Haunted Ground
Authors: Irina Shapiro
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Horror, #Ghosts, #Romance, #Gothic, #Historical, #Historical Romance
Haunted Ground
By
Irina Shapiro
© 2014 by Irina Shapiro
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the author.
All characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people (except those who are actual historical figures) are purely coincidental
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England, 1650
Blood-red rays of the setting sun just barely touched the tips of the trees, illuminating the blazing colors of fall with a rosy tint that gave the forest an almost magical quality which would last for only a few moments, before the sun sank behind the tree line, and the gathering darkness claimed its nightly victory over daylight. The faint outline of the Hunter’s Moon was already visible, but still transparent in the darkening sky. The lengthening shadows began to stretch across the ground as an unnatural hush fell over the meadow.
A man melted out of the darkening forest and gazed toward the stone house still bathed in the rosy glow of the sunset. The peaked roof barely reached the lowest limb of the stout oak that grew in the yard; its limbs black against the setting sun. The man broke into a run, breathing hard as he finally reached the house, his eyes never leaving the tree as he sank to his knees, oblivious to the spongy ground caused by last night’s rain. He stared up; his face contorted by an expression of unbearable pain, and wrapped his arms around his torso, bending over until his head almost touched the ground. He stayed in that position for some moments, his shoulders heaving as he wept. As the sun finally sank and darkness descended on the meadow, he forced himself to look up and confront his worst nightmare. His eyes never left the tree as he reached into his boot and pulled out a dagger.
The full moon rose above the trees and began its ascent into the autumn sky, but the man was oblivious to the beauty of the evening. He was oblivious to everything except what he had to do.
The Present
Be careful what you wish for, at least that’s what my mother always said, for life has a way of granting wishes in the strangest way possible, sometimes taking what you love most as payment for a dream fulfilled. I never really knew what she meant, and she always clammed up as soon as I asked, a veil of sadness descending over her eyes as she smiled brightly and changed the subject. I learned not to ask, but the lesson stayed with me, making me wary of wishing for things too fervently.
There was one dream, however, that I just couldn’t ignore. It had been with me since I was a little girl, always there at the back of my mind, beckoning to me, and calling me in that way that dreams do, like a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I have no idea where it came from or why it was so special to me, but it was always there. I’d learned not to talk about it to my parents since they got upset, telling me that I was too fanciful for my own good, and that I needed to concentrate on making a life for myself here and now, but the pull was always there. England. It was always England. I’d never even been there, and when I asked my father for a trip for graduation he balked, telling me it was no place for a young girl to be traipsing around on her own. He never liked the place, he said, having been there on business. Cold, dreary, full of people he couldn’t understand, but I still wanted to go, wanted to make my home there despite his objections. To me, it was a place like no other; a place steeped in centuries of political turmoil and bloodshed, a place of romance and history.
As Mom predicted, the dream became possible in a most unexpected and terrible way, on an ordinary day that started out with burnt toast and nearly being late to work due to a sick passenger on the subway. I’d only been behind my desk at the Marriott Marquis Hotel in Times Square for over an hour when the call came. I hadn’t even bothered to pick it up since I was in the midst of checking in a group of Italian tourists, who were so exuberant and loud that I hardly even heard the phone ring above the cacophony of their voices. It was only when the manager came rushing out of her office and brought another concierge with her to take over my duties that I realized that something was dreadfully wrong. My father had suffered a heart attack in his office and was currently en route to Lenox Hill Hospital uptown. My mother was already on her way, so I grabbed my purse and dashed outside to grab a cab and pray that the morning traffic wouldn’t turn a ten-minute ride into an hour.
I was nearly hyperventilating with anxiety by the time the cabbie finally dropped me off in front of the hospital nearly forty-five minutes later, and I exploded through the Emergency Room entrance, running straight for the admissions desk. The woman behind the desk gave me a sympathetic look as she told me where to go. I found my mom sitting alone in a curtained-off partition, her eyes dazed as she looked up at me. She was holding a Ziploc bag with my father’s belongings: his watch, wedding ring, and wallet clearly visible through the plastic.
“Mom, is he in surgery?” I asked as I kissed her soft cheek. “What are the doctors saying?”
My mother reached out and took my hand, her voice barely audible over the sounds of the Emergency Room. “He’s gone, Lexi. He died on the way to surgery fifteen minutes ago. They tried to save him, they really did, but there was nothing they could do.”
My mother wasn’t crying, but the expression on her face was of someone who could at any moment go to pieces in such a spectacular fashion that it would be like watching a train wreck. My parents had been high school sweethearts and married at the age of nineteen. They’d been married for nearly forty years, and now my mom would have to learn to live without her Jack. It’d be like relearning to walk – or breathe. I just held her in my arms, feeling her stiff back and shuddering breath. She wouldn’t allow herself to come undone now. She’d do it in private when no one was watching.
My mom held it together until the funeral, but I made all the arrangements and took care of my father’s business affairs until the reading of the Will. My father’s wishes came as no surprise to either of us. My mom was well provided for, but I was the one he bequeathed his paper goods company and all its assets to; suddenly making me a wealthy woman in my own right. My father had always made it clear that he wanted me to follow in his footsteps, scoffing at my decision to earn a degree in Hospitality and Tourism Management. He said it was just a passing phase, and I would get tired of dealing with overexcited tourists and complaining hotel guests, and eventually see the joy and sense of accomplishment in running my own company; a company that was successful and profitable and just waiting for me to step up to the helm.
It was with a heavy heart that I sold Maxwell Paper Products as soon as I got an attractive offer from one of my father’s competitors and golf partners. I knew he’d be heartbroken if he knew, but I couldn’t face a life of selling packing boxes and file folders to bored buyers, haggling over every penny and wishing I were anywhere but there. I was now independently wealthy, and the money offered a glimpse of freedom I’d hitherto never imagined. I was free to follow my dream.
The house loomed in front of me, tall and gray; the stone walls bleached by decades of sunshine and rain and buffeted by wind, the south side dressed in a thick coat of ivy that crept almost as far as the gabled roof. The half-lowered blinds in the upstairs windows gave the impression of hooded eyes, wearily watching me as I stood there on the lawn, my whole being flooded with joy and a sudden sense of deja vu. This was it; this was the house I’d been looking for. I didn’t know where I would find it, but I knew exactly what it would be like, and how I would feel when I finally saw it. It had taken me nearly four months of searching; visiting town after town, and rejecting house after house until I stumbled onto this village in Lincolnshire. It wasn’t even on the map, but I needed to stop for gas and get something to eat before I continued back to my hotel in Lincoln.
I’d always been geographically challenged, even with a GPS, so I promptly took a wrong turn off the motorway and wound up not in the village, as expected, but somewhere on the outskirts; driving down a country lane flanked by ancient trees that formed a green tunnel around my rented car, with the GPS announcing over and over that it was recalculating.
I saw the house in the distance, hidden behind a scrim of trees that did little to obscure its charm. It was nestled in a verdant valley dissected by a gurgling stream; its elegant shape offset by the palest blue sky dotted with wispy clouds tinged with rosy pink and golden peach; the type of sky only England could boast after a drenching rain. I turned off the lane, and drove through a pair of stately stone pillars topped by giant urns from which wildflowers spilled in profusion. A faded sign hung on one of the pillars, announcing that the house was available to buy or let. I whipped out my cell phone and dialed the number on the sign, hoping that it was still available and there was someone in the office this late in the afternoon willing to show me around. I was more than ready to whip out my checkbook and pay for it right then and there, but I had to go through the motions before throwing caution to the wind.
The woman who picked up the phone sounded incredulous for a moment, asking me to repeat where I was and which house I was referring to, but then I heard a sharp intake of breath and the scraping of a chair.
“Don’t move from that spot, you hear? I’ll be there in five minutes at most.” I could hear the slamming of a door as she must have dashed to her car, the cell phone still pressed to her ear. Evidently, I wasn’t the only eager beaver in town.
I leaned against my car and just gazed up at the house. Some empty houses had a tendency to look forbidding, but this one just seemed kind of sad and neglected. It would need much work, but the potential was definitely there in its elegant architecture and solid stonework. As long as the house was structurally sound it would suit my purposes, and judging by the number of windows, there were plenty of bedrooms on the second and third floors to accommodate a fair amount of guests. My mind was already buzzing with possibilities, doing calculations, and mentally decorating rooms which would be a replica of what bedrooms might have looked like when the house was occupied by its original owners.
The screeching of tires announced the imminent arrival of the estate agent, who took a quick look in the mirror before getting out of the car, her hand outstretched, and her eyes taking my measure. She was around thirty, with a blonde pixie cut and slanted green eyes that gave her a somewhat catlike appearance. Her wide mouth was stretched into an impish smile, and her gray pantsuit was offset by a scarf in a mixture of vibrant colors that instantly drew the eye. She was young, stylish, and modern, which was a contrast to most of the agents I’d dealt with over the past few months who appeared tired and bored. This woman was vibrating with an excitement that matched my own.
“Paula Dees,” she announced as we shook hands. “Well, I must say you took me by surprise. Can’t remember the last time someone asked to see this place. For a moment there, I couldn’t remember where I’d stashed the keys. Total panic attack,” she confided in me as she fished the keys out of her designer bag. “Shall we?”
Paula hung back and let me look at each room. She wasn’t pushy, but filled me in on the background of the house and gave me some more practical information regarding the heating, plumbing, foundation, and all the other technical stuff I might need to know before making any kind of decision. I had to admit that I wasn’t even really looking at the rooms. I was interested in layout and proportions, picturing the bedrooms as guestrooms and downstairs rooms as dining room, sitting rooms, and breakfast nook. I would take a closer look later, when I was alone and could really take it all in.
“So, what’s the asking price?” I asked casually, hoping it wasn’t more than I was able to afford. My jaw nearly dropped as Paula named a figure. It was a little more than half of what I expected, an absolute steal. I had been willing to pay more than the asking price, if that’s what was required, but I had to keep the excitement out of my voice and the look of ecstasy out of my eyes as I cautiously told Paula that I would like to make an offer on the house.
“Don’t you want to see the rest of the property, love?” the estate agent asked, watching me with a carefully bland expression, afraid to believe that she was about to unload this monstrosity after more than two years.
“Of course,” I replied, having already made up my mind anyway. Paula led the way, and we walked behind the house where Paula pointed out several outbuildings which at one time had been the stables, storage sheds, and dairy. Some of the old outbuildings had been torn down over the years, but the remaining ones appeared in good order. It was a sizeable estate, consisting not only of the manor house, but several acres of arable land. I glanced to the opposite shore of the creek, studying the tumbling ruin on the other side.
“What about that?” I asked, pointing to the site.
“Oh, that’s part of the property, I’m afraid. I don’t know why the old owners never did anything with it, but that’s been there for hundreds of years, since the seventeenth century. Mrs. Hughes was very attached to it, said it wasn’t to be touched. It’s even mentioned in her Will, but I think you can do as you wish once you’ve settled in, assuming you buy the place that is. The clause in the Will doesn’t apply to you, only to her family.” Paula Dees looked at me, hoping I would confirm that I was indeed making an offer.
“Why didn’t she want it touched? Does it have historical significance?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. She was a strange old bird, especially after…” Paula’s voice trailed off, her eyes sliding away from mine as she made a production of looking at her watch and then searching for something in her purse.
“After what?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.
“It’s nothing really. She suffered a personal tragedy some years ago, but it had nothing to do with the ruin. Are you sure you don’t want to see the inside of the outbuildings?” she asked, eager to change the subject.
“No, I’ve seen all I need to see. I’d like to make an offer,” I repeated, hoping that Paula couldn’t hear the thudding of my heart. I prayed that they would accept, but if they didn’t, I’d offer more and more until the house was mine. I’d finally found it, and I wasn’t walking away. Not ever.
“Why don’t we go back to my office and contact the seller? You can follow me in your car.” Paula was practically skipping to her car, eager to get the process started. “What do you plan to do with the place? Will you live here alone?” she asked, eager for a chat now that her end of the business was almost complete.
“I want to turn it into a hotel. The house dates back to the late seventeenth century, so I intend to recreate what it might have looked like in its heyday, which I guess would have been the eighteenth century. It would be like stepping back in time.” I was full of ideas, and desperate to share them with someone since my mother didn’t want to hear anything about it. She was still hurt that I’d chosen to sell the company and leave, but I knew she would get over it in time and come see my little place. My friends had been supportive, but I knew they were baffled by my desire to move across the pond and leave everything and everyone behind.
Paula shook her head in wonder, looking back at the house with new eyes. “Yes, I suppose it will make a nice hotel, but it will take such an awful lot of work. I don’t mean to put you off, but everything inside is an antique, and not the valuable kind. I don’t think the appliances have been changed in at least four decades, and the plumbing would have to be modernized to accommodate additional baths. Of course, the lack of modernity is reflected in the price,” she added hastily, realizing that she might be talking me out of buying the place. “It is a lovely old house though, isn’t it?”
I threw one last longing look at the house as Paula walked me to my car.
“Would you like to join me for a drink at the pub tonight? I might even have an answer for you by then. Doctor Hughes lives in Bath. He’s a cardiologist of some renown, but he won’t keep me waiting. We go back a long way, Roger and I, and he’s eager to get rid of the place. He’s been trying to sell it ever since Mrs. Hughes died.”
“Why is he so eager to sell?” I asked, praying that he wouldn’t change his mind at the last minute and decide that he hated to part with this part of his family history.
“His life is in Bath, and frankly, I don’t think he feels any attachment to the house. He never actually lived here. Mrs. Hughes was his aunt, and she lived there with her daughters. Roger lived on the other side of the village with his family.”
“Why didn’t she leave the house to the daughters?” I asked, eager to know as much as possible about the history of the place. Strange that such a charming house and vast property would be left vacant.
“Mrs. Hughes’s youngest died a long time ago, and there was some bad blood between her and Myra. I think she left the house to Doctor Hughes just to spite her. Not that Myra has been here for more than a day or two in two decades. She lives in London now. Has her own staffing agency.” I noticed that Paula seemed very tense as she divulged this information, but whatever was bothering her had nothing to do with me. I’d found my perfect house, and I meant to have it. Decades-old family feuds would not change my plans, especially if this Myra had no interest in her family home.
I followed Paula through the gates, eager to get to her office and start the ball rolling. The car was stuffy, so I rolled down the window taking in the beautiful scenery that raced past the car. It was early June and everything around me was in bloom, bursting with life, fragrant and lush. The sky seemed bigger here somehow, vast and endless, the sun hurting my eyes until I fished my sunglasses out of my bag and put them on. I don’t know if my imagination was working overtime, but this place seemed almost magical to me, unlike anywhere I’d ever been before. It was modern and ancient at the same time; the old ways still alive and well despite the relentless march of time and progress. I hoped I would fit in, knowing how difficult it was for outsiders to assimilate in a place where people’s families had lived for hundreds of years, their blood and sweat permeating the soil, and their histories intertwined with each other in ways Americans could never understand.