by Cross, Amy
Copyright 2016 Amy Cross
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.
Kindle edition
Dark Season Books
First published: October 2016
This book's front cover incorporates elements licensed from the Bigstock photo site.
“I have waited so long for your return.”
In the English countryside, miles from the nearest town, there stands an old stone house. Nobody has set foot in the house for years. Nobody has dared. For it is said that even though the lady of the house is long dead, a face can sometimes be seen at one of the windows. A pale, dead face that waits patiently behind a silk wedding veil.
Seeking an escape from his life in London, Owen Stone purchases Ashbyrn House without waiting to find out about its history. As far as Owen is concerned, ghosts aren't real and his only company in the house will be the thin-legged spiders that lurk on the walls. Even after he moves in, and after he starts hearing strange noises in the night, Owen insists that Ashbyrn House can't possibly be haunted.
But Owen knows nothing about the bride that is said to haunt the house. Or about the mysterious church bells that ring out across the lawn at night. Or about the terrible fate that befell the house's previous inhabitants when they dared defy the bride. Even as Owen starts to understand the horrific truth about Ashbyrn House's past, he might be too late to escape the clutches of the figure that watches his every move.
The Bride of Ashbyrn House is a ghost story about a man who believes the past can't hurt him, and about a woman whose search for a husband has survived even her own tragic death.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Epilogue
The Bride
of Ashbyrn House
Prologue
He's coming back. I always knew he would. I waited so patiently in this dark, empty house, but I always knew he'd come back to me. How could he not?
The house is so very still as I stand at the window. Even dust no longer drifts through the air. In all honesty, I do not believe that one single particle in this entire house has moved in all these years. The spiders sometimes crawl across the outsides of the window, but they have long since died out on the inside of the house itself. And I have certainly not caused any disturbance, not as I have made my way endlessly from empty room to empty room, pacing the corridors with pure and perfect patience.
Always waiting.
Always hoping.
Always knowing .
And now he returns. I hear sounds beyond the far wall, near the gate. Although the house itself is shrouded in gloom, sunlight catches the dew on the lawn. Ashbyrn House looks beautiful, as ever, and now all that remains is for its rightful owner to come and sit at the grand mahogany desk. Then he can get back to work. I never minded waiting for him, because I always knew that his heart would lead him back to me.
Finally I see him, far off on the other side of the garden. He approaches the gate cautiously, almost fearfully, but it's most definitely him. He's older now, but there's no mistaking his manner as he stops and looks through at the lawn. Why does he hesitate? Why is he not already unlocking the gate and entering the grounds of his property? Perhaps he is overawed. Perhaps he cannot believe that he is home. I suppose I must be patient. After all, patience is one of my greatest qualities. Along with loyalty, and compassion, and a fair temper.
“Welcome back,” I whisper, allowing myself a faint smile. “Welcome to -”
Suddenly he looks straight at me, and a moment later he takes a step back. I feel a heavy, pounding weight of fear in my chest as I realize that for some reason he seems to have changed his mind. I tell myself not to panic, that he will doubtless realize his mistake and return to me, but then he takes another step back. It is almost as if...
He's leaving...
“No,” I whisper, filled first with shock and then with anger. “No, you can't! I've waited, you have to come back to me!”
He turns to walk away, and all I can do is scream. He has to return, he just has to, and yet a moment later I see his vehicle driving past the gate, heading along the road. I scream and I scream and I scream, determined to make him realize his mistake, but now I feel him getting further and further away. Rushing through the window, I make my way across the lawn until I reach the gate, and I arrive just in time to see his vehicle disappearing around the far corner. I scream again, but I already know that he'll come back. He has to.
He has no choice.
Chapter One
Owen - Today
“Don't talk to me about ghosts. I'm not interested in ghosts. The whole idea is a load of superstitious nonsense.”
“Of course, but -”
“So please, stop trying to bring it up.”
“Okay, but I just -”
“Because if you mention ghosts one more time, this sale is off. Is that understood? One more time, that's all it'll take.”
Stopping at the edge of the rather large pond, I turn and look back toward the house. Ashbyrn House is certainly an imposing presence out here at the edge of town, but fortunately there's a thick line of trees offering a degree of privacy. So long as I put up a few 'Keep Out' signs, I imagine I shan't be bothered too much by the locals. Perhaps I should get a big dog, too. One that terrifies the postman.
Of course, I still haven't decided that I'm definitely buying the place yet.
“You're a rational man, Mr. Stone,” the realtor says, with his usual chirpy tone. “That's good, I admire your focus. However, I feel it would be remiss of me to not mention the history of Ashbyrn House.”
“History is history,” I mutter, squinting as I look at the roof. “I'm much more interested in the practicalities. Ashbyrn House is a listed property, I believe? Grade II?”
“That's right. So obviously there are certain rules regarding any renovation work you might be planning to carry out.” He lets out a faint, trilling laugh. At least, I think it's a laugh. “You can't just knock it all down and start again.”
“I'm not looking to do any work on the place. I'm just thinking about repairs.”
“The house has been maintained very well by the Ashbyrn family,” he continues. “And obviously with nobody having lived here for several decades, everyday wear and tear is -”
“Why is that, again?” I ask, turning to him. “Why the hell would
a family leave a place like this unoccupied?”
He opens his mouth to reply, but something seems to be holding him back.
“Let me guess,” I continue. “Superstition?”
“Something like that.”
I can't help sighing. “So you're saying that a five million pound mansion has been left to rot for a few decades, just because a bunch of jumped-up luvvies heard a few bumps in the night?”
“It...”
Again, he hesitates.
“It's not quite like that,” he continues finally. “The family was loathe to sell, since Ashbyrn House has been in their hands for several centuries. It's their ancestral home. Unfortunately, the current economic climate has compelled them to put the house on the market.” He swallows hard. “In all good conscience, Mr. Stone, I feel I must tell you about the house's history. I would hate for you to feel, later on, that you had been deceived before you decided to go ahead with your purchase.”
“And I feel compelled to tell you,” I reply, “that as far as I'm concerned, history is history. I no more believe in ghosts than I believe in flying saucers or unicorns. Now, if you don't mind, I have to get back to London soon. Would you mind showing me the rest of the property before I leave? And let's stick to the facts. I don't need ghost stories.”
***
A few minutes later, as we reach the far side of the house, I'm surprised to see what looks like a ruined church rising up between the trees. The property description mentioned some kind of outbuilding, but I was expecting a few old bricks or stones at most. Instead, several semi-collapsed walls stand high against the midday sun, and the shell of the church is more substantial than I ever would have expected.
“And voila!” the realtor says, turning to me with a nervous smile. “The ruins of St. Helen's. The local parish church now stands in the village, just a couple of miles away, but it's believed that as far back as the eighteenth century there was a church right here in the grounds of Ashbyrn House. As you can see, though, it's rather fallen into disrepair. At some point in the nineteenth century, most of the structure was demolished so that the stones could be sold. Desperate times, you know? I'm afraid this is all that's left.”
“Is it safe?” I ask as I reach the shadow of the ruin.
“Safe?”
“Is it likely to topple over next time there's a storm?” I push against one of the ruined walls, but it feels solid enough.
“Oh, no. Not at all. The foundations have been checked extensively prior to the sale. It's as sturdy as the main house.”
“And is this hallowed ground?” I ask.
“I don't entirely know, to be honest,” he replies. “I suppose it must have been, once. I don't know if that's the sort of thing that runs out after a while. Maybe it'd need topping up, so to speak.”
“An old church in the garden,” I mutter, finding the situation rather bizarre. “I doubt many houses in the country boast something like this.”
“Are you a religious man, Mr. Stone?”
I can't help smiling. “No,” I tell him, still looking up at the ruined tower. “I am not.”
“You work in publishing, I believe?”
“Something like that. I write.”
“How fascinating! What do you write?”
“Words.”
I hear him making his way toward me, trampling over the carpet of autumn leaves that covers the ground. Stopping at my elbow, he joins me for a moment in looking up at the ruins. All around us, the substantial garden of Ashbyrn House has fallen mostly still, save for the occasional rustle of the forest and a few scampering rushes. There must be squirrels around.
“I feel I must tell you about the bells,” the realtor says finally.
“The bells?”
“The bells.”
“Is this part of another ghost story?”
“Well -”
“Because if it is, I don't want to hear it.”
He sighs. “In all good -”
“Oh, you and your conscience,” I mutter, and this time it's my turn to sigh. “I'm really not interested in superstition,” I add, stepping past him and heading around the side of the old church. There's no roof left, of course, but part of the foundations are still showing and there's a set of old steps at the far end. I imagine that once, long ago, this was quite a decent-sized building. Of course, I have no use for a ruined church, although for a moment I can't help thinking that Vanessa would have loved to get her hands on a place like this.
She'd have thrown the most wonderful garden parties.
“I must tell you about the bells,” the realtor says suddenly.
Turning to him, I see a hint of fear in his eyes.
“It's probably nothing,” he continues, “but one of the many stories about this place is...”
I wait for him to continue, but he almost seems afraid to speak. At first, I assumed he was just trying to use ghost stories to bump up the price a little and pique my interest, but now I realize the man actually seems to believe all this nonsense.
“Some nights,” he says cautiously, “you might briefly hear the sound of bells coming from this spot. Just for a few seconds, or maybe a minute or two. Other people have heard them over the years, not just people from the house but also people who happened to be passing along the main road or the lane at the side.”
“Bells?” I ask, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
He looks up at the top of the ruined tower.
“Obviously there's no bell here now,” he admits. “There most likely was, back when the church was in use, but it's long gone. Nevertheless, several people – several rational people – have reported hearing them.”
I wait, in case there's more to his nonsensical story, but finally I can't resist a faint smirk.
“Is that the big story about this house?” I ask. “Ghostly bells?”
“There's more,” he continues. “The house itself is said -”
“I'll buy it,” I tell him.
He seems shocked, staring at me with his mouth hanging half-open.
“Not your half-assed ghost story,” I continue. “I mean Ashbyrn House. The house, and its grounds. I'll buy the lot, in cash, for the full asking price. It's secluded and it should allow me to get on with my work. Plus, if there's no chain, I can hopefully move in very quickly. But there's one condition, and the condition is that you will never again utter a single word about ghosts, ghouls, spirits or imaginary bells. If I hear any further mention of those things from your lips before the contract is signed, I'll walk away from the sale and find another house to buy. Is that clear?”
He seems hesitant for a moment, before finally nodding.
“I'm glad we understand one another,” I tell him. “Please have the contracts drawn up and forwarded to my solicitor, and hopefully we can get everything signed before the end of the month.”
“Of course,” he murmurs, making a note on his clipboard. He seems nervous, and he's clearly holding something back, but I honestly don't care about the man's superstitions. Ashbyrn House will serve my purposes just fine, and I want as little complication and fuss as possible. I can work on my papers here without interruption, and I can minimize contact with the rest of humanity. I just want to be left alone.
“And will it be just you living here?” the realtor asks as he makes some notes. “Or...”
I turn to him.
“Just me,” I say after a moment. “And believe me, that's just the way I like it.”
Chapter Two
Katinka - 1859
Sometimes, I think there cannot be a more beautiful place in all the world. Ashbyrn House is simply perfect in every way. Come rain or shine, the house stands noble and proud. I rather think that our humble home has become a beacon for the local area, and I'm certain the people from several neighboring towns are in awe of the place whenever they pass. The house is solid and reliable, and it possesses a kind of honor. In some way, Ashbyrn House reminds me so very much of Father.
Lifting my
dress slightly, to ensure that the hem doesn't drag in the mud, I make my way through the forest at the foot of the garden. Dappled sunlight flickers across the grass as the tree-tops above me are ruffled by a cool breeze. A squirrel hurries up a tree ahead of me, and I can't help but smile as I watch him stop a little way up. He has something in his mouth, no doubt a nut, and it's pleasing to see that he's getting on with his busy work.
“Hello, Mr. Squirrel,” I say with a grin. “Don't mind me. Please, continue on your way.”
As if he understood me, he climbs higher and finally disappears amid the mess of branches. I see his silhouette briefly, as he scurries and then jumps to the next tree, and finally he's lost in the canopy.
“Life goes on,” I whisper. “Father might be gone, but life...”
For a moment, I feel a flicker of sadness in my chest. It is one year to the day since Father dropped dead in his study, and I had long anticipated that I would become a little mournful. The others seem to be able to forget so easily, yet Father's passing haunts me still. I miss him, but at least I am able to enjoy the house that he built, and the grounds to which he tended with such care.
“Are you watching over me, Father?” I say out loud, turning and looking all around at the forest. “Can you give me a sign? Anything will do. Just one sign...”
I wait.
Nothing.
Perhaps I am foolish to fancy that death is anything other than total, perfect oblivion. No trace of Father remains, save for what I feel in my heart.
Still, this is a fine day, and I quickly force myself to remember that in many ways I am the luckiest girl alive. After all, Ashbyrn House is to be mine as soon as I marry, and the fateful day is now set. It might be my husband who comes to control the property, but nobody shall ever be able to take Ashbyrn House from me. The law of the county requires me to have a husband if I am to remain at the house, and fortunately I have found a man who fits the bill.
This is where I shall live, and where I shall be married. It is my home. Forever.
Spotting a smidgen of yellow-gold on the ground, I stop and crouch down to pick another beautiful chanterelle. We are so lucky here, that these delicacies grow in such abundance in our soil. Some people go wild for truffles, but to my mind the chanterelle is a far more enticing find. Father used to bring me out here when I was a child, to hunt for these mushrooms, and even now I cannot help but smile as I drop a few fresh specimens into the palm of my hand.