The Haunting of Aldburn Park

by Amy Cross

  I wait.

  “Mrs. Ferguson?”

  “Yes, of course,” she murmurs, although she sounds less than certain.

  “Remember that I shall be meeting you and the girls at the railway station tomorrow,” I remind her. “Please try to catch the train that we discussed earlier, else I shall be left waiting for quite some time.”

  “I shall.”

  “And Mrs. Ferguson...”

  “Yes?”

  For a moment, I consider trying to console her. I could tell her not to be afraid, and that since my arrival I have experienced nothing out of the ordinary. I could tell her about all the empty rooms, indeed about the overwhelming sense of emptiness of of being alone here in the house. I could do all of that, but at the last second I choose not to. After all, if I acknowledge her fears, I run the risk of encouraging them and of making her ever more fearful. It is better, I feel, to leave such matters out of the conversation. To deny them, I suppose, the oxygen that would allow them to flourish.

  “I look forward to your arrival tomorrow,” I say finally. “There is plenty of work for you to do, and for your girls too. And please, if you get the chance, convey my wish to His Lordship that he should have a pleasant night's sleep.”

  I her hear mutter something under her breath.

  “Mrs. Ferguson?”

  “Yes, yes,” she says, once again sounding flustered, “alright. I have to go now. Somebody's calling me.”

  “Well, if you would -”

  Suddenly I hear a clicking sound, and I realize with a start that the telephone call seems to have ended. I furrow my brow, wondering whether perhaps Mrs. Ferguson ended the call with improper haste, but then I realize that most likely the line dropped the connection. That happens sometimes, especially out here in the countryside.

  I reach out to call again, but then I realize that perhaps it would be wise to wait until tomorrow before I speak to Mrs. Ferguson again. We shall have much to discuss upon her arrival.

  Once I have set the telephone down, I turn to head back up into the main part of the house, although I pause for a moment to look out the window. I have to lean close, but I am just about able to make out the dark silhouette of the forest as it stands tall against the night sky. Rain is still hitting the window, but not with any great force and it seems that tonight's bad weather is not about to become a full-blown storm. There have been times, over the past few years in London, when I have wished I could wave away the noise and fury of that great city and return instead to the quiet pastures of the land around Aldburn Park. Now that I am here, I do indeed feel more at peace with my surroundings. I endure London for His Lordship's sake, not because I have any interest in metropolitan life.

  And then, suddenly, the so-called scream rings out again, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I realize – with absolute certainty this time – that the noise does indeed come from a fox. Why those animals make such noises, I do not understand. But they do, and that is what I have heard twice now. Just a fox.

  With that satisfaction in mind, I head upstairs and go through to the reception hallway. Once there, I switch on the electric lights and begin to look around, so that I might determine where I should start. I shall work for two or three hours and then I shall retire to bed, ready for an early start tomorrow.

  Chapter Seven

  A Most Disobedient Switch

  Opening my eyes, I stare up at the dark bedroom ceiling and for a moment I forget where I am. I feel I should still be at His Lordship's townhouse in Mayfair, but something seems wrong and it takes a few seconds before I recall yesterday's journey to Aldburn Park.

  How foolish of me.

  I do not know the time, but I feel as if I have been asleep for several hours. I worked for quite some time in the hallway before coming to my quarters, and I intend to be up with the sun. I turn to look at the window, to check whether there is any sign of morning's advance, but then I stop as I see that a chink of light is showing under the door that leads out onto the landing.

  I stare at the light, and in that moment I feel quite certain that – before retiring – I switched off all the electric lights in the house. Indeed, I am not so wasteful as to leave a light on all night, yet quite clearly there is light out on the landing.

  Supposing that I must simply have made a mistake, I climb out of bed and make my way to the door, which I then pull open. As soon as I have done so, I see that the electric light at the top of the staircase has indeed been left on, which is most confusing. I am sure that I distinctly remember that light being off when I shut the bedroom door some time ago, but evidently I am wrong about that matter.

  I walk over and flick the switch, turning the light off, and then I return to my room and shut the door. As I head back to my bed, I must admit that I am troubled by the fact that I could have committed such an oversight. I can only reflect that at least this happened with no witnesses, and that I shall have the chance to make sure that it never happens again.

  I climb into bed and settle on my back.

  And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the chink of light again.

  I turn and look at the door. Incredulously, it seems that the light on the landing has been switched back on.

  I sit up and stare for a moment, trying to understand what has happened. The light is on, that much is clear, but this time I have no doubt whatsoever that I switched it off just a few seconds ago. Indeed, I remember very clearly that I went out onto the landing and...

  Feeling rather confused, I climb once more out of bed and head to the door. Once I am out on the landing, I see that the electric light at the top of the staircase has yet again been switched on. I glance around – although there is no need to do so – and then I walk over to the switch. I reach out to turn the light off, but then I hesitate for a moment and look around again. I see only the various doors – all closed – that lead into the other rooms up here. Most of the doors are shrouded in darkness, since the lights further along the landing are off.

  I turn and look again at the switch.

  Slowly, cautiously, I turn the light off.

  Then I hesitate, before turning the light on again.

  The switch feels perfectly normal, so I flick it again, turning the light off.

  I wait in darkness, and then I turn and head back toward the bedroom door. In the morning, I shall investigate the switch further, so that there is no chance of it inconveniencing His Lordship upon his arrival. For now, as I push the bedroom door open, I can only speculate that years of dormancy have left the house's electrical system in a somewhat unfortunate state. Indeed, this night's interruption is probably a good thing, since it means that I am minded to tomorrow engage the services of an electrician.

  And then, quite suddenly, the light switches on again.

  I stop in the doorway, and then slowly I turn and look back toward the top of the staircase.

  The light is on, of course. The switch sits in its place on the wall, looking perfectly normal. There is a small table against the wall, containing an empty vase. Other than that, there is absolutely nothing whatsoever to see.

  Yet for a few seconds – almost a minute, in fact – I simply stare.

  Why?

  Do I expect to see something that suddenly makes sense of this situation?

  I glance around – again, for no rational reason – and then I finally make my way back toward the switch. Once there, I look down the stairs, although obviously I see nothing other than the dark, unlit reception hallway. Then I turn to the switch again, and I squint slightly as I peer closer and try to discern something – anything – that might explain the aberrant behavior of this small, white, rounded object.

  After a few seconds, I reach out and place a fingertip on either side of the casing, before giving it a slight wiggle.

  The casing seems firmly attached to the wall, so I do not think that this can be the problem.

  Next, I press a fingertip against the switch itself – in a perpendicular direction, so
as not to actually turn the light off – and I attempt to press that way, only to find once again that the switch seems to be in perfectly good health.

  The only conclusion, then, must be that something is amiss within the casing itself, or in the actual bulb. In both matters, I feel ill-equipped to make a repair.

  “Mmm,” I mutter, before flicking the switch and turning the light off.

  Immediately, the landing falls dark.

  I wait.

  Silence.

  I flick the switch.

  The light comes back on.

  I flick it again.

  The light goes off.

  I flick it again.

  The light comes on, buzzing slightly.

  I flick it again.

  With the light now off , I continue to stare at the switch for a moment before taking a step backward. In the darkness, I can still just about make out the shape of the switch's casing on the wall.

  So far, so good.

  I step back again, still keeping my gaze fixed firmly on the switch.

  The light remains off.

  “Mmm.”

  I take another step back. I am almost at my door now.

  The light still does not turn on.

  I still do not understand what is wrong with the switch, but it is now quite clear that there is a problem that must be rectified by an electrician. I watch the switch for a moment longer, before turning to go through to the bedroom.

  As soon as I have turned my back, the light switches on again.

  I freeze, staring into the dark bedroom.

  This situation is starting to become intolerable. I slowly turn and look once more at the light. The bulb continues to buzz or hum slightly, almost as if it is taunting me. Not that this is possible, of course, but I certainly feel as if this wretched device's actions seem directed at me personally. For a moment I actually contemplate that absurd possibility, before finally I force myself to keep a calm head.

  I suppose I could try to force the switch to stay down but, as I head back over to take another look, I am starting to think that I must simply endure this wretched light until morning comes. There will be an associated waste of money, of course, but I shall be completely upfront with His Lordship and I shall offer to pay the excess out of my own wages, since this failure would seem to be mine and mine alone.

  It would seem that the light insists on being left on all through the night.

  “Mm -”

  Suddenly the bulb shatters, too fast for me to react properly. I begin to turn away, but already several pieces of glass have hit the side of my face, and as I take a step back the loud cracking sound is already echoing away to nothing.

  Standing shocked in the darkness, I don't dare move at first. The explosion was so sudden, coming as if from nowhere, yet now the house is completely quiet. I wait, and then slowly I begin to realize that I can feel something warm dribbling down my chin.

  I reach up and feel a drip of blood.

  I check the rest of my face, but I seem to have no further injuries. Taking another step back, I suddenly feel a sharp pain under my bare right foot, and I realize I must have stepped on some of the broken glass. I look down, but in the darkness it is of course impossible for me to see anything, so I tread very carefully as I make my way back into my room, and then I sit on the bed and fumble for a moment before finally switching on the little lamp on the adjacent table.

  Immediately, I am shocked to see several patches of blood on the carpet, leading from the door to where I am presently sitting. I begin to inspect my right sole, and sure enough there is a long, thin piece of glass embedded in the flesh. I know I should fetch a pair of tweezers from downstairs, but instead I use my fingernails to get a grip on the piece of glass and gently slide it out of the wounded area. There is some pain, but not much, and a bead of blood begins to run from the cut as I set the piece of glass on the bedside table.

  I watch the blood for a moment, before taking a handkerchief and gently wiping the drop away. Then I reach up and wipe the side of my chin, where another bead is in the process of preparing to drop onto the front of my night shirt.

  Then, spotting another glistening shard, I lean closer and begin to dig out a second piece of glass.

  Suddenly I spot a light flicking on in the corner of my eye, and I turn to see that there is now another electric light shining somewhere in the house, although this light seems at least a little dimmer than the first.

  Once I have removed the final piece of glass from my foot, I stand and make my way to the door, where I stop for a moment so as to look out across the landing. To my surprise, I see that this time it is a light downstairs in the hallway that has been turned on, casting long shadows up past the banister and across the wall.

  For a moment, I consider going down to switch this light off, but then I realize that there is perhaps not much point. If something is wrong with the lights in this house, I shall have to call for an electrician, and evidently there is nothing I can do to remedy the situation tonight. I hesitate for a moment longer, then, before stepping back and gently shutting the door. I look down and see the light still showing through the crack at the bottom of the door, but I suppose I can live with that until morning.

  Turning, I head back over to the bed, and then I begin examining my injured foot once more. There is one final sliver of glass buried deep in the wound, so I pull the edges apart and try to pull the piece free, as another bead of blood runs down to my toes.

  Chapter Eight

  A Most Disagreeable Electrician

  The morning sun sits high in the sky, having finally cleared the line of trees at the far end of the lawn.

  Standing at the window, I watch the beautiful, idyllic scene for a moment longer, and then I take another sip of my tea. It is strange how everything seems so much lighter and easier in the light of day. The incident with the lights left me with less sleep than I would have liked, but I feel very much engaged with the tasks at hand.

  A moment later, hearing the sound of an engine coming closer to the house, I realize that the electrician has kept his word and come straight out. That, at least, is a blessing. I glance at my pocket watch, and I see to my relief that I should still be able to meet Mrs. Ferguson at the station later without any delay.

  ***

  “And it just turned itself on and off, you say?” the electrician – a Mr. Jones – muses as he peers at the switch at the top of the stairs.

  “As I explained to you on the telephone earlier,” I reply, “the whole situation was exceedingly unusual. It must be rectified before His Lordship's arrival.”

  “There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with it,” he says.

  “That's simply impossible.”

  He fiddles for a moment with the switch, and he seems now to be muttering to himself under his breath.

  “I suppose there might have been some kind of surge in the system,” he says finally. “Whatever happened, it's obviously over now. I can rewire the switch if you want, to give you some peace of mind.”

  “And how long would that take?” I ask, glancing once again at my pocket watch. I must be at the station in precisely two hours' time.

  “I'll get started now,” Mr. Jones replies, “and I should be out of your hair by ten.”

  I pause, before nodding.

  “That will be adequate,” I tell him, before looking at the switch for a moment and thinking back to its aberrant behavior during the night. “Just see to it that there is no more trouble.”

  With that, I turn to walk away.

  “It's funny to be up here at Aldburn Park,” he says suddenly. “Honestly, it was just the other month that I had to give my son a smack on the bottom for coming to poke around in the grounds.”

  I turn back to him.

  “I beg your pardon?” I say, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

  “He and a friend came out here,” he continues. “Late one night, it was. They're only children, they like to explore. Normally that's fine,
but they overstepped the boundaries a bit and decided to come to the house. I reckon they'd heard all the stories that people tell, about hearing noises and seeing things here.”

  “The house has been left unoccupied for several years,” I remind him.

  “Oh, I know. By regular folk, at least.”

  “And whatever do you mean by that?”

  “You must know there are stories,” he replies. “Aldburn Park's got a real old reputation round these parts. Like I said, Tommy – that's my son – and his mate Colin came creeping about in the woods. They didn't do any damage, I assure you, and they didn't actually come all the way to the house.” He looks over at the window. “I think they just went to the edge of the woods and had a gander, so to speak. To dare themselves.”

  “That would be trespassing,” I say dourly.

  “I told them that. I gave Tommy ten of the finest from my slipper, and I know for a fact that Colin's father gave him the same. I told Tommy, it doesn't matter what kind of stupid ghost stories you've heard, you don't go creeping about on someone else's property. I think I got through to the boy eventually. After the smacks he got on his backside, he won't be making the same mistake again.”

  “Charming,” I reply, supposing that there is no point trying to argue with this simple, rural-minded fellow. “And now you'll see to the switch, I'm sure.”

  I turn, again, to walk away.

  “They both reckon they weren't alone up here, though,” he adds.

  I stop again, and then – again – I turn to him.

  “They reckon they were being watched,” he continues. “They didn't see her, but they reckon that as they got close to the edge of the woods, they were both at the same time overcome by the feeling that someone was staring straight at them. I think they were over near the pond, and they suddenly felt it all of a sudden, out there in the middle of the night. They looked around, but they didn't see anyone. It's probably a good thing they felt so queer, though, 'cause it made them have second thoughts. And that's when they saw her.”