Haunting Grace

by Elizabeth Marshall

  “Damn thing, you scared me half to death. How did you get open?”

  Glancing down at the radiator below the window, she bent and turned the thermostat up. The room was cold and she had seen a forecast in yesterday’s paper suggesting that the city was in for a severely cold spell.

  A thin dressing gown lay on the end of the bed; hardly practical for winter use but had been all she could fit in her suitcase at the time. Wrapping it around her she made the decision to spend the day clothes shopping. She wasn’t going to be much use to anyone if she caught her death of cold. The memory of her dream filled her mind as she recalled the glorious warmth and happiness she had felt with the protective arms of Robert Hamilton around her.

  “How beautiful it must be to feel loved,” she whispered to the portrait. “You were a lucky man to have had real love in your life and your wife was a lucky lady to have you.”

  Sliding the photograph of her daughter into her purse and her book into her bag she wandered out of the hotel and into the cold winter wind.

  Making the decision to buy some warm clothes had been a sensible one. It was still early and most of the shops hadn’t yet opened so Grace went in search of some breakfast.

  It was Sunday morning and wandering down Low Petergate, the sound of church bells drew her down an alley to the Thirteenth Century Holy Trinity Church yard. It seemed a morbid pass time but inscriptions on gravestones had always fascinated her. She wandered along the paths scanning the words on the stone slabs that marked the life and death of each body below.

  Her mind toyed with Harry’s theory. It was an odd one alright and she wondered why no one had ever come up with it before. Then again, she wasn’t exactly schooled in all things ghostly, so it was perfectly possible the idea was a popular one amongst enthusiasts.

  The words on the gravestone were faded and unclear but Grace was sure she had found it, the headstone of Robert Hamilton. She could only make out the first two numbers of his year of death, ‘seventeen’... but that was definitely his name. The birth date was as clear as the day it had been carved, ‘In the year of Our Lord 1626’. A perfect match to what she already knew of him.

  “You lived a long life, Mr Hamilton,” she said scanning her eyes over the rest of the inscription.

  “Here lies Robert Hamilton, beloved husband of... ” Grace read it out loud but she stopped short as his wife’s name was unclear. She crouched down to get a better look but time had erased the words from the stone. A pang of sadness for the lady who lay beside her husband knotted in the pit of her stomach. How very tragic it seemed that this couple should have found love in life only to have its memory worn away with the passing of time.

  She ran her fingers gently over his name, wondering as she did what his life had been like. There was little doubt that he had loved his wife and she guessed that his wife must have loved him too. There was no denying it; Robert Hamilton had been a handsome man. The portrait in her room was testimony to that, but everything else she had been told about him was mostly conjecture. Yes, there were a few scant facts; that he had been a Cavalier, that he had been richly rewarded for his loyalty and that he had owned an inn and a post house in York. But what Grace really wanted to know was what the man was like. Not what sort of career he had.

  She mulled the idea of going to see Harry over in her mind. Finally she decided that it couldn’t do any harm. Her enquiring mind had set itself on a path and it was unlikely to be easily swayed. The shopping, she concluded could wait.

  Rapping lightly on the large black door set in the twisted oak frame of the entrance to the pub, Grace wondered if anyone would be awake at this time of the morning. Her question was quickly answered when a creak announced that someone was pulling the door open. A knowing smile filled his face when he saw her.

  “I thought you might come back, Grace. Come in, girl, it’s cold out there,” he said ushering her inside.

  The unpleasant aroma of stale smoke and smouldering cinders from the fire mixed with the heady smell of alcohol greeted her as she followed Harry into the main section of the building. Dirty glasses and empty plates and beer bottles littered the bar. It looked for all the world as if Harry had just walked out and left his customers to it.

  “Sorry about the mess. I don’t usually bother clearing up on a Saturday night. Try and get into bed a bit earlier and sleep in on a Sunday.”

  “Oh, Harry, I am so sorry, I hope I haven’t got you out of bed.”

  “Good gracious, no girl. I’ve been up a while.”

  “Can I give you a hand to clear this lot up?”

  “No, I’ll get to it later. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “I’d love one, thanks, but if you tell me where everything is I’ll make it,” Grace offered.

  “So, what brought you back then?” he asked.

  “I found his grave and I was curious, I guess. I’d like to know more about him. You seem to know so much about him, I thought you might be able to tell me a few things.”

  “Now that is an interesting concept. I hoped the same from you.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, Grace, I did.”

  “What could I possibly tell you about Robert Hamilton? I’ve only just come across the man. You and Kate are the ones that seem to know all about him.”

  “Well you could start by telling me where you’re from?”

  “Harry I don’t get you. One minute we’re talking about a dead man and the next you’re asking where I’m from.”

  “Strange, huh?” he replied with a shrug.

  “Harry you talk in riddles, I’m not going to even pretend to understand what you are going on about.”

  Grace followed him into the kitchen. Spotting two mugs in the sink she rinsed them and reached for a seemingly clean drying up cloth on the side of the counter.

  “How do you like your coffee?”

  “As it comes, coffee is coffee to me.”

  Grace smiled to herself. If someone had asked her a few minutes ago how Harry liked his coffee she would have guessed that he didn’t much care. She had always thought you could tell a lot about a person by the coffee they drank.

  “Harry, what do you know about Robert’s wife?”

  “Probably less than you do.”

  “So you don’t know who she was then?”

  “Oh, I know who she is alright.”

  “Well then I would say you know a whole lot more than I do about her.”

  “What do you want to know about Robert’s wife then?”

  “Well anything really. How old she was when she married him, what her name was. You know, just anything you know.”

  “Grace, put your cup down. I have something to show you.”

  “That sounds very cryptic, Harry. What have you got?”

  “It’s a portrait, of Robert and his wife.”

  “You’re kidding. That’s amazing. I’d love to see it. How on earth did you get hold of that?”

  “It was here, in the attic. I found it about twenty years ago.”

  “Did you find anything else, besides the portrait?”

  “No, just the portrait. For years I couldn’t work it out.”

  “Work what out, Harry.”

  “The portrait... there was something wrong with it... but for the love of money I couldn’t see what it was.”

  “But you know now?” asked Grace, her mind racing with excitement as the natural historian in her took over.

  “Yes, I know what is wrong with the portrait now.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Of course,” he said solemnly. “It hangs in the hallway, just before the ladies toilets. I put it there so that it wouldn’t be missed. If the lady... err... oh, forget it, just come with me and I’ll show it to you.”

  Grace followed him out of the kitchen and through the main section of the building. He swiped a half finished bottle of whisky off the bar as they moved past it and on towards the hall.

  It was a narrow dark space with une
ven plastered walls but she could see the frame of the picture as they approached. An excited bubble grew in her stomach as the canvas came into view. It was him, Robert Hamilton, his eyes sparkling, a broad smile on his face and beside him... was his wife. Her knees buckled and her legs gave way as the room swam around her.

  “It’s alright, girl, I’ve got you,” he whispered.

  Limp in his arms, Grace tried to speak but her throat was too tight, her pulse raced and tiny beads of sweat formed on her face. Harry lowered her to the ground and sank down beside her on the carpeted floor of the hallway.

  “You have got to be... kidding! Is... this... some sort of joke?” she stammered turning white faced to the man beside her.

  “No, Grace, this isn’t a joke. That portrait is as genuine as you and me. Have it checked out yourself, if you want. Any expert will tell you.”

  She was no expert but had seen her fair share of genuine seventeenth century portraits and Harry was right. This was either a damn good forgery or the real thing. She breathed deeply, trying to calm her rising panic. It didn’t work. She shook fiercely, her head swam and the room around her swayed as she lifted her knees and dropped her head onto them. She felt him rest his hand gently on her shoulder.

  “It’s ok, Grace,” he whispered reassuringly, “I’m here, we will figure this out.”

  “Tell me, Harry, how did this happen?” she wailed hysterically.

  “I don’t... I’m sorry... I just don’t know.”

  “You must know! You must!”

  “I don’t! Grace I have no idea how you came to be in that portrait.”

  THE END... (or is it?)

  On that note and with many thanks for your time - I bid you a warm farewell from York, the most haunted city in Britain. If you want to know more about Grace be sure to look out for ‘Changing Grace’, the second short story in the ‘Beyond Time’ series.

  Note from the author

  Creative Dreamer or Prophet?

  Artists and authors have been dreaming up the impossible for hundreds of years. Mr Verne wrote about submarines and travel to the moon, Captain James Kirk had us all dreaming of shiny little flip phones, and Leonardo da Vinci conceived the idea of the helicopter several hundred years before the first aeroplane took to the sky.

  The list of fictional fantasy that has gone on to become reality is endless and suffice to say there are some who believe that scientific invention has its origins in the minds of the creative dreamers.

  Perhaps this is true and the line between fiction and reality is thinner than most would like to acknowledge. Necessity is after all the mother of invention. Perhaps when first imagined their creators had a need, either within their own lives or the lives of their characters. Years later, in the real world, clever scientific brains took these imagined creations and turned them into reality.

  But what if necessity had nothing to do with predictive imagination?

  Consider the possibility of a link between fantasy and reality that is so profound that it could change our perception of life as we know it.

  In 1503 a man was born in France whom some believe predicted some of the world’s most catastrophic events. His name was Nostradamus.

  On the first of July 1566, Nostradamus wished his assistant goodnight with the words, “You will not find me alive at sunrise.”

  He died that night!

  His prophecies were legendary but his writing was confused and muddled. Rumours suggested that his coffin contained a document which would clarify his predictions. In 1700 his coffin was opened, no documents were found but the year 1700 was engraved on an amulet inside the coffin.

  His predictions are common knowledge, both world wars, three antichrists, the twin towers, and a third world war.

  Was he a prophet, magician, or a fantasy writer whose predictions coincidently came into being?

  In recent years I have noticed a shift towards fantasy writing with strong paranormal links.

  Are today’s fantasy writers tapping into public demand or something more significant?

  Consider Diana Gabaldon’s stories and Claire’s journey through time. So far-fetched? Perhaps not!

  For centuries the people of Scotland have believed in the magic of the highlands. The Irish believe in fairies and banshees and the Zulu’s in the tokoloshe. These beliefs are based on myth- and myth is based on legend, derived from tales.

  What is to say that these tales have no factual basis?

  Some would argue that there is no scientific evidence to confirm the existence of magic. Well here we run into the conundrum.

  If scientific invention has its origins in the minds of creative dreamers, then the future can only be seen as today’s fantasy.

  Perhaps it is worth considering that today’s fantasy may well become tomorrow’s reality.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Elizabeth Marshall is the writing alter ego of a lady born and brought up in a small village in rural South Africa surrounded by a large Scottish farming family.

  She has worked at the Charing Cross and Westminster Medical School in England, Nottingham Social Services in England and is currently the Director of an IT Project Management Consultancy.

  Elizabeth lives in a 16th Century farmhouse on a sporting estate in the Scottish Borders with her husband, five children and eight chickens and spends her spare time with her head in a book or her fingers on the keyboard writing one.

  Elizabeth Marshall has also written the book

  ‘When Fate Dictates’ and is a regular contributor on www.goodreads.com/author/show/5051445.Elizabeth_Marshall .

  Read more about Elizabeth Marshall and her work

  on her website

  www.elizabethmarshallwrites.com