by Amy Cross
I do enjoy work, so very much. And there is plenty of work to do out here, before I have to think about entering the house.
With all my cares now far from my mind, I begin to wander along the house's southern edge. I am already thinking of all the tasks that I must carry out here in the garden and patio area. I am not a gardener, of course, but I do not mind getting my hands dirty and I think I have a very pleasant day ahead. There is sweeping to do, and a multitude of other jobs. Why, I shall be lucky if I manage to get into the house at all today, and in the back of my mind I am starting to wonder whether it might be better to stay at a (different) public house tonight and then get solidly to work inside Aldburn Park in the morning, once Mrs. Ferguson and her two girls have arrived. Yes, that might be a good idea.
As I walk, I even begin to whistle, which is most unusual.
And then I stop suddenly, as I see the pond beyond the patio and, of course, the summer house on the far side. I freeze entirely, and for a moment my gaze is absolutely fixed on the summer house's double doors. Although the summer house is a good couple of hundred yards away from where I now stand, the mere sight of the place fills me with an uneasy sensation, and after a moment I begin to look at the surrounding forest. I watch the gaps between the trees – for what, I do not know – and now I am gripped by a sensation that is not unlike fear. This is irrational, of course, but for a brief moment I cannot help but think back to the last time I was over at the summer house.
My breathing has become rapid now, and I dare say that my pulse is racing.
“Mmm,” I mutter, as I take a step back.
I look again at the forest, and now I am filled with the certain belief that I am being watched. I know that this is impossible, of course, but this knowledge is not enough to dispel the strange sensation of a gaze. It is as if I am being watched from all sides at once, and finally I look once more at the summer house. Reaching up, I scratch the back of my neck, which has suddenly become rather itchy, and I notice after a moment longer that I am beginning to sweat rather profusely. Why this would be, I do not know, but I am now beginning to feel terribly exposed out here in the garden, as if a dangerous gaze is coming at me from all directions.
“Mmm,” I say again, and then – unable to stop myself – I turn and hurry back around to the front of the house.
As soon as I am out of sight of the summer house, all these strange sensations fade away and I am myself once more. I stop and take a series of deep breaths, and quickly I start to feel foolish. For a moment back there, I was filled with a sense akin to panic. I am no longer sweating, no longer itchy, and I no longer feel as if I am being watched, yet I cannot deny that those sensations felt so very real just a moment ago. I am tempted to go back around to the house's rear and force myself to try again, but in all honesty I am starting to think that this would be a task for later in the day.
Perhaps I should...
I hesitate for a moment, before making my way to the motor car and retrieving my suitcase from the boot. If I am not to spend the morning outside, it stands to reason that I must instead go into the house and get to work there. Lord Fetchford would want nothing less of me.
So it is, then, that I begin once more to make my way to the steps. I walk past the messy little patch of disturbed breakfast, and I grip my suitcase's handle tight as I ascend the stone steps that lead to the house's front door. I feel another wretched twist in my gut, but I am able to fend that sensation off by squeezing the handle tighter and tighter, and this time I reach the door and am able to take the key from my pocket. My hands are trembling slightly, but I tell myself that perhaps I am simply suffering from a mild case of food poisoning. I slide the key into the lock, therefore, and give it a turn, and finally I push open the door and – for the first time in many years – I step inside Aldburn Park.
Chapter Four
The Mirrors
With the door wide open behind me, I stand still holding my suitcase and I look around the grand, high-ceilinged hallway.
So much has changed, and yet so little has changed also. Everything is as it was left when the household departed on that awful day, but there is an undeniable pall of lifelessness about the place. It is strange, but when one looks at the various items – the telephone on the table; the empty vases; the staircase that winds up to the house's top floor – one can somehow tell that they have been left untouched for years. Even if one did not know the history of Aldburn Park, one would instantly understand that this is a house that has been left locked and empty for quite some time.
I take a step forward and set my suitcase down, but for a moment I am quite taken aback by the memories that flood into my mind. Looking at the door to the reception room, I smile as I recall all the times that Lord Fetchford stood in the spot and gave his visitors a hearty welcome, while I stood – roughly where I am now – and offered to take coats. My gaze then shifts to the next door, which leads through to Lord Fetchford's study, and my smile grows as I recall the many long days he would spend sitting in there, subsisting on nothing more than tea and an occasional sandwich. The open doorway now shows nothing beyond, other than a gray wall, but I recall the flickering light of the fire in the hearth. I then look at the grandfather clock on the other side of the room, and my smile grows as I recall how Lord Fetchford's father would always check the time twice a day, whether he needed to or not. These memories and more are filling my heart now. I turn and look at the staircase, and I recall the occasion on Lord Fetchford's wedding day when -
Well.
My smile fades.
Enough of all that.
Taking another deep breath, I turn and carefully shut the front door, before picking up my suitcase and walking over to set it down at the foot of the staircase. Everything I do – every step, every turn – brings noise to this silent place. Even the rustle of my suit seems loud when set against such ineffable quiet, and I suppose these are the first noises that the house's interior has heard for many years. Save for, perhaps, rain against the windows and the occasional rustle of leaves beyond the garden.
I clear my throat. Not because I need to, but because I wish to further disturb the silence.
“Mmm,” I murmur out loud, for the same reason.
Where to start?
The house is desperately dull and cold, and I believe it would be a good idea to bring some life to what was once such a happy place. To that end, I make my way over to the door under the stairs, and I pull it open and feel a sense of relief as soon as I find the old wood stash. I take some logs and find that, contrary to my fears, they remain dry, so I bundle as many as possible into my arms and then I head through to His Lordship's study.
Dropping to my knees, I set the logs down and grab the brush, and for the next few minutes I work to prepare the way for a rudimentary fire. Rather like a caveman in prehistoric times, I struggle a little at first, but finally I set some of the logs into their proper place and then I reach up for the box of matches that I always kept on the mantelpiece. The box is exactly where I remember, and I cannot help but marvel at the way in which the old life of the house has been awaiting my return. I set some kindling into place, and I strike the match, and finally the first flames begin to flicker to life, casting a faint warm glow.
I hold my hands out and feel the heat.
“Mmm,” I mutter, pleased that I have at least begun my work, and then I smile as the first crackles begin to pierce the quiet of the house.
Getting to my feet, I take a moment to brush my dusty knees, and then I turn to go back out to the hallway. At the last moment, however, I spot several papers scattered on His Lordship's desk, and I wander over to take a closer look.
Even before I get there, I realize that these are the papers he was working on several years ago, on that fateful day when everything came to a head and Aldburn Park had to be abandoned. I recall His Lordship muttering in the car, as we drove away, that he had left some important documents behind. I recall offering to go back and retrieve
the documents, although I was extremely relieved when he told me that this would not be necessary. He could get copies, he told me, and then he fell rather quiet. I recall that we then drove for some miles in silence. I suppose we both knew, in that moment, that returning for the documents was out of the question.
Yet here they are now.
His Lordship's pen is on the writing pad, no doubt where it fell from his hand on that day when...
Well, there is no need to think of such things. Not right now.
Suddenly I hear a loud cracking sound, and I turn quickly. It takes a moment before I realize that the sound came from the hearth, where the fire is starting to properly take hold, and I breathe a sigh of relief. For a moment there, I think I...
And then I see that the door is wide open.
When I came into the study a moment ago, I pushed the door open just enough so that I could get through. I most certainly did not open it all the way, yet that is how it now stands. Could it have simply swung that way? I walk over and push the door back to how it was left, and then I step back and wait to see whether its natural weight perhaps forced it all the way open. This does not happen, however, so I am left with the assumption that either a gentle breeze caused the movement, or I am wrong about how I left the door in the first place.
I look out into the hallway, but all I see is my suitcase still standing at the foot of the stairs. Already, however, the fire is coming to life in the hearth, bringing a sound of life to the house. At the same time, morning light has begun to stream through the windows, and the dull grayness has been chased away. It is as if the house is waking up, and I am pleased that the process has already begun. I must admit, I was feeling a little apprehensive about coming here today, but now I am relieved that I am here with a job to do.
Making my way past the staircase, I head through to the sitting room. My first task must be to get a general sense of the state of the house, and to begin to outline some order for what needs doing. Reaching the sitting room, I am pleasantly surprised to find that – apart from a layer of dust on almost every surface – the room appears to be in an impeccable condition. Indeed, as I look around I am struck by the lack of tasks, and I begin to appreciate that I have more than enough time before His Lordship's arrival in a day or two. I know that this house means everything to him, that he has hated being away from it, and that he sees returning here as the last great act of his life.
I turn to go through to the dining room, but then I stop as I see a bloodied hand-print on the wall.
For a moment, I can only stare at the hand-print, but already I am thinking back to the moment when it first appeared. Did I not remove it, all those years ago? I would certainly have intended to do so, but evidently matters got away from me. Then again, perhaps I delegated the task to Mrs. Ferguson, and she then was unable to get the job done. The hand-print is rather clearer and fuller than I remember, and for a few seconds I can almost hear Lady Fetchford's screams as she was dragged through into the next room. It was her hand that made that bloodied mark on the wall, and sure enough there is a smeared trail running from the print itself all the way to the edge of the door. The one concession to the years is that whereas the print was once bright red, it is now a darkish brown color, although it is still instantly recognizable as blood.
I step closer, but then I realize that there is no point. I do not have the means to clean the print away now, but I shall certainly put this task high on my list of jobs for the day.
Trying to force myself to stop thinking back to that terrible moment, I make my way past the print and through into the dining room, where I see that some of the chairs have been left overturned and scattered on the floor. Sighing, I wander over and start picking them up one by one, setting them back into their proper places. It is strange to find these isolated reminders of that dreaded day, left amid the order and proper state of the rest of the house. Was it after being dragged through here that Lady Fetchford pushed the chairs over? Was it then that she was pressed down against the dining table? So much happened on that day, but I am still surprised to find that my memories are a little muddied. As I set the final chair into place, however, I tell myself that nothing good will come from obsessing over the past.
And then I spot the mirror.
Set above the dining room's empty hearth, the large mirror reflects – from where I am standing – the far end of the room and the lower section of the chandelier.
What if I went closer?
I would eventually see my own reflection, and anything that happened to be behind me.
Even from here, I can tell that there is a considerable amount of dust on the mirror's surface. That dust will have to be cleaned off, of course, but I am not sure whether...
The girls!
Yes, why was I so foolish?
The girls can clean the mirror, once they arrive with Mrs. Ferguson. There is no need for me to do it at all. The girls will probably even enjoy such a mundane task, especially if it means that they can get the stepladder out. Yes, the girls will do it, and I can focus on other matters.
Forcing a smile, I realize that for a moment there I was once again starting to sweat without reason.
The girls will clean all the mirrors. There is really no need for me to go near any of them at all.
I start making my way to the next door, although I have to go the wrong way around the dining table in order to keep as far as possible from the mirror. I try to not even look in that direction, although I cannot help but catch a glint of light in the corner of my eye. Fortunately I quickly reach the door to the kitchen and there I stop, taking a moment to regather my thoughts. I am a little breathless, and when I touch the back of my neck I feel that I have once more been sweating more than one might expect.
But everything is fine.
The girls will clean the mirror.
Once I am sure that I am calm again, I make my way into the kitchen. I run a hand across the first work surface, and of course I soon find a thick layer of dust caked against the edges of my fingers. Dust might not seem like too great a problem, but unfortunately it does rather get everywhere and Mrs. Ferguson and her two girls will most certainly have a great deal of work on their hands. They will get the job done, of course, for Mrs. Ferguson is something of a whirlwind when it comes to such matters. By the time His Lordship arrives at Aldburn Park, the house will be more than acceptable. Besides, in his present condition, he is hardly likely to go wandering around. He will be confined, I am sure, to the master bedroom.
Looking over at the window, I spot the summer house in the distance.
I immediately turn and head back into the dining room, taking care once more to not look into the mirror.
“Mmm,” I say under my breath, and I must note that this utterance is becoming something of a regular habit. It is a habit that I should very much like to end.
Once I am back in the hallway, I realize that I should take my suitcase to the servant's quarters before getting down to work. First, though, I head to the main door and pull it open. I don't know why I shut it in the first place, but now – as I prop the door open – I feel a strong breeze blowing into the house. Life, then. It is as if the house is beginning to breathe.
And with that rather cheery thought, I get down to work.
Chapter Five
Echoes of the Past
It was here – in the master bedroom – that Her Ladyship first told me about her fears.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Lawrence?” she asked as I laid my master's watches out in a drawer.
I remember turning, having not heard her come into the room. I should mention at this point that Her Ladyship had a habit of walking around barefoot, which I always found a little irritating. She also had a penchant for wearing clothing that some might consider rather revealing. Not as bad as the showgirls in London, obviously, but still rather open. I had found this difficult to accept at first, although eventually I grew to accept her approach to fashion. I do recall, how
ever, that she had a habit of standing in slightly exaggerated positions, almost as if she wanted to pose like a fashion model. In fact, I believe she had dabbled in modeling in Paris, in her younger years, before she met His Lordship.
“I have not given the matter much thought,” I remember telling her, hoping that the conversation would end there.
“Do you ever hear things here in the house?” she asked.
“I'm not sure that I understand quite what -”
“Knocking sounds, Mr. Lawrence,” she continued, sounding a little troubled. The sound of her bare feet on the recently-polished wooden floor was, I confess, once more extremely aggravating. “Oh, I don't know, anything that shouldn't be there. Bumps. Thumps.” She paused. “Voices.”
“I hear a great many things in the house,” I told her. “All, I must say, with a perfectly satisfactory explanation.”
Reaching out for one of the watches, I found that it had disappeared. To my surprise, I then found it on the other side of the table.
“So you don't hear anything at all?” I distinctly remember that at this moment she began to bite the nail on her left thumb, as if it had begun to trouble her. “Not even once? Not one thing that seems to come out of thin air?”
“I do not think that I can help you in this matter,” I told her, choosing my words with great care. “I regret to say that my concerns and interests are of a more earthly persuasion.”
I reached for another watch, but this too had moved. I looked around, and finally I found the watch on the bed.
“I wish I could be like you,” Her Ladyship said after a moment. Her bare feet squeaked against the wood. “I wish I didn't think about things so much.”
I turned back to the watches, only to find that another had been moved. This time, turning again, I was just in time to catch Her Ladyship red-handed.
