by Sarah Dalton
Most weekends we spend in my room listening to music and searching the web for interesting ghost rumours. I returned from Nettleby with a sore heart, but a strong sense of what to do with my life. It’s not that I want ghost hunting to be the only thing I do with my life; I want friends and a career and love and all that, but this is different. These spirits are lost, mostly unseen, and sometimes they harm others. It’s my duty to help them.
Can I do that if we live in a tiny village?
I’m so close to the city here. If Lacey and I need to find a ghost, we can get a bus into town, or near a church. How can we if I’m isolated? Cut off from the world?
*
The next day Mum brings cardboard boxes into my room so I can start packing. It’s a clammy August afternoon and I pull my hair up on my head and tie it in a messy bun. Lacey, who has been practising her poltergeist skills, throws my teddies and blankets into boxes, making me laugh out loud.
“Hey, what’s this?” she asks, pulling a picture out of a pile of my old drawings.
I lean over her shoulder and see an old sketch I drew as a little girl.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “I don’t remember drawing it.”
“It says ‘Mary, age five’ on it, so you must have.”
The sketch is of me sat in a bed. There’s a caption saying tick-tock written on the wall. There’s also an odd black shape drawn in the corner of the paper. Seeing it makes the blood drain from my face. A sense of unease grips me and tightens into a ball at the centre of my chest.
I compose myself and say, “I’ve seen this room. It’s at Aunt Isabel’s bungalow in Scarborough. When I went to visit her a few weeks ago, I had to Athamé a spirit. Actually, I had to use it on two spirits. One of them I remembered appearing in my room. It was a shadow-ghost, similar to the kind we saw on the moors. I asked it why it kept appearing to me in that room, and it told me it enjoyed watching me.”
“Spooky,” Lacey says.
We both look at the picture for a long time before I eventually speak. “I wonder how many little kids have drawn pictures like this. How many of them are terrified of the dark because of some creepy shadow watching them as they sleep.”
“We need to keep finding them,” Lacey says. “The spirits. We need to keep looking for them, helping them move on.”
I nod in agreement. “Although something tells me that they’ll find us just as easily.”
May 12th 1847
Tonight is our first night at Ravenswood. It is a very grand house. I am already growing fond of it. But because the corridors are so long, it is quite dark at night. Papa gets incensed when I light too many candles, but I must use them to walk the corridors, else I would be plunged into pitch black.
It is such a lovely house, too nice for the likes of us. The Ravenswoods, who had it built, were very rich people indeed. Papa says he bought it cheaply because of the incident that occurred here before we moved. They say it was very gruesome. Lottie keeps telling me dreadful stories of a man who killed his wife and children with an axe. Hacked them to pieces and then shot himself with a shotgun! She is such a little liar. I don’t believe a word of it, but she is most insistent.
My room is very big, much fancier than my room in our last house. I had to share with Lottie then, and she made such loud noises in her sleep. I believe I shall be much happier here, as soon as I get used to how dark it is. I think it is because of the woods behind the house. The trees block out so much light. I think I would prefer this house without the woods. Yes, it would be much nicer. I must blow out my candle now. I think Papa is on his way to check we are asleep. At least, I sense movement in the hallway. I don’t want to be in the dark. I am sure I am fine. Lottie’s stories have given me a fright, but it is very silly. It’s only Papa on his way to bed. It must be.
Good night now, diary. This is my first entry. I shall keep this diary hidden in my music box so that nosy Lottie doesn’t read it. She is such a beast of a big sister.
Liza
Chapter Four
My first visit to the new house is during a day of bright sunshine. I dress in my shorts and a kimono top with black flowers printed on the sleeves. I found it in a Help the Aged store and thought it was pretty.
Mum lets me drive. I passed my test a few months ago, somehow managing a normal event in the midst of madness. She grips the handrest so tightly that her fingertips turn white, and every time I apply the brakes she sucks in a gasp as though it’s her last breath.
“You might want to stay on your side of the road. Careful of that… now, take this bend steady…”
Her constant fussing agitates me and I end up swerving around the bend too fast. A car comes tearing around the other side and Mum’s hands are in the air, gesturing to turn to the left. I do so just as the other driver beeps his horn furiously.
“I told you to—”
“I know,” I snap. “I was trying, but you keep putting me off.”
My hands are slick with sweat and my heart pounds.
“Pull over.”
“What?”
“I said, pull over, Mary. I don’t want the rest of the day to go like this, bickering and arguing.” She unclips her seat belt as I pull the car over towards the narrow verge. “This is supposed to be a great day for us. For me and you, without your father for a change. We never do anything together, and when we do, something always ruins it.” I roll my eyes; of course, I see ghosts and ghouls and act strange and it freaks her out. “So I’m determined that we will have at least one day where that doesn’t happen. Get out. I’m going to drive the rest of the way there and then we are going to enjoy seeing the new house even if it kills me.”
“With your driving it probably will,” I reply.
I fling open the car door and Mum and I pass each other on the way to the opposite sides. Both of us stare at the road, refusing to make eye contact, our arms folded tightly across our chests. When I reach the passenger side I slam the door shut.
Lacey’s voice appears in my ear, almost making me jump out of my skin. Luckily, Mum is too busy with starting the car to notice. “What’s up, Mares? You seem agitated. Your bad mood pulled me back from the great beyond. Uh-oh, trouble with the ’rents? At least your mum isn’t a druggie like mine.”
I wish I could answer. I’m sick of hiding who I am, of not being able to talk to my best friend in public. Mum flicks on the radio to drown out the silence.
It’s not long before we find ourselves whizzing through the narrow country lanes. I open my window wide to let the fresh air in. Watching her drive out of my beloved city and into the rural suburbs is akin to watching a spring uncoil. As I tense up, she relaxes. This is where she feels at home, but it’s so alien to me.
“You’ll love the village, Mary. It’s called Ashforth. There’s an old well that they dress every year. There’s a village hall and a local pub. The street we’re moving to is called Penny Lane. Can you believe it? Like the song.”
“What’s the woman like?” I ask.
“Who?”
“The woman selling the house. What’s she like? Why is she selling it if it’s so good?”
“She wants to move closer to the city centre, that’s all.” Mum’s voice changes to a higher pitch. There’s a squeaky undertone.
I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s a warning sign somewhere. I half expect one of the Things to pop up in the car mirror or be hanging from a tree over the road. But I keep telling myself that jumping at my own shadow won’t do me any good. The events of Nettleby may have shaken me, but I’m not broken and I shouldn’t expect everywhere I go to be paved with dark spirits. I can’t keep looking for the ghost in the corner.
“The house isn’t quite in the village,” Mum continues. “It’s about a ten minute walk outside of the village. It’s actually very close to a beautiful forest. It’s exactly the kind of house I wanted to live in when I grew up and had a family.”
“Really?” Mum hardly ever reveals anything about herself
before she got married to Dad. This little nugget of information is fascinating to me.
“Oh, yes,” she continues. “I hated growing up by the sea. That long expanse of dirty blue, and the wind and weather that brought the tide in. Sometimes I thought it would swallow us all whole. But a nice little cottage with a garden in the countryside, that’s peaceful to me. Perhaps we can get a dog now. Would you like that?”
“Yeah. That would be cool.” Some of the frost from our argument begins to warm.
“One of those big dogs. A retriever or an Alsatian or… or a Husky. Your dad would probably pick a spaniel or one of those little yappy dogs.”
“Spaniels are cute,” I reply. “But a big dog might protect us. It is a little isolated out here.”
“You should get a pit bull,” Lacey whispers in my ear. “A fella down the street from our house had one. It was a rate beast. Loyal, though.”
“Maybe a pit bull,” I say. “Loyal, apparently.”
“Oh, no,” Mum replies. “You can’t trust them. But a Staffie might be nice.”
As Mum has been driving, I can’t help but notice that we haven’t passed a house or a car for a number of minutes. There are no shops, no banks, no nothing. No Starbucks.
“We’re nearly there,” Mum says. “Mary, I think you’ll grow to love it here, honey. If you give it a chance.”
The car bumps over potholes and my stomach dips when the car goes over a mound and then, still travelling at speed, it descends and winds down a steep hill, where the trees close in on either side of the road, blocking out the blue sky of the summer’s day. Through the open window there is a bitter scent, which Mum tells me is wild garlic. It mingles with the fresh smell of trees and the musty undertones of soil. The road bends sharply to the left and narrows. It’s still dark and shrouded in trees and shadows. I imagine it as a painting in my mind, like a rural Turner, smudged greens and browns, with the dark edge of Caravaggio and his deep gloominess. Mum turns left again onto a narrow gravel path, flanked by two large gateposts. On the left post is a plaque engraved with the name of the house. It’s hardly visible because of the wild ivy and weeds growing all around the gateway, merging with the long and unruly grass.
“Ravenswood,” I say, the word inviting me to whisper. “Is that the name?”
Mum nods. “Quaint, isn’t it? Over a hundred years old, still with its original features. It once belonged to the Ravenswood family. They were important in Ashforth, owned the old mill.”
The gate is open so we can drive straight through. There’s no sight of the house, only trees. They lean over the long drive, stretching to each other across the sky. The sight of their knitted branches makes me shudder and I find myself longing to see blue instead of this claustrophobic dark. My throat goes dry. It’s so quiet here. The only sound comes from the crunch of gravel under the tyres. Mum slows the car to a crawl, and for the first time since our journey began, I want her to hurry up.
“It’s so dark down here,” Mum remarks. “I think I need to put my lights on. In the middle of the day, can you imagine?”
The headlights flick on. A twig pokes me through the window of the car, scratching my arm. Then a rabbit runs out from the copse of trees, causing Mum to slam on her brakes. The gravel grinds as the car comes to a halt and I realise that my heart is pounding against my chest.
“That was a close one,” Mum says with a forced smile.
“Your family sure know how to pick one hell of a creepy new home,” Lacey says.
Mum presses her foot against the accelerator and the car moves forward. Finally the trees start to dissipate and I get my first glimpse of the house. It begins with a long lawn, which should be neatly trimmed with garden ornaments, bedding plants and a pond. Instead, the grass is long and patchy, with dandelions peeping through the reeds. There’s a single apple tree at the bottom of the lawn, and on the thickest branch hangs an old swing, the rope dirty with age. I didn’t notice much wind on the way here, yet the swing moves back and forth as though with an invisible rider. The strange motion disturbs me, so I redirect my gaze from the garden to the house. The lawn is on the left, with the gravel path on the right, continuing in a straight line towards the house. There’s space in front of the house to park three or four cars, also gravelled. Around this space, on the left by the garden, there’s a low patio wall of dirty stone. I note that one or two of the bricks have fallen out of place. Steps lead to the grass.
Then I look to the house, a two-storey town house with creeping ivy snaking up the walls and over the window frames. It would have once stood tall and grand, a proud house. Now it’s tired. It groans from the inside out. If it could sigh, it would.
Although the trees thinned from the driveway to the garden, their shadow lies across the stone front, making the windows appear darker than they are. The door is wide, brown and has a single brass knocker in the centre: a lion with a ring in its mouth. I imagine that stepping through that doorway might feel similar to stepping into the lion’s den. The car comes to a halt and I realise that in a matter of minutes I’ll find out exactly what it feels like to walk through that door, into that murky house. This is going to be my new home.
A pale face appears at one of the dirty windows. The sudden sight unsettles me. My first thought is ghost, but then Mum waves and the old lady waves back. I let out a sigh of relief, but my fingers still shake as I open the car door.
Lacey greets me. “This place has got to be haunted. I mean, look at it.”
“Would you look at this house?” Mum says. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Yeah,” I reply, taking in the old-fashioned architecture. “It is. How can we afford this? I thought we were supposed to be downsizing.”
Mum’s expression tightens as though she’s in pain, or guilt. She squeezes her words out of pinched lips. “Mrs. Bradley doesn’t want the asking price. She’s in a hurry to move. I think that since her husband died, she’s not enjoyed living here.”
“Has she lived here long?” I ask.
“No, I don’t think so,” Mum replies. “About six months, I think.”
I share a glance with Lacey. There’s more to this house swap than my parents are letting on.
“What about before then?”
“Apparently it was empty for a long time,” Mum says. “But I can’t see why. It’s beautiful.”
The large wooden door opens and the not-ghost peeks out. Mrs. Bradley is far too old to still be working. She walks with a stick, and her hair is grey. Something doesn’t add up. Mum didn’t meet this woman at work. Where did she meet her?
“Hello, Beryl,” Mum says. “I’ve brought my daughter to come and have a look at the house.”
“Yes, of course,” Beryl replies in a weak, asthmatic voice. “Come in.”
The door squeaks on its hinges so violently that my muscles twitch with nerves as we cross over the threshold. Inside, the corridor is tiled in black and white, with an old-fashioned umbrella stand on the right. It has certainly seen better days and leans at nearly a 30 degree angle. I wipe my feet on the mat and consider taking my shoes off. When I see the layers of dust and grime on the floor, I decide to leave them on.
“How was the journey?” Beryl asks, tottering through the house.
“Lovely,” Mum replies. “It’s a glorious day out.”
“Oh, good.”
“Well, this is the house. It dates back to Georgian times. It was a family home to the Ravenswoods, who were important in setting up the mills in and around Ashforth. That’s what they told me when I bought it, mind,” Beryl says. I notice the strangest thing. When she talks, her eyelid twitches. It’s a nervous little tic. The direction of her gaze darts all over the walls, as though she expects them to collapse around her. “The last owner died childless and it passed to a distant relative who never lived here. That was in the fifties, I believe. After they passed on, the house went unoccupied for a long time. It fell into disrepair. I’ve done my best to try to repair parts of it, but I’m
afraid I’m too old to fix up a house in such a state. I had high hopes for it, but I think I may have overestimated my own abilities. When the workmen are in, I find the dust and the clamour far too tiring.”
She takes us into a large lounge with walls of half-peeled wallpaper. A floral fabric sofa appears as though it could do with a good scrubbing. A bay window pokes out into the patio beyond, with a window seat built in. The sunshine streams in through the large window, picking out the dust particles in the air. I’m staring out of the window, watching the strange swing still moving in the breeze, when Mum taps me on the shoulder.
“Beryl is going to show us the kitchen.”
It’s only then that I realise I’ve been staring for almost a minute. When I turn to follow Mum, I accidentally walk straight through Lacey, and we both turn and gape at each other at the same time.
“You seem spooked,” Lacey says. “That’s not a good sign.”
I hang back, letting Mum and Beryl chat away through the dining room.
“Do you get a vibe from this place?” I whisper quickly. “Is it haunted?”
Lacey shrugs. “Aside from the creep factor, my ghost-dar is non-existent.”
“I get a vibe,” I say as I examine the old-fashioned coppices around the wall. “It’s kinda hypnotic.”
Lacey frowns. “Maybe you should catch up with your mum before she notices you talking to a ghost.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
We wander into the dining room, which is mostly taken up with an enormous dining table and an old grandfather clock.
“You can keep the table,” Beryl says. “It was left here anyway. I’ve had it cleaned and re-varnished, but truly, it isn’t worth much, and I would never get it into the new house.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Mum agrees. “And that’s extremely generous of you, Beryl. Thank you so much.”
