Ghosts, Ghouls, and Haunted Houses

by Carrie King

  Choking back her rising sense of despair, but also wanting to give him the space he needed, Tiffany pushed her own emotions away and leaned forward. If this curiosity was all they had in common at the moment, she was going to take advantage.

  "What is it?"

  He pulled something round and flat from inside the box and held it in his palm. It looked like stamped pewter. She frowned. It had a raised symbol on it, but she couldn't identify what it was. She reached out a finger to touch it and then changed her mind.

  "What do you think it is?"

  He shrugged. "Maybe part of an old medallion. Who knows?" He handed it to her. "Here, hold this. There's something else in here too."

  Without hesitating she reached out her hand to take the disk of pewter while he reached into the box one more time and pulled out a necklace chain. Just the chain, nothing else attached to it. He glanced at the piece of pewter she held in her hand and then back to the necklace.

  "These two don't go together. There's no hole in that medallion, or whatever it is, for the necklace chain."

  "Maybe it belonged to his wife … the one who probably tried to kill him." She felt funny saying it. Glancing sideways at Wylie, she was startled to find he was watching her.

  He abruptly dropped the chain back into the box and stood. "I'm going for a walk."

  She couldn't keep up with his emotions. One moment he was silent and sullen, the next grinning at her, and then turning it off again like the flip of a switch. She nodded and started to rise, but he shook his head.

  “Alone.”

  She sank back down onto the sofa, trying to hold back her disappointment.

  He left the room without another word. She heard the front door open and close. She turned to look out the window and saw him walking toward the path that wound its way toward the ocean. Her heart caught with pain.

  Could they survive this? Or was this just a futile last-ditch effort, coming up here? She fingered the pewter disk, frowning, turning it over and over in her hand. What did those strange markings on the back mean? Maybe they were Celtic? She placed the piece of pewter back in the box and then reached for the parchment paper. Curious to read it again, she pulled it from beneath the box and unfolded it.

  She skimmed it several times, wondering what had happened to Lord Greyfield. If his wife had killed him, how had she done it? Poison? Tiffany frowned as a blackish spot appeared in the middle of the ink on the paper. She blinked, thinking that maybe she had knocked herself on the head harder than she originally thought. Her vision seemed a little blurry. She blinked several times more, and then stared in dismay as the black splotch on the paper grew larger. It seemed to be … it seemed to be absorbing the ink on the paper. What the hell!

  The paper was yanked out of her hands. She held it loosely, but she felt the tug and then the paper floated to the wood floor, face up. No splotch, no blurriness, just a man's neat and small handwriting claiming an accusation that spanned centuries.

  She reached down for the parchment, thinking to fold it and put it back in the box, but just before she touched it, it moved again, just out of her grasp.

  She choked back a cry of alarm but forced a nervous laugh. She felt like she was losing her mind until she felt the draft along the floorboards, coming up from what would have been a basement or a root cellar. Not much, but enough to move a piece of paper. She snickered at her anxiety, and without giving it any further thought, snatched the letter and folded the parchment, then she put it back in the box with the other objects. Quickly, she firmly closed the lid.

  She stood, thinking she might also go for a walk, but just as she passed beneath the threshold toward the front door, she heard a whisper in her ear. It was so close that she felt the warmth of someone's breath against the skin of her neck.

  “Bitch.”

  She froze. Who said that? There was no one here, she had to be imagining this. Her guilt was manifesting, it had to be. Her heart pounding with sudden fright, she stepped toward the front door and reached for the knob. She uttered a cry of disbelief when she discovered it was locked.

  There is no escaping my betrayal – where had that thought come from?

  Chapter 41

  Tiffany jerked on the doorknob getting more and more desperate as it refused to even turn. A feeling of dread overwhelmed her and the cut on her back burned.

  What was happening?

  Panic threatened to overwhelm her and for a moment the room darkened. It had to be a panic attack and she stepped back and took a deep breath. There was no air, she couldn’t breathe.

  Calm, be calm, she told herself and she closed her eyes and drew in a long deep breath. When she opened them the room was lighter. The feeling of dread had diminished.

  Think!

  Logically she knew there had to be an explanation so she reached for the door handle again. It was cold as ice to her touch and still wouldn’t turn.

  She drew in another deep breath.

  The door was just stuck because of moisture, swollen wood, or the old door frame. The panic was causing her to hyperventilate which made the room go dark, the feeling of oppression her fear of losing Wylie. Everything had a logical explanation and yet it felt wrong.

  Wylie had left just a few moments ago and the door had worked fine for him. Now, the doorknob seemed locked into place. She couldn't even turn it. Grumbling under her breath, she headed for the back door in the kitchen.

  She entered and froze. The cupboards were all open once more. Inside of all of them was shrouded in darkness. Tiffany got the strangest feeling that something hid in those dark depths.

  A scraping noise prompted her to turn. A scream lodged in her throat when she saw the ornate chairs precariously stacked on top of each other. They were piled high on the polished dining room table.

  "Wylie!"

  Of course, he couldn't hear her, but she couldn't help it.

  The room was cold again, her breath misted before her and the room seemed to darken.

  This is just panic.

  Maybe she was having a breakdown, maybe none of this was real. Only the fear felt real. Tiffany wanted to scream and opened her mouth but before she could more fear took over. She had to be quiet. Someone was doing this, they had to be.

  Clasping a hand over her mouth she stifled the scream. Heart pounding, she retreated into the kitchen, stepping toward the back door. It was warmer here and the feeling of oppression was less. Still she scanned the room looking for anyone who could be hiding there.

  There was nothing, no one, she wanted to leave. Then a thought struck her. Nothing that had happened could be explained logically. The scratches on her back, being pushed down the stairs, the cupboard doors, the chairs, the cold... maybe Wylie was right. Maybe this place was haunted.

  She tried to turn the knob for the back door, but this one didn't open either.

  "Wylie!"

  What could she do? Escape was all that she had, and so she rushed back toward the sitting room where she might be able to open the French windows or get Wylie's attention by banging on the glass.

  The feeling of oppression was back and she glanced behind her. There was nothing, just a slight shadow in the corner and her breath misted before,

  Run, the thought came into her mind and she set off across the room.

  Run, escape, or you will pay.

  Where were these thoughts coming from, guilt?

  Just before she got to the door something shoved her from behind. Her back burned, as she was sent tumbling forward, stifling yet another scream. Wheeling her arms she tried to stay upright but the force sent her crashing down.

  A yelp of pain escaped her as hands and knees impacted with the quarry tiles and once more the wind was knocked out of her. Lying on the floor tears streamed down her face as she gasped for breath, halfway between panic and fury.

  "Stop it! Stop it!"

  Goosebumps rose on her skin when she heard a laugh. It was right above her, so clear and so close that she felt breath on
the back of her neck.

  "Leave me alone!"

  Swinging out with her arms at nothing she scrambled to her feet and surged out of the kitchen and back into the sitting room, eyes riveted on the French doors.

  Running around the small couch she grasped hold of the handles. They wouldn’t turn. They had to be locked. There was no key.

  With all her might she banged on them with the flat of her hand, crying for Wylie. Where was he? Though she searched the gardens she couldn't see him anywhere. What was happening?

  With her heart in her throat, her eyes wide with panic, crazy thoughts raced through her brain. Why couldn’t she get out? It made no sense. Turning her back to the windows she stared at the room. Everything was still neat and tidy, it looked so nice, and normal.

  The box. The box was gone. The box with the old parchment, the pewter disk, and the necklace chain. It was gone!

  Freezing on the spot she clasped one hand over her mouth to prevent another scream, the other balled into a tight fist. The noise of slow footsteps came from the hallway.

  There was nothing that she could see.

  “Wylie?”

  There was no answer. The sound of footsteps came from behind her.

  Tiffany spun around, the room was empty, but maybe a little darker in the corner. The sound of footsteps was in front of her. She spun around again. The room was empty but something was stalking her, she knew it. Continually sweeping the sitting room and into the hallway beyond with her eyes she held her breath.

  A creaking noise came from above and she glanced upward at the ceiling. More footsteps.

  “I damn you to hell for this betrayal.”

  The words were just a whisper behind her and she spun around. There was nothing there.

  Oh God who was doing this? The word ghost sprang into her mind and she pushed it away. For a moment, panic took over and she felt her knees begin to buckle. Heart pounding, chest so tight she couldn’t breathe, she was about to give in. To have a full-blown panic attack.

  Clenching her fists as tight as she could her nails dug into her palms. The burst of pain centered her and as quickly as the emotional upheaval had come, she felt a surge of calm.

  There were no such thing as ghosts. No such thing. This was just a panic attack and she could get through it. She pushed herself away from the wall and moved into the hallway, warily eyeing every corner. Heading down the hallway she took long deep breaths as she eyed every corner warily.

  No such thing as ghosts.

  She paused in the dining room doorway. The chairs were back where they belonged.

  Had she imagined it all?

  She stepped into the kitchen and in a few steps stood in front of the door. She reached for the knob. It turned.

  Letting out a whoosh of air she quickly stepped outside, the cool, brisk, salt-scented water of the ocean refreshed her physically and emotionally. The breeze tugged at her hair, caressing the skin of her face. She inhaled deeply, telling herself over and over again that what she had seen hadn't really happened.

  It was nothing more than a vivid imagination. Her guilt. All of the emotional turmoil had got to the point where she honestly thought she was having a good old-fashioned nervous breakdown. What did they call them these days? A psychotic break.

  She wanted to go home. Now. Gazing out over the landscape she let it calm her, taking in every detail to bring herself into a state of mindfulness. There was long knee-high grass blowing in the breeze coming off of the ocean. The air tasted salty, the grass looked like silk, like water as it rippled with the wind. Beyond the yard of the manor house, the rocky, sandy ground extended toward the cliffs. She heard the sound of the waves carried toward her on the breeze.

  “I damn you to hell for this betrayal.”

  Chapter 42

  Tiffany wanted to cry. The voice was male, not Wylie’s, was it her subconscious, her guilt, or something more sinister?

  It didn’t matter, nothing mattered now but getting away from this place. She had to fine Wylie and tell him she wanted to leave. If there marriage was over then so be it.

  As if compelled by a force stronger than her own, she walked slowly toward the cliff, much as she had seen Wylie do only a short while ago. The sun was warm on her face, the breeze felt cool in her hair, but there was also a strange sense of disconnection. It was as if she were watching from outside of her body. The stones and the pebbles underneath her shoes were hard and uncomfortable, but then she didn't really feel them. It felt so strange.

  Slowly she walked across the seagrass, her hand trailing down to touch the silky tendrils. She kept her eye out for Wylie. When she was within maybe twenty meters of the cliff, she saw a slight path that had been worn into the dirt by generations of feet. The path wound its way from the top of the cliff down to the shores below. It wasn't visible from the house. Maybe that's where Wylie had gone.

  Not wanting to be alone, and certainly not wanting to go back to the house by herself, she stepped onto the path. Still feeling as if it was not entirely her choice she slowly made her way down. The path was narrow and worn, stepping carefully she took that trail all the way to the shore.

  Questions popped into her mind. How long it had been here? Since the place was built? How many feet had traversed this path?

  At the bottom of the trail, Tiffany peered up the beach to the North. There was no sign of Wylie. She turned to look to the south, and there, maybe fifty meters away, she saw him looking at something near the base of the cliff. A great sigh of relief came out of her and she hurried toward him, seeking a sense of protection and support.

  "Wylie!"

  He didn't look up, but stayed focused on whatever he was doing.

  "Wylie!"

  She approached and saw he was brushing sand and pulling at some shrubbery. Behind the shrubbery stood a door. A door? In the side of the cliff?

  "Look what I found," he said, glancing back at her over his shoulder.

  "What is it?"

  “A door. Maybe it's for storage …"

  He glanced back over his shoulder to the ocean.

  "Maybe ships bearing supplies could get close enough to offload here on the beach. They'd store the goods here and then load them onto a wagon to take back up to the house. Or maybe the Lord was involved in smuggling. Or maybe it was built by pirates. Maybe the old Lord has more secrets to reveal."

  Secrets. Damned secrets, Tiffany thought desperately. Secrets could never be hidden. Someone always found out. Or told on you. Or figured it out for themselves. No, not even death could hide secrets. Not forever.

  The truth always came out, didn’t it?

  Wylie stood, then suddenly slammed his shoulder against the old wooden door. It budged. Slightly, but it budged.

  What are you doing? It could be dangerous to go in there.”

  He ignored her and slammed his shoulder against the wood again. It crashed inward.

  Tiffany stared at was revealed within. Not a hiding place. Not a storeroom. It was a tunnel, one that probably led back to the manor.

  She stared as a feeling of dismay came over her. A feeling that she must never go in there.

  Without a backward glance, Wylie pulled the flashlight from his back pocket and disappeared inside, as if he knew exactly where he was going.

  Somehow Tiffany knew that death lurked within that tunnel and fear froze her to the spot.

  Chapter 43

  Wylie was gone, out of sight and the fear in her chest gnawed at her insides as she watched the torchlight move away.

  What had gotten into him?

  Tiffany didn't want to follow him, but didn't want him to go in there alone. What if something happened? Taking a deep breath and trying to firm up her spine, she tentatively stepped through the small door. It was pitch black and only the dull glow of his flashlight ahead illuminated the darkness.

  "Wylie, wait for me!"

  The light paused for several seconds and she rushed forward and quickly caught up. The flooring of the
cave or tunnel was soft underfoot, a mixture of sand and silty soil. The passage was narrow, claustrophobically so. Extending her arms, her hands touched each side of the hard-packed dirt, occasionally buttressed by ancient wooden supports. Wood that must be rotten and close to collapse after so many years.

  Fear pressed down on her like a weight of darkness. Something was wrong. For a moment she thought she heard mocking laughter in the distance but maybe it was just the sound of the waves.

  "Wylie," Tiffany called, wincing at the trembling in her voice. "I don't think we should be in here. It can’t be safe."

  He turned, shining the flashlight into her face. She squinted and lifted a hand to block the beam of light.

  "Damn it, don't shine it in my eyes."

  "Stop complaining!" he snapped. "All you do is moan... if you don't want to come, don't!"

  Startled by his outburst, she stood frozen for several moments. Anger blossomed in her chest pushing back the fear. Though she wanted to go back she yet didn't want him to continue alone. Maybe his anger was the start of their reconciliation. Maybe he needed to get his own back a little. So she would follow him but she wouldn’t be a mouse. "You don't have to be so nasty."

  He huffed. "I don't mean to be so short-tempered, but … I need some space, okay? You're … stifling me…"

  It was a start, though one that hurt. Without a word, Tiffany turned and retreated, once again holding back tears and stifling a garbled sob as she rushed out of the tunnel and into the fresh air.

  Immediately when she was out she felt relief, but from what?

  Without stopping, she quickly retraced her steps and scrambled back up the trail to the cliff. After reaching the top, her chest heaving with her exertions, she ran for the house. The last thing she wanted to do was go in there but she must face her fears. Nothing had happened she was just inventing things to prevent facing the truth. Her heart pounded against her chest like the waves against the bluff. She had to face it, her emotions were shredded.