“It just seems so bizarre, is all. Just seems like a lot of pussy-footing about.”
“Might be you’re right. I don’t honestly know myself. Might be that an international company like ours doesn’t have to worry about establishing a reputation. The thing about it is, this is what I’ve been doing since I started branching out. Establish good will, open a location, treat people right, watch the money flow in. I don’t fancy changing my pattern now, not when we’ve made as much money as we have.”
Sheila put her mirror away, content for the moment that there was nothing she could do to further improve her appearance. She said, “All right, dear. You know I’ll support you in whatever decision you make. I always have.”
“Odd position for a person to take when they’re single-handedly staving off bankruptcy.”
She closed her purse with a quiet click. She said, “We all have sacrifices we must make for the greater good. I’m sure you understand.”
“That’s what I said when I told you to give up your twinkies.”
“Now, Bryce Matthew Price, you know good and well that’s just too much to ask a modern, civilized woman. Ask me to go without sleep for two days so you can close a merger, and I’ll do it. Ask me to fly all over the world with you so you can set up odd little museums, and I’ll do it. But never, never ask me to give up my twinkies.”
He smiled at her, then said, “Duly noted. It looks like we’re almost here. Shall we have ourselves a look?”
“Sure.”
CHAPTER TWO
Two
Bryce and Sheila pulled up outside the old house in the middle of the morning. Bryce saw two parked cars waiting for him. He pulled his car up to a long, curling driveway that ended in front of a building so ancient, so well kept, that Bryce could not easily estimate its value at a glance. The pictures he had seen posted online did not do the building justice. He had to stop and stare at it in awe, for he knew he was looking at living history.
There was a time in history, as he understood it, when instead of books, people used buildings to chronicle their histories. Monuments and statues were erected to keep track of what had happened, and who had been the cause. Gradually, as people learned to read, buildings created to be historical landmarks had lost their importance. Buildings became utilitarian, a construct to serve a purpose. Bryce had grown so used to seeing buildings like that, and so unused to seeing anything else that he could not help but wonder how the world might have been before the internet, television, smartphones, books- even any kind of education at all.
Sheila said, “Would you look at that? You don’t see that every day.”
Bryce said, “It’s gorgeous. Do you even want to do the tour, or do you want to buy it now?”
“This is the haunted house, right? The one with the vengeful ghost?”
Bryce thought back on the legend he had heard from the Gloucester County Historical Society. He had actually done his homework on that one, thinking that someone might have been squatting in the house, creating odd noises that couldn’t be easily explained by anyone not willing to go inside. Some types of music could be misinterpreted for wailing. Creaking noises could just be someone walking around. While nobody had actually been living inside, that hadn’t done anything to make Bryce any less skeptical.
He said, “Ghosts don’t exist. They can’t. The existence of a spirit is functionally impossible. A spirit doesn’t have memory because it doesn’t have a brain. It can’t see because it doesn’t have eyes, and so on. If a spirit is anything, it’s a being without senses or volition. It’s pure energy. Energy that can’t control what it does is subject to the natural forces of this world. It doesn’t remain where it is; it can’t. The idea of a person haunting anything- much less something as specific as a building- just doesn’t make any sense to me. It’s just an interesting tale to add color to an already fascinating property.”
Sheila said, “Just an old wive’s tale, huh?”
“You think there’s something to it?”
“Let’s just say...I’m not willing to discount anything I don’t understand just because I don’t understand it.”
Bryce shrugged. The point wasn’t worth arguing. He got out of the car and approached the two men waiting for him. One of them was an old man with scraggly white hair and a bent back. The other was a fit, middle-aged man who looked like he had more money than he knew what to do with. He had a potbelly and a handsome, kind face with red cheeks.
The old man said, “Mr. Price?”
Bryce extended his hand. He said, “That’s me. And you are…?”
The old man shook Bryce’s hand. He said, “Geoffrey Ruggins, Gloucester County Historical Society.”
The round, happy man shook Bryce’s hand as well. He said, “I’m Michael Lomkvin. I represent Lomkvin Real Estate, Inc. I’ll be handling much of the paperwork and legalities of this transaction. You are still interested in purchasing this property, correct?”
Bryce put one hand on his hip. He said, “Well now, I didn’t come all the way from Australia just for giggles. I run a beer company. I have more money than I can possibly spend in my lifetime. I’d like to use some of it to preserve what history I can.”
Ruggins tried to smooth down his hair, unsuccessfully. He said, “May I ask, why here? Why Cirencester? Surely there are better places in Australia where you can spend your money?”
“The fact is, I was born in England. My parents moved when I was five. That was forty-six years ago. Australia is my home, right enough. But England is important to me as well. There are some memories that stay with you for most of your life, memories that influence you, color you. I have a few of those memories here in England. It’s irrational, I know. That’s just how I feel. I began to think I might one day come here to retire, when my working days are done. That’s what I’m thinking now.”
Bryce tried to gauge the reactions of the two men. The historian was unreadable. The real estate agent fidgeted with the manila folder in his hands. Lomkvin said, “Well, that’s good enough for me. Would you like the tour?”
Bryce was about to say no, but his wife blurted out, “Yes, we’d like that very much.”
He had to agree with his wife, even though he had no intention of touring the house. His mind was already made up to buy it. He had been away from his home office long enough. He didn’t fancy staying any longer than he had to. When it came down to it, he didn’t really want to see the inside of the building. Even though he was sure he would enjoy himself there, he was anxious to get himself on a plane and get back to work.
Geoffrey Ruggins said, “Yes, all right. I have the key...let’s see, here it is. If you’d like to follow me, we can have a look inside. There may be some dust. We don’t get around to cleaning this property more often than once a month. No one really comes in otherwise.”
That got Bryce’s interest. He said, “Is that because of the, what do they call it, the haunting?”
The old man cleared his throat. He didn’t miss a beat otherwise. He said, “Yes, that’s quite an amusing tale. The cleaning crew, they hear strange things when they come in. They say the curtains move without any wind. The house makes noises, they say. We’ve been through three different cleaning companies since the property entered our conservatorship. I’ve been through there myself to see if what they’re saying is true. I haven’t found anything myself. But the rumors, you know, it’s enough to keep people away. We’ve had trouble finding another owner for the property because of it, so I’m grateful that you’ve come all this way.”
Bryce said, “Is there any danger to anyone because of the haunting or whatever it is? Anybody getting hurt, getting in an accident, anything like that?”
“Well, to be honest, we had one near miss. What was it? Hmm, about six months ago, I should think. A vase almost fell on someone who was cleaning the floor. But, as nothing like that has ever happened since, and as I haven’t found any evidence of, shall we say, supernatural activity my
self, I haven’t bothered looking further into the matter. I believe I can say with a fair amount of confidence that nothing untoward is happening.”
Bryce put up a hand. He said, “It’s okay, you don’t have to worry on that score. I don’t believe in ghosts. I believe in what I can see and what I can prove. That’s it.”
Bryce could have sworn he saw the old man smile just a little bit, hardly even enough to be noticed. There was something unsettling there. Bryce could not explain it. He did not know why a chill suddenly passed down his spine. There was nothing untoward going on. People smiled all the time. What harm was there in someone who experienced- and expressed- mirth? Bryce tried to tell himself that. He didn’t quite believe it.
The truth was, he couldn’t ignore the sense he had that there was something beyond his experience going on, something that he shouldn’t dismiss out of hand. He had a fleeting notion to just walk away and leave whatever was going on behind.
He took a step forward without even realizing what he was doing. His wife followed behind him. He had time enough to notice that she, the one who actually gave some small measure of credence to anything she could not explain, showed no signs of discomfort whatsoever. Maybe he was just imagining things. Maybe he wanted to be back in Australia so badly that he was trying to talk himself out of being there. He hoped so.
The alternative wasn’t worth considering.
CHAPTER THREE
Three
Bryce was the second person to step into the house. He followed behind Geoffrey Ruggins, listening to the sound of his footsteps echo off a wooden floor. The house had a musty, ancient smell about it. Bryce caught the scent of old books. He was reminded of an old bookstore in a town called Batemans Bay; a store that specialized in rare and old volumes of popular literature, along with obscure non-fiction that only a college professor could appreciate. The two hour drive from Canberra to Batemans Bay had been well worth it, the few times he had been willing to make the trip. He always carried books with him whenever he flew, for there was little else he could do during long flights where he was stuck sitting in the same place with nothing to look at except wide-open sky.
Once he got past the scent, his attention became immediately fixed upon a large portrait that hung on a wall, perhaps twenty steps in front of him. A woman stood in a woodland setting. Orange and purple leaves fell all around her. She had a serious, concerned look on her face. She might have been around fifty years old. Gray had started to come into her raven-black hair. She wore a ridiculous stovepipe hat that made her look like a witch. In fact, she even carried a rustic homemade broom in one hand. In the other hand, she carried a large metal tankard, one that looked to weigh about ten pounds.
Bryce put his discomfort aside for the moment. He said, “That woman, who is she?”
The historian answered, “Ah, yes. That is Isobel Gilmartin. A curious historical figure in these parts. She was what was known as a brew witch, or alewife. She was a pioneer in her day; a woman who owned her own business and worked on her own terms. You may be aware that Reginald Scot wrote a book called The Discoverie of Witches in 1584. This book was written in response to the widespread, systematic persecution and oppression of any female person, often old, who was perceived to be a witch. That book, more than any other, put an end to the religious witch hunts that had plagued England around that time. This didn’t happen right away, of course. But by the time Isobel came around, the witch hunts had all but died out. This painting here, estimated to have a value of one hundred fifty thousand pounds, was made in 1702. This was during the height of her prosperity.”
Sheila said, “What’s a brew witch?”
“Ah yes, well. There were different kinds of witches, you see. There were those who were believed to make deals with the devil for personal power and advantages. These women often were said to have had familiars, such as frogs or cats. Those are the witches that you’ve likely heard about through popular media. The ones that don’t get mentioned are those who used their skill, whether real or imagined, for their own personal business. Many of these women were the wives of local business owners. They were weavers, milliners, and brewers. Isobel was particularly notable because she-”
Something in the house creaked. Geoffrey stopped speaking. Nobody had moved. Everyone was in the house. The door was open, not closed behind them. Michael’s hand was on the doorknob. In the space of a moment, Bryce could see a bead of sweat trickle down Michael’s forehead. He had a sudden irrational urge to run out of the house, to run away and never look back.
He stopped himself short. He would look awfully foolish if he ran out of the house over hearing a random creak. The creak might be nothing. The house was old, very old. Gravity continued acting on a building, even if no one noticed. Gravity was an unseen force that kept constantly pulling at wood, cement, everything it could. Nothing could resist gravity forever, especially not wooden beams and planks that had been installed over four hundred years ago. He shouldn’t be at all surprised if the house settled while he was in it.
Geoffrey cleared his throat again. He said, “Yes, well. As I was saying, Isobel was noted for being a witch who used her powers to craft different kinds of alcohol. Her business became so popular that people would travel across the channel just to see her. Lords and ladies from across Europe frequented her business.”
Sheila didn’t appear to have noticed the creak. Or, if she had, she ignored it. She said, “What happened to her?”
“I’m afraid that is a most tragic story. For you see-”
Another creak, this one much louder than the last. Michael’s hand had come off the doorknob. The door creaked shut without any human force. Bryce stared in mute horror while the door snapped shut all by itself. The click that it made had a final, dreadful sound.
Bryce said, “Are you sure that the story about the haunting isn’t real?”
Sheila looked around her. She said, “Was that the wind? Did you feel any wind?”
Michael Lomkvin said, “I didn’t feel any wind. How did that door close? What is happening here?”
Everyone looked to Geoffrey. He didn’t appear to have any answers. He wrung his hands. He said, “Well, I can’t claim to know how a door shuts itself. Let’s all step outside and see what might be going on, shall we?”
He was the first to stride towards the door and turn the knob. The knob turned, but the door didn’t budge. He pulled on it, trying to get it to move. Bryce said, “That door was unlocked when we came in. Doors don’t lock themselves either, do they?”
Geoffrey turned the knob over and over, trying to get it to work. Michael said, “No, they don’t. But I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for all of this. I’m sorry that this is happening while I’m trying to give you a tour but-”
Bryce froze while he heard the scream of a banshee from above him. He looked up at the ceiling. His knees shook to hear it. It was like a voice of his worst nightmares. The sound cut through his mind, stopped all conscious thought. He fell down onto his butt, trying to make some kind of sense of what he heard.
The sound ended abruptly, or after a while. He could not tell which. He was only aware that he was sitting on the ground, staring at the painting of the brew witch. It seemed to him that the woman’s expression had turned from serious to wicked. The eyes had a hint of malice in them. Bryce wanted to tear down the painting, throw it on the floor.
Sheila said, “What was that? Somebody screamed!”
Michael’s cool exterior started to crack. He said, “I know somebody screamed. I heard it too. No one is supposed to be in here. All the doors were locked, all the windows were closed. I made sure of that yesterday when I reviewed the house prior to this tour.”
Bryce said, “So no one is in the house, but we hear a scream that sounds like somebody is. The wood creaks, and the door closes on its own.”
Geoffrey said, “Who altered the painting? How did that happen? Which one of you did it?”
“No, I didn’t! Not in that amount of time. I don’t know anything about the painting, anyway. Why would I deface a painting like that? It looks...I don’t know, ugly now. Evil, kind of like. Paintings aren’t supposed to grin like that.”
Geoffrey said, “That’s an exquisite work of art. It is the only one of its kind in the entire world! No one has ever duplicated it. It has been here for centuries. No museum has ever exhibited it. It should- it should not- I will see that you answer for this, whichever one of you is responsible.”
Michael said, “No one changed the painting. Did you see any of us bring any brushes and paint with us? Look at our hands, look at the floor, no paint stains anywhere.”
In face of reason, Geoffrey persisted. He said, “I don’t know how you managed this, but you won’t get away with it. When I go upstairs, and I find a bluetooth speaker, I’ll know. What you’ve done, it’s illegal. You won’t get away with it. I’ll have you all arrested, the lot of you.”
Bryce forced himself to get up. His legs were still weak. He was afraid that he might have soiled himself, and afraid to look. He said, “No one changed your painting. It changed itself.”
Geoffrey’s voice shook. He said, “Paintings don’t change themselves.”
Bryce had only one reply. He was surprised to hear himself saying it. “Doors don’t close and lock themselves, either. Now, I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t think there’s anything in this world that can’t be explained by rational investigation. But...what I’m seeing here, it looks an awful lot like a haunting, even if that’s just what someone wants us to think.”
13 Hauntings Page 2
