The Asharton Manor Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1 - 4)

by Celina Grace

  To my surprise and disappointment, the half-built houses didn’t seem to have had anything done to them since I’d seen them last. Some were mere skeletons of houses, just the frame and the struts of the roof in place. What would become gardens were just wastelands of mud, heaps of sand and teetering piles of bricks. I walked on further. The houses that had been a little further developed didn’t seem to be finished yet either. My footsteps slowed as I looked about me, perplexed. I didn’t know much about construction – well, okay, I knew almost nothing about construction – but surely in four months, the development would have been a bit further forward by now? I looked at the gaping holes of the empty window frames and the door of a nearby house. It reminded me unpleasantly of a skull, with empty eye sockets and the black cavern of a lipless mouth.

  I turned and carried on walking, finally reaching the part of the estate which was finished, the small network of streets that would finally emerge on the opposite side of the central square to our street, Manor Close. It felt better to be surrounded by completed houses rather than skeletal shells, but as I walked along Denford Street, something else began to unsettle me. All the houses were empty, every one. Not a single person had moved in along this street.

  As I realised this, my pace slowed and I became aware of the echo of my footsteps rebounding back at me from the walls of the houses as I walked along. I stopped suddenly and the faint patter of footsteps stopped as well, but just a second too late.

  I whipped round, my heart in my throat, sure that there was someone following me. How else could I be hearing footsteps that weren’t my own? But there was nobody there, no one at all in the silent, empty street, the windows of the houses glittering emptily in the last rays of the setting sun. I turned back and started walking again, rather more quickly this time, my heart thudding. For a moment, I had the crazy thought that these houses on either side of me weren’t actually real – just flat constructions, like the world’s biggest stage set. So what was behind them?

  By this time I was running, my heartbeat booming in my ears. The soles of my shoes slapped against the pavement. I was sure I could hear another set of footsteps running other than my own and I gave a squeak of fear. I wanted to turn my head again, sure that I would see someone behind me, gaining on me, but I didn’t dare. I sped up, puffing, until I could see the central square and the fountain. The knowledge that I was only a few moments from home gave me courage. I forced myself to look behind me. There was nobody there. Panting, I had to slow down and this time, the only footsteps I could hear were my own, uneven and getting slower.

  I had dropped back down to a fast walk by the time I reached the gate of number thirteen. Mia had obviously just arrived home from somewhere; she was locking her car and looked startled to see me as I opened the front gate. My T-shirt was plastered to my back with sweat and my hair hung in damp rats’ tails around my scarlet face.

  “Been for a run?” asked Mia and I nodded, half ashamed of the lie but not enough to actually tell her the truth. Besides, again, I wasn’t sure myself what had happened. Were all these weird things really happening to me or was I imagining it? Perhaps it was something even more prosaic but just as alarming, like a brain tumour or something. I closed my eyes momentarily and vowed that I would make an appointment at the medical centre as soon as they opened the next day.

  Mia was just opening her front door. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her if she’d had any more strange experiences in her house, but after a moment I shut it again, as her front door closed. I was fed up with experiencing weird things of my own, let alone worrying about anyone else’s problems. As I realised this, I realised something else too. I didn’t want to go home.

  I stood on the garden path, looking at the front of number thirteen. I still hadn’t got around to painting the front door and it looked very black in the gathering dusk. The curtains weren’t drawn in the living room bay window and I could just see the edge of the sofa and the corner of a cushion through the glass. I didn’t want to go inside and see that shadow on the stairs again, or find something of mine moved somewhere it should never have been.

  This is ridiculous, I told myself. You live here, you can’t start being afraid of your own house. But I was; that was the problem. I stood on the path, shifting my weight from one sore foot to another. But if I didn’t go home, where would I go? I didn’t want to disturb Mia. I took out my phone and checked it, just in case Mike’s client had cancelled and he was on his way home early. But there was nothing. I knew he wouldn’t be home for hours. You can’t just stand here all night, I told myself. But where was there to go on the estate? For the first time, I realised how isolated we were here. There were no shops, no pub, no library, no public meeting place at all. Nowhere to be social, nothing but houses where people closeted themselves away. I gazed unhappily down the street. There was what looked like a ‘For Sale’ sign outside number nineteen. Was that right? Surely they’d only just moved in? They were the family with the little blonde toddler, I remembered, although we hadn’t even spoken anything beyond the odd ‘good morning’ if we passed each other in the street. It was the same for all of my neighbours, I realised. Who did I know here, except Mia?

  The heat of the day had dissipated and I realised I was cold and almost shivering. After a moment, I pulled my phone out again and dialled for a taxi. It was very unlike me but I decided to go back into Midford and have a drink somewhere, or even a meal. Something to while away the hours until Mike got home. If he was home, I wouldn’t be afraid to be there.

  Even as the taxi arrived and I got into it, I was berating myself for being so stupid. How could I be getting so neurotic, so ridiculous that I was afraid even to enter my own home? It’s like reverse agoraphobia, I told myself, trying to make a joke of it. It didn’t make me smile. The taxi driver dropped me outside the only pub in the village, The Goddess. For the first time, it struck me that it was a strange name for a village pub. Something else to look for on Google, next time I was bored at work.

  Normally I hate going into pubs on my own and rarely do so. Tonight, however, I found the dingy front saloon rather cosy and comforting. The Goddess had resisted all attempts at a gastro-pub makeover and still had the swirly carpet on the floor, the same tobacco-smelling dusty curtains, the same dreary furniture as it had obviously had for the past thirty years. It still served things like pie and chips, without irony. I made my way to the bar.

  “Hello, Beatrice, love.” Harry Webb, one of the regular visitors to the library, was sat nursing a pint near the tills. “Don’t normally see you in here. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Thanks, Harry.” I heaved myself on the stool next to him with some difficulty, relieved that I would at least have someone to talk to for a while, even if he was a bit of a reactionary old windbag. I was just grateful I wouldn’t have to sit on my own.

  We chatted for a while. Harry told me all about the current state of the abilities of the England cricket team, of which I knew nothing and cared even less, until we moved onto the latest gossip involving another of the library regulars, Mrs. Potter, before I finally managed to get a word in edgeways and mention that I’d recently moved to the Asharton Estate. It was only in response to something that Harry had mentioned with regard to Mrs. Potter, whose son was apparently attempting to have her moved to an old people’s home against her wishes – “Because he wants her house, that’s what it is, Beatrice, he wants her house so he can be one of those buy-to-let brigade,” – when I mentioned that Mike and I had only been able to buy our own place because of my inheritance.

  Harry raised his bushy eyebrows. “The Asharton Estate? Eeh, you’re braver than me, lass. I wouldn’t move there in a million years, despite all them fancy new-builds.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked, rather annoyed at his tone, which seemed to suggest that Mike and I were fools for having done just that.

  Harry lowered his voice. “Well, there’s a bit too much history there, isn’t there, my dear? A few too m
any bad memories, for one. All those murders and the deaths in the fire…”

  “Oh, come on,” I said, rather impatiently. “Somewhere that old is always going to have a few bad things in its history, isn’t it? I bet you could say the same for any of the old houses in Midford.”

  Harry gave me a strange look, half indulgent and half sceptical. “You can think that if you like, my dear. All I know it there’s been no end of problems with the building. Some nasty accidents there’ve been. Martin Turner’s boy, that Joshua, he was working on the site and nearly lost his hand. He’ll be claiming benefits for years to come, he will, won’t be able to chippy again.” He took a pull of his pint, swallowing with a little ‘aah’ of satisfaction. “There’s some say the place has got a curse on it.”

  I half laughed, no longer caring if I offended him. “Oh, come on, Harry. That’s ridiculous.”

  “Well, that’s as maybe. All I know is, what’s-is-face at Phoenician Building, the foreman, he can’t get the lads to stay on the job for love nor money. Good job too really, most of them are illegal immigrants. Don’t want Midford flooded with a load of Romanians, do we, my dear, but what can we do about it?” Before I could respond, he climbed heavily down from his chair and walked off towards the men’s loos, muttering something.

  “You could stop reading The Daily Mail, for a start,” I murmured under my breath, before deciding it was probably time to go home. Much as I didn’t want to, I had had enough of listening to Harry’s prophecies of doom. Besides, surely Mike would be home by now?

  His car drew up outside the house just as my taxi pulled into the kerb. Mike got out of his car and looked astonished to see me emerge from the taxi.

  “What on Earth…?”

  “I just went out for a quick drink,” I said, feeling guilty and then cross, because what did I have to feel guilty about?

  “That’s not like you,” said Mike. He took my hand and we walked up the garden path together.

  “I was lonely,” I muttered and then cursed myself inwardly. I knew I shouldn’t say things like that, it made me sound so weak and needy. Mike didn’t say anything in return, but he dropped my hand. Perhaps that was only so he could unlock the door, though.

  “I’ll make us a cup of tea,” I said once we were inside, trying to make amends. “How was the meeting?”

  “Hmm?” said Mike. “Oh, that. Fine. Bit boring really. I’m glad to be home.” He rubbed his face with both hands and added, “Actually, Bea, don’t worry about that tea. I’m going to go straight to bed, I’m bushed.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Fine.” I watched him walk from the room and turned back to the boiling kettle. “I’ll be fine. You get some rest.”

  Later that night, I lay wide-eyed and wakeful next to Mike’s sleeping body, listening to him murmur in his dreams. The house creaked and groaned around us. I turned on one side, then the other, trying in vain to get settled and to start to feel sleepy. Mike snored a little and I poked him gently until he stopped. Eventually, after what seemed like hours, I could feel my eyes getting heavier. I floated on the edge of sleep, a gentle rustling in my ears. Suddenly, my eyes snapped open. It wasn’t rustling I could hear. It was whispering.

  You’re imagining things, I told myself. But even as I was telling myself that, I was straining to try and make out the sound. It was whispering, but so low that I couldn’t hear any distinct words. What the hell? I sat up in bed, staring wildly about the room. My heart was beating so loudly that it drowned out the sound. I held my breath and strained my ears. For a moment, I heard it again, the sibilant undercurrent, like a tiny torrent of whispered words flowing into our bedroom from somewhere. Then it was gone. I lay back down again, my heart racing.

  Oddly enough, I’d forgotten about it when I woke the next morning. I’d slept heavily once I had eventually fallen asleep and was still deeply asleep when my alarm went off. I stumbled out of bed, cursing and groaning; the odd happening of the night before was forgotten in the general morning rush. I had an early shift at the library and for once we were quite busy, so even though I kept yawning I somehow managed to keep going on strong coffee and grim determination. Harry Webb shuffled in at about ten thirty and gave me a cautious greeting. I remembered all the stories he’d told me about Asharton Estate last night. Did he really believe it was cursed, or was he just winding me up? I was just opening my mouth to ask him when an old lady came up to the counter, wanting to join the library, and I had to stop to attend to her and the moment was lost.

  At lunchtime, Mrs. Meavy, the head librarian, took me to one side. “Are you all right, Beatrice?” she asked with concern. “It’s just you’re as white as a sheet and you look as though you’re about to collapse. Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, rather taken aback. “I’m just a bit tired. I haven’t been sleeping so well lately.”

  Mrs. Meavy looked at me with sympathy. “Nothing worrying you, is there?”

  I almost laughed. Nothing worrying me? What, apart from the ghostly footsteps on the street and the haunted woods and the things moving around my house by themselves and the dark shadow on the stairs? It was then I remembered the whispering I’d heard last night. For a second, I nearly spilled everything that had been worrying me to Mrs. Meavy, but reconsidered. I didn’t want her thinking that I was even more vulnerable than she already thought. I knew she would remember all the sick days I’d taken off after Mum died, the anti-depressants that I used to have to carry around in my handbag.

  “No,” I said after a moment. “No, I’m fine.”

  “You’re still missing your mother, perhaps, pet,” she said and I knew then that I was right in what I’d been thinking. “Takes a long time to get over the death of a parent.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Why don’t you go home early today? Put your feet up and have a bit of a rest?”

  “Yes, I will. Thank you,” I said, rather more colourlessly than I mean to. She meant well, I knew, but in actual fact, home was the last place I felt like going.

  This is ridiculous, I told myself as I walked home. It’s getting to be a neurosis, now. Soon you won’t be able to go home at all. I felt like crying at the thought. Buying number thirteen was supposed to be a new start, the beginning of my real life, mine and Mike’s real life. Now it was all falling apart. What was I going to do? I was going to have to speak to Mike about what I’d been experiencing, whether he wanted to believe me or not. He’d probably insist on me going back to the doctor, fair enough, but I couldn’t keep carrying this burden on my own. I really will drive myself mad, I thought.

  I unlocked the front door with a heavy heart. Once inside, I purposely kept my eyes from the top of the stairs and went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. The teapot was nowhere to be found, not on the counter top or in the cupboard it was usually kept. I began flinging the other cupboard doors open in a rage, muttering about Mike, who must have put it back in the wrong place despite my telling him a hundred times that it belonged in the end cupboard with the teabags and mugs. It wasn’t in any of the other cupboards. For heaven’s sake, I asked myself crossly, has it been broken or something? I checked the bin but there were no shards of china there. As I stood, looking around the kitchen, I spotted something vaguely teapot shaped through the dark glass of the oven door. Slowly, I opened the oven door to see the teapot sitting cheerily on the top shelf, its fat red and white spotted body incongruous in the dark depths of the oven.

  I withdrew it and sat it back on the counter, next to the kettle. What the hell, I kept muttering to myself. What the hell? All thoughts of a nice soothing cuppa fled. I closed my eyes and felt my way up the hallway stairs, refusing to even entertain the thought of seeing anything at the top. I groped my way along the corridor until I got to our bedroom. Then I sat down on the edge of the bed and put my head in my hands. I was almost in tears.

  Part of me wanted to ring an estate agent there and then and get the house on the market that very day. I remembered the ‘For Sale
’ sign I’d seen at the house further down the street and I got up and checked it was still there. It was not only still there, but two more had sprouted like weeds, at number five and another house, right at the end of the street, too far away for me to make out its number. Was what was happening to me – to our house – happening to these other people, too? I remembered Mia and her awful blind stare across the garden, standing at her window, rigid with fear. I must talk to her later, when she got home from work, and see if those things she’d said were happening were continuing to happen. With a jolt, I remembered she’d said she’d found something in the oven too, her necklace, something that shouldn’t have been there.

  I sat there for a good ten minutes, taking deep breaths and trying to calm down. I could do nothing concrete yet, not without talking to Mike first and he wouldn’t be home for hours. It wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have on the telephone, so I would have to wait until he came home. How was I going to fill those hours? Should I go for a walk? Not in those woods, I told myself fervently and anyway, looking out of the window I could see that heavy rain was beginning to fall. The sky was full of ominous looking clouds with no hint that the bad weather would let up anytime soon. I sighed and stood up. Perhaps there was something I could do here that would take my mind off my troubles. Housework? I’m not that desperate, I thought and smiled despite myself. I caught sight of our little third bedroom through the open doorway. It was still piled high with unpacked boxes. That’s it – I would finally do some unpacking. The irony of it struck me – unpacking boxes in a house that I actually wanted to leave – but what the hell, it would at least be something to do. I walked over to the little bedroom and looked about me. Where to start?