by Cat Knight
“You’re such a social butterfly that I couldn’t imagine that.”
“Oh, piss off,” she grinned at him, feeling a little better. If the worst came to the worst, she could just let Sam do all the talking. His apparent immunity to awkwardness or stress was infectious if she let it be.
When they arrived at the community hall, she was even further comforted by the shabby exterior and rather ordinary people that were meandering in, greeting Sam with waves and smiles before converging inside the granite building.
It wasn’t much, but the carpet was a royal red and the ornate table laden with tiny pasties and cream teas, was antique, with beautiful rolled legs. A collection of art donations from local parishes that spanned back hundreds of years bedecked the walls. Belle was introduced by Sam, and she waved out at the company of twelve or so people, a forced, yet polite smile on her face.
The company and conversation was pleasant, and thankfully it was mostly within her vague reach of understanding most of the time. She chatted about the castles she’d visited, the stone circles on the moors, the stately homes, which inevitably led to a sudden and great interest in her current residence.
“You’re living at Ferncoombe, correct?” David, a rather portly man in his fifties that claimed to lecture history at a university a few miles away, asked.
“Yeah, that’s right. Sam’s bringing the garden back to life for us.” She smiled at her friend as he rammed a whole miniature pasty into his mouth and nodded.
“Well, you’ll know all about the history of that house, then!” he boomed jovially.
“Meaning, he knows you likely have no idea about it, but would like the opportunity to open his big mouth about it anyway.” A busty woman with fine long blonde hair leaned forward offering her hand. “Ivanka, also from the university. I teach ancient civilizations.”
David puffed up like a bullfrog. “That’s simply not the case. I just-”
Ivanka cut in with a wicked grin “Love hearing about how women were blamed for their husbands being so intolerable they had to run off with secret lovers to have any fun at all?”
Belle gave a nervous smile. “I’ve heard something about ghosts supposedly haunting the house, but that’s all.” She shot a sneaky glance at Sam.
“Ah, well. Yes, every rumour has a beginning somewhere. Look up there. She’s the reason for your ghost story.”
David pointed to one of the many portraits lining the walls. An aristocratic but soft-featured young woman with a crown of dark brown curls that framed her face stared down at them from above. “That lovely young woman in the portrait is Lady Florabel Ferncoombe. Her husband, George Ferncoombe, was a wealthy merchant, but he had no title; so, seeking introduction into the aristocracy he wooed Florabel’s father, Lord Chenoweth.”
All eyes were fixed on David and he recounted the tale with vigour now that he held the floor. “Now Lord Chenoweth was more than a little in debt thanks to his gambling habit. And this particular daughter – Florabel, was married off to George. It would seem likely that her chances at a better match were slim, since the family had no money left, and couldn’t manage their estate any longer. Florabel was said to have a limp, that bothered her from birth.”
He hesitated for a moment, allowing the information to sink in. “That would have limited her social allure a great deal you see. So Ferncoombe paid off Chenoweth debts, took Florabel off his hands and in return, he was introduced into London’s elite social circles, which he couldn’t have done without Chenoweth giving him a leg up.” He stopped talking for a brief moment, before adding almost as an afterthought, “Records are a little hazy, as to the exact date, but it’s thought that Florabel lost their only child at about two years of age.”
The woman in the portrait peered down holding Belles gaze, drawing her in. A shiver ran over her body as the dream that had yielded such sadness to Belle resurfaced to her mind. Belle’s face crunched up and she breathed deeply, trying to get adequate oxygen, and fighting a panic attack. The thing that disturbed Belle most was that her recollection seemed to be more of a memory, than of a dream.
Shivers turned to goose-bumps as she recalled the surprise imprint on the duvet and the unexpected perfumed scent that had wafted around her earlier that day. Belle kept staring at the portrait, locked in to the face. “What happened to her?” She managed to squeak out.
“Well... poor Florabel was never quite settled after that. And one night she limped away with a lover.” He guffawed at his own joke. Belle remained stone faced. Seeing her lack of joviality, he cleared his throat and continued. “And, well, if the fuss in the newspapers from that time is to be believed, she was never to be heard of again. It’s all there.” David’s bushy eyebrows raised towards his receding hairline. “It’s even recorded in the gossip pages, that the servants knew all about it, along with most of society. She scandalised the family. Even if she’d wanted to come back, it wouldn’t have been tolerated. After that, the husband remarried, but they say he couldn’t stand to stay in the house. And it changed hands once or twice and then stayed derelict until Camille bought it all those years ago. How is Camille? It’s so wonderful that she took it over. I must pay a visit sometime.”
Belle shifted uncomfortably on her feet. Through the material of her sweater, she felt something strange; burning, but cold, such an odd sensation that her hand rose reflexively to her neck to investigate subconsciously and her fingertips brushed the necklace, drawing David’s attention. He leaned forward. “Why, would you look at that!” he exclaimed, pointing to her neck before jabbing his finger up at the painting. “You found the very necklace that she wears in her only recorded portrait. Astonishing!”
Chapter Ten
Shock riveted through Belle’s body. So, this is who all the finery belongs to. She had fallen too deep in the portraits eyes to notice the necklace until now. But David was correct. It was the same one that burned ice through to her skin at this very moment. “Oh… no. This is just something that I picked up in London,” Belle murmured, eyes cast down.
“Where did you get it? An opal that big must have been a fair amount…” Ivana leaned forward too, blue eyes sparkling with interest.
“Oh… I… I don’t remember…” Belle replied meekly. “London somewhere.” Belle got up from her seat, her face white and drawn. I think I need some air.
“Finally, a cigarette break!” Ivanka called.
“I don’t smoke. Really sorry…. Sam, could I maybe have the van keys? I don’t feel very well.”
Sam watched her for a moment, brow furrowed slightly, before giving a gentle smile and passing them over the table.
“Of course. I won’t be long. Go rest up.” Belle left the building, feeling the eyes of the whole room on her back as she did.
She climbed into the van and sat until she was compressed into her jacket like a tortoise, hiding from the world, her mind whirring.
It wasn’t long before Sam came out to join her, nearly half an hour before the meeting was due to end. “Hey there,” he greeted her as he got into the driver’s seat. “Something you wanna talk about? They’re alright, really, they’re just very Cornish and don’t go to many other places…”
“It’s fine honestly. I just feel a bit unwell. Just really need to go home,” Belle insisted quietly. Sam obliged. She was silent almost the entire ride home.
As they pulled into the driveway, Sam caught her hand before she stepped out, quickly withdrawing his own when she tugged away in surprise. “Sorry, sorry. I just wanted to say, I know we just met, but whatever’s chasing you from London…”
His face, usually dimpled and glowing with mischief, was solemn and sincere. “I’m here for you. If you need it.”
To save her the awkwardness of accepting or declining, he broke the seriousness by cracking a grin. “And If you can get over that gaggle of soft rednecks, come along next week. They were all talking about how much they liked you and wished you’d stayed longer. Especially David, though I think he migh
t be after your aunt’s antiques.’
“Yeah. Maybe. I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll be over tomorrow afternoon to start working. Till then, look after yourself? Please? You deserve it, you know.”
Belle forced a smile and a little wave as they said goodbye. She watched him go, almost wishing that he’d take her with him, anywhere, anywhere but here.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
Belle awoke with a start, ragged breath and panic clutching at her throat. Her surroundings were pitch black. Instead of the soft mattress beneath her and the thick duvet over her, all that she could feel was hard surface surrounding around her closely. Her bare feet lay flat against whatever it was that boxed her in, a tentative testing thump with a fist revealed that it was wood.
Scratch. Scratch. Scraaaaatch…
It sounded right next to her ear, the incessant sound of something blunt scraping against something hard and unyielding. Fear grabbed at her throat, and she shrieked, flailing around in an attempt to find some way out of this strange nightmare, before tumbling to one side and rolling out of the wardrobe in her room. She splayed out on the floor, panting. The scratching halted, but in its place, a soft, whimpering cry began to sound throughout the room.
“Auntie?” Belle whimpered, but no reply came. The crying grew louder, no longer a gentle mourning sob, but rising to a wailing of horrible grief that chilled her bones and made her teeth feel suddenly numb. She got up, feeling exposed and helpless in her nightclothes, and ran out of the room.
The moment she was out into the hallway, the crying stopped. Still something had her feeling as though eyes were on her from every dark corner that she passed. Her bare feet fell silently on the carpet but she crept as she stepped anyway, as though terrified that she’d alert some hidden attacker to her presence.
Tea didn’t help. Flicking through channels on the large television in the living room, turning it off and on again several times, didn’t help. Not even letting Rolf out to do his business and taking deep breaths of fresh air would help her relax. Passing her aunt’s room had her greeted with the distinctive sound of late night online video gaming.
“YAH!” came the muffled, reedy battle cry from within. “I tell you what, young man, Camille was shouting at her opponent “Old age and treachery will beat youth and vigour anytime.”
Belle left her to it, but the strangeness of the crying in her bedroom when there was clearly nobody to make the sound unnerved her. As she was wandering the corridors, hands gripping her elbows, the thought occurred to her that she had been rolling her eyes at her aunt for the very same behaviour. A shiver ran through her body as the cold finally started to get to her. Determined not to catch something, and make herself ill, she wrapped herself up in a blanket and curled up in the living room recliner. It was many hours later that she crept past her aunt, now sleeping in the chair next to her, and crawled back into bed, too tired to care.
Chapter Eleven
“Knock- knock.” She didn’t expect to hear Sam’s voice so early in the morning… but was it? She sat up, bleary-eyed, running a hand through her flyaway hair and groaning. Camille’s bustling in the kitchen had half woken her at some point, and exhausted she had slunk past Camille up to her room. “I have toast. Please don’t kill me. Camille said it would be OK”
“Come, enter my lair mortal, and you may leave the toast,” Belle grumbled, unable to help but smile a little as he stepped inside, tray in hand. “Dare I ask what time it is?”
“It’s two o’clock in the afternoon. Your aunt wanted to let you sleep, but I think she only woke up a couple hours ago anyway. She was saying something about some kind of first person shooter tournament. I don’t know. She makes me laugh.”
He sat down on the bed, sliding the tray of toast, tea and juice to her. She took it gratefully, as she’d eaten nothing at the meeting the night before nor when she’d returned.
“She makes me laugh too.” Belle murmured sleepily, taking bites out of the cooling toast.
“Bloody hell, what happened here?” Sam exclaimed, walking over towards the wardrobe. The doors were flung wide open, exposing the inside, where Belle’s belongings had been shoved aside and some tossed out. Deep, clawing scratch marks criss-crossed the wood inside, from the back to the bottom to the inside of the doors. Belle’s eyes widened and she gulped back a tiny sob.
“I… I don’t know. I must have been sleepwalking… had a bad dream or something. I woke up in there.”
“Well…” Sam inspected the wardrobe, rubbing one thumb over the deep rivets in the wood. Splinters came away and fluttered to the floor. “Nothing a bit of sanding can’t fix. You must have one hell of a set of cat claws. Hope you didn’t tear your nails up doing that. Does this normally happen?”
Belle stole a quick glance at her nails, bitten almost down to the quick, the sorry habit of a lifetime.
They were totally unmarked by what should have caused at least splinters in her fingers. She swallowed and curled them into her palms.
“No. I mean, I have bad dreams a lot, but sleepwalking… not that I know of.”
“Oh, well. Chalk it down to a stressful time, eh?” Sam replied, giving a reassuring smile. “I’ll be in the garden if you feel like giving some company. Don’t rush yourself though. You look like you’ve needed the rest.”
“You saying I look haggard?” Belle shot back playfully.
Sam laughed and said nothing, slipping out of the room.
The pat-pat of Rolf’s paws following him down the stairs tweaked a smile from her lips, but it wasn’t long before her brow furrowed again in worry. How on earth did those scratches get there when the tips of her fingers were completely untouched? Could she have missed them digging around in there when she found the jewellery?
Her hand went to her neck. The teardrop of opal still hung there. She realized she hadn’t taken it off for days. Her head started to hurt from all the thinking, so she ate her toast and drained her drinks before getting dressed and heading out into the garden. Sam was hard at work, gloved and in his overalls, pulling weeds out from one of the flowerbeds.
“Hey there!” he called out to her, but didn’t stop.
“Hey,” she greeted him, striding over to the flowerbed and staring into it pensively. “So… what are you thinking of putting here?”
“I thought, a nice bed of pansies. At the moment it’s just brambles, but once there’s some colour...”
“No…” Belle murmured vaguely. Sam paused.
“No? You got another idea?” he asked, intrigued.
“Well… I thought, maybe a bed of lavender here. Some hyacinth… some myosotis…”
Sam blinked at her rapidly. She tilted her head at him. “What?”
“Well, for someone that ‘doesn’t have green fingers and killed a cactus’, you know a hell of a lot about flowers.”
“No, I don’t… she murmured, doubtfully. Sam raised an eyebrow.
“Myosotis. Most people just call them forget-me-nots. In fact, I’ve only ever heard other gardeners call them by anything different. Sheesh, you must really love the colour blue.”
“Actually, I don’t. It’s cold. It’s my least favourite colour…”
“So why are you filling the garden with it, then?” he pushed, tone becoming incredulous. She shrugged, suddenly defensive.
“I don’t know! I just have feelings about stuff, you know? It just… feels right. Whatever.”
“Whatever.” Sam agreed, but still looked up at her every so often with a strange expression on his face, as though he’d been under some great deception. Belle’s stomach knotted with the feeling that she’d offended her new friend. To avoid meeting his gaze, she turned hers up to the house, looking from window to window between the ivy-decked walls of granite.
A flash of activity caught her eye. She instantly focussed on her bedroom window, where she had seen something moving. Shielding her face from the white glare of the sun shining th
rough the clouds, she squinted, trying to make it out.
A face. A face at her window. A face crowned with dark brown ringlets, and twisted in a grimace that totally perverted the delicate features into an expression of horror…
Belle sped from the garden, not looking back despite Sam calling her name in confusion. She nearly knocked Camille off her feet, rushing past her and thundered up the stairs in the house, taking two at a time.
“Belle, dear! Whatever is the matter!” her aunt shouted out to her from below. The room was empty. Belle wailed in confusion and frustration, gripping her hair with both hands and falling to her knees. “Belle… Belle, what is it…?” She felt Camille kneel down beside her, out of breath from hurrying up the stairs after her.
“The house, Auntie, there’s something in this FUCKING house!” she half-screamed in reply, angry, stinging tears rising to her eyes. “It wants to drive me crazy!”
“Oh, Belle, for goodness sake. There is nothing trying to drive you crazy. It’s your mind playing tricks on you, you silly thing. Get some real sleep tonight and put it out of your head. You’re supposed to be networking and getting your life back on track, not swooning around this dusty old place all the time.”
“Well if that’s the case why are you always up half the night and never sleeping? Why do you sleep in the day? And what’s all the fuss about leaving stuff alone? You know it Auntie, don’t you? Something is wrong here.”
“Belle, I don’t know anything of the sort. I’m an old lady who lives alone, I like things to be peaceful and I don’t need to have you worrying me about silly things like this. I told you to leave things alone, things are better that way. I’m not going to think anymore, about this. You would be best to follow my advice
from now on dear. If you mind your own business, then the house stays quiet.”
With that, Camille was gone, shuffling back down the hallway and to the living areas downstairs.
