The Ghosts and Hauntings Collection

by Cat Knight

  It looked to be caught on a shingle or hook or something, but she didn’t care. She grabbed the boot and stared at it. How would it help? She remembered Wesley, what he said about Floyd charging a machine gun nest. It was crazy. She looked from the boot to the birds.

  With all her strength, she threw the boot at the birds. It hit some, scared many, and cleared the platform. Before the birds could mount another try, Nora backed up as far as she dared, took two quick steps, and leaped across the gap.

  When she landed, the weakened section tilted under her weight. She slid backwards. Falling down, her hands searched for a hold… and she found two, one for each hand.

  She dangled, afraid to try anything. Holding on, she felt the section stop moving. She was almost certain that she could pull herself onto the mesh. From there, it was a short crawl to the open door. All she had to do was pull.

  Then, the huge raven landed.

  The black gleam of the raven’s eye challenged her. For a long second, it did nothing. Then, with ferocious speed it pecked her hand.

  The beak sank into her skin, drawing blood, and while the pain was excruciating, she couldn’t let go. She watched as the bird hopped and punctured her other hand. She screamed in panic and fury and despair.

  Nora had no idea how it happened, but at that moment, with her hands bleeding, her strength ebbing, the raven getting ready for another attack, the boot fell from the sky.

  It hit the raven squarely in the head, stunning the bird. It fell over, and Nora recognized her chance. She heaved herself onto the platform, safe for the moment.

  Panting, she grabbed the boot. The raven stood up and shook itself off. Its beady, black eye trained on her, the raven spread its wings to fly. Nora knew she couldn’t let it get away. She lunged and latched onto a leg with her left hand.

  And the raven went crazy.

  It immediately flew at her face, pecking, batting with its wings, sinking a talon into her hand. The sky in front of her turned black as other ravens flew at Nora scratching at her arm, landing in her hair. It was a full-scale attack, but something in her knew she couldn’t lose. With the boot in her right hand, she hammered the huge raven.

  Once, twice, three times before it fell over.

  When it did, the other ravens flew off.

  For a moment, she didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t sure if she could kill the bird no matter how many times she struck it.

  And if she did, would that get rid of the wrecker? As doubt filled her mind, she heard it, those faint strains of GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.

  A thought popped into her mind and she knew what to do.

  She grabbed the bird and stuffed it into the boot, head first. It was a tight fit and halfway through the process the raven came alive, fighting her. But she didn’t stop. She pushed until the bird was completely imprisoned inside Floyd’s boot. Then, as quickly as her bloody hands could manage, she laced up the boot and tied it tight. Boot in hand, she stood.

  “Now what?”

  She looked out and decided. With all her strength, she slung the boot out over the rocks. It seemed to fly much further than her strength allowed, over the rocks and breakers, until it plopped into the cold ocean.

  She watched for a moment to see if it would bob to the surface. It didn’t. Floyd was taking his prisoner to the bottom of the sea. She looked around, and suddenly all the ravens took flight.

  As full dark storm clouds raced toward her, she limped around the swaying platform and through the door. She hadn’t taken three steps before the entire platform pulled free. She reached out to pull the door closed, and she saw the mangled, ruined platform clatter to the rocks.

  Shuddering, she eased her way down the stairs.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nora and Felix picked their way along the stones toward a large rocky outcrop.

  ‘It’s a good fishing spot’, Erma had said. ‘Floyd often caught a fish out there. He always give me one if it were spare.’

  They weren’t there to try their hand at fishing though. The old metal platform was in the process of being cleared away and the noise of it all drove them out of the cottage.

  Nora’s hands were still covered in deep scabs but since the event on the platform, there had been no fishy smells, no screams, no songs about saving the queen, or stray boots. Soon, there would be a solid new platform. Because neither of them wanted to lose access to the view. But mostly because a lighthouse with-out a platform, would be – just wrong.

  “Are you disappointed about New York?” Nora asked, steadying her step with the help of Felix’s arm.

  “A little, but not too much.” Felix’s eyes told the truth. “The timings not right, and if setting up a New York office had been viable right now, then we’d be right back to city life again. Neither of us want that. There’ll be other opportunities.”

  The waves washed up over the rocks, pulling the tide ever further back. Rock-pools glistened in the sun, their various occupants closing up tight or skittering away, when Nora stuck a finger in, indulging a childhood habit of touching almost everything in the shallow pools.

  Felix was just a few steps ahead of her now. He had reached the rock outcrop. As he meandered there something glinted in the sun, catching his eye.

  At first, he thought it was a piece of sea glass, until he looked longer. Bending down, he picked up a batch of seaweed and began picking away the thick mass from what appeared to be a silver necklace with its stone still perfectly intact.

  Pulling it free, he turned to Nora, who was now at his side, and wondering what he was looking at. He showed her the necklace, pieces of seaweed still clinging to it.

  “Oh, my Lord! I thought I’d lost it forever.” Nora stared at it a long moment.

  She removed the debris before fastening it around her neck. Thinking of his Victoria Cross, she said “Thanks Floyd, we’re even now.”

  By the time they reached the cottage grounds, the last of the trucks was driving off with its load of metal. Erma had arrived and was madly waving to them from the kitchen window.

  The Beeb was playing loudly when they entered. “Sit down lovies.” Erma chattered, “I think you’ll like this. It’s about that Wesley bloke you were looking for. The one with the champagne and letter.”

  The host’s voice sounded out from the radio.

  “The last remaining member of the Queens 100 fusiliers brigade, Wesley Archer, died recently at the age of 95. He was one of the party that assaulted Juno beach on D-day 1944. His passing signifies the end of an era. But one that ended happily for Wesley. Wesley recently received a bottle of 1939s Vevue Amiot champagne, passed around among a group of friends for decades. The wine was taken as a souvenir from the cellar of a French farmer. The farmer hid five men from German troops. We have his son Russell Archer here to tell us a bit about the story.”

  Erma poured tea and sliced a pound cake as the three sat comfortably together at the table. Nora nodded in agreement as she heard the tale, retold by Wesley’s son. As Russell concluded the story, the radio host’s voice chimed in at exactly the right moment.

  “Thank you, Russell. You must be very proud of your father. We all are, for his service. I think it would be quite appropriate to honour Wesley with a rendition from the London army band and choir, of ‘God Save the Queen’.”

  The sounds drifted out from the radio, clear and pure as a new morning.

  With a soft quavering echoing in Nora’s ear.

  THE END

  THE HAUNTING OF HARROW HOUSE

  CAT KNIGHT

  ©Copyright 2018 Cat Knight

  All Rights Reserved

  Prologue

  Cornwall

  England

  8th October 1940

  Doris Taylor folded her tweed skirt and carefully packed it away in her suitcase. Annoyance crinkled across her brow and she let it sit. After patting the skirt firmly down, her hands found her next item. Leaving Cornwall when she had barely just arrived was infuriating. She had been looking for
ward to spending time with her friend Lizzie, in Lizzie’s little house near the coast and she would miss the peaceful morning walks out into the moor where for some reason, calm managed to find her if only for a short while.

  Doris had planned on staying at least a fortnight with Lizzie because a change of scenery was sorely needed.

  Things had been getting her down too much lately. What with Bill away across the ocean and the never knowing if he would come back, well, that was the worst.

  The fear and uncertainty never ended. So, coming to Cornwall and visiting Lizzie seemed a bright spot; a reprieve even if just a short one. That was before Lizzie’s cousin fled London too.

  The house wasn’t big enough for the three women, especially since Lizzie’s cousin uttered more demands than a kidnapper and Doris was forced to share a bedroom. Nothing pleased the woman, not the food or the weather or, especially, Doris. Reading between the ‘please stay’ entreaties of Lizzie, Doris knew she had to go.

  “You really don’t have to leave,” Lizzie said.

  Doris turned to the door where her friend tried a wan smile. “Please, Liz,” Doris said. “We both know that this arrangement won’t work.”

  “We can make do.”

  “Making do is exactly what I do not want. Face it, your cousin makes the situation untenable.”

  “She’s family – I’m obligated, she’s got no one else.”

  “Yes, I recognize necessity. That’s why I’m leaving.”

  “You’ll write?”

  “Of course.”

  Doris turned away to finish her packing, and was certain that Lizzie would soon vacate the doorway. After a moment, she turned her head slightly. By the time she looked at the door, her instincts were rewarded. The hallway stood empty.

  The walk to the train station took longer than Doris wanted, but taxis were scarce with the war on.

  The War. Doris hated it. Not just the Germans or the Italians or whoever else the British were fighting, she hated everything about war-time.

  The troop trains that were always messing up schedules, the lack of good tea and chocolate and the lack of petrol for the cars. She hated that her husband was across the sea.

  Doris was proud of him, and wouldn’t have chosen differently if it had ever been up to her.

  But, she hated that he was fighting this dirty war in the middle of a dirty African desert. And God help her, she hated the Germans.

  But most of all, the fiercest of her hate, was the bombing.

  London had already lost buildings that were special and loved to Doris. Parts of her life, her history, laying in rubble and ruin.

  The sirens that rang out at all hours of the day and night kept her from sleep and she woke exhausted every day.

  She hated running to the shelter or the underground and huddling with a bunch of smelly people she didn’t know.

  And she hated coming out of the shelter and finding collapsed buildings and fires.

  The bombs were the worst of the worst.

  And now, she was going back to it, back to London, back to the sirens and the shelters and the fires.

  She hated it.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Borough of Southwark

  London

  UK

  12th October 1940

  Eddie finished his beer and stood.

  “Put it in the sink,” Beatrice said. Eddie looked across the table at his wife and wondered just how things had come to this.

  His once thin and pretty wife had become a dowdy woman who found solace in Agatha Christie mysteries and baked potatoes, both of which were on the table in front of her. Orange marmalade covered the potato, something he had never seen before. It wasn’t that his wife was old. Not at all. She just acted old, older than Eddie thought she should. Earlier in the marriage, Eddie might have said something, might have asked why she couldn’t take the glass and actually wash it. But those days had passed with him saying nothing.

  This evening would pass the same way. Eddie took the glass, rinsed it because if he didn’t, Beatrice would scold him, and placed it in the sink.

  He guessed it would still be there when he returned from his rounds. And that would bother him only a little.

  He went to the closet and took out his black coat and hat. He added his torch because the streets at night were as dark as a cave.

  “Remember the Alcott’s,” Beatrice said. “They’re always leaving their drapes open.”

  “I’ll make sure dear.”

  “And take your umbrella in case it rains. You never remember to take your umbrella.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  Those two little words had been his mantra for more years than he cared to remember. Once, he tried to remember just when that little phrase jumped to the head of the line of all possible replies. He pushed his brain back as far as he could.

  Eventually the inciting incident came back to mind. He remembered it was the morning after a particularly raucous and drunk evening.

  ‘Yes, dear’ was the motto of the morning. It had been protection then, and it was protection now. Beatrice wouldn’t lower her book and frown like a gargoyle if he simply said, ‘Yes, dear’.

  Torch in one hand, umbrella in the other, Eddie walked over to give Beatrice a light kiss.

  She lifted her cheek and ‘ummmed’ her response which did not include a light kiss for his cheek. Again, that didn’t bother him. Like most married men, Eddie hadn’t gazed too deeply into the crystal ball. At the time, the future seemed too far away.

  “If the sirens go off, meet me in the underground,” she said.

  “Yes dear.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  It wasn’t raining as Eddie walked out of his building, but there was a hint of moisture in the air.

  The royal meteorological people predicted rain, but Eddie had never trusted those blokes. Forecasting was pretty much, stick a finger in the air and whisper magic words, as far as Eddie was concerned. His old Uncle Romer’s bad hip predicted better than the weather blokes.

  Switching on his torch, Eddie began his rounds. It was the same every night. Walk the streets, check the windows and doorways, correct any violations of the blackout rules.

  Personally, Eddie thought the rules daft. London wasn’t some tiny village. It was huge, even from the sky. And when the bombers rumbled over the channel, the daft searchlights would flash on, which pretty much framed London better than any flat window that happened to be uncovered. Daft, the rules were daft.

  But one thing didn’t change, the Alcott’s hadn’t sealed their upper windows. Light shined out, and that was a violation. That meant a knock on the door and a short chat with a tipsy Charlotte Alcott who would invite him in, an invitation he always turned down. After that, Charlotte would close the curtains, and Eddie would go on his way.

  That was exactly what happened.

  As Eddie moved along his route, he noticed the clearing sky. He could see stars, and that meant the clouds provided no cover. The bombers could see from London to Ireland and beyond. That was not a good sign, not for Eddie.

  At the park, he found a bench for his ten-minute break. He sat and wondered if the old world would return when the war was over. Would his neighbours come out at night again and stroll along, passing niceties

  Would young lovers hold hands and laugh in carefree lilts? He liked how they always laughed. Joy, in a sometimes, joyless world. Standing up and cracking his back, Eddie looked at the night sky and said a prayer for the entire planet.

  But he knew his duty, such as it was, and began on his route once again. Torch in one hand, umbrella in the other, he continued on his path.

  By rights he should be with the other men his age who were fighting for freedom. It burned to his core that he wasn’t with them, but an accident had deprived him of his spleen, and without a spleen he couldn’t join the armed forces.

  So, his duty was confined to the nightly rounds of making sure no light marked a house as a bombardier’s target.

&nb
sp; ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Harrow House

  Southwark

  London

  12th October 1940

  The little light leaking out from the window of the house on the corner bothered Eddie. It wasn’t that the light was a violation. It was small and not visible from ten thousand feet. No, it wasn’t the size of the light, it was the light itself. It was just that the house was supposed to be vacant. There shouldn’t be any light at all. Striding quickly, he reached the door and gave a sharp rata-tat-tat and waited.

  If some trespasser had taken up residence, Eddie was bound to call the Bobbies and oust whoever it was. He put on his gram face and waited as the door opened.

  “Doris,” Eddie said. “You’re home.”

  She smiled. “Hello, Eddie. I suspected that you would be making rounds tonight. Come in.”

  Eddie entered without a second thought, and a few minutes later, he was in the basement, sipping tea with Doris.

  “So, I couldn’t stay,” Doris said. “Home was the only place to go.”

  “Well, I, for one, am glad you’re back,” Eddie said.

  Doris poured more tea. “Trouble with her again?”

  “The same trouble. I don’t expect it to get better.”

  “You don’t have to live like that.”

  “A proper man lives with his mistakes. It is the right thing to do.”

  “But not forever. No one should be unhappy forever.”

  “She did something rather odd tonight,” Eddie said to change the topic. “She put orange marmalade on her baked potato.”

  Doris smiled and then chuckled. “Sounds like she’s pregnant.”

  “Pregnant?” Eddie knew it was possible but probable? He guessed she merely had a yen for something different. After all, the war had spread deprivation near and far.

  “Congratulations.” Eddie smiled. He had been sharing tea with Doris for over a month, and he found her company vastly superior to that of his wife. He wasn’t sure why.

  Doris was a tad prettier and perhaps a tad smarter and certainly more than a tad interesting, but Doris wasn’t too much in any category. Yet, he felt comfortable with her, and he knew she felt comfortable with him.