by Sabrina York
“That all right there for you then?”
Stepping sideways so she could see around George’s considerable bulk, Emily checked the position of the ladder. Silly really, she thought, if it wasn’t right she was perfectly capable of moving it herself. Still, the guy was just being nice.
“Fine. Thanks so much George. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. You want anything else, you just ask.” He moved toward the door now, seemingly reluctant to leave. Emily couldn’t blame him. She suspected his job was awfully dull, just mooching round an old house at night, protecting it from thieves that would never come. He was probably grateful to have someone to talk to, for a change. Mind you, he must have an office somewhere. Perhaps he sat in there and read a book or watched TV.
“Will do,” she said, “I’ll speak to you later.” Much as she thought George was hot, Emily wanted him gone. She’d done hardly anything yet, bar sorting out her workspace and her ladder. At this rate she was going to be leaving at the same time as George did tomorrow morning. The office would not be pleased if they thought she was dawdling.
Plus, she sternly reminded herself, it would not be a good thing to get down and dirty with someone she was kind of working with. Okay, it would be great for her body—her study of George had given her the impression he knew how to please a woman—but it wouldn’t be good on a professional basis, especially if the office or someone else at Westbury Hall found out. No. She’d keep things professional. She could always get in touch with him when she’d finished this job.
In the time it had taken for these thoughts to run through Emily’s head, George had murmured a farewell, and she’d wandered over to the desk. She sat down heavily in the chair and sighed, wondering why she was kidding herself. She wouldn’t be contacting George after she’d finished at Westbury Hall, because when she did, her next assignment would take her off to another library at the other end of the country. She very rarely had consecutive jobs which were geographically close together—unfortunately it just didn’t work like that.
Emily did the British thing and poured herself a cup of tea to make herself feel better. She’d just drink it, then she’d crack on with what she was supposed to be doing. She had a huge task ahead of her and if she didn’t buck up, people would start to wonder what on earth she was up to.
Not long later, Emily drained her cup, put it back on the tray and stood up. She stretched satisfyingly, then bent to retrieve her tools from her bag. Placing them all on the desk just so, she pulled on some latex gloves, then moved purposefully toward the ladder. As she climbed it, she tested each step for stability as she went. She was sure it was perfectly fit for purpose, but she had no idea when it had last been used, and these old houses were renowned for woodworm. She wasn’t about to take any risks.
The ladder held firm, however, and soon Emily was on the very top step, assessing how many books she could safely bring down at a time. When she worked, she did so methodically—a practice necessary for making sure all the books were put back exactly where they’d come from. Basically, she’d work shelf by shelf; empty, clean books, clean shelf, refill shelf. And so she set about doing just that.
It took several trips up and down the ladder just to get the first shelf cleared, but Emily didn’t mind. She was already entering the zone. However, she was startled out of it on her last descent of the ladder before starting to clean the books. As she reached the bottom, carefully carrying her bundle of books, somehow she knocked one of the framed photographs on the shelf over. Luckily it just fell over backwards, flapping onto the wood and doing no damage other than to Emily’s nerves. Depositing her pile of books on the desk, Emily rushed back to put the photograph back in its rightful position.
Picking it up, she looked at it. Turning it over in her hands, Emily satisfied herself that the photograph was no worse off for its tiny ordeal. Then she studied the image itself. It was a black and white portrait of a young man, whom she guessed was in his late twenties. Judging by the clothes he wore, she suspected the photograph had been taken in the late 1940s. There was nothing remarkable about the photo, except for his expression. She knew smiling in photos wasn’t as commonplace then as it was today, but still. The guy looked incredibly somber, and there was a melancholy in his eyes that made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. If Emily’s estimate of the date the picture was taken was correct, though, it was entirely possible that he’d lost loved ones—and friends, as he could well have been enlisted—during the Second World War. For that, she could completely forgive him his seriousness.
Emily stroked a thumb across the glass, just where his face was. It was an unconscious move, but when she’d done it, Emily wondered if deep down she was hoping to make him feel better. There went her imagination again. She shook her head at her own oddness and put the photograph down gently before moving back to the desk to get on with her epic task. Glancing around the room as she sat down, Emily suppressed a sigh. It was lucky she liked her job. This library contained an awful lot of books.
Chapter Two
A while later, Emily was well and truly in the zone. After her delayed start, she worked through her task thoroughly and efficiently and was confident she could get several more books done before she left, especially if she remained uninterrupted. So far she hadn’t come across any pieces which needed any more than surface cleaning. This collection was obviously well looked after.
Unfortunately, though, she couldn’t switch off her bodily functions and by the time she’d finished the book she was working on, Emily was desperate for a loo break. As she stood to go off in search of the nearest usable toilet—the house had many, naturally, but they weren’t all for use in the here and now—a grumble from her stomach told her that now was probably a good time to have a proper break, too, and get something to eat. Pulling off her gloves, Emily resolved to do just that.
Emily found a toilet without too much trouble, did what she had to do and made her way back to the library. She half expected to see George on her travels, but she remained completely alone. Probably just as well, it meant she could eat her food quickly and get straight back to work. It didn’t stop a small part of her wishing he’d pop in and see her again. She mentally berated herself for even thinking it. She hardly knew the guy and yet she was thinking about him. The lack of sex was obviously sending her libido into overdrive. She needed to get laid—and soon. He would be the perfect candidate, with his lovely smile, cute dimple, body to die for… no, it wasn’t going to happen. It wouldn’t be right.
After eating her dinner—an actually quite delicious pasta salad she’d picked up at the local supermarket—Emily tidied up, put her rubbish away and settled back down at the desk to continue her task. Just as she was about to carry on, though, she noticed the diminishing light. Moving to the switches which she’d noticed earlier by the door, Emily flipped them all, bathing the room in a glow that was gentle, but perfectly adequate for working in. She sat down once more, snapped her gloves back on and got down to it.
Emily worked in peace for a little while longer. Then she felt a slight draught on the back of her neck. Carefully placing down the book she was working on and fidgeting in the chair, she moved her head from side to side and up and down, as if to erase the odd feeling. She forgot it almost instantly, until a few seconds later, it came again. It felt as though someone was blowing on the back of her neck. Emily shivered, both at the sensation and the creepy thought that had entered her mind. Goosebumps crept over her entire body, and the third movement of air made her jump up out of the chair and spin round to face the source of the mysterious draught.
There was nothing there. Emily rolled her eyes. Why on earth was she getting like this? She’d worked in dozens of rooms like this, perfectly alone, and not once had she freaked out. Why now? When her gaze fell on the window, she rolled her eyes again. Of course. Old houses like Westbury more often than not had panes of glass which didn’t fit into their frames properly, or they’d slipped, been damaged.
The draught was coming from the window. Emily crossed the room to the window, drew the curtains—she’d open them again before she left, and Mrs. Thompson would never be any the wiser—and sat back down again. Shaking her head at her own stupidity, Emily continued working on the book she’d just abandoned, quickly becoming absorbed in her task once more.
A noise from over by the ladder startled Emily, making her jump and almost jab herself in the eye with the end of the brush she was using. Turning, she saw that the photograph she’d righted earlier after its little mishap was once more lying down. She’d obviously not fixed the stand properly. Downing tools, Emily stomped across the room, cross at the seemingly endless interruptions, and grabbed the photograph. She checked the stand to make sure it held firm, then wagged a finger at the man in the image.
“Just you behave. I’ve got too much work to do to put up with your shenanigans, if you don’t mind.”
She didn’t know she’d spoken out loud and giggled at the realization, stopping abruptly when it hit home just how peculiarly she was behaving. This place was making her crazy, she decided, which could be catastrophic considering she hadn’t even finished one shelf of books yet, and she had considerably more to do. If this weirdness carried on, she’d be a wreck by the time the job was done.
Shaking her head again, Emily walked back to the desk and sat down. She resolved to knuckle down, get the first shelf completed and call it a night. Hopefully a decent amount of sleep and a session with her vibrator would make her feel more herself and mean she could put this idiotic behavior behind her and return to Westbury tomorrow with her sensible, hard-working head firmly screwed on. She hoped so, anyway, because this simply wouldn’t do.
Emily was able to finish cleaning the first lot of books without any further interruptions. She heaved a sigh of relief and swapped her book cleaning tools for her shelf cleaning tools. All she had to do was clean the empty shelf, replace the books, put the library back to how it had been when she’d started and be on her way. Tomorrow was another day, she mused, and she was determined it was going to be much more productive than this one.
She’d just put her feet back onto the floor after her third trip up the ladder when she felt something touch her right leg, down by her ankle. She wore trousers, so if it had been some kind of insect it was doubtful she’d have felt it. Besides, it was moving up and down, as though stroking her. Still looking forward at the ladder and grasping its handrails, Emily was frozen in place. She couldn’t move, speak, scream or even bring herself to look around.
She’d never been so scared in her life. The stroking sensation crept higher and higher until it reached her hip. Finally, something in Emily snapped and she screamed at the top of her lungs, lurched away from the ladder and ran out of the library.
Driven by nothing other than fear and the urge to get away from the library, Emily tore down the corridor, deciding on the spur of the moment that she was going to go and find George. She had no idea where his office was, but it couldn’t be that difficult to find. However, before she’d gotten much farther, George rounded the corner into the corridor, jogging toward her. His expression was one of confusion and concern and when he reached her, he put his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes.
“Christ, are you all right? What’s going on? I heard you scream and came as quickly as I could.”
George must have been flipping the lights on as he did his rounds, as the corridor and the rooms beyond were all lit up. She thanked heaven for small mercies. With his all-black outfit, if Emily had come across George in an unlit room and not recognized him she’d have screamed again and not been held responsible for her fear-filled actions. Not that she’d have been able to do much damage to a man with his muscles.
In shock and unable to answer George’s questions, Emily simply pushed in between his outstretched arms and put her head on his chest, flinging her arms around his back. He froze for a second, then curled one arm around her, slipping his other hand underneath her chin and pulling her head up.
“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he said gently, smiling down at her and flashing that adorable dimple. “I’m here. What happened?”
She relaxed a little in his embrace, and managed a weak smile. Then, unable to lower her head because of George’s hand under her chin, she lowered her eyes instead, another blush threatening to emerge. “You—you’ll think I’m stupid.”
“Now why would I think that? Try me.” He gave her a squeeze, which both reassured her and sparked arousal. Her nether regions started to ache with awareness of how close he was, and she was glad she wore a padded bra, as she was sure her nipples were probably making their presence known. “Come on. Tell me.”
“I must be going mad,” Emily began, continuing to enjoy their closeness, “but I’m kind of getting the impression that the library is…haunted.”
She cringed, expecting a howl of laughter or similar to come from George. What she wasn’t prepared for was what he actually said. “Ah, perhaps you’d better come and sit in my office. There’s something you should know.”
With that, he moved his arm around her back and led her down a flight of stairs, through the lobby and into a room branching off the next corridor they entered. The room was cozy, containing a table and a couple of chairs, and a bank of security monitors on one wall. On the table sat a kettle and various drink-making accompaniments, a radio, a pile of books, a notepad and pen, and some magazines.
Ushering her into a chair, George flipped on the kettle and dropped a teabag each into two mugs. After enquiring how she liked her tea and adding the milk and sugar accordingly, he moved the remaining chair around the table so it was right next to the one Emily sat in. A couple of silent minutes passed as George waited for the kettle to boil, made the drinks and moved them to the relevant parts of the table. He then lowered his considerable frame into the seat and looked at Emily.
“So,” George said, absentmindedly stroking the outside of the hot mug in front of him, “you’ve encountered Westbury’s ghost, then.”
It wasn’t really a question, but Emily answered it anyway. “I guess so. First I felt a draught on the back of my neck, as though someone was blowing on it, then a photo kept falling over on the shelf and the last straw was when I had just got to the bottom of the ladder and I felt something stroking my leg. Up until that point I’d managed to find rational explanations for what was happening, but I couldn’t rationalize that. Which was when I totally freaked out and ran into you.”
“I’m surprised Mrs. Thompson didn’t say something to you. To warn you, I mean. It’s general knowledge to anyone involved with Westbury Hall that the library is haunted, but with you being new here…” He tailed off.
“Well, she did drop some hints about the place having quite an interesting history and that I would find out soon enough myself. I assumed she meant that I’d see stuff in the books in the library.”
“Hmm.”
Emily frowned. “What do you mean, hmm? You don’t believe her? Or me?”
Her voice rose on her last question, irritated as she was by the thought. She took a gulp of her tea, mainly to occupy her mouth and stop her saying something she’d regret.
“God no,” George replied, “nothing like that. I was just thinking. Maybe she didn’t want to worry or scare you needlessly. After all, it’s been years since anyone has heard a peep out of him.”
“Really? He doesn’t appear regularly to people? And who is ‘he’ anyway?”
“His name was William Elliott. He was born and raised in this house. He was an only child, and had a very happy young life, by all accounts. But then World War Two came along. William enlisted in the army. He went to London to train and he met a nurse. They fell in love and planned to marry after the war was over, like so many did in those days. Anyway, William completed his training and went off to fight in Europe and he and his fiancée—Jane, her name was—wrote to each other all the time. I’m guessing it was the letters that Mrs. Thompson knew y
ou’d come across sooner or later. They’re a fascinating read.”
“And? What happened next?” George had only paused to draw breath, but Emily was by now so desperate to hear the rest of the story that she prompted him regardless.
He raised a wry eyebrow at her in return and took a sip of his tea before continuing, like he was deliberately making her wait. “Well, they were writing to each other, talking about their lives and their plans and what they were going to do after the war. But in early 1941, Jane suddenly stopped writing. As I’m sure you know, that was when the Luftwaffe was busy trying to turn London into a huge pile of rubble. William immediately thought the worst and exploited as many contacts as he could to find out if Jane was safe. Nobody could confirm anything for him either way. He continued to do his job as a soldier as well as sending letters home desperately trying to find out what—if anything—had happened to Jane. He never gave up, and when he came home after the war, he carried on searching. Some of his army buddies tried to tell him that she might have simply met someone else, but he refused to believe it. A couple of years later, he finally discovered something.”
Pausing to take another drink, George looked at Emily, whose eyes were welling with unshed tears. He swallowed his drink, smiled softly and said, “Unfortunately, it wasn’t good news. After all that time, William got the worst news imaginable. Jane had been killed during the Blitz. He returned to Westbury Hall almost immediately, wanting to get away from London, away from his army buddies—anything that would remind him of the war or of Jane. He was never really the same afterwards. His parents despaired.”
Emily sniffed, wiping her eyes furiously to stop the tears from falling. “Poor William. How do you know all of this? Obviously some of it came from the letters, but what about after they’d stopped?”
