The Ghosts and Hauntings Collection

by Cat Knight

  “Rowing?”

  “I like to fish, but I don’t like motors. I row out a bit and fish a bit and then row back.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Sounds lonely.” He laughed again. “Sometimes, the pub is too much, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do. I didn’t come here to trade pints either.”

  “In that case, how would you like to join me some day? Spend a few hours out in the cold and wet?”

  “You make it sound so appealing.”

  “I’m a fan of truth, so I won’t sugar coat for ya.” He tapped some keys and leaned back. “It will take a minute or two to boot, and then we’ll test it.”

  Before she could answer, the modem began to smoke.

  Chapter Six

  “Bloody hell,” Holland said and unplugged the modem. “That’s a first.”

  “What happened?”

  “The modem blew. At least, I think it did. Is your power prone to surges?”

  “I…I don’t know. I haven’t noticed any dimming or blinking, if that means anything.”

  “It means you’re going to need a surge protector. I should have thought of it before I came. These old places are full of dicey wiring. It’s a miracle they don’t burn down.”

  “So, I’m still without connectivity for a while?”

  He stood and shrugged. “Only for as long as it takes me to run to the village and back—if that’s OK.”

  “Sure, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Great. Good. Hey, when I finish here, it will be quitting time. What say you join me at the pub for dinner?”

  Catherine hesitated a second. “Sure, that would be great. I need to get out of this place for a while.”

  “Terrific.” He grabbed the faulty modem and waved it at her. “I’ll be right back.”

  “You can find your way out?”

  “And back in.” With a wave, he disappeared.

  Catherine watched out the window as Holland jumped into his small car and shot away. She knew she should have walked out with him, but she was afraid that if she did, that awful message would reappear on her computer. Trusting Wanetta wasn’t something Catherine was ready to do. With Holland gone, she settled into her chair and rewound her mind to the solution for her story she had devised before the message upset her. As her fingers touched the keys, the smell invaded the room.

  It wasn’t a smell, it was a stench, an odour so foul she could barely breathe. Catherine had walked through battlefields where the carnage was terrible, where birds feasted on the remains, where bloated bodies begged for a decent burial.

  But she had never smelled anything as horrid as what infused the parlour. It was the reek of hell itself, a smell that brought tears to her eyes.

  For a moment, she sat frozen, unable to process the onslaught. Then, pinching her nose and holding her breath, she ran from the room, not stopping until she reached the front door which she opened wide.

  As she sucked in fresh air, she thought she should have opened the parlour windows before she ran out to rid the room of the stench. Leaving the door open, she took a deep breath and ran back to the parlour.

  She held her breath until she could open a window, but she already knew it wasn’t necessary. Her eyes didn’t burn, and her nose didn’t run. As she slowly inhaled, she smelled nothing. Not a trace of the stench remained.

  But that was impossible. A few minutes before, the room smelled worse than a tent morgue under a desert sun, and now, it was scent free. What the hell? She left the window open and turned back to the laptop. Throat in her heart, she walked towards it. Was there a message? The screen was blank.

  She sat and stared at her computer, her document, her novel. And she knew what had happened. Wanetta. Brainerd. There was no message on the screen because the stench had been the message.

  There was no message on the screen because there had been no time to write one. The smell was enough, more than enough. Where had it come from?

  She turned her chair and looked around the room. Like most old buildings, this one lacked central heating and cooling. Windows, fireplaces, stoves, that’s what the former owners used. So, if there was no ductwork, how did the smell get into the room? She looked high and low, along every wall and corner. She was certain there was a hole somewhere, a hole big enough for a hose, big enough to flood the room with smell and remove it just as quickly. She dropped to her hands and knees to look along floorboards and under furniture.

  She knew her staff was crafty. She would have to outwit them. The hole had to be there.

  “Drop something?”

  Chapter Seven

  She looked over her shoulder to where Holland stood in the doorway. His bemused look said he liked looking at her backside, which said as much about him as it did about her.

  “Looking for a mouse hole,” she said as she stood.

  “Ah, the bane of country living.” He walked across the room and began to replace the modem. “Cheeky little devils never quit. You trap and poison and fill their holes, and before you know it, they’re back. I’ve often wondered why they named pointing devices mouses. Doesn’t seem to fit, does it?”

  “And a mouse pad really isn’t a house for mice, is it?”

  He chuckled. “It won’t be long till you put a device on your head and let your thoughts control your computer.”

  “Just what I need, a neurotic mouse.” He laughed.

  “If I’m going to the pub,” she said. “I have to change. I’ll be right back.”

  “Do you want me to close the window. It looks like a squall is brewing.”

  She wanted to tell him to leave it open. At least with an open window, the smell might not get in.

  “Sure, close it,” she said.

  No one was in the master bedroom which pleased Catherine. The last thing she wanted was to change clothes under Wanetta’s deathlike stare. As she splashed on perfume, she wondered why she was bothering. Holland was just someone she was going to have dinner with, pint and bangers maybe. Still, he was handsome, and he had shown a liking for her. That was something. And he had a job, a business. That promoted him to the head of the pack that filled the pub.

  What was wrong with him? The thought found a seat in her head. Handsome, stable, working, why hadn’t some local lass bedazzled him? Catherine was not so naïve as to think he was beyond the clutches of the locals. He’s gay. She looked in the mirror and suddenly knew the truth. He wasn’t married with three brats because he preferred men to women.

  Simple. It was exactly what Sheila would say. He played for the opposite team, and Catherine was simply someone to cover his tracks. If he showed up with a woman, everyone noticed. She wasn’t sure why he would want to hide his preference, and she didn’t care. It was a free meal away from the cold and stench of Brainerd and Wanetta. That was enough.

  From the front seat of Holland’s little car, Catherine watched Brainerd and Wanetta climb into Brainerd’s old truck. As Holland zipped past, Catherine stared into faces as uncaring as stone. She wondered what they had planned for the dark of night, for she was certain they had planned something.

  “Do you dart?’ Holland asked, pulling her out of her reverie.

  “Badly,” she answered.

  “Perfect.”

  They were halfway to the village when the squall hit. Typical of the region, the winds whipped the rain into straight lines that hammered the windows. Despite the storm, Holland raced along, as if the sun were shining. Catherine glanced out the window and wondered how close to the edge he was driving. She thought about asking, but she didn’t want to distract him.

  “Is this too fast?” he asked.

  “If you can take it, so can I.”

  He slowed. “I forget that strangers find this particular stretch nerve wracking, especially in the rain.”

  “You go up to the Hall often?”

  “No, but I do go past it. It’s on the way to my parents. They’re not as spry as they used to be, so I go there often. You
know, the age of forgetfulness.”

  “I lost my parents two years ago. Heart attack and cancer.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “No need to be. It happens. Besides, if my mother were still alive, she would be staying at Highcliff instead of me.”

  “Well, I, for one, am glad it’s you.” Catherine smiled, even if he was gay, she enjoyed him.

  They rolled into the village, and he paused in front of the pub. “Find us a booth if you can. And a pint.”

  “Absolutely.”

  The pub was warm and friendly and mostly filled, but Catherine managed to find a booth away from the hubbub of the bar. For the next two hours, she ate and played darts, and learned more about Holland, including where he studied electronics, how he came to own his business, and why he hadn’t yet sought to move to a larger city—parents.

  He was the perfectly respectable, gay man who needed a woman to fool the locals, although Catherine doubted he fooled anyone. Villages protected few secrets. She suspected that everyone in the pub knew about Highcliff, and they probably knew all about Brainerd and Wanetta. And like almost all villages, these people weren’t about to divulge what they knew.

  The ride home was the opposite of the ride down. No rain, no wind, but no stars either. Clouds made the night darker than it should have been.

  “Need me to check the place?” he asked as he stopped in front of the door.

  “Nope,” she answered. “I can handle it.”

  “Let me know if the modem acts up… or if you have any problems.”

  “You’ll be the first.”

  Catherine waved from the open door and watched as he pulled away. For a moment, she hesitated. She had no idea what waited for her. Blonde girl? Stench? Cold? Message? What new prod had her faithful servants left for her, for she was sure they had set a booby trap somewhere. But she wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction of knowing they bothered her. She stepped inside and closed the door.

  On cue, a HOWL, echoed throughout. Blinking her eyes for just a second and wishing Holland back, she turned on the lights as she walked to the parlour. The wiring appeared to be working perfectly, no flickering, no dimming. In the parlour, she walked to her laptop and tapped a key. No message.

  “You’re slipping,” she said out loud as she settled in her chair.

  She thought that she had had imbibed enough alcohol to smother her inhibitions and allow her to write without self-censorship. She was going to let words fill the page. She was going to race through this portion of the book with abandon. Her characters would be as true as a favourite dog. She smiled. Then, the cold hand gripped her shoulder.

  Chapter Eight

  Catherine spun and threw her arm back at the same time. Her arm found nothing. Her eyes saw nothing. Her heart pounding in her chest, she looked around the room. She knew no person could have moved fast enough to not be seen. If that were the case, then that person was…still there.

  Catherine stood and ran to the fireplace. She grabbed the poker and held it ready. She moved toward the only place a person could hide—behind the small sofa on the far side of the room. She wasn’t at all sure anyone could have moved quickly enough to hide there, but she also knew that in panic situations people often failed to see what was plainly in front of their eyes. Holding the poker with one hand, she jerked away the sofa, ready to strike.

  No one. The space was empty. But she had felt the hand, the icy cold fingers. She could still feel them. And that meant she wasn’t alone. Someone else was in the Hall, and that someone wasn’t her friend. A sudden fire burned inside her. She was going to find whoever inhabited Highcliff, and she was going to make sure that person never invaded her house again.

  If it was Brainerd or Wanetta, Catherine was going to fire them on the spot.

  She started with the first floor. Catherine proceeded room by room. Armed with the poker, she checked behind all the furniture, opened every door. She even tapped the closet walls to determine if perhaps there were secret passageways running through the house. She had read that rich people added escapes to their houses, ways to get out as the horde broke down the front door. It wouldn’t surprise her if Highcliff hid one or two exits.

  But she found no hidden passages, no one hiding, no clue to feed her theory. The first floor was utterly clear, so she had no choice but to move up to the next floor. She made sure all the doors were locked before she trudged up the stairs. She repeated her search.

  Under every bed, and through every closet. She scanned the floors for footprints or mud or something to indicate the presence of a human. She found nothing. Her quest ended in the master bedroom where she sat wearily on the bed, poker across her legs. Where could they be hiding? She closed her eyes a moment and felt someone watching, someone snickering. She opened her eyes and whirled.

  In the movies, it was always the eyes in the portrait that gave away the voyeur. Real eyes instead of painted ones. Catherine slid off the bed and walked to the portrait. The man was stout but not fat, a man dressed in his best, his beard and hair carefully combed. His face displayed a cruelty that was evident to her; he was someone who didn’t care if others were hurt. It was almost a scowl.

  “Who are you?” she asked out loud. Anger burned in her voice. Catherine was tired of these games. Never in her life had she felt so powerless to control things and with her free hand she hit out at the portrait, making it shudder on its anchor.

  The portrait didn’t answer, and the eyes didn’t change yet they followed her. Holding the poker in her hand she raised it and brought it back. But she didn’t swing. Instead, she put down the poker and carefully lifted the portrait off the wall. It was heavy, and she barely managed.

  She set it down and examined the wall behind. She felt with her fingers, searching for a seam.

  There must be a hole, a hiding place. She found nothing. But someone was watching her. She was sure of that. She left the portrait leaning against the wall and walked out. Her search had produced nothing, and that left but one place to inspect. The tower.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Marching down the stairs Catherine went straight to the huge, ornate door. She grabbed the padlock and rattled it against the hasp. Nothing gave. She let the padlock fall and stared. She had read where sometimes smaller doors were hidden inside the larger door, doors hard to find. She ran her fingers over the wood, searching for a tell-tale groove, a piece of wood out of place. She was careful. She was thorough. She found absolutely… nothing. Frustration and fury burned a hole inside of her. She stepped back from the door and screamed.

  It was only after her scream died that she heard the laughter.

  She strained to hear. Laughter, definitely laughter.

  She turned slowly, looking in every direction because it seemed to come from everywhere.

  Laughter. Loud laughter. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps but anger surged through her too.

  “NO!” She shouted. “NO!”

  But the laughter continued, growing louder by the second, so loud she dropped the poker and covered her ears. The mocking tone penetrated her brain, her psyche. She dropped to her knees, hands over ears, silently begging for the laughter to stop, to leave her alone. Sinking to the cold, stone floor, she curled into a ball, as if being bombarded by the sound. Eyes closed, ears covered, tears running down her cheeks, she couldn’t move. She was pinned by a horrible laughter she could do nothing about. Even as her mind started to go black, the laughter stopped.

  For a moment, Catherine couldn’t believe her ears. Silence greeted her. She took a deep breath and uncurled. Flat on her back, she fought the urge to jump to her feet and race out into the dark. She struggled to her knees and grabbed the poker. Somehow, the poker made her feel safer, more in control. Then, she stood. She faced the door, her tears drying.

  “You haven’t won, you son-of-a-bitch,” she said. “This has just started. HEAR ME?! I’M COMING FOR YOU! HEAR ME?!”

  Every light winked out, leaving Catherine in th
e dark. Fighting the urge to run, unlock the front door and sprint as far and as fast as she could, Catherine breathed deeply and gripped the poker tightly and prayed that her eyes would adjust to the dark.

  Then, even as a prayer escaped her lips, the lights winked on. And the urge to flee grew stronger. A voice inside her head told her that only an idiot would stay in here. Highcliff was haunted, as haunted as any place in the world. Some evil inhabited the place, and that evil wanted her, wanted her soul, her life. She should run away without looking back. Leave everything, be thankful to be alive. She should run. But she didn’t run. She swallowed hard and started up the stairs. Every step cost her. Every step inflamed the voice in her head. Was she crazy? Was she stupid? How could she battle what she couldn’t see?

  She didn’t listen to the voice. She shuffled to the master bedroom and locked the door behind her. She didn’t bother with pyjamas or even brushing her teeth.

  Hugging the poker to her chest, she stretched out on the bed. She told herself that sleep was what she needed, healing sleep. Because she wasn’t sure whether she had heard the laughter or invented it inside her head. Everything she knew, everything she believed in, told her that ghosts were impossible. There were no evil beings locked inside evil castles.

  She had to hold onto that. If she started believing in evil spirits, she was one step from a straitjacket in the looney bin. Sleep would dispel that notion, perfect sleep. She closed her eyes and waited for the howl or the laughter or that icy hand on her shoulder. She waited.

  Chapter Nine

  “Not everything I’m going to tell you is guaranteed to be true. Catherine sat in the coffee shop with the librarian Holland had recommended. Beatrice, looked fifty but seemed older. She dressed primly, and her round glasses looked to be more prop than essential.

  Catherine had the idea that Beatrice wanted everyone to assume certain things about her, certain things that might or might not be true. To Catherine, it was a role, but then, Catherine didn’t really care.