The Haunting at Hawke's Moor

by Camille Oster

  Family was very important; people who cared for you were very important. Alfie being trapped here by a dark ogre, kept away from everyone and his great reward was inexcusable. How were you supposed to convince a ghost to 'walk into the light'? She hadn't seen any light when she'd been transported into his realm. There had only been him.

  Chapter 24:

  The next day passed much too quickly. Anne had to take a nap during the day and before she knew it, the day was gone. Lisle had wanted to discuss getting more field hands, but Anne hadn't been up to it. Her mind was still too caught in loss to even think about the future, which seemed pointless and futile. For a moment, Anne had to wonder if she would sink into melancholy, but she couldn't entirely let herself, because she knew in her bones there would be trouble that night. Whatever reprieve this ghost had given her the other night was over now. The threats of the present forbid her from thinking of the bleakness of the future.

  Lisle was annoyed with her and stormed off to the kitchen. She had such spirit, that girl. Anne had to admire it, even as it was utterly misplaced in a serving girl. Perhaps part of the reason Lisle couldn't leave was that she would have so much trouble in a proper house, where she could show neither the language or attitudes she seemed naturally prone to.

  If Lisle was to have a future, Anne needed to train her better, but knew that for some, the force of personality was too powerful. Not everyone thrived in domestic service, but there were so few other jobs for young women.

  What to do with Lisle had to wait. There were more pressing problems. Anne's fingers touched the rusty blade in her pocket, the one she had stabbed him with. He obviously hadn't perished from the wound. How did a ghost recover from a wound? Had she managed to make him even more furious? Although him leaving her in peace last night suggested otherwise. Actually, she had no idea what it suggested. Maybe he would leave her be from now on, fearing her blade.

  The candle was burning low in the parlor and she had no excuse for sitting down there all night. For a moment, she wondered if she could sleep on the sofa, but he tended to find her wherever she slept. It would also be extremely uncomfortable.

  There was nothing for it; she had to retire. With a sigh, she took the stairs, the ones he'd physically thrown her down. This seemed like madness, but if she didn't make a stand here, with him, she was never going to with anyone, and her life would reflect that failure in every possible way.

  The room was calm as she walked in and closed the door. A hope that he had taken her advice and stayed in his realm flared through her. He could stay there and not venture into hers. They could co-exist. That worked for everyone, but then men were stubborn and she knew in her gut that was not going to be a reasonable argument to him. His hatred seemed all-consuming.

  Unbuttoning her mourning dress, she slipped it off and hung it up on the wardrobe door. The moon was bright and shone across the landscape outside. The snow had gone, but the chill was still there. Frost would cover everything in the morning.

  The coal had been delivered during the day, and some now lay in the grate, keeping the room warm. Lisle must have lit them.

  Turning away, she headed to the bed, but stopped. Something was off; she didn't know what. It wasn't a sound, or anything she saw, but she knew he was there. Was it a scent?

  A hand reached for her throat, the way he seemed to prefer dealing with her. The blade turned over in her hand, but he wasn't real yet. He was in her realm and she couldn't touch him. Why was it he could touch her? It wasn't fair.

  And then things shifted; she could see him now, his dark countenance. He looked exactly like he had before. Dark curls to his shoulders, long hair that men did not wear these days. The scar down his cheek.

  Gripping the blade, she brought it up, but he anticipated her. His hand grabbed her wrist and forced it behind her back. She was flush against him and he was so large, solid. He was taller than her and much stronger. As hard as she tried to struggle, she couldn't shift his grip.

  His other hand still had that tight grip at her throat. It loosened slightly, while his other hand slipped over her clenched fist and relieved her of the blade, which appeared at her throat. A rusty blade had an obvious downside now. If he cut her with it, she would sicken with blood poisoning. That was if he didn't stab her properly. If he did to her what she'd done to him, there was no way she would survive. The tip pressed under her chin. "You should not have come back," he said, his voice dark and deep.

  "This is my house."

  "No, it is mine. It will never be yours. I will make certain of it. For all your scheming, whore, it will never be yours."

  "Whore? I'm not your wife. She died two hundred years ago. She is gone and she's never coming. I live here now and I have nothing to do with you, your wife or your sordid life."

  "Leave my house," he ordered.

  "No. I inherited it. It is mine now. You are dead. You are the one who doesn't belong here. I am not going anywhere."

  His thumb across her throat pressed down and it hurt. Reaching up, she pressed where she remembered stabbing him, but there was no reaction. Instead, he looked down at what she was doing and then back at her.

  "I can do everything to you and you can do nothing to me." The blade traveled down her neck, across her chest and rested over her heart. "An inch and you're dead. Are you ready to face your judgment?"

  "And you ready to suffer my company for eternity? I will be there every moment; haunt you like you haunt this house."

  "Your suffering will be eternal."

  "Again, I'm not your damned wife."

  "Hence why you languish in my bed?"

  "I don't… " Damnation; she was actually sleeping in his bed. She blinked repeated. "Well, that… You’re dead; you died a long time ago. Did we not discuss this? You stay in your ghostly realm and I stay in mine—the real one, where living people are. Where it is eighteen hundred seventy-three." She was about to say she was the master of this house and it was right she was in the master's room, but that would likely backfire. Some circumspection would serve her well.

  "You do understand that there is nowhere I can't reach you. You cannot hide; you cannot even run if I so choose. I can make you see what I wish. I can make you fear the fires of hell. There is nothing you can do to protect yourself."

  "Spoken like a true bully."

  The hand across her throat tightened.

  "I want nothing to do with you," she croaked. "There is no reason you can't go back to sleep and ignore my presence."

  "But I don't want you here."

  "And I don't want you here, but neither of us can leave. If you agree to leave me alone, I will find some other bed to sleep in." His eyes moved between hers. He might actually be considering her proposal, which meant that he now, hopefully, understood that she was not the wife he was chasing.

  "You seek to plead with me?" he said incredulously. Or perhaps he had not understood the reality, she conceded. "In a thousand years, I will show you no mercy." The blade pressed into her skin through her nightgown and the seriousness of her situation pressed down on her.

  "If you will not take my word, take Elizabeth's. She knows I am not your wife. My name is Anne Sands. I was born in the year eighteen hundred thirty-nine. I was married to Stanford Kinelly. We have a child whose name is Harry Kinelly. I formally lived in London, but my husband has deserted me because he wants to marry another woman." She was babbling, but right now it was important to ensure he did not press that blade into her heart.

  "You lie."

  "I am not lying. Ask your daughter. From what I know about you," she lied, "you are not a man to murder innocent women."

  "There is nothing innocent about you, you deceptive harlot."

  "Then tell me what your wife looks like."

  His face screwed up in distaste.

  "Tell me," she pressed. "If you are so eager to murder someone, you can at least tell me which features I have in common with your wife, other than the fact that I am female."

 
"What trickery is this?"

  "Look past your hatred for a moment and account for what you are doing." Her voice shook in fear, but she was fighting for her life. She obviously had little strength compared to him, so she had to use logic—a gamble at best, when dealing with a two-hundred-year-old ghost. "What color hair did she have? What eyes?" There was no portrait of her in the house, so Anne had no idea what her features were. They could look exactly alike for all she knew, but then he was so caught up in pure hatred, he was blinded to everything.

  Suddenly, the grip on her throat loosened and she was immediately absorbed back into her own realm, where her things were exactly as she had left them.

  He'd let her go. Perhaps he'd finally come to realize it was not his wife he was threatening with a dagger, but some strange woman.

  Grabbing the candle, she quickly retreated out of the room and ran to one of the guest rooms. It was freezing cold in there and the blankets felt icy when she got in the bed. They would warm. A freezing cold bed was still better than returning to 'his' bed. Why hadn't she thought of it? Did ghosts even sleep? Had she been lying next to this man all this time? No, or course not. He would have strangled her—which he had a number of occasions now. Dread and unease rolled in her stomach.

  Chapter 25:

  Anne had no disturbance the next night. She went to sleep in the guest bedroom and woke up at dawn. There had been no creaks, no falling objects and no icy fingers around her throat. Perhaps she had made a truce with the ghost. If he was convinced she was not his wife, maybe he'd lost interest in her. She could only hope. It was worth giving up the master's bedroom if peace would ensue in the house.

  This might not only herald a new age of peace, but it could also be the start of a new era. This gave Anne the confidence and tentative peace of mind to turn her attention to the future. She spent the day in the library reading the agricultural books. The whole field was a mystery to her and she had to educate herself if she was, in essence, to become a farmer.

  The portrait on the wall did distract her. He'd been so young when it had been done. Handsome and strong, the world at his feet. Looking at it, never would she assume he would become so unhappy he would haunt a house for centuries. It was sad that had become his fate. And he had made a marriage that ended in betrayal and tragedy. How had things gone so wrong? Then again, her own marriage had gone completely off the rails and she had had no influence over it. One person could drive a marriage into complete destruction. Or was he the cause of his wife's betrayal? It seemed a harsh outcome, but it had happened. She still had trouble reconciling this man in the painting with the one she had met upstairs, the one constantly trying to kill her.

  She read about different plows, then went outside to the storage houses and searched through what she had. What she had previously perceived as rusted junk was slowly turning into treasure.

  As she returned outside, she searched the sky. Dark clouds were forming to the north, lightning flashing in the distance. Perhaps they would have a difficult night. Hopefully, only the weather would be stormy that night. But she had no power over these things—he did. The ghost, Richard Hawke, was the one who determined how they were, how they interacted, and if they had peace.

  Turning back to the house, Anne strode to the kitchen door. "It looks like a storm is rolling in," she said to Lisle, who was standing by the fire, a ladle in her hand. Lisle didn't more, just stared like a statue. "Lisle?"

  Again, she didn't move. "I said, there is a storm moving in."

  Lisle still didn't move. Anne walked over and looked her straight in the eyes. The girl didn't see her, was caught unawares, frozen in a moment. Dread crept up Anne's spine. This was exactly how she had found Alfie a time or two, stuck in a moment. No, this couldn't be happening.

  "Lisle," Anne called sharply and Lisle startled, finally looking at her. "Where were you?"

  "Nowhere."

  "No, you were doing something. This was exactly how Alfie was before he'd died, stuck in his own head." No, not again. If this progressed, Lisle might end up the same way Alfie had. "Tell me what just happened."

  "Nothing," Lisle said and walked away. "I am just tired."

  "That was not tired. The ghosts are doing something to you."

  "There are no ghosts." The annoyed impatience wasn't in her voice now and Anne could tell that she was lying.

  "Are you interacting with them? Is that what happens?" Is that what happened to her when she was drawn into his realm. "Did you go somewhere?"

  "You're being hysterical again."

  She wasn't being swayed by those arguments now. Too much had happened for her to be concerned about her own madness. "This is dangerous. They killed Alfie."

  "Alfie had a weak heart."

  "Or that is what the doctor said to explain his death. Perhaps it was spending time wherever you just went. Maybe that weakens the heart. He looked less and less well as time progress, and then one day, he did not return from their realm."

  Lisle walked out of the kitchen, refusing to discuss this further. Listening was not Lisle's greatest trait, was instead headstrong and uncompromising, intent on her own way.

  Whatever peace Anne had managed to find had dissipated. Her worry was now for Lisle, who seemed enthralled the way Alfie had been. Then again, Alfie had threatened to claim her.

  Breathing deeply, Anne tried to release the panic she felt. Would Alfie be so selfish as to harm Lisle for his own benefit? He had given every indication that he would.

  It was hard for Anne to focus on anything else the rest of the day; her worry for Lisle consumed her thoughts. If there was some way she could make Lisle listen. The question returned: was that what happened to her when she was drawn into their world? Did she also stare into nothingness? It was the ghost who drew her there. Was Alfie drawing Lisle into the ghostly realm as well?

  After supper, Lisle retreated upstairs, refusing to discuss anything further. With worried, crossed arms, Anne watched her go. Would she be drawn into the ghostly realm again that night?

  Anne rose and moved to the mirror. "Alfie," she called in a strong voice. Nothing happened, so she called again. This time, he stepped into the mirror, walking behind her in slow assured steps. He wasn't entirely solid like her. Anne's insides tightened at the sight of him. He was unnaturally pale, almost as if the moon was shining on him.

  Shifting his head to the side, he regarded her. His eyes were black against his pale skin. There was no color in him. There had always been something hard about him, even if she'd refused to recognize it when he was alive. It had grown harder now. It was as if death had amplified those traits that he’d tried to temper in life.

  He stood so very close, regarding her in the mirror. Unease unfurled in her stomach, the way it did when she knew someone did not care about her wellbeing. Perhaps death had made him unconcerned about preserving the lives of others.

  "You are harming Lisle," she said.

  "I'm doing nothing to Lisle she doesn't want," he said, and smiled with arrogance.

  "If you care at all about her, you would leave her alone."

  "But I have always been what she wants."

  "You're using her."

  His gaze shifted in the mirror as if he was watching her directly and goose bumps traveled down Anne's skin. "Who are you to say I do not need her. Believe me, I'm not forcing her," he said, looking up at her through the mirror again. "And I'm not spending my energies strangling her. Our time together is much more… diverting."

  With a smile, he faded.

  "You must leave her alone," she called in a rush, but he did not return. Without a doubt, he didn’t care for Lisle's wellbeing. Anne knew he wasn't going to stop. There was no appealing to him.

  The suggestions he made bounced around her mind, sending unwelcome and disturbing images. Was it even possible that their relationship had been rekindled despite Alfie's death? It had ended, but now that she thought about it, it had ended because Alfie had been drawn into that world, and now he
was taking Lisle with him.

  This could not be allowed. He was killing her, and Anne couldn't stand back and watch. If Anne thought it would do any good to tell Lisle to leave, she would do it, but Lisle would accuse her of madness again and refuse. Another disturbing thought entered her mind, that of Lisle mixing laudanum into her food and drink. What would Lisle do for the man she loved?

  Surely Lisle understood what was happening, but then she had been so very in love with Alfie. Would she choose to continue this relationship with him? Would she choose to be with him over living?

  Anne had to do something. Alfie would not listen, but from the sounds of it, there was a higher authority—the one that kept him bound to this house.

  Would she dare ask him to stop this? Did she dare break the tentative truce by seeking him out? What choice did she have? She couldn't in all conscience let Alfie continue with this slow murder of Lisle. Again, she tried to think of another option, some way of getting Lisle away from here, but nothing presented itself. Lisle was in love—she would do anything to stay.

  Anne closed her eyes. There was no guarantee this man would even respond to her if she called him. Or he might just resume strangling her. It could mean breaking the truce, but what choice did she have?

  Grabbing the candle, she walked upstairs. She couldn't believe she was doing this. The house was utterly quiet, but the storm raged outside. The master's bedroom was cold and exactly as she'd left it. There were no coals in the grate and condensation was forming on the window panes. The wind and rain pelted on the windows, raging as if they wanted to get inside.

  Taking a deep breath, she steeled her resolve, tried to settle the nervousness that clenched her insides. "Richard Hawke," she called, making her voice as clear and strong as possible. There was no response, so she called again.