The Haunting of Aldburn Park

by Amy Cross

  “But don't you think it would be almost odd for there not to be something lingering here?” She turns to me. “After everything that happened, all that energy and mania... Can it really have just vanished and left not so much as a trace?”

  “I do not see what point you are trying to make,” I reply.

  “Do I really have to say the word, Mr. Lawrence?”

  “I have no -”

  “Ghosts,” she adds.

  I open my mouth to continue my sentence, but at the last moment I hesitate.

  “Don't you think there should be ghosts here?” she says. “I find it so dreadfully difficult to believe that there aren't. In fact, I would find it almost comforting if there were at least one, because the alternative would be that things just... disappear.”

  “I can assure you,” I reply, “that there are no ghosts at Aldburn Park. Now if -”

  “Not even one?” she asks, cutting me off again. “A woman, perhaps?”

  I take a deep breath. Mrs. Ferguson has always had something of a lurid predisposition to foolishness, and I fear that this side of her character is now being drawn out by the circumstances of our return to Aldburn Park.

  “I saw a ghost once,” she says suddenly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “When I was a young woman,” she continues, “long before I entered into service in His Lordship's household, I saw a ghost. I saw it as plainly as I see you now, Mr. Lawrence. I saw somebody, even though I knew them to be dead. It was, I think, the single most shocking yet moving moment in my life to date. And please, don't tell me that you don't believe in such things, because your skepticism cannot move me. I know what I saw, and I will not be dissuaded.”

  “I... would not dream of it,” I say cautiously, preferring to be diplomatic. After all, what good would come of mocking the poor, deluded woman? “Now, if you don't -”

  “It was at Abbingdon Manor,” she says, interrupting me.

  “A fine house. Now, if -”

  “I was twenty-one years old,” she continues, “and I had been in the service of Lord and Lady Harpingdon for about six months.”

  “Indeed, I recall that you have mentioned them on occasion,” I reply. “Now, please, I really must -”

  “They are widely believed to have three children,” she says.

  “I am aware of that. They have two fine boys and a girl, and I believe -”

  “There was a fourth.”

  “I am quite sure there was not,” I tell her.

  “He was kept very much out of the limelight,” she continues. “He was the oldest of their children, his name was -”

  “Mrs. Ferguson -”

  “His name was George.” She pauses, and I think I see tears in her eyes. “Few members of the household spent much time with him. From birth, he was a very sickly child, with many chronic health complaints. The doctors frequently said that he could not last for more than a few months more, but somehow he kept on fighting. He could not speak, or see, and it was supposed that he could not think clearly. He could not walk, he could not move his arms. He was a crippled little thing, and he required constant care. I first saw him when I had to take some water through to Lady Harpingdon one afternoon. I was supposed to leave the water outside the room, but I misunderstood and, well, the door was open.”

  “You went inside?”

  She nods.

  “A mistake, but I am sure you learned from it.”

  “Lady Harpingdon used to spend hours and hours with George. By this time, he was I believe eleven years old. Oh, Mr. Lawrence, when I saw him in his chair, I felt a sense of sorrow that I have never felt before or since. The poor boy was emitting a constant gurgling sound. I shan't go into detail about how he looked, but suffice it to say that one could never mistake him for a healthy child. And I'm afraid, ashamed even, to say that when I saw him I immediately froze in my tracks, and I am quite sure that I briefly wore a shocked, perhaps even horrified, expression.”

  “You should have contained yourself better,” I tell her. “Even so early in your career, you should have been better prepared.”

  “Lady Harpingdon was surprised by my sudden arrival, but she did not send me away. I rather think she was, in some ways, relieved to have somebody else there. She bade me approach the chair, although I recall that she asked me first if I felt repulsed by the sight of her son. I confess that in some ways I did indeed feel that way, but I denied it and stepped closer, still carrying the water of course. My hands were trembling, and Lady Harpingdon noticed that, but she made no comment. I thought that was exceedingly kind of her.”

  “This is all very well,” I say, “but perhaps I should go and -”

  “I didn't spend long with them,” she explains, evidently not realizing that I would prefer to end the conversation. “It was really just those few minutes, but after that Lady Harpingdon seemed to notice me more when I was going about my duties in other parts of the house. She would speak to me. Mr. Growley, the head of the staff -”

  “A fine man,” I point out.

  “Of course. Even Mr. Growley noticed a change and asked what had happened. I told him, and at first he admonished me for the mistake that had seen me enter the room. He then admitted that I had handled the situation well, and he told me to not speak of it to anyone else. I obeyed, of course, and I never made the same mistake again. I often had cause to take water to George's room, but I always left it outside. This carried on for several months, until...”

  Her voice trails off.

  “The child died?” I ask.

  “Eventually,” she replies, her voice filled now with a sense of listlessness, “but first, you will remember that Lady Harpingdon herself passed away.”

  “I do indeed remember,” I tell her. “His Lordship was shocked. He attended the funeral, of course.”

  “Care of George was left to a nurse after that,” Mrs. Ferguson continues. “Before long, however, it became evident that the child's condition was deteriorating. I overheard snatches of whispered conversations, although I did come to believe that Lord Harpingdon himself... Well, I know I should not say such a thing, but it became quite evident that he wished the matter to be concluded as swiftly as possible. He did not care for the boy, not the way that his wife had cared for him.”

  “I am sure he did his utmost,” I reply. “If you will excuse me, I -”

  “The boy died,” she says.

  “So I understand. And now -”

  “After he died, the nurse went to fetch a local doctor. I thought it wrong that the body had been left alone. I debated whether or not I should go and sit with him. I knew Lord Harpingdon would not want that, but he had not specifically ordered against such a move. Neither had Mr. Growley. So it was that I stole away from my other duties and finally returned to the child's room. Oh, Mr. Lawrence, with each and every step I considered turning back. Perhaps it would have been better if I had, but I didn't want young George to be alone, even in death. I remember reaching the door and finding that it was partly open. I took one final moment to reconsider my decision, and then I went into the room, intending to merely be there for a while. To pray for the boy's soul, since I had heard nobody else do so.”

  I open my mouth to tell her again that I must leave, but somehow I can not quite bring myself to interrupt her. There are still tears in her eyes, and it is clear that his reminiscence – unnecessary though it might be – is rather important to her.

  “And as I walked into the room,” she continues, her voice trembling now, “I saw...”

  Her voice trails off.

  I wait.

  “I saw...”

  She seems for a moment to be on the verge of breaking down.

  “I saw Lady Harpingdon,” she says finally, “sitting with her dead son. She was stroking the side of his face, and then she turned to me and she smiled. It was the sweetest, happiest smile I have ever seen. It was the smile of a mother reunited with her son. And then, in that strange, strange light of an au
tumn afternoon, the curtains behind Lady Harpingdon billowed slightly and she was gone. In the light. Right before my eyes.”

  She falls silent.

  “Well,” I say after a moment, “if -”

  “Don't tell me I didn't see her,” she says firmly, turning to me. “Don't disrespect me in such a manner. Do you think I didn't doubt myself at the time? Of course I did, I told myself I was losing my mind.”

  “It is wise,” I say diplomatically, “to consider all the possibilities in such circumstances.”

  “It was Mr. Growley who calmed me down,” she continues. “He found me in the pantry at Abbingdon Manor, where I was sobbing uncontrollably. He asked me what was the matter and, maybe I should have held back, but I told him everything. I told him what I had seen. You are acquainted with Mr. Growley, I know.”

  “A fine man,” I reply, although I am aware that I have said the same before in this very conversation.

  “I thought he would tell me I was being foolish,” she says, “but he did not. Instead, he sat in silence for quite some time, and then he told me that I was lucky.” She sniffs back more tears. “He told me that I must hold firm to my knowledge of what I had seen, and not waiver. He said I had seen a truth that is denied to most people, and he said he knew this because he had seen a similar truth during the war. Except his experience was... rather more unpleasant.”

  “I am not sure entirely what you are alluding to,” I tell her, “but Frank Growley has always been an impeccable man with a fine, rational mind.”

  “He fought in the Great War,” she replies.

  “I know. He served his country well.”

  “He was in the trenches.”

  “So I believe.”

  “He told me that he saw...”

  I wait for her to finish.

  “Mrs. Ferguson,” I say finally, “there is no point in -”

  “He told me that he saw the dead walking,” she continues, with a hint of horror in her eyes. “He told me that he saw something so horrific, it turned his hair white overnight.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Story of Mr. Growley

  “Mr. Growley was involved in a great many battles. He saw action all across the front. He told me the details, but I confess I do not remember. Perhaps it was the Somme, or Passchendaele. I'm sorry, Mr. Lawrence, but I really don't recall. Then again, I don't suppose that particular detail is relevant to this story. He was involved in a terrible battle that went on for so very long, and he was one of the lucky few who survived.

  “He talked briefly about the aftermath of the battle, about how he simultaneously felt relieved by victory and horrified by what he had seen. He declined to go into the details, but it was quite clear to me that Mr. Growley had witnessed atrocities that haunted him for the rest of his life. He had been injured three times, I seem to recall, although on each occasion he only required a short trip to the medical tents so that he could be patched up. He still suffered some degree of incapacity, though, even when I knew him. He had a limp, and -

  “Oh, but Mr. Lawrence, I am getting away from the point of all this. Let me continue.

  “Mr. Growley told me that at some point, he and some fellow soldiers were commanded to help clear a particular section of the battlefield. I'm talking about removing the bodies. Or the parts of bodies, as it turned out. He said that more than half of the remains he found were just pieces of flesh and bone, some wrapped in fragments of uniform and some not. He and two other soldiers took a cart out there and gathered what they could, even though they knew that in most cases these body parts would never be identified. He told me he wandered around in a kind of daze, picking up hands and feet and heads and putting them onto the cart. There wasn't much blood, he said, because most of the blood had already leaked out into the mud. Or am I mis-remembering that? Did he say that there was a lot of blood?”

  “Never mind.

  “Anyway.

  “One night, he and the two other soldiers returned late to wherever they were making their base. They had a cart full of body parts, but nowhere to put these parts, so they left them on the cart for the night and went to prepare themselves for bed. I don't remember the specifics of how they were sleeping, or what they were eating, but I got the impression from Mr. Growley that there was some degree of camaraderie among the men, perhaps even some gallows humor. I don't know, I can't imagine what it was like.

  “He said that after the battle, he always found it hard to sleep. He said the other men tended to manage, but that he struggled terribly with ringing in his ears. I believe he suffered from tinnitus in later years, did he not? Anyway, on this particular night he was once again awake well past midnight, and as was often the case he decided to rise and go for a little walk, just to tire himself out and try to reset his thoughts. He always avoided walking in places that reminded him of death, but on this night he forgot about the cart that had been left nearby and he suddenly stopped as he saw a figure standing at the cart in a patch of moonlight.

  “This figure was leaning into the cart and whispering.

  “Mr. Growley said that at first he did not know what to do. He said the man was dressed like a soldier, but that he seemed different somehow. He was very specific on that point, he said that he couldn't pin it down but that something about this man – albeit seen only from behind – seemed unusual. Finally, deciding that it was not his place to disturb a fellow soldier, Mr. Growley turned and made his way in another direction, reasoning that he could still attempt to calm his own thoughts, and that he did not much like the idea of engaging anyone in conversation. I do not know where he walked, nor does it matter, but I believe he was gone for quite some time. And then at some point he happened to pass by the cart again, and he saw that the strange man was still there.

  “This time, Mr. Growley's curiosity was piqued, and he reasoned that – since he had been one of the men who had worked with the cart that day – he might be in a position to help with any query. So he wandered over and hailed the man, calling out to him and asking if he could be of any assistance. I remember he told me that he called out a couple of times, though making sure not to be so loud as to wake any men sleeping in nearby tents, and that finally he stopped a few yards short of the man and realized that he had received no response. He asked the man again whether he could help, and then he realized that the man was still whispering away to himself.

  “Of course, by now Mr. Growley was becoming rather concerned. He had already encountered many men whose minds had been shattered by the horrors of war, and he was starting to think that this man might have escaped from one of the hospitals. I believe he said he also saw some dark patches on the man's clothes and concluded that they might be blood. Anyway, the upshot is that he stepped a little closer and reached out to touch the man's shoulder, only to hesitate when he realized that at last he could hear what the man was whispering.

  “It was a name. Not just a name, there were other things as well, but the main part of the whisper was all about the name Milly. Milly this, Milly that. Something about Milly losing something, or never getting something back, or never knowing something.

  “So Mr. Growley listened for a moment, and he was now more convinced than ever that this particular soldier was in need of help. Finally, then, he cleared his throat and said – much more loudly this time – that he would like to be of assistance.

  “At this, the soldier ceased his whispering, but he kept his back to Mr. Growley. Of course, Mr. Growley was always an honorable and decent man who did the right thing, so he could not simply walk away. Instead, he reached out to touch the man's shoulder, but he found that he could not. It was not like his hand was passing through the man. He described it as simply a sensation that his hand could never quite get close enough to make contact. I believe he tried several times before realizing that the attempt was futile. He had also, by this moment, come to notice that there was a thick wound on one side of the man's neck, a wound that appeared to have not been dealt with by a
doctor or a nurse.

  “He repeated his offer of help, and then finally he decided to step around the man a little and get a better look at him, and that is when he saw...

  “I am sorry, Mr. Lawrence, but it is so dreadful to think back on the story that he told me. Nevertheless, he was quite adamant that when he saw the man properly, he beheld only half a face, with the rest having been blasted away. There were fragments of muscle and bone poking through the bloodied pulp, along with parts of his jaw with rows of teeth still in place. I will always remember that he told me the man had a strange mark on his forehead, a kind of whitish object surrounded by blood. He told me it took a moment before he realized that this was one of the man's eyes, which had been blasted up to a different part of his face.

  “Mr. Growley's first reaction was that this must be a man who had wandered in late from the battlefield, having perhaps been unconscious for a while. It was obvious now that the man must be suffering some form of damage to his brain, and that precious little could be done for him, but Mr. Growley told him to wait and that he would go on his behalf and find medical assistance.

  “And then, as he was about to turn away, the man started asking him about this Milly person, and muttering over and over about something that had to be returned to her. He seemed most insistent, to the extent that Mr. Growley had to be quite firm as he explained that there would be time for such matters later, that the most immediate concern was the man's injuries. Indeed, he said he could not understand how the man was even managing to stand. It was at this point, he told me, that he began to feel a great sense of uncertainty and dread starting to rise up with a thousand hands through the pit of his stomach. Those were the words he used. I never forgot them.

  “He offered help again, but now he was overcome by a great need to get as far from the man as possible. Another thing I remember is that he said he felt as if he now stood in close proximity to death itself. He felt the air become chilled, and it was as if his instincts and natural senses were conspiring to overthrow his rational mind and tell him to run.