The Haunting at Hawke's Moor

by Camille Oster

  Nothing on God's green earth could persuade her to leave her hiding place. As she watched another plank depressed ever so slightly, the wood groaning as though weight had come down on it. Then nothing. She listened until there was only ringing in her ears. Her lungs again burned for air, but she was too scared to breathe.

  Shattering glass made her jump sharply, the sound crashing into her ears. Something else had fallen, or been thrown. This spirit was intent on destroying all her things. Better her things than her.

  And then banging started. Shutters, doors, chairs. She didn't know what, but the sound assaulted her. She covered her ears, trying to block it out as if she didn't hear the sound, it wasn't happening. Her heart was beating so hard, she couldn't think. She had to get out of there. This thing was teasing her, waiting for her to emerge.

  Iciness gripped around her ankle and finally she screamed. Tumultuous sensations formed around her before she knew what was happening, until she realized she was sharply being pulled out from under the bed, exposed to the danger taunting her. She kicked wildly but hit nothing.

  Then quiet. She couldn't tell where the creature was. She scrambled up on all fours, crouched and expecting assault. Her mind flashed to Lisle, but she didn't dare call out.

  Again the banging started, growing louder in her ears until she couldn't hear her own thoughts. Untethered panic set in and she watched as the door repeatedly slammed. This thing was everywhere, banging the shutter and the door at the same time. Either there were more than one or this thing was capable of being in more places than one.

  "Lisle!" she finally called, but the banging didn't stop. The floorboards shifted and she spread her arms wide to keep herself from falling over. They bucked as if they wanted her off them.

  Pumping her legs, she flew to the door, taking its edge, fearing her fingers would be slammed into the jam. With all her strength, and there was resistance, she forced it open. "Lisle, get out of the house!" she screamed, in a panic throwing herself toward the stairs.

  A hand on her back pushed her and she flew over the stairs. She couldn't die like this, she thought resolutely, desperately reaching for a hold. Her hand touched something and she gripped with all her might, almost jerking her arm out of its socket. Her knee descended hard on one of the steps, and pain flared up her leg, but she arrested her motion. The stairs bucked underneath her and she crouched down, too scared to move.

  The sound was like an endless supply of planks being poured into the floor. With a desperate grip, her arm was around the balustrade as she continued down the stairs, unable to trust the stairs under her feet, which bucked and shifted. Her breath ragged, she moved to the bottom and ran for the door, throwing it open to the snow flurries outside.

  Out in the cold, there was nothing but stillness. The noise in the house stopped the moment she crossed the threshold.

  She was still too panicked to feel the cold, standing in bare feet and in nothing but her nightgown. Turning, she gazed at the house which looked like a dark monolith with snow trimming its edges, the moon making the snow glow. Her mind was still trying to understand what had just happened. She'd been chased out. Attacked until she had fled. The door was still open and she saw only darkness inside.

  Lisle, her still panicked mind thought. Anne walked around the house to where Lisle's room was, calling as loudly as she could, but no light came on in her room. There was no noise either. If this thing was attacking Lisle as well, Anne couldn't hear it. "Lisle," she called as loudly as she could, but still there was nothing.

  Snow was falling on her and she started feeling the cold now, seeping into the soles of her feet. Crossing her arms, she tried to fight the cold off. Goose bumps covered every part of her, but she didn't know it if was the cold or the impossible events of the night.

  Now that the immediate threat was gone, her mind turned to her situation. She was standing out in the winter cold in her nightgown. Obviously, she would freeze to death before long. Fleeing to the Turner's farm occurred to her, but she clearly remembered his warning not to go running across the moors in the dark. She could well imagine his expression if she considered doing so in a thin cotton nightgown. They would find her frozen solid somewhere along the way.

  The cold was invading her body now. She looked around and considered taking shelter in one of the outbuildings, huddling in some corner somewhere, hoping the cold would not kill her. She could seek Alfie's bed, but she feared that there was something contagious in his sheets. Perhaps irrationally, but she could not bring herself to using the bed where a man had died.

  The only course was to return to the house. She returned to the front where the door was still open, exactly as it had been before. Snowflakes were the only things moving.

  This thing, this spirit, had chased her out, but this was her house now. Her death was certain if she remained outside, and plausible if she returned inside. It wasn't a choice she relished making, but then it wasn't really a choice at all. Every part of her strained against moving inside, but she forced her feet to take the steps.

  Her breath held in her chest as she stepped through the door, expecting a return of the banging, but there was only silence. How much of her strength was taken became clear as she shoved the door closed. Again there was only silence. Perhaps the thing had depleted its energy, too. The only sound was the clock in the parlor.

  She didn't know if she dared return to her bed, wondering if she might be better off staying in the parlor. Lisle returned to her mind. She had to go check on Lisle, ensure she was alright, but part of her feared it, feared learning things she didn't want to know.

  Her arms tight into her chest, she considered what to do. Nothing in her wanted to walk up those stairs, but she had to. She took a first step and waited, but nothing happened. Taking the next, she ran up as quietly as she could, refusing to let her mind consider the world around her other than her objective, to get up to the servants' floor.

  Lisle's door was closed and Anne tried the handle, which gave with a slight creak. Lisle's form lay under the blankets in the cot. "Lisle," she called and got no response. "Lisle?" Dread crept up her spine again. No, she couldn't take anymore. Then Lisle shifted. "Lisle?"

  "What?" Lisle said, annoyed she was being pulled out of her sleep. Had Lisle slept through the whole thing? Had she heard nothing of the entire house banging as if the earth was undulating beneath it? "What's the matter?"

  "The house is being difficult," Anne said.

  "You're being fanciful again," Lisle said and drew her blankets up. The dismissal was clear and Anne closed the door.

  Did she dare return to her bed? The house seemed quiet now. Either way, she needed the blankets. At this point, her skin was icy cold and her breath was condensing in the chill of the house. She had to return to the room either way.

  As quietly as she could, she entered her room. There was nothing—no creaks, no ghostly steps. Smoothly, she slunk under her blankets and drew them up over her head. If she were to sleep any more that night, she wasn’t certain, at every moment expecting another attack.

  Chapter 17:

  Anne actually slept, waking just at dawn. Sheer exhaustion had claimed her. She'd had no dreams, had just closed her eyes and woken what seemed a moment later. Light was building outside the window and Anne sat up and looked around the room. The only thing out of place was the broken inkwell on the floor next to the desk. It had been the pen that rolled around the floor in the dark. But all was calm.

  She still felt drained, as if she had exhausted her reservoir of fear last night. At this point, she couldn't feel anything. What was certain was that she had been attacked last night. Panic crept around the edges of her consciousness, but it kept at bay—probably because she knew dawn was here and the house, and its unwanted inhabitants, behaved during the day.

  They had to leave—today. It was easy to bandy around saying they had nowhere to go, because she truly didn't. She could perhaps seek her aunt, but she would only be allowed to stay a few
days. She would be utterly destitute, likely finishing the week in the workhouse. The question was if the workhouse would kill her faster than these spirits would. She imagined the fear entering the workhouse, a place of permanent desolation.

  Her life had devolved to the point where she had to consider whether staying would be better than the workhouse. She was not in an enviable position. A snort turned into a laugh, relieving some of the frantic tension she felt. Then she cried, wracking sobs that hurt her ribs.

  She felt calm when she walked downstairs, finding Lisle working in the kitchen. Everything seemed so normal during the day. The house was quiet and still, and work was required. Anne passed through the kitchen and went into the yard, where the cow was waiting patiently in the stable, eager to get out. Maybe she'd just let the beast roam and seek it when it was time to return. How far could it go?

  Actually, they wouldn't be returning, most likely. The hard reality that they had to leave resurfaced. She could imagine them walking out to the road, along the road hardened by frost, carrying what they had to and trying to find a ride somewhere, having no destination, and no means. They'd be like vagabonds, begging for food and shelter.

  It seemed an impossible choice, particularly now that everything was calm. But every moment, night crept closer and closer. Would it be possible to find peace in one of the outbuildings? Would they be out of reach there? Could they exist that way—occupy the house during the day and leave at night? It would be a much better prospect than leaving. But was she too terrified to stay one more night? This spirit had tried to kill her, had pushed her down the stairs. She doubted it was an accident. What else could it do? Throw a knife to stab her, bring the ceiling down on her head?

  Looking out across the moor, Anne sighed deeply. There really was a wild beauty to the moors, the distance fading into the mist’s swirls. She wasn't feeling the cold so harshly today. Perhaps it was warmer, or else, she was too preoccupied to feel it.

  Resolutely, she knew some form of action was required. Turning back to the house, Anne entered the kitchen, still feeling calm and almost languid. Lisle was baking.

  "The house attacked me last night," she said as Lisle looked up.

  "You're being ridiculous."

  "You know there are spirits in this house. They attacked me and it was terrifying. The whole house shook with their rage. They tried to murder me."

  "It is all in your imagination," Lisle said.

  "It is not!" Anne replied, finally growing angry. "One grabbed me by the ankle and pulled me from underneath my bed."

  "You're hiding under the bed now? The doctor said this might happen."

  "What might happen?"

  "An adverse response to death. It happens sometimes, he said. People become fanciful and imagine things. Become paranoid."

  "The house shook as if the earth was undulating!"

  "Well, there is nothing out of place, is there? Not a plate has fallen off the shelf," Lisle said, pointing at the plates that stood on their edges on their shelf behind her. Simply bumping the shelf would have them fall, but they were all still there. "It is all in your imagination."

  Anne couldn't argue the logic, but it had seemed so real. She had been terrified.

  Lisle moved over to a drawer and pulled out a flask, pouring two capfuls into a glass and giving it to her. "What is this?" Anne asked.

  "Laudanum. The doctor said to take some if nerves were fraying."

  "Fraying?"

  "I'm sure his advice would stand in the case of a person becoming completely unhinged."

  "I am not unhinged. You ran out into the cold night intent on digging Alfie out of his grave."

  "A reaction to death, just as the doctor had said. Now take it," Lisle said, waiting for her to take the laudanum.

  "Have you been taking this?"

  "Yes."

  Mad people never believed they were mad. Maybe this was all just her imagination taking a terrifying turn, a reflection of the stress she felt—her inner demons finding an external projection.

  "This will calm your nerves," Lisle said and looked down at the glass then back to her, waiting for her to take it.

  Tentatively, Anne picked it up and held it to her lips, swinging the contents into her mouth. Bitterness made her stomach revolt, but she swallowed it.

  "See, it will all be fine," Lisle said with a tight smile then returned to her baking.

  Anne wasn't sure which she wanted to be true, madness or ghosts. What a choice. She laughed again and Lisle gave her a suspicious look.

  The laudanum took effect and Anne started to feel as if she was walking on clouds. Her whole body felt as if it had heaved a huge sigh of relief. Her mind wandered to the time she had taken Harry ice skating on the Thames. He must have been eight at the time. She had watched from the Embankment as he skated out with the other boys—seemingly every boy in London. She had laughed when he'd fallen on his bottom, growing angry with himself as he didn't master this skill as quickly as he would like.

  She sat in the parlor and Lisle brought her apple cake. It tasted exquisite. She remembered eating apples when she was young, remembered the crisp flesh breaking in her mouth. She could almost taste that first bite, the liquid of the apple suffusing her tongue.

  And then it was growing dark. Lisle gave her another glass of the bitter liquid, but she didn't argue, instead ate more. A pie of some sort, before Lisle led her upstairs to bed.

  Anne's mind was trying to say she should take care, but the thoughts never quite formed. Closing her eyes and disappearing into her dreams seemed like an excellent idea. Her body felt as if it was wrapped in cotton, cradled in sheer softness.

  Dreams and dreams, sweet dreams, memories. Then a face. She didn't know this face. A girl, pretty. Maybe sixteen.

  "Who are you?"

  "Elizabeth."

  "I don't know you."

  The girl sat on her bed. There was something not right about her. Her clothes were old, very old. She had dark hair, was pretty. "I have been here."

  "Have you been watching over me?"

  "Yes."

  "You've been trying to hurt me."

  "No, not I. Someone else."

  "A man."

  "Yes."

  "He is not here now?" Something in her mind said she should worry, but she couldn't bring herself to. Actually, she just wanted the girl to leave her alone, so she could return to her dreams. "He wants to hurt me."

  "Yes," the girl said.

  "You died. You were so young," Anne said, sadness washing over her at the girl's fate. She felt like crying. "That man hates me."

  "Yes."

  "I have done nothing to him. Why does he hate me?"

  "He sees someone else. Someone who seeks to harm us."

  Anne watched her, her mind wanting to disappear into another dream. "I just live here."

  "He only sees an enemy."

  A vision of Harry as a toddler returned, standing at her skirts looking up at her with his large eyes. It was possibly the loveliest thing she could ever remember seeing. She smiled. The softness of her pillow embraced her cheek. She wanted to be with Harry, when everything had been so good. The little boy for whom she was the brightest jewel in the world. She wanted to live in that moment forever.

  Chapter 18:

  Anne had no idea what time it was when she woke. Gentle sunshine shone in the window, but she suspected it was long after dawn. She felt more rested and calm than she had in a long time. There was a respite to her problem, at least for another six hours, if not more. If the house had raged last night, she hadn't noticed; although she did vaguely recall speaking to a young woman, but most likely that had been another of the colorful and vivid dreams she'd had throughout the night.

  Maybe she just had to keep taking the laudanum. The thought worried her as she knew how dependent people grew on it.

  "A carriage comes," Lisle said when Anne walked downstairs. Anne moved to the window and indeed saw a carriage in the distance. "I suspect it's th
e vicar again."

  Lisle was right and Anne stepped outside as he arrived, wrapped in her woolen shawl.

  "Miss Sands," the vicar said as he stepped down. "I thought I would come see how you are."

  "That is most kind of you." He took her hand and really looked at her. He was a kind man, she conceded. "Please come have some tea."

  "That would be most welcome. I am also going to see Mrs. Waggle. We must discuss the baptism of her baby. The birth is eminent." Anne had no idea where this woman was, but obviously she was out this way, or on the way. Distances out here were large concepts. "I must say, you look unwell, but that is perhaps not surprising considering the shock you've had. I took the liberty of bringing a letter from your aunt."

  Anne's eyes widened. She wanted to ask for it now, but it would be rude. Instead, they walked inside to the parlor where Lisle waited with a tea service.

  "I hope you are recovering from the shock," he said once Anne had poured the tea.

  "There has been something I wanted to ask you," she said, but didn't quite know how to bring up the topic. "Perhaps related to the theological theories around spirits."

  "Miss Sands, as you know, there is only one spirit. This fashion for searching for the supernatural is the sign of a weak mind. I hope you are not succumbing to such ridiculous notions."

  Anne blinked. She almost felt insulted. "So you do not believe a soul can be diverted from its path?"

  "If you mean when sin is grave enough? I assure you, Alfie was a good boy and God is forgiving. Fear not; Alfie is at peace."

  "I'm not sure he is," she said and received a deeply disappointed look from Mr. Whitling.

  "If it makes you feel better, we can conduct a prayer for his soul."

  "It would," she said and took the vicar's hand.

  "Almighty Lord and Savior, we beseech you to receive and hold dearly departed Alfie Hayman, ensure he is reunited with the family waiting for him. Forgive any transgressions and recognize the true kindness in his soul. And give us the strength to rejoice his life."