The Haunting of Maddy Clare

by St. James, Simone

  I recalled the assistant I was replacing, the man with the neat handwriting. “So he is a skeptic, then?”

  Mr. Gellis laughed again. “I’m not sure exactly what Matthew is, but if I figure it out, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  I didn’t know what to make of that, so I said, “Still, I should hold my tongue.”

  “Your point is taken,” said Mr. Gellis. “But, Miss Piper, I must insist. I know what I saw. I simply know. If you ever see an apparition, a true one, you will know what I mean.”

  We stopped at a pub in a small village at midday, where Mr. Gellis purchased us sandwiches and bottles of milk. We ate quickly, as we needed to get back on the road, Mr. Gellis said, to make Waringstoke by evening.

  As we ate, I thought about what he had said, that pursuing ghosts was the only thing he wanted to do. He had the freedom to do anything he liked. If I could idly pursue anything I wished, what would it be? I couldn’t think of anything.

  “You seem pensive,” he said as we finished. “Are you regretting our agreement?”

  “No. I’m sorry,” I said, standing and brushing the crumbs from my skirt. How selfish of me, to sit moping. “I’m not much used to company.”

  “Neither am I.” He smiled at me. In fact he was so much more at ease than I that he could have been lying; but I sensed an awkwardness in him, deep beneath the surface, and I knew he told the truth. “Female company, especially. Men tend to lose their polish when they know only other men for company.”

  “You are doing perfectly,” I said with truth, as we walked back to the motorcar. “It is I who need to remember my manners. Tell me, does Mr. Ryder share your passion for ghosts?”

  “No one quite shares my passion for ghosts, Miss Piper.” He handed me into the car and closed the door. He came around to the driver’s seat and got in. “But Matthew is a valuable assistant. It isn’t just the notebooks; he usually handles the logistics of trips like these. I’m hopeless with maps. He handles the technical equipment as well.”

  I sat up straighter. “Technical equipment?”

  “The camera. The film. We try to document each manifestation, though photographing a ghost is nearly impossible. Did you know that?”

  “I can imagine, I suppose.”

  “Still, we try. Matthew is good with a camera. He also runs the sound recorder.”

  I stared at him. “Sound recorder?” I had never seen such a thing; I would have no idea how to use it. I felt the chill of true alarm. As it was, I would bumble the camera badly enough.

  Mr. Gellis smiled. “It’s a massive contraption—cost me an arm and a leg. I had it specially made. I’ve no idea how it works, really. Matthew knows. He took it apart and put it back together again the first day I got it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so excited.”

  “Mr. Gellis, I really—I don’t—”

  “Please, don’t worry.” He took one hand from the wheel and waved it at me. “I’ve no expectation that you would know how to work it. Matthew taught me enough that I can make it function, at least rudimentarily for this one assignment. I can show you how to turn it on and off—since you will be the one trying to record the Falmouth House ghost, not me. Though the equipment hasn’t mattered very much so far.” He sighed. “As much as I would like to record an actual haunting, we have never yet succeeded. All I’ve ever recorded on that thing is static, the sound of wind, and my own voice.”

  “Perhaps this will be the time,” I said.

  He laughed at that. “Don’t let Matthew hear you say so. He did not want to miss this assignment at all—if you record a haunting your first week on the job, he may have to strangle you.”

  “Have you known Mr. Ryder long?” I asked.

  He cut me a look. “You are asking a lot of questions about him, you know.”

  I smiled and shook my head. “It’s just that different pictures are going through my head. A young man, or an old man? Fat or skinny?”

  “He is my age—nearly two years younger. Neither fat nor skinny, I suppose. And yes, he is very interested in ghosts. Though I think perhaps for different reasons than I.”

  I had no time to ask him to explain this, as he began to tell me some of his experiences in hunting ghosts. He was an excellent storyteller; he had a talent for building his tale, giving just enough detail and leaving just enough suspense to keep his audience interested. I leaned back in my seat and listened, thinking that I must ask him, sometime, if he had copies of his books for me to read. He was probably a skilled writer.

  The stories themselves were terribly sad. A child killed in a carriage accident; a young man disappeared in the marshes, whose body was never found; an old woman, haunting her last residence, enacting the same simple tasks she had performed when alive, over and over, as if unaware she was dead. Most ghost stories, it seemed as I listened, were tales not only of death but also of unfathomable misery and despair. Happy people did not leave ghosts; or perhaps they left quiet ghosts, who sat in their favorite corners or wandered the banks of their favorite streams, never bothering the living. It was deeply strange to listen to such chilling tales of hopelessness and pain as I sat in my comfortable passenger seat, watching the perfect English day begin to recede into a warm, glowing English sunset.

  “Are you never frightened?” I asked him, as the sun sank below the horizon and dusk began to envelop us.

  “No,” he said, his expression honest. “Ghosts, Miss Piper, are frightening at first—they are, after all, our dead. But ghosts are helpless. They can touch physical things—slam doors, break crockery, turn taps on and off. There was even a ghost I visited who pulled the bedcovers from the beds during the night, while the living were sleeping—as terrifying an experience as you can imagine. But they are trapped, performing the same acts over and over, unable to think or communicate. Do they have true awareness? Did Freddy’s brother choose to be there, or was his spirit ruled by base, inescapable compulsion? Are they imprints left behind of those who have gone—like a shadow, or an echo? The answer to that question is what has driven me for five years. If a ghost exists that possesses awareness, I want to meet it.”

  “And you think you will meet such a thing at Falmouth House,” I said.

  He smiled. “I hope, Miss Piper—I always hope. But I do not make conclusions until I see the proof. And speak of the devil—we are approaching Waringstoke even now.”

  I could see very little of Waringstoke through the twilight: a few small houses, a church and churchyard. The road we traveled now was rutted and narrow. I saw no evidence of other motorcars, or any other type of vehicle. The few houses were old, set well back from the main road on winding drives; they were small, wood and stone, well maintained, with warm yellow light in the windows. We were in a very old part of England, though not a rich one. It was a great contrast to London, with its metal and glass. Beyond the small village I could see rolling fields, green hills, and dense woods.

  At length Mr. Gellis stopped the car. He came around and opened my door for me. I stepped out, stifling a groan as my legs cramped from the long drive. I stood in the sudden fall of silence and looked about me.

  We were in the courtyard of a small inn; I could see a swan on the sign over the door, though I could not read the scripted writing in the dark. The inn stood two stories, one lumped atop the other, with sloping gables and mullioned windows from which dim light winked. I felt gravel through the thin soles of my shoes. The silence was absolute; not a sound could be heard but the faint rush of a breeze in the treetops and the faraway cry of a bird. After the noise of London, then the rumble of the motorcar all day, my ears were ringing, and as the darkening gloom settled over the landscape and the wind hushed through the far-off trees, it seemed eerie to me, as if the world had ended and all humanity had disappeared.

  I turned to see Mr. Gellis looking at me. There was an expression of good humor on his face, mixed with a keen observance that I was learning to find familiar. “Lovely spot, isn’t it?” he said.

&n
bsp; The wind touched my hair, and I pushed a few stray locks from my forehead. “I don’t know. I’ve never been in the country.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Never?”

  I shook my head. “I was raised in Brixton. I live in the city now.”

  “A city girl,” he said, opening the boot of the motorcar and removing our bags. “Never to the seaside on holiday? Never to a cousin’s house on school break?”

  I shook my head again.

  “Well, then, I suppose this will be good for you.” He closed the boot, and I paid silent tribute to his tact in not mentioning my lack of family and friends. “Fresh air, and all that. What is it they say? It will put some color in your cheeks?”

  “Mr. Gellis.” A man came toward us from the inn, tugging on an overcoat and a gray cloth cap.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Gellis. “You must be Mr. Ahearn.”

  The man nodded, but did not smile. “Yes, sir. You may leave the bags there. I have a boy who will bring them upstairs for you.”

  Inside, we passed the wide entrance to the taproom, which was beginning to fill. I caught a glimpse of low, dark wooden beams on the ceiling, heard a few chortles of male laughter and the clink of a glass. But I had no desire to go farther, and at a nod from Mr. Gellis I followed a maid up the stairs and to a small room, where my bags had been laid, and I could at last rest and freshen myself.

  There was not much I could do. My blouse was hopelessly wrinkled, as was my skirt. My stockings needed rinsing, but I was not ready for bed just yet. I went to the small basin and splashed water on my face. In the cloudy mirror I did my best. I had my dark hair cut in a bob, as was the fashion of the time; and though, like most girls, I wished I could put my hair in pretty curls, styled close to my head, the way the movie stars did, I could not afford the style, the marcel iron, or the tins of gloss and packets of pins needed to maintain it. I also, in my low state of mind lately, could not bring myself to spend an hour a day on my hair, no matter how stylish I wished to look.

  And so I had a simple bob, cropped below my earlobes. My hair was a chocolate brown color, nondescript, I thought, and it sat straight without much fuss, except when the breeze blew it into my eyes. On such occasions it was just long enough that I could tuck wayward strands behind my ears, if the wind was not too strong.

  I combed a little water through my hair, trying to make it look fresh again. I had but a few cosmetics, dearly bought and sparsely used, so I did not use any now. My face would simply have to be good enough.

  I was tired, and I briefly considered staying in my tiny room; but, looking around its sparse furniture, lit dimly by one shaky electric light in the corner, I changed my mind. The exhaustion in me fought with another emotion, a thrill of excitement that was unfamiliar to me. I wanted to know what came next. I needed direction from Mr. Gellis, anyway, as to what he would expect of me in the morning.

  He was in the taproom. He had not, like me, gone to his room, and he was sipping a beer, making quiet notes in a notebook, his golden brown head bent to his work.

  He smiled up at me when he saw me, a smile that was so easy and handsome it made my heart flutter in my chest. “There you are,” he said. “Fresh as a daisy. Have a seat, and order some supper. We need to go over some details for tomorrow.”

  I sat. I had to admit I was very hungry, but pride still held me back. “This doesn’t seem right, your paying for all of my meals. Shouldn’t you insist I pay for myself?”

  He lifted a brow. “Of course not. You are here on my assignment, as my employee. You’re my responsibility. Besides, what kind of a gentleman lets a lady pay for her own supper?”

  “I am a modern girl, you know.” I felt myself smile. I could not quite believe he was flirting with me. Even less could I believe I was flirting back.

  “So I’ve noticed.” He smiled again. “You may be entirely too modern for Waringstoke. Everyone in the room has noticed you. I believe they expect you to begin smoking cigarettes and dancing on the tables at any moment.”

  I, too, had seen the glances from all the others in the taproom—the innkeeper, Mr. Ahearn, darting looks at us as he bustled about his business; the barkeep bending his head to whisper with his patrons as they talked in low voices; the glances from the men at tables in all corners of the room. But the tension had already been present when I entered, so it was foolish to think any of it was caused by me. “It isn’t me they are looking at. It’s you.”

  He leaned closer to me and spoke confidentially. “You must get used to it here. We’re far from London, you know. This is a small community. Everyone knows everyone, and most know everyone’s parents and grandparents as well. I’ve found that outsiders are not well received in most of the villages and towns I’ve been to in my line of work.”

  “I noticed the innkeeper was not particularly welcoming.”

  “Ah, you’re perceptive, then. I did try to put a few questions to him while you were upstairs. I believe there’s a statue of Wellington in my garden at home that is more forthcoming.”

  We were nearly whispering. I was listening closely, leaning forward. I caught sight of an aged man in a dark blue coat from the corner of my eye. He sat on a stool at the bar, tankard of beer in hand, and looked at me with an unmistakable expression of knowing disapproval. As I glanced at him, he met my gaze squarely and did not look away. I realized how it looked—Mr. Gellis and I, sitting intimately at our table, leaning toward each other. To any onlooker, we looked exactly like lovers. I reddened slightly and the man in the blue coat changed his expression to a sort of small, petty triumph. I looked away.

  Mr. Gellis leaned back in his chair and signaled to someone behind me. A waiter—the bar’s only one—approached and Mr. Gellis ordered my supper for me along with his own, with hardly a look in my direction. Beef, potatoes, stewed vegetables. As the waiter disappeared, Mr. Gellis looked at me a little apologetically.

  “I realize we just agreed that you’re modern,” he said, “but it doesn’t hurt to appear a little old-fashioned here.”

  As my surprise faded, I supposed I could see his point. Ordering my meal for me had been a display, meant for everyone but him and me. Still, I had been living by myself for some time and I wasn’t used to having a man do anything for me. “I understand—but if you’re going to make it a habit, I’ll have to protest.”

  He smiled at me, easy again. “Clever girl. Now, let’s go over our plans for tomorrow.”

  We spent the next hour or so talking of what would happen the next day. My supper arrived, and though it was the largest portion of food I had ever seen, I found I was hungry enough to make respectable work of it, causing Mr. Gellis to tease me about the effects of “fresh country air.” He even persuaded me to have a small glass of beer. Our plans were relatively simple: Mr. Gellis had already sent a message to Falmouth House, and received a reply that we were expected tomorrow morning. We would interview Mrs. Clare and the old housekeeper about their deceased servant, Maddy. And then, if all went well, I would take the camera and recording equipment, go to the haunted barn, and see if Maddy would show herself.

  The prospect was so strange, so unlike any job I had ever thought to have, that I could hardly fathom it. The excitement I had felt on leaving my flat possessed me again, mixed with not a little fear. At some moments it seemed as if ghost viewing would be like a scary parlor game, creating a chill but still merely amusing. At other times I remembered that I would be in the presence, supposedly, of someone from beyond the grave.

  And in the back of my mind, worry scrabbled. What if I saw nothing? What if there was nothing to see? I’d be sent home, and this all would be over. Could I really be hoping to see a ghost?

  Mr. Gellis and I made a continued stir by sitting so long at our table. I should be embarrassed; everyone, by now, must assume we were a couple. And yet I could not feel as I was supposed to. I had to admit a shallow trickle of selfish pride, that anyone would think a man as handsome and obviously blessed as Mr. Gellis would choose me for
a partner. So what if he had found me at random through a temporary agency? So what if he thought of me as nothing but a simple employee? No one in the room knew that, at least not yet. And besides, did stranger things not happen every day? Was it such a complete impossibility, given how closely we were to work together? I was unattached, and Mr. Gellis wore no ring, and mentioned no wife. But this was getting ahead of myself. I made myself put such thoughts away.

  But later, as I climbed the steps to my room, exhausted, I admit that for the first time in years—perhaps since my parents had died—I abandoned good sense and let silly, girlish fantasies take full rein in my mind. He seemed to like me, and we would be alone together very much, after all. When I look back on it, it is amazing that such silly, frivolous ideas were foremost in my thoughts. I wasn’t a normal girl, but I was a girl, after all; and I would spin pretty romantic stories, for the last time, unaware of the hell that was about to descend upon me.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning dawned dreary and wet; the sun disappeared. From the window of my room I saw a thin mist clinging to the ground, damp and silent. It seemed appropriate weather for ghost hunting.

  I dressed quickly—despite the wet weather, the room in this tiny inn was cozy, and my stockings had already dried—and went downstairs to the taproom. I did not see Mr. Gellis. The innkeeper, Mr. Ahearn, approached me with a cup of tea.

  “Morning.” He nodded curtly. “Your fellow’s already been. He’s out front.”

  “Thank you.” I would have preferred coffee, but I did not want to argue. I drank the tea as quickly as I could, and found my way to the front vestibule, where I took a moment to take my coat from over my arm and slide it on. I also put on my favorite dark brown felt hat.

  I tugged the hat down over my ears and paused. Through the pane on the front door I could see Mr. Gellis, standing in the courtyard, the large suitcase that signaled the recording equipment on the ground at his feet. He wore his olive green coat, his hands shoved in the pockets, as he had looked the day we met. And he was talking to a woman.