The Haunting at Hawke's Moor

by Camille Oster

  "Well, I took the opportunity to come out this way. My parish is large, but there are a few lonely souls out this way."

  Anne led him through to the kitchen, which although too informal, was the only habitable room where a guest could be received. "As you see, we haven't had time to sort the parlor as of yet."

  "I understand it has been a long time since this place was occupied."

  "That is what I have been informed. I have inherited it from my great aunt. It has been sitting in probate for quite a while. Something my solicitor discovered after my divorce became finalized."

  "I see," the parson said as he sat down. Anne felt she might as well be honest about her status. It would likely come out in the end if she tried to hide it. The parson appeared to keep any judgment to himself.

  "How long have you held this parish?" she asked as Lisle went about heating water.

  "About four years. I was in Cornwell prior. A very different place. A very different people. But one must go where one is called. Each parish has its own challenges, of course. Particularly here, as many are too far away to attend service regularly." Anne suspected they would be part of these parishioners as the journey would be long and they had no ready means of travel. "And where have you come from?"

  "London," Anne said brightly. "So this is quite a change for us, as well. It is only myself and Lisle here."

  Lisle poured boiling water into the teapot and spooned the fragrant flakes in to let them steep for a while. Anne grew aware that they had no biscuits or cake to offer, only the very mediocre bread they had sustained themselves with. If things had been ideal, she would have like to make a much better impression. "This move certainly has been challenging, but we are slowly facing each. There is so much still to do."

  "Completely understandable. It is no small task to resurrect a house such as this. I understand there was a fire here," he said.

  "I have seen no evidence of a fire."

  "The house must have been renovated since. It was a long time ago, centuries ago, I understand."

  "The man who drove us here mentioned it. I actually know very little of the circumstances."

  "It wasn't unusual. Many of the manors in the region were burned as the parliamentarian forces came through, back in the day. Quite a few were never rebuilt. If you travel around the region, you will see the ruins of manors past dotted around the countryside. So many of the local gentry died during that period, so there weren't always people left to rebuild. The Battle of Marston killed around four thousand royalists. Quite devastated this region."

  "I must admit I am not that familiar with the topic."

  "There is quite a few around these parts that still hold a grudge, if you would believe, even for wounds centuries old. Then, not much happens around these moors, so old wounds aren't allowed to heal."

  Anne poured the tea through a small strainer, offering the small amount of sugar they had, watching as the reverend gave himself a generous spoonful. She smiled as he stirred his cup with one of the small silver spoons they had found and polished.

  "It must be very trying being here just the two of you," he said after a while. "If you could use an extra pair of hands, there is a young lad I know of, who could use a position. I think you'll find him capable enough, and a good heart at the core. That is if you are comfortable having another person here."

  Anne couldn't shake the feeling she was being manipulated, but she was in dire need of more help. "There is certainly work for anyone willing to help," she said tentatively, trying to think through what the impact would be on their meager food supply, having a ravenous young male in the house. She could certainly remember the amount of food Harry was capable of consuming.

  "He has been orphaned, you see," the reverend continued. "In the most tragic of circumstances. Well, strictly not an orphan as such, but he is alone."

  Anne felt her heart soften. "Of course. As you said, a pair of capable hands would certainly not go amiss." They would just have to make the food stretch, and they had the cow now for milk, cheese and butter. The Turners had most of their other basic needs and she would just have to bargain with the surly Mr. Turner. Obviously, there would be something in the house she could trade, although she felt a rush of guilt as nothing in this house felt like hers.

  Chapter 5:

  Darkness settled fast on the moors. One moment it seemed day; the next, night had arrived and they were in the middle of a sea of darkness. Not a single light could be seen along the horizon as Anne gazed out the window. She hoped the parson had made it home in time. Lisle had retired to her room upstairs, but the parson's visit had driven Anne to start trying to sort the main parlor, in case he returned—or better, Harry came to visit. After dragging the settee to the large main doors, she had whipped the dust, leaving crisscrossing marks on the faded velvet. A plume of dust had arisen and been swept away by the wind, although some returned into the house.

  After wiping dusty surfaces in the room, she felt tiredness ache in her body. She wasn't used to this degree of work, but she was slowly getting used to it, or her body had just stopped protesting. Her married life had involved a great deal of drinking tea and embroidering, flower arrangement and directing servants. Skills which were all more or less unnecessary at the moment.

  Putting her rag aside, she took the small lamp resting on a table and moved upstairs. She missed gas lighting, having grown used to a lit house. Here, darkness encroached from all angles.

  At least there was now order in her bedroom. The floors were clean, if carpet-less, and the mattress had been stuffed with fresh vegetation they had dried. Hay would be preferable, but it wasn't an option just at the moment. She had nothing like the wool overlay she used to have, but perhaps that would come one day. Surely it wouldn't prove difficult to find wool in Yorkshire.

  The bed was bare of the curtains that had hung tattered and moth eaten. With the decay removed, the room was acceptable. It was a large room and the fireplace was massive compared to modern preferences. It smoked, so she couldn't really use it, which was a problem she wasn't sure how to tackle.

  Instead she heated bricks by the kitchen fire, which kept her warm enough under her blankets. Hastily, she undressed and donned her night dress. Before she would braid her hair, but there would be no elaborate hairstyle in the morning; a simple bun was most useful when performing arduous tasks.

  Grabbing her book, she crawled under the blanket and started reading. The house creaked as it settled with the increasing cold outside the window. There was no frost on the window panes yet, but it would be there in the morning, when her room was icy. They really needed to sort the fireplace, but then there was the wood to consider—another problematic task. Perhaps having a strong lad around would be a good thing.

  Her eyes quickly drifted shut, but flew open again when the acrid smell of smoke hit her nose. Sitting up abruptly, she looked around. There were no signs of smoke. Perhaps Lisle was cold and was trying to keep warm. If so, she was smoking the house out. Maybe she'd even fallen asleep and the fire had gotten away from her. Anne jumped out of bed and ran to the door.

  As soon as she reached the landing, the smell was gone. There was no trace of smoke at all. She stood in the darkness and considered what to do. The smell of smoke had definitely been there so it had to come from somewhere. Walking into the bedroom again, it was still there, pungent and stinging her nose. There had to be something amiss.

  Taking her lamp, she walked upstairs and knocked on Lisle's door.

  "What?" the girl said sourly, coming to the door.

  "I smelled smoke. Have you lit a fire?"

  "No," Lisle said. "And the fire in the kitchen's out."

  "I'll just go check."

  Anne heard Lisle's door close behind her and continued down the stairs. The kitchen was dark and empty, no sign of a fire anywhere. Anne checked the whole house but found nothing. Even when she returned to her bedroom, the smell of smoke was completely gone.

  Maybe she had dreamt it,
she wondered—a fear playing with her senses. Feeling disturbed, she crawled back under her blankets and extinguished the lamp. Even through her exhaustion, it wasn't easy to return to sleep now. She kept checking if she could smell smoke, then worried her nose had grown too accustomed to notice.

  The ice lay in moons around the window panes when she woke, her breath condensing in front of her. Some coal would be marvelous, but who would drive coal all the way out to them? Anne missed the comforts of the city and her old life, but conceded she had to be grateful. London was few on comforts for anyone without means. Once they had the house sorted, they would be comfortable here.

  Taking a moment longer in bed, she thought through the massive list of things that needed doing. First the cow. She needed to get the milk flowing. Lisle apparently knew how to make cheese and rennet, which according to her, could be made from nettles or thistles, neither of which were in short supply.

  The cold assaulted her as she slid from under her blankets and she dressed as quickly as she could, her body getting colder by the second. The thick wool shawl helped and she was soon getting warm enough again.

  When Anne returned to the house after seeing to the cow, movement caught her eye and she saw a figure walking along the path leading to the road. Hope flared as she wondered if it was Harry, but Harry would not be approaching the house on foot. As far as she knew, Harry wasn't aware walking was a mode of transport.

  The figure drew closer, a young man with a sack over his shoulder, brown hair shorn short and with long, striding steps. Perhaps this was the young man the reverend had spoken about. He wasn't so young, in fact, he was tall and broad. Anne had expected someone ten or twelve, but this man was more a man than a young man. Definitely older the Harry, maybe even over twenty.

  He stopped when he reached the gravel. His clothes were worn and his hands were dirty. A patch had been sown across one of his knees and his shoes looked like they barely held together. "I have been told there is a position here. Reverend Whitling sent me."

  "I hope he told you there is only room and board. That might change in the future, but for right now, we have no means."

  "He might have mentioned," the man said. He didn't greet her in any way, probably had no manners at all from what she guessed.

  "I am Miss Sands, formally Mrs. Kinelly."

  If her reduction in status meant anything to him, he didn't show it, and he stood there with a thumb inside his belt.

  "It is just I and my servant, Lisle, here. We have just acquired a cow that is pasturing. Have you any experience with cows?" Anne said hopefully.

  "Aye. Not what you'd call clever beasts."

  Anne didn't quite know how to take the statement, or even if she liked this young man. She wasn't immediately warming to him. "And what is your name?"

  "Alfie," he said. By his accent, she could tell he had grown up in these parts.

  "Well, we only have one cow. The intention is to get some chickens as well, but we have nowhere to keep them just at the moment. Is that something you could contrive?"

  "It is." Not a man of many words then, just like Mr. Turner.

  "This house has been derelict for many years, so it needs care, as will a room for you. We can prepare one."

  "I'll find something," he said.

  "Of course," Anne said, feeling foolish, but not exactly sure why. "I will leave you to find your way, then."

  Chapter 6:

  The clock ticked gently on the mantle. Somehow she had managed to make it run. It was of ornate wooden construction with a bell at the top and a round clock face in the center. Anne didn't really like it and she had no idea if it ran on time, but it did run after she'd dusted out its innards and found the little key that wound it.

  She had a parlor now and sat on one of the chairs, taking a moment to drink tea and reflect. Her hands were red and swollen, her nails ragged, but the parlor was clean. She could even receive visitors if any were ever to come. Perhaps the reverend would come back one day.

  Having Alfie around had made a remarkable difference. He was proficient with the cow and had managed to fix the stone wall enclosing the pasture. There was milk every day now, and the kitchen garden was starting to sprout. Being a Yorkshire man, he also seemed able to deal with the surly Mr. Turner, although he disliked being sent for the long walk over to their farm. He'd even coaxed the man to give them some chicks, that would hopefully lay eggs in a matter of months.

  Anne sighed. It felt like the knot of worry and dread in her stomach was starting to ease. At least they were probably not going to starve.

  There was apparently a coach that traveled on a road that was three hours walk from the manor. Maybe at some point in the future, she could acquire a horse and carriage, but that was an impossibility right now. It may never be a possibility as far as she knew. They didn't have the resources to farm as the Turners did, could only feed themselves, but if that was all they had, then she would be glad for it.

  The sun was setting on another day. Lisle would be in the kitchen preparing the evening meal, which was probably nettle soup. At least there were nettles, as many as they could use.

  As Anne watched, it grew darker both inside and out. The house seemed to change when it got dark. The world outside disappeared and they were floating in a sea of empty blackness.

  They were out of candles, so there was only the lantern left. At some point, they needed provisions. Anne would have to find something to sell. Maybe the clock, but then they would have no way of telling time—but what was there to keep time to out here? The sun rose and it set, and there was endless work in between.

  Straightening her stiff back, Anne stood and walked to the kitchen. The fire in the heart lit the space and Alfie sat at the table while Lisle tended to the soup. He straightened as Anne walked in, uncomfortable in her presence, as if he didn't know what to do when she was around.

  According to etiquette, Anne should be dining by herself, but if etiquette was observed, she would never have any company at all. Some things had to be sacrificed, and Alfie would get used to her presence.

  Whatever conversation they'd had didn't continue with her there and they were both silent. Anne almost felt unwelcome, but she seated herself. "I hope everyone has had a good day," she said. "It feels that, with your presence, Alfie, we are making strong progress. I hope all was well with Mr. Turner."

  "Aye," Alfie said without elaborating more. He rarely did say anything other than what was strictly necessary.

  Lisle carried the iron pot to the table with a towel protecting her hand and set it down. It didn't smell very nice and it was barely edible, but it was all they had. Lisle wasn't particularly gifted in the kitchen, but she had more skills than Anne did.

  "I swear I heard a child laugh today," Lisle said as she tore a piece of bread.

  "Must be the wind," Alfie said. "It plays tricks."

  "Maybe," Lisle said. "My money's on there being something evil in this house."

  "What a notion, Lisle," Anne chided.

  "From the moment I arrived, I knew something weren't right."

  Anne didn't know what to say but felt she needed to put a stop to this ridiculousness. Lisle always imagined a villain lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce. "You also thought our neighbors in London would murder us in our sleep."

  "They would have, too, if we'd have stayed long enough."

  "That's ridiculous, Lisle. Your imagination is running away with you."

  Alfie didn't say anything, just watched the exchange between them.

  "When the house has been righted, it will start feeling more homely, you'll see," Anne said with such finality it invited no more discussion. It didn't help anyone Lisle telling fantastical tales when they were all stranded in an isolated house where shadows seemed to move on their own at night. She was stirring up trouble, but Lisle seemed to like causing a bit of trouble.

  There was no more conversation that evening and Anne excused herself to retire upstairs. Lisle didn't follow,
instead chose to stay in the kitchen, which Anne shouldn't encourage, but felt powerless to stop. She couldn't very well forbid Lisle from speaking to one of the two persons in their small and simple lives. Lisle wasn't a complete ninny; she knew how to keep herself… strong.

  With a heavy mood, Anne closed the door to her bedroom. Luckily there was moonlight that night so she could conserve what was left of her bedside candle. Perhaps they needed to get a beehive so they could produce their own wax and honey, but she had no idea how one procured a beehive. Why was she so utterly unprepared for everything? Because she was supposed to have a husband that took care with her and did what was necessary. Now she was discarded like an old newspaper, left to fend for herself like an abandoned dog no one wanted anything to do with.

  Sadness threatened to envelop her again as she lay down underneath her blankets, having hung up her gown. No, she had to be grateful; she had this house and it was everything. This house was her savior. She would just have to learn to fend for herself. Others managed.

  Weariness set in and she couldn't keep her eye open, falling asleep short moments later.

  She walked down corridors that didn't seem to end. She'd lost track of where she was. Was she on the third floor? Nothing looked familiar. The paintings on the walls stared down at her accusingly, as if she was an impostor in the house. She couldn't even remember where she was trying to go, but she had to get there, there was something important there—something she couldn't forget.

  Now it was dark and there was coal dust. The heady smell of coal and smoke tickled her nose. It looked like a basement, but there wasn't a basement in the house. But everything seemed familiar, and yet not, as if she was supposed to know it.

  A set of stairs led up and she followed them, returning to the corridors which stretched along each side. Looking down, she noted the candle holder in her hand, but the candle had burned down to nothing. If she put it down, she'd lose it and she'd never find it again. She needed a candle holder, but then it was gone. She had put it somewhere. Turning, she tried to find it, but there were only vases on the few tables she saw.