by Amy Cross
She waited, but all she heard was silence.
“I don't think this is going to work,” Matt suggested. “You can't just yell at a ghost and make it talk to you.”
“Or is that just a side project?” she continued, thinking out loud now as she tried to understand what Mildred was after. “Why do you want Annie Ashton? You've both been dead for years. Why are you still chasing after her? What could be so important?”
Again, she waited, and then she stormed over to the hallway and looked up the stairs.
“Answer me, you bitch!” she shouted, before banging her fist against the wall in another desperate attempt to get Mildred to respond. “Don't you think you at least owe us an explanation? After all, it looks like we're the ones who woke you up and gave you another shot at this, so why don't you play nice and actually talk to us instead of trying to attack us all the time?”
She looked up toward the landing, but still she heard no response.
“Or are you just so pathetic,” she continued, “that you can't even show your face?”
She waited, and now the silence of the house seemed somehow even louder, almost as if the silence itself was Mildred Weaver's final, infuriating response. Sally knew that the dead woman was lurking somewhere, that she was listening, and she realized after a moment that Mildred's strategy seemed to be simply to ignore everything and wait for Annie to show herself again.
“I think maybe,” Matt said cautiously, “we should just get out of here.”
Sally turned to him.
“I know that might be the coward's way out,” he continued, “but this isn't our pub. You said it yourself, you don't even know why you're here anymore. Let's let Jerry figure it all out. Hell, the guy's barely even here, he might not even notice if there are some weird bumps and noises. And even if he does, it doesn't have to be our problem.”
“We started this,” Sally pointed out. “We have to finish it.”
“Says who?”
“Me!” she snapped. “We can't just run away! Anyway, Jane ran, and look what happened to her!”
“She -”
“Don't tell me it wasn't connected!” she said angrily. “Don't even try, because we both know it's not true!” She paused, glaring at him, before letting out a heavy sigh. “Fine,” she added, “if you want to go, then go. I'm not keeping you here, and you might even get a lucky break. After all, you don't have any dark secrets that might come back to haunt you, do you?”
“No, but...”
He thought for a moment about his mother's continued insistence that his father visited every night, and he realized that he could no longer be quite so certain that she was wrong.
“What do we do, then?” he asked. “I've got to tell you, I'm all out of ideas. Jane's dead, and I'm pretty sure I would be too if you hadn't interrupted Mildred while she was trying to strangle me in the cellar. It's obvious that she's dangerous and -”
Suddenly somebody knocked on the pub's front door. Sally and Matt both turned and looked back across the room, and then they turned to one another.
“Is that her?” Matt whispered.
“Knocking from outside?” Sally replied, also keeping her voice down. “That doesn't make much sense if -”
Before she could finish, the knocking returned, a little louder this time.
“It's probably the police,” Matt pointed out. “I don't know about you, but I think maybe we should make sure there's no sign we've been having a lock-in first.”
He stepped over to the table and grabbed the empty beer glasses, and then he carried them behind the bar and hid them out of sight.
“We can just say that we were woken by the sounds outside,” he explained, clearly panicking a little, “and that we were about to go to bed. They might wonder why I'm here but, well, we can come up with some kind of story.”
“I don't think the police would be going door-to-door just yet,” Sally pointed out, as she stared at the door and tried to imagine who could possibly be out there. “What if it's...”
For a moment, she imagined Jane's mangled body, and she wondered whether somehow Jane might be trying to get back into the pub. If she opened the door, would she find her friend standing right outside? She figured that if ghosts were real, then it stood to reason that Jane might well be around somewhere, so she cautiously made her way to the window, telling herself that she had to be careful. After all, she blamed herself for allowing the spirit board into the pub in the first place.
Stopping for a moment, she carefully moved the blind aside and peered out. She could just about make out a dark figure on the step; she couldn't tell much about the person, but she was pretty sure that it wasn't Jane.
“Do you see anyone?” Matt asked.
“There's someone there and -”
The figure knocked again.
“And I'm pretty sure he's seen me,” she added, taking a step back. She turned to Matt, who was still behind the bar. “It's not a policeman, though. I'm pretty sure of that.”
They stood in silence for a moment.
“Should we open it?” Matt asked.
“A third person might be useful,” she pointed out. “We don't necessarily have to explain everything that's happened, but we can ask them if they'll join us using the spirit board. It could actually be a way out of this mess.”
“Then I guess we should give it a try.”
“On the other hand, we might be getting someone else unnecessarily involved. Is that fair?”
She hesitated, before stepping over to the door and pulling the bolt across. After taking a moment to pull herself together, she opened the door, only to find that there was nobody waiting outside.
She leaned out and looked both ways along the street, but there was still nobody.
“Did they leave?” Matt asked.
“I didn't hear footsteps,” she replied, puzzled as she watched some nearby parked cars and waited in case somebody appeared. After a few seconds, figuring that perhaps some passing drunk had momentarily tried to get in, she turned to shut the door, only to see that a note had been left pinned to the wood.
Reaching up, she took hold of the note and tore it away, before stepping back into the pub just as Matt came over.
“What have you got there?” he asked.
“Someone left this on the door,” she told him, turning the note so that he could see it. “It's an address for a house on the other side of town. 119 Maddale Street. What do you think it means?”
Taking the note, Matt stared at it for a moment. Something about the note seemed vaguely familiar, although he couldn't quite put a finger on why he felt that way.
“I have no idea,” he said finally, “but I don't think we can simply ignore it.”
“That address is out past the old mill area,” she pointed out. “It's in kind of a rough part of town. The few times I've been up there, I've been worried that someone might slash my tires at any moment. Why would someone want us to go out there? Anyway, it's the middle of the night, why would anyone be up at close to four in the morning?”
“I agree, it seems a little odd,” he replied, still staring at the note and trying to figure out whether he'd really seen it somewhere before, “but to be honest, I'm all out of ideas. Let's face it, Sally, we're not exactly a promising pair of amateur ghost-hunters, and I really don't see us pulling something out of the bag at this late stage. And obviously some people are up, because someone put this on the door to begin with.”
He turned to her.
“You've got a car, right?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“There's a light on,” Sally pointed out as she switched the car's engine off and peered across the street. “That must be number 119, right?”
“I'm pretty sure it has to be,” Matt replied, unfastening his seat-belt.
“I shouldn't even be driving,” she said as she slipped out of the car, taking a step into a cold wind that was blowing in from the east. “Still, I feel sober as a rock right now.”
She looked over at Matt as he climbed out. “What do you think this is about?”
“Actually,” he replied, “on the way over here, I had an idea. If I'm right, we might be about to meet someone who can tell us the truth about Mildred Weaver and The Crowford Arms.”
***
As Sally and Matt stood on the step, they listened to the sound of various locks and chains being turned and moved out of the way, before finally the door opened and they found themselves face-to-face with an elderly man.
“I've seen you before,” Matt said immediately. “Out near the colliery yesterday morning.”
“I'm really sorry to disturb you,” Sally added, hoping to try a more conventional approach, “I hope we didn't wake you, but we saw that your light was on.”
“I'm practically nocturnal these days,” the man replied, adjusting his glasses as he peered at them both. He looked out toward the street, as if he was worried about someone else. “One can never be too careful, though. Not these days. This used to be such a nice area, but now there are all sorts of bad types roaming around, even at the dead of night.” He turned to Sally again. “What did you say you were doing here?”
“I didn't,” she said, before holding the note up. “Someone left this on the door of The Crowford Arms a little while ago.”
“That's my address!”
“I know,” she continued, “and to be honest, we wouldn't be out here so late if we weren't desperate.”
“You're Ernest Dwyer, aren't you?” Matt said. “Someone was telling me about you today. You knew my father.”
“I knew almost everyone's father at some point,” Ernest replied. “I've lived in Crowford all my life. I don't remember meeting you at the colliery, but I do think that you look rather familiar.” He adjusted his glasses again. “Fred. Fred Ford. Wait, Fred, is that you?”
“Fred Ford was my father,” Matt told him. “He died nine years ago.”
“I'm very sorry to hear that,” Ernest said. “He was a good man. Well, probably. The problem with being my age is that it can be hard to remember the details.”
“Do you know who Mildred Weaver is?” Sally asked.
“Mildred Weaver?” Ernest furrowed his brow. “Now, that's a name I haven't heard in a while. Of course I know who Mildred Weaver is, or who she was. Some facts I never forget, and Mildred Weaver died in 1947. That's thirty-seven years ago. I know that, because I happened to be at her funeral.”
“We think...”
Sally hesitated, worried about how to explain without sounding like a complete maniac.
“This is pointless,” she said finally, taking a step back. “I'm sorry we disturbed you, Mr. Dwyer, but -”
“We think we've disturbed Mildred Weaver's ghost,” Matt said, interrupting her. “In the pub, I mean. We messed around with a homemade spirit board, for reasons I don't really want to go into right now, and it seems like we've woken her up or attracted her attention or something like that. And the thing is, she's apparently in a very bad mood and one person has already died tonight, and -”
He tilted his head to one side and tapped the sore patch on his neck.
“She also tried to kill me,” he added. “She's looking for a little girl.”
“Annie Ashton?”
“You know what we're talking about?” Sally asked.
“It's been a long time since I thought about that poor girl, but yes, I remember those days very well.” He stepped aside. “You'd better come in. It's dangerous to be out too long in this part of town. You locked your car, didn't you?”
“I double-checked,” Sally admitted as she entered the house and saw that there were books and papers piled on every surface.
“These were old miners' cottages,” Ernest explained as he shut the door after Matt. “Not a lot of them are used for that purpose anymore, but they were originally built in the 1920's when the miners came flooding down to take up new jobs at the pit. That's why you have these endless rows of red-bricked terraced houses, all built on the site of the old mill that shut down a few years before the pit opened. That's when Crowford really began to get bigger. Why, the town must have almost doubled in size in the years I've been alive.” He began to shuffle slowly through to the kitchen. “Sorry, it takes me quite a while to get anywhere these days. Can I make anyone a cup of tea?”
“Thank you,” Sally replied, “but we really don't have much time. We're trying to work out why Mildred Weaver's ghost is hunting Annie Ashton down, and whether there's anything we can do to stop her.”
She paused for a moment.
“And believe me,” she added, “I feel completely ridiculous saying those words out loud.”
“It's been a long time since Annie Ashton went missing,” Ernest replied.
“She went missing?” Matt said. “Like... disappeared completely?”
“I remember the scandal,” Ernest said, as he stopped and leaned against the back of an armchair. “So many people were convinced that Mildred had killed the poor girl. Now, I was no particular fan of Mildred Weaver, I never even went into her pub very often, but I still thought that some of the things that were said about her were completely wrong. Now, when did Annie disappear? 1923, I believe. Mildred was a widow by then, she and her husband Leonard had adopted the orphan girl but Leonard died soon after. Mildred was left running the pub by herself, and raising a little girl for whom she had no real affection.”
“What happened to Annie?” Sally asked.
“She was only ten when she disappeared,” Ernest continued. “I'm sure you can imagine the rumors that spread through this town like wildfire. Now, I love Crowford more than perhaps anyone alive, but even I have to admit that the people here can sometimes turn on someone in the ugliest manner imaginable. And they turned on Mildred, and many people refused to set foot in her pub again because they were convinced that she'd done something awful to the child. Mildred Weaver might have been a harsh woman, and she might have been cruel at times, but a murderer? No, I never believed that and I still don't today.”
“Then where did Annie go?” Matt asked.
“That's the big question,” Ernest said, nodding sadly.
“Mildred's still looking for her,” Sally told him, “and Annie...”
She thought back to the message on the wall.
“And Annie's still hiding from her,” she continued. “After all these years.”
“I'm not surprised that Mildred wants to find her,” Ernest admitted. “To her dying day, she swore blind that she'd never hurt the girl, and that one day someone would come forward and reveal what had happened. She believed that Annie must have been abducted by someone and murdered. I've kept my ear to the ground, but I never heard of a young girl's bones being discovered anywhere, at least not a girl who could have been Annie. Mildred was still hated by many people when she died, still suspected of committing one of the most ghastly, unforgivable crimes imaginable. Killing a child.”
Sally felt a shudder pass through her chest.
“We've woken her up,” Matt said, “and we don't know what to do next. She killed our friend, and we're worried that she won't stop hurting people until she gets what she wants.”
Ernest hesitated, before stepping around the armchair and taking a seat. He let out a pained groan as his aged knees creaked, and he took a moment to make himself comfortable.
“If you can help us in any way at all,” Matt continued, “I'm begging you, we'll do anything. Someone obviously thought you might be able to tell us something, or they wouldn't have given us your address. We have to find a way to either silence Mildred Weaver's ghost, or get her to stop being so angry.”
“It all started so very long ago,” Ernest replied. “1923 was... what, sixty-one years ago? It's almost impossible to believe that so much time has passed. From what I understand, Mildred ran that pub with an iron fist, and she wasn't one to tolerate fools. By the time her husband had been dead a few years, she'd already come to despise the little orphan girl they'd adopted. Som
e say she even wanted her dead...”
Chapter Twenty-Three
1923...
“Get out from under my feet, girl!” Mildred Weaver roared, turning and grabbing Annie by the hair, then pushing her over to the other side of the bar area. “I won't tell you again!”
“I'm sorry,” Annie said, struggling to hold back a giggle as she turned and looked over her shoulder. “I didn't mean to upset you.”
“Go and fetch some empty glasses from the tables,” Mildred said, pointing toward the far end of the pub. “Go, girl! Make yourself useful! Mind that you don't disturb people, though. And whatever you do, don't you dare touch those slops!”
As Annie hurried away, Mildred turned to the men who were sitting on their stools on the other side of the bar. Reaching down, she picked up a cigarette and took a long drag, and then she exhaled slowly. She glanced at the clock and saw that she still had several hours to go before she'd be able to throw everyone out.
“There's music at The Red Cow tonight,” a man grumbled. “Ron Thurdle's playing his fiddle.”
“Then go to The Red Cow!” Mildred barked angrily, before turning and seeing that Annie was talking to a man at a table. “Get working!” she roared, causing Annie to immediately hurry to another table. “Don't let me spot you slacking, girl!”
“You shouldn't be too hard on the little lass,” Edward Osborne told her. “She's only young, and she needs to find an outlet for all that energy somewhere.”
“She can get it out by working for me,” Mildred muttered, as she tapped the head of the cigarette against an ashtray. “It was Len who was so keen on having a child in the house. He said that seeing as we didn't have any of our own, we should take in a stray. He promised he'd be the one to look after her, and that he'd be the one to discipline her, and all of that. And then what did he do?” She coughed for a moment, trying to clear her lungs as smoke swirled in the air all around the room. “He died, that's what,” she continued, “and he left me with the pub and the child. I'm not sure which is worse.”
