The Haunting at Hawke's Moor

by Camille Oster

  "No," Alfie said a little too sharply and Anne was taken aback. "I have nowhere to go and if burning greenery will protect me, then that is enough."

  Anne still felt uncertain, but he seemed too adamant not to be dismissed. She fully understood the fear of having nowhere to go. "I can give you good references, enough to get you employment elsewhere."

  "I don't want to leave." He looked her straight in the eye as he said it. There was frustration there that Anne didn't understand, but if he insisted on staying, she would let him. Their daily life would be infinitely more burdensome without him. He had become integral to the smooth running of the house and their minuscule working farm.

  And to her surprise, the sage seemed to work. There were not more footsteps, whispers or creaks in the night. She slept right through to dawn. Even Lisle seemed to be happier. Well, happy might be a stretch—less discontented was probably more accurate.

  Now it was about time she tackled some of the spare rooms in the house, eager to remove all remnants of the house's abandoned past. The decrepit rooms sat like sores hidden away behind shut doors. Hidden, but not forgotten. Getting them straightened would make the house feel more homely—free of its past.

  Mr. Harleston's thoughts on peaceful happiness rang true with her and that was what she wanted to achieve. It was enough now, of the fear and worry. Things were fine. The garden was thriving, the chickens were growing and the cow gave a good quantity of milk every day. It might not be much in some people's books, but she was independently managing—something she'd been taught she could never achieve.

  They spent the morning carting out unsalvageable furnishings, including heavy draperies, a medieval tapestry which the moths had ravaged. Dragging these dusty objects down the stairs and outside created quite a mess, but it would be worth it. Alfie built a fire and it all burned.

  The dust and the smoke from the fire took a toll on Anne's throat and she had an aching cough later in the day. The rooms were now stripped of everything that had to go, including mattresses, and there was only dust left to deal with. It covered everything and turned to grime the instant they put water to it.

  Even with the dust, the clear, open spaces felt more peaceful. There was only one room left—one she hadn't even looked into. The attic. She wanted to know how much clutter was up there. It might be an utter mess, which would bother her, or it may be relatively clean. She needed to know.

  The entrance was down at the very end of the servant's floor, a rough wooden door with a lock on it. The keys were lost to time, so Alfie had to break it open with an iron bar.

  The space was dark and the heavy oak beams sat low. The slate of the roof could be seen above and cobwebs covered the clutter, of which there was some—old furniture, debris, papers and boxes of what looked like farm implements. Paper and other small objects crunched under her feet as she walked.

  A small window sat at the far end, sending a thick column of light through the dust. There were things there, but it wasn't stuffed to the brim.

  Walking along in the dark space, Anne hit her left chin on something hard and pain flared up her leg from the wound. It was a strongbox of some type. It looked old, as did the lock which was made of clunky iron. Thick rails of iron ran down its length.

  "Found treasure?" Lisle asked as she appeared on the stairs.

  "A strongbox of some type. It is locked."

  "Could be anything in there. Gold maybe."

  "I hardly think anyone would be keeping gold in a box in the attic, Lisle," Anne said dismissively. Just a box left for storage. Who knew how old it was?

  Taking a last look around, Anne walked back to the entrance. It wasn't too bad—not bad enough that it would bother her knowing the state of the place.

  Shutting the door, Anne tried to replace the broken lock, but it hung limply. Hopefully, that lock wasn't shutting something nasty inside—like the darkness that slumbered. Who knew where darkness lay? Mr. Harleston hadn't said anything about being careful where she went. It was passions that woke it, not wandering around looking for cleaning work. There was nothing passionate here. She'd even managed to keep her fear in check.

  So now she knew. The attic didn't particularly need tending to. It was just the spare rooms and the remainder of the servants' quarters, and then the house would be hers in its entirety.

  The house was silent that night, too. Opening the attic hadn't disturbed anything and Anne was pleased. She had another day of cleaning planned, determined to lay claim to the house in full, and she felt that was achieved when she could use all its spaces.

  Lisle was baking downstairs and Anne went to get the milk, which had become their habit. But opposed to what she expected, the cow was still in the stable, eyeing her as she walked in. The milking pail also stood empty. For some reason, Alfie had been negligent in his duties.

  Unease crept up her spine. Perhaps the sage hadn't worked and he'd become too ill to leave his cot. If this were the case, she would make him leave. Turning toward the building his room was in, she rushed, taking the staircase two at a time. "Alfie," she called, but there was no answer. The door gave when she pushed on it and the room was completely silent, eerily so.

  "Alfie," she said again, stepping into the room. All she heard were birds chirping outside. Her eyes traveled to the cot where he lay, his eyes glassy and staring, his lips blue. Covering her mouth, she gasped. A sheet covered his hips, but he was otherwise naked, a sheen of sweat still on his pale skin. The sheet was barely protection from the cold. He would have frozen, but he looked like he'd suffered from a violent fever.

  Anne stumbled backward, crashing into a stool and fell to the wall. He was dead. He'd been fine yesterday, a bit gray and pale, but now he was dead. Anne tripped down the stairs in her rush having to brace herself as her knee gave way. Splinters stabbed into her palm. She had to get away, get outside. It felt like the walls were closing in on her.

  "What's the matter?" Lisle called. "I heard you screaming."

  Anne couldn't talk, only stared at her, unaware she'd made any noise at all. Lisle rushed past her toward Alfie's building, but Anne grabbed her. "No," Anne said, but Lisle pulled out of her grip. She heard Lisle screaming inside, heard the anguish in her voice. Anne felt so sorry for her. Lisle cared about Alfie, even after the hurt he'd inflicted on her.

  Lisle was silent when she returned, looking shocked and numb.

  "I'll go get help from Mr. Turner," Anne said and Lisle nodded as she continued walking slowly back to the main house.

  Anne started running and kept doing so as long as she could. When she couldn't run anymore, the tears started and she wandered toward the Turner farm with them wetting her cheeks and blurring her vision. She should have made him leave. Why had she been swayed by him? Had she put his life in danger because she was too afraid to be without his help? She knew he was being attacked and she'd brought herbs to deal with it. Herbs. How could she have been so stupid? And now a young man was dead and Lisle was distraught.

  She'd fooled herself into thinking everything in the house was fine. Nothing was fine and they'd killed Alfie. This was all her fault. "A nice balance," the medium had said so cheerily. This wasn't balance. Alfie had just died. That wasn't balance. This was war. The house had attacked them and claimed a victim.

  Mr. Turner led her inside without a word and his wife, who'd Anne hadn't met before, gave her something to drink, which was disgusting and strong, but Anne drank it anyway. She managed to hack out what happened and Mr. Turner said he'd go to the village and inform the doctor and the vicar.

  Anne started crying again. The vicar had put Alfie in her care and she'd completely failed in her duties. And now he was dead.

  Chapter 13:

  There was a carriage waiting by the time Anne returned. Lisle was standing outside with her arms crossed, a grim look on her face.

  "Who's here?" Anne asked.

  "The vicar and the doctor. They're in with him now."

  Anne felt tears sting her nose ag
ain. "I'm so sorry—" Anne started, but Lisle held up her hand as if she refused to hear it.

  They stood there for a while, just looking at the building where Alfie had his room. A time later, the vicar appeared. "Ah, Miss Sands. Such terrible news. Poor Alfie, struck down in his youth. So very sad. A deficiency in his heart, Doctor Sorensen says. Something he would have been born with. Could have happened at any time. Still, so very sad when someone dies so young."

  "What do we do now? Must we… send him somewhere?"

  "No, as he has no family, there is no one to notify. I understand Mr. Turner is making preparations."

  "Preparations?"

  "There is a graveyard attached to this estate. If you are amenable, it would be best to bury him there."

  Anne had no idea there was a graveyard. She hadn't seen it. "Of course."

  "Good. Mr. Turner will go directly and make preparations, but it will take a little while."

  The doctor appeared, carrying his black bag. He was a man in his fifties with a head full of gray hair and a pronounced pouch to his belly. "Miss Sands," he said, gently taking her hand. "Such sad circumstances to make your acquaintance."

  "Mr. Whitling said his heart failed," Anne said.

  Mr. Sorensen tucked his thumb in a pocket on his waistcoat and straightened. "Yes. It is true. His heart failed. The weakness congenital. There was nothing that could be done for him."

  The doctor sounded so assured, Anne forced herself to believe him. He excused himself and prepared to leave, saying he was very sorry, but had much to do.

  "I will return in a few days as well, Miss Sands, to perform the burial service," Father Whitling said, earnestly placing his hand on her arm. Nodding slightly to Lisle, he followed the doctor into the carriage and they started leaving, a noisy departure growing increasingly silent the further away they were.

  Lisle snorted and then returned to the house. Anne stayed where she was and slowly turned, looking up at the façade of the house. Could it be true? Was it Alfie's heart that had given out? A reasonable person would accept that as the rational explanation. Still, she would burn sage and cover all the mirrors in the house to stop Alfie's spirit from returning.

  Alfie's funeral was a quick affair. Mr. Turner had led the coffin on a cart and the vicar held the service. Lisle cried throughout until she couldn't bear it anymore and wandered off, back toward the house. The graveyard was monstrously overgrown. Gravestones were scattered, some moss growing on the rough surface.

  The vicar and Mrs. Turner left, leaving Mr. Turner to fill the grave.

  "Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Turner," Anne said. "I couldn't have done this without your help."

  "It's nothing," he said gruffly. It wasn't nothing. Mr. Turner, for all his curtness, had come through when she needed someone to.

  "I thank you all the same and I hope to return it if at any point I can be of assistance."

  Mr. Turner looked at her with disapproval and she guessed from his perspective, she was all but useless. She chuckled as his utter lack of manners and turned to walk back. The cart horse waited patiently while Mr. Turner continued filling the grave. The other graves were unkempt and two grooves lay in the overgrowth showed where the cart had come.

  Her eyes drew to the other graves. Elizabeth Hawke. Daniel Hawke. Rufus Hawke. There were other graves too, Theodore West, Marjerie Willow and William Couth. There were a few without names, and a couple where the wind and rain had eroded the writing. Then a larger one. She walked over and saw what looked like a double gravestone. A skull and crossbones were carved into the stone. Richard Hawke, the Baron of Thornsten, passed from this world in violent circumstances, the sixteenth of May, 1643.

  Anne wondered if this was the man who had built the manor. The place was named after a Hawke and this seemed to the prominent one. Returning to the other Hawke graves, she saw that both Elizabeth and Daniel had died on the same day, and they were young, likely the children of the Baron.

  Anne recalled the mention of a fire that had destroyed the original house. Or had it been the battles that raged in this area at the time? The baron had been a royalist, who had been defeated when parliament fought in this area.

  Feeling iciness creep up her spine, she shuddered and left Mr. Turner to complete the burial. No wonder she had not seen the graveyard, considering how overgrown it was. Perhaps she should come back and care for these graves when she had some time to spare.

  Rain started to fall as she walked back toward the house. She'd forgotten her umbrella and was soaked to the bone in icy moisture when she reached home. Father Whitling had changed out of his ceremonial attire and was waiting for her to change.

  They had tea before he left. Anne felt out of sorts and the conversation was stilted. It didn't seem to bother Father Whitling, who was probably used to colorless tea after burials. He mentioned that the doctor had completed the death notice and all other necessities were now completed. After serving tea, Lisle took to her room again and wasn't there when Father Whitling sought to leave. Anne had to go find his coat and help him dress.

  With a solemn farewell, the reverend departed and Anne watched him go, biting the nail on her thumb.

  She still didn't know what had happened. Her emotions were at such extremes, she couldn't trust her own opinions at the moment. Both the vicar and the doctor had assured her that Alfie's death had been unfortunate but resolutely natural—a part of God's plan.

  She still couldn't shake the fear that it hadn't been. Believing them was a tempting thought. There were so many consequences that came with her fears.

  All was silent now and Anne turned, feeling as if she needed to do something but didn't know what. Tentatively she walked toward the building where Alfie had had his room. His things were still there, not that he had much. There was no family to send them to.

  The door to his room was open and she walked in. It was utterly silent. She walked over and opened the small window, hoping fresh air would lift the heaviness. The bed where he'd lain was still unmade and his everyday clothes lay neatly draped over the back of a chair as though he fully expected to rise in the morning and put them on. His Sunday clothes were gone. Likely he'd been buried in them. Sadness washed over her again.

  Her gaze traveled to his things on the rough wooden table, seeing the bowl where the sage was. It had water in it. She moved closer and examined it. The sage had been doused and looking closer, she saw that it had been done so not long after she had placed it there. Alfie had doused the sage. Why would he had done that? Probably because he thought it was superstitious lunacy. To any rational person, it would be.

  Anne frowned. But then there was the chance that the removal of the sage's protective power had invited the spirits. She just didn't know what to believe anymore.

  Shutting the door, she left, feeling unable to deal with Alfie's things at that moment. She returned to the house. The belief that Alfie's death had been an unfortunate heart condition didn't hold as firm in her mind now and her suspicions returned. Why would Alfie douse his protection?

  A strange feeling came over her as she walked back into the house. Her chest ached as if she were holding her breath, but she wasn't. She couldn't quite catch her breath, each feeling heavy and labored. The feeling of being watched had returned. The house was darkening and Anne tried to hang onto the rationality she had worked so hard to instill in herself, when another thought occurred to her—maybe Alfie had doused the sage because he wanted to. He had turned his back on his relationship with Lisle and that suggested he had turned to something else—something that has been more compelling. Maybe he had invited the spirits. The thought sat uncomfortably, but she couldn't escape it. Could spirits have seduced him and called him to his grave like sirens?

  Anne grabbed another bushel of sage and wound the dried leaves tight into a cinder. Lighting it with a stick from the kitchen fire, she walked around the still house, letting the smoke linger in every corner. She didn't want her suspicions to be true, but she wasn'
t prepared to take any chances. Moving in the space, she listened for every noise, hearing her breath echo across walls and ceilings.

  The house grew darker still, and for once, Anne absolutely dreaded the dark. There was an oppressive feeling in the house, one of patient anticipation. The smoke of the sage rose and curled, but something in the back of her mind said they were beyond the power of sage to calm things. Perhaps it was Lisle with her high emotions and palpable grief, stirring the spirits in the house. But you couldn't tell someone to stop grieving. Lisle had a right to her grief. Else just the event of a death making the spirits restless. She hoped her fears were wrong.

  Chapter 14:

  Every nerve ending in Anne's body was on edge, every noise in the house made her jump. Again, she felt as if she'd been running and she couldn't catch her breath. This constant worry must be taking a toll on her health. Everything felt pensive. Nothing was seen, but hints of whispers sounded occasionally as if people were quietly talking in another room. That wasn't true, of course, and if she listened intently, she heard nothing. It was as if another sense was picking up these whispers.

  The house was restless that night. A death had probably caused some stir amongst the spirits, awakened them. Perhaps these things added energy to the spirit world.

  Anne just wanted to go to bed and draw the blankets over her head, let the house carry on without her. She couldn't shake the cloying unease as she crawled into bed, tucking her feet up as close to her as she could manage. A little bubble of safety and the house could do as it wished.

  She had placed sage on the floor on every corner of her bed. With the blankets drawn over her head, the smoke was not so noxious. Right now, she would rather have the sage and the safety she felt it gave her, rightly or wrongly, than to breathe easy. She wanted to disappear into pleasant dreams and forget the horrible few days they'd had. What she truly wanted was a pair of arms wrapping around her and holding her safe—a wish she'd never truly had fulfilled. Her relationship with her husband had been too cold for such comforts.