The Ghosts and Hauntings Collection

by Cat Knight

  “She’s not home.” Alison turned to the voice. An older man leaning on a cane stood on the sidewalk.

  “Estelle’s working,” the old man added.

  “Do you know when she’ll be home?”

  “Hour maybe. Unless she stops at the pub.”

  “Which one?”

  “Three Gentlemen, it’s the only decent one in town.”

  “Thanks. Oh, can you tell me what she looks like?”

  “Red hair straight from the bottle. And she usually sits at the bar — like me.” The old man grinned as if he had invited Alison to join him at the bar.

  “Thank you,” Alison said.

  “In an hour,” the old man added. As Alison drove away, she realized she was hungry. The pub was exactly what she needed. And a pint wouldn’t hurt her either. She hoped, perhaps beyond hope, that Estelle could help.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The bangers and mash was better than Paul had indicated, and Alison felt better as she sat at the bar. It was still too early for the blokes looking for a bed-mate but not too early for a redheaded woman who slid onto a stool two down from Alison.

  The old man had been correct. The woman’s brassy, red hair was straight from a bottle, and the colour was decidedly wrong. Some women could pull off red hair; this woman was not one of them. Her lipstick was the wrong shade also, too red and too glossy. Older women were slightly less flamboyant, weren’t they? The clothes were standard office fare, and Alison guessed she was some kind of secretary or clerk. She possessed a normal middle-age spread.

  “Excuse me,” Alison said. The woman turned.

  “You’re Estelle Redkin, correct?”

  The woman looked neither pleased nor unpleased. “And if I am?”

  “My name is Alison, and I’m looking to open a bed-and-breakfast here.”

  “Good for you. What has that to do with me? I don’t clean or cook.”

  “And I’m not looking for anyone. It’s Blakely Manor, and I, well, I don’t know quite how to say this.”

  “You want to know if there’s a ghost? Sorry, I don’t believe in ‘em, and even if I did, I couldn’t help with the manor. I doubt anyone can.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “The ghost?”

  “And heard it?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Then, why are you bothering me?”

  Alison smiled. “It’s not about the ghost, not really. It’s about your missing daughter Shelly.”

  Estelle frowned. “You’re another of them bloody reporters, aren’t you? Trying to make something out of nothin’.”

  “I’m not a reporter. I’m trying to understand what’s… happening at the manor.”

  “And that would concern my Shelly how?”

  “She’s still missing, isn’t she?”

  “Lots of missing folks about.”

  Alison didn’t quite fathom Estelle’s statement, and it didn’t make any difference. “If I’m not mistaken, she disappeared the same day, the Earl died.”

  “That’s public knowledge.”

  “And she was on her way to the manor when she died.”

  “Maybe. I’ll tell ya true. It was common gossip that the old Earl was sweet on Shelly. She always came home with tips and such. So, she might have been goin’ that way. I can’t say. All I know is that she didn’t come home. And not one of the Earl’s folk cared a whit about it.”

  “I’m trying my best to save my dream. So, I’m asking if there’s anything else you can tell me.”

  Estelle sipped her pint. “I haven’t given up on my daughter. For all I know, she’s living in America or someplace nice.”

  Alison doubted it, but she kept a smile on her face.

  Estelle seemed to consider things, “But I’ll tell you this. When she left that day she was wearing a pink dress, and she had her black purse. That’s what I told the bobbies, and that’s what I’ll tell you.”

  Alison thanked the older woman and threw some pounds on the bar. “For your pint,” Alison said. Estelle nodded even as the old man sat.

  “Don’t leave just yet,” the old man said.

  “Why not?” Alison asked.

  “Because Ned here knows a thing or two about the manor,” Estelle said.

  “Not about the manor per se,” Ned said. “But about spirits.”

  Alison sat and studied the old man, whose eyes seemed too watery to see much.

  “Spirits aren’t regular,” Ned began. “They’re mean sometimes and dangerous sometimes and playful sometimes. But almost all the time, they have a tie to the place they haunt.”

  “Tie?” Alison asked. “Something physical that binds them in place. Can be anything. Clothes, keys, blood, anything. And it’s the physical that must be dealt with, you understand?” Alison nodded.

  “You remove the thing that shackles them, and they’ll move with it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “There’s nothing sure about spirits, but the theory seems to work.”

  As Alison drove to the manor, she wondered what she expected to do. She knew she didn’t have much choice. She had to get rid of whatever bound the spirit or ghost to the manor or give up her dream of a bed-and-breakfast. Giving up the manor would cost her everything she had ever saved — and more.

  The sun had set by the time Alison arrived at the manor. The gloom of dusk was enveloping everything, stealing away colour and adding dread. She paused outside the door, and she wondered if ghosts grew stronger and bolder with the coming of darkness. She supposed they might, but she couldn’t know. What she did know was that she had reached the end of her courage reserves. If she couldn’t banish her ghost, she would have to quit. She couldn’t quit. She had to push on. And while she wished she weren’t alone, she was pretty sure that no one could help her.

  She walked into the manor, and turned on the entry light, which immediately winked out.

  Frowning, she walked through the gloom to the kitchen. Opening the door, she tried the light. The room lit up. Alison was confused. The entry light didn’t work, but the kitchen did. What was she to learn? That the ghost wanted her in the kitchen? Or away from the rest of the house? She knew of one way to find out. She turned back to the door.

  THUNK. The knife hit the door inches from her head. She didn’t wait for a second knife. She pushed through the door. As it closed, she heard two THUNKS, as knife blades sliced through the wood. Alison shivered and fought the urge to flee. Instead, she went to the parlour and her office. She turned on the light, and it stayed on. Good sign or bad? She found her torch in the desk and flicked it on. The beam was weak, but it didn’t wink out. Since it was not part of the manor, perhaps the spirit had no control over it.

  “OK,” she said out loud. “Let’s see where this leads?”

  She started for the stairs. She turned on the stairway light, and it immediately went dark.

  “Don’t want me up there?” Alison asked. “Too bad.”

  As she walked up the steps, a well of darkness greeted her. She swallowed the panic rising in her body and forced herself to march ahead. The hall light came on for an instant before it died.

  Darkness was a wall in front of her. She didn’t stop because to stop would be to lose her will. She held her head high and walked to the first bedroom. She entered and turned on the light. It stayed on.

  “Not here,” she said out loud.

  In the hall, Alison wondered if she needed to try each bedroom. No, not really. The master bedroom had been a focus of the spirit. As she approached, frigid air blasted her. She bit her lip to fight the cold and pushed open a door that seemed to weigh ten times its usual heft.

  As she passed into the bedroom, the door slammed shut. She tried the light, but it didn’t work. Using her weak torch, she looked around the room. She could feel the anger in the room, the sheer hate. Her courage flagged. Panic surged. She spun and jerked open the door which seemed lighter than ever.

>   Laugh.

  It was the laugh that burned her. She would be damned if she was going to run like some rabbit. Her knees felt wobbly as she turned. She was sure she had made a terrible mistake. There was no way she could battle a demon, and she thought it had to be a demon, something evil and powerful and bent on her destruction. Why hadn’t she seen that before?

  It cut Paul’s hand and shook Jeff off his ladder and hurled knives at her. Why did she think she could fight it? Her mouth felt dry, and her hands shook. She was the mouse before the cobra.

  “Are you a demon?” Alison asked. There was no answer, which was as frightening as a voice. “I want to help,” Alison said. “I want to free you from this place.” A picture flew off the wall and slammed into the fireplace. The glass exploded everywhere, making Alison duck.

  With a wild look, she turned for the door, only to turn back. “I won’t be cowed,” she said. “You’ll have to do better than that.” A second picture jumped off the wall and crashed into the fireplace. A shower of glass shards.

  Alison closed her eyes and forced down the fear rising up her throat. “I know you’re angry,” Allison said. “So am I.”

  A picture flew off the wall and slammed into her back. Alison fell to her knees, feeling glass cutting through her jeans and into her hands. She immediately stood and examined her hands. She was bleeding. Her jeans showed splotches of blood.

  “DAMN YOU!” Alison yelled. “DAMN YOU, SHELLY REDKIN!”

  Icy cold met her echo, cold that washed over her like an arctic wave. She shivered, and her brain refused to operate. Oh god, she thought, I’m going to die here. She stepped toward the fireplace, and the cold intensified… a little.

  This was like a game, but instead of growing warmer as she approached the goal, she grew colder.

  And her torch was quickly dying. She blew into her hands and examined the fireplace. The centre of the cold was there — or so, she thought. She tapped one side of the cold fireplace and then the other. They didn’t sound the same. Was one side hollow? She felt along the hollow side, but again, she found no button. Cold air flowed over her neck, and she shook afresh. The torch bobbled in her hand. She thought she might freeze.

  As she watched, the poker rose into the air, mesmerizing her for a moment. Then, as it swung for her head, she grabbed it. She tousled with her unseen assailant, desperately battling to keep the poker from striking.

  She dropped the torch even as her bloody hands slipped. Whoever wielded the poker was strong, very strong. Alison knew she couldn’t lose this battle.

  With a surge of anger, she jerked the poker from the ghost.

  For a moment, she panted, and then, she swung at the wooden side of the fire place. The wood cracked, but it didn’t break. She hit again and again and again, and the wood split. She reared back, and the thing grabbed the poker a second time. She pulled and jerked, but her slippery hands made it hard to hang on.

  “NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” She screamed and wrested free the poker.

  She rammed the poker into the crack and pried it apart. She faced a hollow, a pitch-black hollow that she was afraid to reach into. It was like reaching into the maw of hell. Clenching her teeth, she grabbed the wood and tore away a piece. She grabbed her torch and shone it inside.

  Black purse.

  Pink dress.

  Black shoes

  Underwear clad bones.

  Alison stepped back, sure that she had discovered the remains of Shelly Redkin.

  For a moment, Alison could only stare. Then, the small shovel that removed ashes slammed into her back. She pitched forward into the bones and dress.

  She SCREAMED as she spun and held up the poker to ward off the shovel that tried to hammer her.

  “YOU’VE LOST!” Alison yelled. “EVEN IF YOU HURT ME, OTHERS WILL REMOVE YOU. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!”

  The shovel clattered as it hit the hearth. For a second, Alison wondered if she had the strength to move. Her torch died.

  She sat in the small space with the bones as the dark reared in front of her.

  The lights came on. Alison blinked. Her hands bloody, her jeans stained, she pulled herself from the space. Then, she reached in and grabbed the purse. It was still cold, but she had the idea that she had won.

  Epilogue

  Estelle laid the flowers on the fresh grave and turned to Alison.

  “I want to thank you for finding her.”

  Alison nodded, aware that finding bones was not the outcome Estelle had wanted. “I’m sorry.”

  “I hate to think of her in that dark hole, of…” Estelle’s voice broke.

  “She’s out now,” Alison said. “She’s found the light.”

  Estelle nodded, her red hair flaming in the sunlight. “He killed her, didn’t he?”

  “The authorities will determine that.”

  “Too bad he’s dead. He should have gone to prison.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Alison smiled - things were falling into place, and she was almost open There were phone calls to return. Staff to hire. The little town was buzzing with the news.

  In a way she was a minor celebrity for solving a cold case and for putting a ghost to rest, and that couldn’t be bad for business. She’d even sold her story to a magazine. She’d earned enough to fit out the kitchen with equipment to the new Chef’s specifications.

  Grabbing her tea, she walked up the stairs into the master bedroom of the manor and looked at the hole that had yet to be restored. She would repair the wood around the fireplace, but it would no longer be a priest hole. No one would ever moulder away again.

  Except for the goings on of the forensic police and curious folk, there had been no more unusual activity at the manor. Although Alison felt sure that Shelly’s presence was gone, she spoke anyway.

  “I think you’re gone,” Alison said. “And I’m pretty sure you’re happy now.” Nothing happened.

  The End

  THE GYPSY HAUNTING

  CAT KNIGHT

  ©Copyright 2018

  All Rights Reserved

  PROLOGUE

  ALBERT JONES

  1810

  Devon

  Southern England.

  The last rays of the sun hit the back of Albert Jones’s back as he rode through Everton forest. His lands stretched out as far as his eye could see in all directions. A former serviceman in the British Royal Navy, turned mercenary, Jones hadn’t acquired his money through perfectly honest means– but that was how all money was made wasn’t it? A gambling game with a winning streak for Jones and a bad streak of luck for some poor sod. A strategic business decision gone horribly wrong.

  Not for Jones of course, Jones. swooped in and purchased fine silks, teas and other goods for trade, for pennies on the pound. Fortunes were made a lost with Jones always on the winning end. A hard man, a cruel man, Jones was a winner.

  It was the second time he had rode these trails today. Of late, several of his sheep had been stolen. They were no ordinary sheep. No, these sheep were part of a debt settlement from the insalubrious Lord Fotheringham. Fotheringham was given them by King George III himself, as gift, for undertakings unmentionable in polite society. Fotheringham always was good for coin in the gambling halls. But the bug had bitten him too deeply and, he’d gone too far and lost a great deal, and Jones had cleaned up nicely. The lands he now cast his eyes over and the few valuable Merino sheep to square the debt away entirely, would see him well on the way to becoming a man of independent means. Perhaps even the title of Esquire was in his future.

  A gentle breeze brought the aroma of…. roasting meat. Roasting meat!!! Jones’s teeth clenched and the features of his face set hard as he drove his heels into his gelding. There would be only one reason why the mouth-watering smell of roast was drifting over the hills.

  In just a few short minutes Jones had stopped at the top of a hill where he looked out over the valley. A whiff of smoke spiralled up and a few dots here and there moved below. He didn’t need to guess, who they
were. He already knew the gypsies that had sleuthed their way into his pastures overnight were feasting on one of his own Merino. Turning quietly on his horse he returned home.

  He would not alert them of his presence yet. No, He would be back within the hour and see the ends of these vagabonds.

  The sun had not yet surrendered to the moon when Jones rode silently back along the tracks with his armed men of farm labourers, and any male servant strong enough and quick enough to do the job. Making their way quietly, as though stalking a deer, they manoeuvred through the small stand of trees just behind the creek where the gypsies had made camp. The small band of travellers didn’t pay heed to the breaking of twigs, the whispered conversation or the soft snort of horses. Well-fed and full of wine they danced laughed and sang to the merry tunes of the fiddle.

  Jones, peered through the trees as dusk began to descend. The camp fire crackled and spit as drops of fatty juices dripped from the recently skinned, sheep now skewered across the low embers of the fire. Jones felt the ire rise in his belly. “Spare no one.” He whispered. On his signal six horses crashed through the gypsy camp. “Thieves, filthy Swine” Jones thundered as he took aim and pierced the fiddler with his bullet. The man’s eyes opened wide as he fell backwards from his log to the ground, the fiddle, tumbling from his hands.

  Screams filled the camp as figures scattered everywhere, bullets ringing out from Jones’s men. Bodies fell limp and lifeless to the ground. In the bloody aftermath, one woman lay left alive now having crawled to the body of the fiddler, weeping. Jones walked over to the dead man and the woman. Hoisting her up by her arm he shoved her away from the body