The trees above our heads had formed an archway and other than Tom and the old woman’s laboured breathing the only other sound came from the soft chirping of birds in the overhead branches. A wrought iron gate came in to view and a large sign hanging from one of the bars proclaimed, Private Property, No Trespassing. We waited as Tom struggled with the ancient bolt and I have no idea what I was expecting of the house up till then. My thoughts that day were mostly filled with the absence of mourners in a place where a funeral is often seen as a social gathering. Tom pushed the gate back and stood aside to let us pass. We walked into a quadrangle, with the main house to the right of it. I stopped, taken aback by the beauty of the place. The house is a huge two storied affair. Built of limestone and whitened further by the onslaught of countless winters, it gleamed in the ebbing sunlight. There are eight windows on the front, two at either side of an old studded door, its wood scarred and blackened with age. The other four were set in a line overhead and looked down on us with blind eyes.
“It’s a fine house,” Kitty noticed my look of amazement. “It’s mine now, she left everything to me.”
“Let’s get inside,” Tom tapped my shoulder and looked up at the darkening sky. “We’ll have rain before long.”
He was right; the day was becoming grey and overcast. Any hint of summer was an illusion and the morning’s sunshine a tease for those who thirsted for its warmth. The interior of the house was cool and if I expected the welcoming bark of a sheepdog when the door was opened, I was disappointed. The hallway was dark, the flag stoned floor uneven like the lane.
“I was going to serve the food in the dining room, but seeing as it’s just the three of us,” Kitty looked at Tom.
“We’ll be fine in the kitchen,” he assured her.
The kitchen is huge with an enormous open fireplace that harks back to another century. It dominates one wall of the room and the old iron cooking arm stands to one side, its hinge rusted and hanging with cobwebs. It’s obvious from the lack of ash or remnants that the fire has not been lit in ages. An ancient gas heater stands at one side of it and is obviously the only source of heating for the room. Overhead the wall is lined with an assortment of things, two old fiddles, the bows dangling from the broken strings, an old deer’s head stares down with glassy, dead eyes and an old shotgun, its black barrels coated in layers of dust.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” Kitty walked to the old stone sink.
A gas cooker stood against one of the walls and she lit the jet beneath the kettle.
“Sit down, sit down,” she urged us over to the table.
Whatever food she had prepared was covered by a large cloth and made the spread beneath looked like an uneven sandcastle.
“There’s plenty to eat so don’t be shy,” she threw back the cloth with a flourish.
She was right. A large ham took centre stage and set around it like some circling satellites were plates of cakes, sandwiches and sausage rolls. Bowls of cherry tomatoes blushed beside a mound of lettuce its leaves glistening with tiny dew drops of water. Aware of my intolerance to gluten Tom stood, picked up a carving knife and started to slice the ham.
“Don’t start acting finicky,” he whispered, layering a plate with fleshy slices and placing it in front of me.
“Is everything all right?” Kitty put a pot of freshly brewed tea down on the table.
“Lovely, Kitty,” Tom assured her. “It’s just this one is allergic to wheat.”
“No,” she gasped, as though the idea was preposterous.
“Indeed,” Tom said. “And she won’t drink tea either.”
They both stood looking at me for a moment until Kitty broke the silence.
“Would you drink a coke?” She asked.
“Yes, thank you,” I was glad of the release from their searching gaze.
“There’s some in the dining room,” she said to Tom. “There’s whiskey in there as well. You may bring that back with you.”
He was back in seconds with my warm coke and a bottle of whisky. Kitty went to a press and returned with three crystal glass.
“We’ll toast the dead,” she said and took the bottle from Tom.
Half filling the glasses with the amber liquid, she handed one to both of us.
“To past friends,” she held up her glass.
“To past friends,” we echoed her words and sipped.
The whisky burned my throat and I tried not to cough as I swallowed a tiny sip. I had a long drive home later and that gave me an excuse not to have to finish the glass. The ham was delicious and not at all salty as I imagined. For a few minutes we ate in silence and I used this time to look around the room. There were three suitcases standing by the door. I hadn’t noticed them when we passed.
“Are you going somewhere,” I asked the old woman.
“I’m leaving this place tonight,” she said.
“For a holiday?” I asked.
“No child,” she put down her fork and looked at me. “I’m leaving this place for good.”
“Are you selling it?”
“No,” she sighed. “I doubt if anyone would want to buy it and I wouldn’t want to bring misery on anyone unwise enough to do so.”
“You’re better off going,” Tom said. “You couldn’t stay here now anyway.”
“No, you’re right,” Kitty picked up a spoon and started to stir her tea.
I watched the brown whirlpool in silence and listened to the clink, clink the metal made on the side of the china cup.
“Why couldn’t you stay here?” I knew as I asked that it might have been wiser not to know.
“Because of him,” she turned and nodded to an empty chair beside the fire.
I looked at Tom, wondering if he could see something that I couldn’t.
“She means the ghost,” he shovelled another forkful of ham in to his mouth.
“What ghost?” The chill I first felt in the graveyard came rushing back and I felt the familiar fingers of fear crawling up my back.
“I suppose there’s no harm in telling her?” Kitty said to Tom. “They’re both dead now and it’s as well that someone knows the full story.”
“I thought you would feel that way,” he nodded. “She’ll write it down you know, but change the names, so there’s no harm in telling her.”
“Tell me what?” I asked.
“The sort of story you like,” he said. “A true ghost story about how love can turn to hate and anger can cause those who lie uneasy in their graves to return to haunt those left behind.”
“I couldn’t have said it better,” Kitty picked up her whisky glass and sipped.
The watery sunlight disappeared behind a cloud, plunging the room in to shadow. Tom’s knife scratched against the plate as he cut through the ham and the sound made my hackles rise.
“It happened like this,” Kitty began.
{EAV:78ec0bca0c98d036}
I was asked today why people are so interested in the paranormal and why ghosts are said to haunt places where terrible acts of violence have occurred. It’s a question I get asked often and after listening to one of our big radio stations it’s easy to understand why people want to believe in something beyond our mortal world. The host was speaking to people who had been attacked for no reason other than the attacker or attackers was out for blood. In most cases the attacker got off with a slap on the wrist or the victim was too traumatised to pursue the case through the courts. Is it any wonder, when the arm of the law is so short, that we want to believe in some sort of justice, even if it does comes from beyond the grave?
Some secrets refuse to be hidden and there are some souls that will not remain dead. Old industrial schools and orphanages hidden from sight in the depths of the Irish countryside, remain. There are many such unmapped sites, desolate spots, on lonely stretches of road that the locals still whisper about late at night and cross themselves in fear.
Please feel free to <a href="http://askdavid.com/reviews/book/ghosts/1457″ target=”_blank”>review my book “Whispers” on askDavid.com
Whispers
gemmamawdsley 