by Joan Aiken
“You said ruins just now? Nobody lives there any more? But I heard the dogs barking. And saw two men. And a – and a something –”
“You were fortunate,” said the Rector again. “Nobody in this neighbourhood ever walks past Oldhouse Farm at night. In a car, yes, it is safe enough to drive quickly by, or on one of those motor-bicycles. Even perhaps on a bicycle, if one pedalled hard enough and fast enough. But walking is too slow. It lays you open for too long to such terribly malign influences. Especially on Christmas Eve.”
“But why? What happened there?”
“The farm belonged to a man called Abel Hernshaw, a widower. A surly, sour-natured, ill-conditioned man by all accounts. He had an only son, Mark, who grew up in the course of time, married a girl with some money of her own, and moved to a farm of his own, Cathanger, lying to the west of Rushout Wood. There had been quarrels, tensions between the two men before that, it is said. But all was patched up after Mark moved out; indeed he had a child, Lucy, who was her grandfather’s pet by all accounts. A spoiled, wayward little madam, apparently – took after her father and grandfather...”
“Mark with his wife and daughter used to go over to Oldhouse at Christmas time, to spend the day and eat their dinner with the old man.”
“It is known that Abel Hernshaw had a hobby of breeding fierce dogs, collies and bull terriers. There would always be two or three about the place, ready to come rushing out and harry any passer-by who took the road that led through the middle of the farm. In the records of the Parish Council there are various notes of complaints against Farmer Hernshaw from people who had been assaulted by his dogs. But his retort always was that nobody was obliged to go that way, through his farm; if they chose they could take the southerly road from Goose Acre to Cropham, which is only a scant half-mile longer.”
“That’s true,” said Hugh, who had noticed this alternative on the map and rejected it.
“Hernshaw said that he was not going to keep his dogs tied up for any man. The job of farm dogs was to run loose and keep guard over the place.”
“Well, one Christmas Mark arrived as usual to spend the day with his wife and daughter. But this time he also brought along a dog of his own, just as bad-tempered and combative, it seemed, as those bred by his father. And of course there was a battle between his dog and one of Abel’s; a window was broken in the scrimmage, and Abel’s dog was hurt so badly that it had to be shot. This made Abel so angry that he told Mark never to come back to Oldhouse again. No more Christmas visits. And during the following year Abel got himself several more dogs to replace the one that had been killed.”
“The next Christmas Lucy demanded to go as usual to her grandfather’s. It seemed that he had always hidden a gift for her in the hay barn, and the spoiled child saw no reason why this practice should have been discontinued, just because her father and grandfather had quarrelled. ‘What is that to do with me?’ she said. ‘I want my Christmas toy from grandpapa. It will be in the haymow.’ ‘He will not have left it this year,’ her father told her. ‘And I absolutely forbid you to go there.’ But Lucy took not the slightest notice of his interdict. She waited until all the household were busy with Christmas preparations, and then put on her mother’s Christmas gift to her – a fur coat made from white ferret-skins – and stole away secretly from Cathanger Farm, through Rushout Wood, and so to her grandfather’s place. She did not go to the house, but directly to the hay barn where the old man had always hidden her present.
“And, of course, the dogs heard her.”
The Rector paused.
“What happened?” asked Hugh with a dry mouth, although he could guess.
“Why, the dogs went after her. She ran. Lucy must have been a fast runner – she had got as far as Rushout Wood when they finally caught up with her. But then they tore her to pieces.”
“And her father? And grandfather?”
“Mark Hernshaw went to Oldhouse that evening, as dusk fell, and shot all the dogs. He took lamp-oil with him and set fire to the building and the ricks. The old man came running out and tried to stifle the blaze with brooms and sacks. Nobody else was there; no one would work for him by now. Mark flung oil over his father too, it is thought, and the fire caught him. The two men struggled together, and finally fell, or jumped, into the well. Since that time nobody has lived at Oldhouse Farm.”
“What a dreadful tale,” said Hugh. “I saw them – it must have been them – on either side of the road, staring at one another. Hating one another.”
Of the tattered, dishevelled, leaping thing that had run after him out of Rushout Wood he could not speak.
I suppose, he thought, she comes back to see her grandfather get his just desserts.
“I wonder how long it will go on, the haunting? I felt such an atmosphere of hate – terrible hate.”
“When it is as fierce as that I am afraid it may take many more decades, centuries even, to die away,” said the Rector sadly. “I repeat that you were lucky, my young friend – supremely lucky – to escape. Some have not been so fortunate. People have been driven out of their wits, or suffered heart attacks. How – can you remember? – how did you manage to fight your way through?”
With reluctance, Hugh cast his mind back.
“I think – I was thinking about the road,” he said uncertainly. “Thinking that it was every citizen’s right to go along it unhindered. And – to wrench my thoughts away from those two figures and their hideous hate – I was going through, in my mind, the presents for my sister and her family that I have in my pack. I thought of a book – yes, the book I had brought for my brother-in-law, and of a poem in it – Chaucer’s Ballade of Good Counsel: ‘Hold the high road, and let thy ghost thee lead, And Truth thee shall deliver...”
“Ah, now I begin to understand,” said the Rector. “And your Guardian Ghost came, very promptly, to the rescue.”
“I – I think so,” said Hugh. “Yes.”
“And the road, perhaps, played its part. Roads are very ancient and powerful constructs – older than buildings, far older than towns, many of them go back unimaginable distances in time. They must in some way hold the essence of all that has been carried along them. They stand for the connection of one spirit to another, the urge to make journeys and discoveries, the need to move in a forward direction, the need to make pilgrimages. Roads, like altars, have rights which must be respected.”
“Yes,” said Hugh again.
Mr Musson smiled.
“But now you, my young friend, must be on your own road. My neighbour Mr Whinstone the blacksmith has mended your machine. It is only a scant hour from here to your brother-in-law’s parish – you will be there long before dark, in time for Christmas tea!”
“Oh, thank you, sir! You have been so kind –”
“No kindness. A great pleasure. And let us hope that, by battling against it so successfully, you may have reduced the malign power of Oldhouse Farm and made that road less perilous for others. Goodbye, and a safe journey to you.”
Hugh thanked his host again, shouldered the pack full of presents, and mounting his mended machine, set off pedalling along the flat, straight road that led from Goose Acre to his sister’s village. And behind him the westering sun flung out his long shadow, which ran ahead of him along the highway like a beckoning ghost.
READING ZONE!
TOP READING TIP
When reading, it is always a good idea to find a cosy spot where you are comfortable and feel safe.
This is particularly true when you read stories like this that are a quite scary.
If you get a bit nervous you might also want to read them in a nice light and not just before bedtime!
READING ZONE!
WHAT DO YOU THINK?
As well as all being scary stories, there are other links between the stories in this book.
For example, there are several characters who have trouble walking.
Can you think of other examples of things that are similar between th
e stories?
READING ZONE!
QUIZ TIME
Can you remember the answers to these questions?
• In Stoneywish, who came to look after Rick when his mum died?
• What do you have to take with you when you make your Stoneywish?
• In Snow Horse, what did Cal carve from the pile of frozen snow?
• In Bindweed, What did Claud do to Aunt Lily on the night she died?
• In The Road from Rushout Wood, why did Hugh decide not to turn back even though he was afraid of the dogs?
READING ZONE!
GET CREATIVE
Why not plan and write your own ghost story?
Who will your characters be?
What will your setting be like?
What is going to be the scary thing in your story?
When you have written it, trying telling it to a friend or family member.
Did you manage to scare them?
BLOOMSBURY EDUCATION
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BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY EDUCATION and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
First published in 2004 by A&C Black, an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
This electronic edition published in 2020 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
This collection © Joan Aiken Enterprises Ltd, 2004
“Stoneywish” © Joan Aiken Enterprises Ltd, 1995. “Snow Horse” © Joan Aiken Enterprises Ltd, 1982. First published in A Whisper in the Night (Victor Gollancz, 1982). The Publishers would like to thank The Random House group Ltd for permission to include “Snow Horse”. “Bindweed” © Joan Aiken Enterprises Ltd, 1989. First pubished in A Foot in the Grave (Jonathan Cape, 1989). “The Road from Rushout Wood” © Joan Aiken Enterprises Ltd, 1992. First published in Chilling Christmas Stories (Scholastic, 1992)
Illustrations copyright © Masha Ukhova, 2020.
Cover artwork © George Ermos, 2020
Packaged for Bloomsbury by Plum5 Limited
Joan Aiken has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work
Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes
This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: PB: 978-1-4729-6773-2;
ePDF: 978-1-4729-6772-5; ePub: 978-1-4729-6775-6
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