MAGDALENA'S GHOST: THE HAUNTING OF THE HOUSE IN GALLOWS LANE

by Peppi Hilton

  “We’ll just leave the keys and go when we’ve had our drink. He can’t do a thing about it,” Lucy whispered again in an attempt to break the silence. But it didn’t do any good, as Anton seemed to be in a world of his own.

  A few minutes later the old man appeared at the bar and Lucy breathed a sigh of relief.

  “There he is – the old man’s just come in,” Lucy exclaimed, giving him a sharp nudge in the ribs to jolt him back to reality.

  Anton perked up immediately and a big smile spread across his face.

  “I’ll just pop over and give him the keys,” he said with gusto. He took his lager with him, his face still beaming.

  Lucy rolled her eyes as she sighed deeply. Thank God something’s wakened him. She pinned her ears back and listened carefully to their conversation, as she heard Anton offer to pay for the old man’s beer.

  Anton dropped the keys on the bar and sipped at his lager. He waited awhile before saying anything as he didn’t want the old man to clam up again. He chose his moment carefully.

  “I’m really interested in that old house. I want to buy it and do it up. I can do the work myself and I know I can bring it back to the home it must have once been. It needs a lot of loving care and attention, and I know I can give it that. It shouldn’t be left in that state, it’s going to deteriorate badly over each winter and then it will crumble. It must belong to someone and you know who it is, otherwise you wouldn’t have the keys.”

  The old man picked up his glass and took a long drink before placing it back on the counter slowly. He seemed to be deep in thought after the young man’s words and he was considering them carefully. He liked him, his freshness, his enthusiasm, his innocence. He’d been like that once.

  Anton didn’t pressure him, but waited patiently whilst keeping him company with his drinking. He couldn’t help wondering who the old man was. He didn’t even know his name. What connection did he have with the house? What did he know? And why did he have the keys? There were so many questions to be asked, but now wasn’t the right time. He couldn’t judge his age, his worn-out-face was partially hidden by his unshaven growth and long white hair which had long since thinned out on top. But he was old, Anton was convinced of that. His stature was bent and twisted with time and his fingers knobbly at the knuckles. His clothes were very dated, as if worn and never changed. He didn’t look as if he was long for this world, and his expression was one of remorse, tiredness and weariness. His eyes were faded and almost void of colour, and there was a certain air of sadness about him. Maybe he was a fugitive who had found this reclusive hamlet in which to spend his remaining years – or months – without being found. Or maybe he’d just had a hard life. Anton’s imagination grew rampant as he waited for some response.

  “It belongs to the authorities,” he finally said in a low, gruff voice.

  His answer came out of the blue and Anton was taken aback as he almost choked on the drink he had just tried to swallow.

  The old man pulled a crushed sheet of paper out of his pocket and slid it to him. “That’s who you need to contact,” he said bluntly. He slid the keys back to Anton too.

  “Am I supposed to keep the keys?” Anton asked in surprise.

  “You need to be keeping an eye on it if you intend to buy it. The authorities aren’t interested in it they’re only interested in the money. They’ll be glad of anything you offer them. Money, always money, that’s all anyone’s interested in these days. They’ll be glad to see it go, you mark my words.”

  Anton was speechless and didn’t know what to say. He picked up the keys and thanked him, but just as he lifted his glass to go and re-join Lucy near the fire, the old man spoke again but bitterly this time.

  “They took the house to pay for the fees.”

  Anton put his glass back down and faced the old man. He was simply staring into his beer looking forlorn and soulful.

  “Fees, what fees?” he asked, determined to get to the bottom of it.

  Once again he patiently waited to see if the old man would answer or remain silent.

  “For the madhouse, what do you think?”

  Anton was taken aback. He wanted to know more but was hesitant to push his luck, so he waited and ordered him another beer. The man didn’t offer any objection but took it willingly as usual. Anton leaned on the bar casually and sipped at his drink, hoping the old man would unburden his soul. It was clear that he was becoming distressed as he’d been relating the snippets of information to him, so he didn’t want to push him any further and upset him needlessly. He waited patiently, happy to keep the old man company whilst Lucy sat in front of the fire relaxing and enjoying the heat – but with all ears listening.

  “That’s all anybody’s interested in these days, money, always money. People don’t matter anymore, just money, that’s all, just money,” he continually repeated. He lifted his glass to his lips and finished the beer.

  Anton continued to remain silent, as he had now cottoned on that the old man would open up more if he kept quiet. And he was right.

  “She got her comeuppance though, that she did, but it was a long time coming. She was a good-for-nothing, an old witch, but it all rebounded on her in the end,” he mumbled to himself before retreating into silence again.

  Anton had no idea who, or what he was referring to.

  The barman was continually drying the same glass with a tea-towel, as he looked on with a perturbed expression on his face. He was the first to break the silence.

  “Go back where you came from and leave him alone. Forget about the place and leave it be! Take heed of what I’m saying, because no good will come of it.” His voice was angry and his manner harsh. “You’ll regret the day you ever saw it!”

  As for the old man, he was rambling to himself having seemingly forgotten about Anton at his side.

  Anton had more sense than to ask him anything else. He felt sorry for him and there was something about him that he couldn’t fathom. Although he looked like a tramp, or a vagrant, something in his speech, his manner, and his tone, gave the impression that he may have once enjoyed a more cultured lifestyle. For a man with such a dishevelled appearance, and worn out face, he had meticulously manicured nails. His fingers, which showed obvious signs of arthritis, were long and narrow and his nails neatly trimmed. An earlier glimpse at his feet showed him to be wearing a pair of well-polished shoes, which were in total contrast to the rest of his attire. He was a contradiction of sorts, and had an air of mystery about him which intrigued Anton. Perhaps life hadn’t been too kind to him over the years and he had finally succumbed to age. Maybe he was a war veteran - who knows! Or maybe he reminded him of his old granddad, who had died when Anton was still young but had left a strong impression on him. Maybe he was just being nostalgic – or maybe the old man was just a vagrant after all and his melancholy mood was clouding Anton’s judgement of him. They were all maybe’s, but he couldn’t deny he was curious about him. He knew he wasn’t going to get to know anything more, either about him, or the house, or its former occupants. And what he had heard up to now hadn’t made much sense either, and it had all sounded a bit bizarre.

  It was clear that the old man had clammed up and so Anton left it at that. He returned to where Lucy was sitting and sat down beside her.

  “Did you hear all that?” he whispered.

  “Sure,” was her response, but she added nothing to it. She too seemed to be deep in thought.

  “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with these keys, but it means we can go back and explore it more whenever we like.” Anton’s mood seemed somewhat subdued.

  “Don’t you think you’ve managed to be conned into keeping an eye on the place as key-holder, now you’re stuck with them?” she hissed at an astonished Anton. “What if the police hear of an incident and call upon the key holder to open up for them? You’ll have a long way to come to do just that, won’t you?”

  He couldn’t understand her lack of interest. Here he was hoping to nego
tiate with the authorities to purchase a property for less than a song, knowing she would love it once he’d restored it. She could have the business she’d always craved for, which was to open a B&B and holiday lets. The extra land which he had surveyed whilst walking around the grounds, would be ideal for nightly pull-ins. The potential was huge and he knew he was capable of doing most of the work himself. He’d weighed it up carefully. Granted, they would have to give up their nights and week-ends for a while, but it was worth it. No pain without gain after all. And he knew they would gain a lot. Unperturbed by Lucy’s attitude, he mapped out his plans to her.

  “We’ll have to wait until Monday before I can contact the authorities. Just think Luce, in a month or two we may well find ourselves living in Juniper House.” He leaned over and gave her a squeeze. “You’re going to love it, really you are. You can choose how you want it all to look and you’ll love designing the interior decorations. You know that’s what you’re good at. Please tell me you’re excited about it, please,” he pleaded. “We can even have a dog or maybe two. You’ve always said you’d like dogs – and maybe cats, the grounds are perfect for cats too. Perhaps some chickens?” he said, trying to tempt her. “We’ll never be able to have anything so long as we live in the flat. And we can park the van at the door – just think how easy that will be when unloading the shopping, then we can sell it when the house is ready.”

  Lucy, meanwhile, had been staring at him in astonishment, but his last remark prompted an outburst which he wasn’t prepared for.

  “Sell it?” Lucy gasped. She was dismayed. “Why should we sell it?”

  “Because we won’t have time for it once the house is finished and we’ll need something more practical anyway. We’ll be busy setting up the business to get it up and running for starters, that’s going to be a full-time job. Eventually both of us can work together permanently, once you’ve got it established. Just think about it Luce, it’ll be great.”

  He was brimming with enthusiasm at his grand ideas, but Lucy was feeling worried. She suddenly had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had never thought about them selling the van, they both loved it. They had only just started going places with it and they had talked and planned the next year and the next. Why was everything changing? She was feeling very disturbed. And she sure as hell didn’t want to live in that awful house!

  6

  BEFORE

  Over the next few weeks Beryl tried to get some heat into the old place by lighting the fires in each room. She managed to rustle up plenty of old wood from the garden and the old stores outside, and it didn’t take long to warm the place up. The Yorkshire range was used for boiling water and cooking just as they’d done when she was young, and some cheeriness was brought back into the house. Her mother continued her daily vigil of waiting for Billy to come home, wondering where he had got to as she sat and waited in her old rocking chair. She pottered around too in a fashion, and Beryl kept her happy by making her regular cups of tea which perked her up no end. She was, of course, being lulled into a false sense of security with the notion that her daughter was back to care for her, which was as far from the truth as one could get.

  Magdalena had reached a stage in her life whereby normality had become what she had become. A sense of hope and longing began each day, as she waited in vain for Billy. She no longer knew what the past meant, because to her time did not exist. It ceased from the day she discovered that her husband had disappeared and taken Billy with him. She became unaware of any changes that were taking place in her solitary existence, and Beryl’s presence became part of that normality. Her mind was suffering the decline that solitude condemns it to, which made Beryl’s cruel plans so much easier to execute.

  They dined on tins of soup, bread, and potatoes from stock, as Beryl had chosen not to venture out and risk meeting any of the villagers until absolutely necessary. It was important that she remain invisible, after all, she hadn’t existed to the residents of Judge Fields up to now and she intended it to stay that way. And so she shared her mother’s reclusive and frugal lifestyle and remained firmly indoors for the winter months – and no-one was the wiser.

  Each and every night as Beryl slept soundly in her make-shift bed from the mattress on the floor, she would be awakened suddenly by the sound of the creaking floorboards as her mother crept towards the bedroom door, with the cat in tow mewing constantly. She would hesitate outside, a lone and solitary figure, as if listening for signs of life before calling in her frail voice: “Are we having a cup of tea?”

  This would continue until Beryl finally jumped out of bed in defeat and impatiently followed her mother downstairs to make a drink. She would join her mother in front of the range drawing what little heat there was to be had from the burning embers, and drink cups of tea whilst listening to her ramblings about Billy coming home soon. Beryl put up with her ageing and wandering mind for the time being, by compensating herself that it wouldn’t be for much longer.

  Over the months that followed, Beryl began to put her plans in motion. There was only one thing that she had inherited from her talented and beautiful mother and that was her handwriting. They were both left-handed – the only trait they shared, therefore Beryl was able to sign any papers or documents that belonged to her, including cheque books, because their signatures were identical. Gaining power of attorney was easy, so everything went according to her devious and cruel plans. All the while her mother was oblivious to what was happening, as she was enjoying the warmth, the food, the regular cups of tea, as well as having some company in the house. Beryl’s return had also strengthened her conviction that Billy too was due to come home.

  And so she continued to wait, her mood somewhat more cheerful as she looked forward to her six–year-old son walking through the door to play her favourite piece of music on the piano. The music sheet and the piano stool had both remained in place, undisturbed, since the day he’d been taken, and everything still looked the same to Magdalena. Her own advancing years had not registered in her mind either, as time had stood still and her age with it. She waited, comforted by her own joy and belief in the impossible. Beryl avoided saying anything that would shatter her happiness, as she led her to believe that things were just as she thought they were. The more she drifted into her own world, the easier it was for Beryl to finalise her plans.

  Some weeks later the peace, which for a while had calmed the atmosphere of Juniper House, was shattered. A vehicle turned up at the house, and two men wearing white coats entered the front door. They marched down the long hallway, across the main hall, and through the sitting room, to the scullery where the old woman dozed as she rocked in her chair. Beryl nodded to them, and without giving the old lady any warning they ruthlessly yanked her by the arms and dragged her screaming in terror from the house.

  Beryl bolted the door behind them, and her mother’s final pleas as she screamed for Billy disappeared into the distance. Mother and daughter never saw each other again – at least not whilst the mother was alive.

  Beryl soon adopted her new role as owner of Juniper House with glee. Now she was rid of the old bat, she could relax knowing she was secure for the rest of her days. She knew her mother had always had a plot reserved in the church graveyard across the way for her burial when her time came, but Beryl made sure the authorities were instructed to have her cremated, regardless of her mother’s religious views. So Beryl was able to inherit the plot reserved by the church, for when her own time came; after all there wasn’t anyone else to care for her remains once she’d gone. Her cruel cunning appeared to have worked to perfection.

  Several years passed and she’d heard that her mother had died in her late nineties. She had rigorously held on to life at the asylum in York, regardless of its cruel regime, firm in her belief that Billy would be coming soon. And so, year after long year, she would sit and watch from the window of her room expectantly; watching and waiting and never faltering in her conviction that one day he would appear.
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  Beryl continued to live the same reclusive and frugal life which she had become accustomed to in that short period with her mother. But life had not been kind to her, as arthritis made her less and less mobile. And as infirmity began to descend upon her, things began to happen – strange things, sinister things, things which made her start to fear her own shadow.

  One night she mounted the stairs as usual, carrying a candle to light the way. She had never had the electricity connected, as she managed with the range for most of her needs in respect of boiling water, cooking and heat, which no doubt had exacerbated the oncome of arthritis. Climbing the stairs was becoming more difficult, and she was relieved to reach her bed and practically fall into it after blowing out the candle.

  She fell into a deep sleep but was abruptly wakened by the sound of creaking floorboards, as if someone was walking along them. Then the sound stopped outside her bedroom door. She presumed the wind must be causing the old house to creak and groan, and thought nothing of it at first as she buried her head under the bedding once more. And then a shiver ran down her spine as she heard the familiar words outside her door: “Are we having a cup of tea?”

  Her heart pounded fiercely against the walls of her chest and she sat bolt upright in bed and listened.

  “Are we having a cup of tea?”

  She was unable to think clearly, she must be dreaming – yet she knew she was wide awake. But this was no dream. She knew she had heard that familiar voice repeating those tiresome, irritating words which had kept her awake, night after night, during her mother’s wanderings. Each night her mother had climbed the stairs and walked along the floorboards which creaked with every footstep, before stopping outside the bedroom door and repeating those exact words.