The Haunting at Hawke's Moor

by Camille Oster

  "That is very kind of you," Anne said. She had no idea if it would do any good, but it couldn't hurt. Alfie had clearly deviated from the path.

  The vicar chatted further about the events around the district—people Anne didn't know. It was nice to hear about normal country activities. For a moment, Anne could sit back and pretend all was as it should be. She was simply a woman in this community, receiving a visit from the vicar. This was the life she should have. This was her house and now her community. She should not be terrorized every time the sun went down. She was owed more, and she deserved more.

  "Before you go, Mr. Whitling, would you carry a letter for me to the post?"

  "Certainly."

  "I won't be a minute," Anne said and walked over to the desk where she kept her stationary.

  Dearest Mr. Harleston,

  I beseech your advice on how on how I can combat these spirits. They are proving malicious in nature. I cannot be sure, but a death might even have been caused. Please advise how I can act more forcefully to ensure their departure.

  Your Friend,

  Miss Anne Sands

  Anne folded the letter over and sealed it with wax, addressing the back. "Thank you for taking this. I won't delay you further. It was so kind of you to come see us." She handed the letter to him and he put it in his pocket. He was about to leave, and Anne feared he'd forgotten about her aunt's letter. A flare of panic shot through her.

  "Almost forgot," he said and pulled it out of his other inside pocket. Anne took it gratefully and smiled. She saw the vicar off and again wondered if she should have gone with him—but to where? She had nowhere to go. Panic withstanding, this place was the only place for her, faulty as it was. She felt so angry about her salvation being tainted. It was unfair and unjust.

  As soon as the vicar was gone, Anne withdrew into the parlor again, cracking the seal on her aunt's letter. It had felt such a while since she'd spoken to any family. In reality, it hadn't been that long since Harry had left. It just felt much longer.

  Anne sat down and began to read.

  Dear Anne,

  I was so pleased to receive your invitation to join you when the house is in order. As you say, the history of the property is interesting. On closer consideration, I do recall there was some mention of difficulties in that house. It was long before I was born, but I do remember my grandmother mentioning a cousin of hers had been driven mad in the house, claiming unnatural occurrences. A child of hers had inexplicably died.

  Anne felt a sense of dread creeping up her spine. The troubles here apparently weren't a new development. This house had acted against its inhabitants before. She fought a sense of hopelessness.

  The tale told to me was that the house’s original occupant was haunting it. A Richard Hawke. Complete nonsense, of course, but an interesting tale.

  The name was familiar and Anne searched her mind. She had seen that name. Suddenly, it came to her. She had seen his grave, along with others in his family, including his daughter Elizabeth. A chill washed over her skin and she shuddered.

  A formidable man in life, who was burned in his house by parliamentarian forces. No doubt an exaggeration. With the death of his children, the house went to a cousin, which was later linked in marriage to our family. I understand the house was never really occupied fully as it was too remote and unpleasant. Although I am sure it can be comfortable enough. It has existed in the family since, slipping from one hand to the next down the generations. And now it is yours.

  I am sure all they say about the house is over exaggeration. No doubt, concocted by the touched mind of the woman who went mad. People have a habit of grasping onto the fantastical. She was sent to a sanatorium where she died shortly after, poor thing.

  I am sure you will hear such nonsense from people, but please don’t take such things to heart. You were always a sensitive girl, even as a child. Please let me know if I can be of any assistance.

  Deepest love,

  Your Aunt Hortense

  Anne put the letter down and considered its contents. If there was one thing she should fear, it would be having the same fate as her great cousin, dragged away to a sanatorium for the insane. She knew full well it was a possibility if all the things she experienced were concocted by her own mind. Lisle certainly believed so. But then others had felt it. Well, Lisle had felt it, although she now denied it. Would a mad person not assume others felt the same? Anne twisted her fingers in her lap.

  It was an awful thing, worrying about one’s own sanity. Running around in circles questioning every thought and motive. Instead, she turned her attention to the other things she'd learned—that the spirit haunting the house was its original builder, Richard Hawke. She knew nothing about him other than that he'd lived and died here, and was buried in the graveyard. More than one person had mentioned the fire, so there was perhaps some truth to that.

  There wasn't anything about him or the history of the house in the contents of the modest library that came with the house. The books were all from after that time, focused mainly on local flora and fauna, as well as some agricultural books, which Anne had planned to read at some point. There was nothing in the house from the time when he had a life there. Perhaps the fire had consumed such things.

  Her mind traveled to the strongbox in the attic. The box had looked old. It may even have survived a fire—it was blackened enough. An urge to know bounded through her. She might not relish returning to the attic, but the desire to know outweighed her unease. It was daytime and the house's unwanted inhabitants seemed to be slumbering.

  Rising, she made her way up the stairs, including the set that led up to the servants' area. Lisle's door stood open, but Anne passed by, heading for the door that led up to the attic. It creaked as she opened it and the dustiness stung her nose. The light was so very faint, emitted from a small, dirty window. The place was still. It felt deserted and unloved, which was exactly what it was. This was where the unwanted things went. If there was some way of relegating the ghosts in here and keeping them shut away, that would be a tolerable outcome. If she could but contain them, they could haunt to their hearts content.

  Anne grabbed a rag and began to wipe some of the dust off the window. The strongbox was exactly where it had been before. The heavy iron lock untouched. She was going to need tools to open it.

  In a way, it felt as if she was betraying someone's privacy breaking into this box, but if it related to the person invading her life, then it could potentially provide information she needed.

  She retrieved an iron pole and a sledgehammer. It took several attempts to break the lock. Anne irrationally worried that the thing haunting the house could hear the noise of these trespasses. Finally, the lock gave and Anne unhooked its remnants and laid it on the floor. The lid was heavy and it took all her strength to open it.

  There was a jumble of contents. It looked like someone had thrown things in there, expecting to need them the next day but circumstances had interfered. A leather vest, stiff with age and lack of care. There were also a pair of old flintlock pistols and a pouch which she assumed held gunpowder. There was another pouch inside, but its contents had rotten. There was also a stack of letters, yellow and brittle, the writing faded over the years.

  Picking them up, she filtered through them. Mostly, they were communications related to battle tactics, who was to go where and how to engage the devil Fairfax's forces. It certainly seemed to correspond with the right era. These were letters received, though, from all sorts of persons. There were none written by this mysterious and apparently formidable Richard Hawke.

  Anne brought the letters downstairs. They didn't seem to indicate anything that would be useful, just detailed the progression of the war they were fighting. There were lists of supplies, and some account of discipline metered out to soldiers.

  There was one interesting letter that suggested there was betrayal in his house. That was interesting. It didn't mention anything more, other than that he needed to find a spy w
orking against them, apparently from his household.

  As she'd read, the skies were darkening outside. Anne sighed and tried not to let the fear build in her. The reprieve of daylight was fading and night was approaching. Anne wished she could just go to sleep and wake up with sunlight streaming through the window, but that was a full twelve hours away. Was this man coming for her that night?

  Her insides tightened with fear and she hated the cloying feel of it. This man was wreaking havoc in her life. She reached for the bottle of laudanum. If this man killed her during the night, she'd rather not feel it. Hopefully, Mr. Harleston would give her some means of fighting this spirit. She wasn't ready to give up on this house. She'd been chased out of a house by a man before, and this house was hers. If she had to fight him for it, she would find a way of doing so. For now, she just had to survive the night.

  Chapter 19:

  The air in the room chilled the moment he arrived. Anne felt it and knew he was there. The laudanum gripped her mind though and she closed her eyes, preferring to spend time in little Harry's company. The slow creaks of walking sounded across the floorboards. Panic threatened, but she pushed it away and turned over in the bed, away from him.

  The girl was there, Elizabeth. She wasn't entirely solid. Anne could see her old-fashioned dress and she looked up at the girl's face. She was looking away, toward the direction where Anne felt the threat was. If Anne's assumption was right, this darkness was her father. Elizabeth spoke frantically, but Anne heard no sounds.

  Elizabeth crouched down by the bed, saying something intently to Anne, but Anne couldn't hear a word. The girl looked concerned, repeating what she was saying more intently. She faded, still trying to say something.

  Anne knew she should be concerned; he was here. Pressure came down on her shoulder, hard enough that she felt the bed ropes. If it wasn't for the laudanum, it would likely hurt. Reaching out, she grasped for some hold, to fight, but there was nothing. "You're a coward," she hissed and the pressure let slightly. The chill of the touch radiated, but her body couldn't register any pain with it.

  The icy grip shifted to her neck, applying pressure. He was strong. Now she felt panic. Her air was cut off. Still there was no pain. She stared into the space where this person should be. There was nothing but dark night.

  Elizabeth appeared, frantically working to loosen the grip.

  Anne conceded that she might die. She recognized the pressure in her lungs, but it wasn't painful. The grip slipped and Anne shifted. "A bully and a coward," she croaked. "This is my house. You are the one who doesn’t belong here."

  A grip around her ankle tugged her out of bed and she flew onto the floor. "I have no way of defending myself and you attack me. Coward!" she shouted.

  Cold hands clasped around her again and she grabbed onto the bed leg, holding tight as he tugged on her. She lifted off the ground. "I'm not leaving."

  The smell of smoke filled the room and she started coughing. Fire. The house was on fire. Panic shot through her again. "Lisle!" she called. Heat licked at her skin. Searching around her, she tried to find the source, but saw nothing. It still choked her lungs though. "This isn't real. You're not real. You are dead and was buried a long time ago. You don't belong here."

  She felt a boot at her side, pushing her over. "Hiding in this house so you won't face judgment." She wasn't entirely sure what she was saying, but her anger flowed out of her mouth.

  The floor creaked around her and she almost expected it when his hand gripped around her neck and he lifted her up. Quickly, she floated through the air until hitting the wall behind her. He had her pinned; again air was cut off from her lungs. He was impossibly strong. Frantic fingers grasped into cold nothingness, trying to find some way of fighting back. Then something shifted. Her fingers grasped skin and soft hair. Grabbing, she tugged on the hair wound between her fingers. The darkness changed to light. There was a fire. She was not in the same place as before. It was the same room, but everything was different.

  And then the man, standing in front of her, still holding her by the neck. She saw him. He wore a black waistcoat, a sash around the waist. She felt his fingers around her neck, pressing with all his strength. Maybe she was dying and the lack of oxygen made her see things—like him.

  His face was harsh. He hated her. Dark eyes stared daggers at her. He meant to kill her and she was probably going to die in a moment. But she could touch him now. Bringing her hand up, she dragged her nails down his cheek. Stubble gave to the force of her nails. She felt blood underneath. It didn’t make him budge.

  Her vision was beginning to swim and she knew this wasn’t good. She was losing consciousness. In her panic, she kicked his chin, which also had him refusing to budge. He simply continued, his hate so strong, he would strangle her. Bringing her knee up, she used all her strength to push him away, managing to loosen his grip on her.

  Her vision shifted back to darkness and she feared her own death. A hard knock winded her as she gasped for air. Then stillness. She searched around for him, but there was nothing. No hard hands gripped her. The light that had been was gone. There was no fire now, just still darkness, and the furniture was all back in the way it was supposed to be.

  Reaching out, she felt the floorboards around her. The knock had been her hitting the floor and she now lay in a crumpled heap.

  The room seemed empty. She couldn't hear him now. It seemed he had stayed in whatever vision it was she had been brought to and hadn't returned with her.

  Scrambling her way across the floor, she sought the candle on the bedside table and lit it. Pale light flared and she looked around. There was nothing, except her blankets lying on the floor next to the bed. The only sign that anything had happened at all.

  Stilling, she listened intently, trying to hear anything in the room, but heard nothing. Perhaps he could not follow her back here. She shifted over and reached for her blankets, seeing something on her fingers. Bringing it to the candle, she saw blood on her fingertips. She'd hurt him. In this vision, she had touched him and when she'd dragged her nails across his cheek, she'd hurt him.

  In no way did she understand what this meant, beyond the fact that in this vision she could hurt him as he did her. That was interesting, although still quite disheartening as by the look of him he was a ruthless and experienced soldier.

  She also knew she recognized him, but couldn't place him. She had seen that face before. It was here somewhere in the house. Grabbing the candle holder, she rose. Her throat was tight and she expected it would be sore tomorrow. If it wasn't for the laudanum, she would probably be in quite a bit of pain now.

  What had become clear was that the laudanum did not protect her. It might stop her from feeling pain, but it didn't essentially provide any protection.

  Taking tentative steps, she walked toward the door. She had seen that face somewhere. Walking the halls, she searched the paintings. She didn't find him there, so she continued downstairs, finding him above the mantelpiece in the library. He looked different, younger and dressed in finer clothes. The man she'd encountered was not dressed in fine silks with a blond wig of lush curling hair as she saw in the painting. No, he was battle-hardened and harsh, dressed in dark leather and a linen shirt, and he hated her.

  There was no hate on the face of the man in the picture. Arrogance perhaps. A young man sure of his place in the world. He was handsome with dark eyes and a smooth, shaved chin. His coat was of light green silk, with ruffles at the neck and wrists. White stockings covered his lower legs down to buckled shoes. The picture of a gentleman of that age. There was a globe in the picture and a desk. She didn't know if that was supposed to say he was educated or that he was keen on exploration. Perhaps he had traveled.

  So this was him, her enemy. He didn't seem so formidable in this painting. He actually looked more like an idle courtier. Apparently life had changed him if the depiction of the man trying to choke her life out was accurate. There was no lightness about that man, instead a man who h
ad seen battle more than once and had lost the refinement he'd known as a young man.

  He was young in this painting, barely twenty if she were to guess. There was a ring on his finger, so he had married by then. The man she had met tonight was older. There had been a scar down his cheek. His natural hair was dark and shoulder length, but there had been no gray in it. The harsh expression made him seem older, but he couldn't have been more than forty when he'd died. She couldn't remember the dates from his grave.

  But this man had tried to kill her and suddenly she wanted to know why. Was he a creature of pure hatred or a man who hated women? Did it matter? He hated her and wanted her dead, or away from this house.

  What vision was it she had entered? Was that how he saw the house, the place he dwelled? Then why did he not stay in his version of it? Perhaps the issue with the house was that the two versions had amalgamated in some way that was unnatural.

  His daughter had tried to protect her, had forced him off her. Did that girl live in this alternate world Anne had been cast into? What was that other world? It was the house, that very room, but all had been different—that world where he had form, could bleed.

  Chapter 20:

  Anne stood in the quiet library considering the portrait of Richard Hawke. Her throat still hurt from the night before. How could a man who seemed so… normal, turn into such a beast? The painter had done a good job. He'd even caught the glint of mischief in the young man's eye. This was a young man who had everything and he knew it. So this was her nemesis, her enemy, the being that tried to kill her. On some level, she felt so betrayed—then again, why should she? Men were horrid. Her husband had discarded her without a care what happened to her. Now this one was trying to do the same, push her out of her house—steal from her and leave her utterly destitute.