Dark Places

by Dawson, H A

  ‘Thanks. I’m not too proud to take freebies.’

  ‘They are around the other side of the house. Do you want to come and get them?’

  She searched for a gap in the fence.

  ‘You will have to come the front way unless you can climb the hedge.’ She paused. ‘Do you fancy a coffee?’

  Michaela said she would and rushed back to the house. She told Sam where she was going then strode along the lane towards Grace’s house. Having walked past a mixed conifer hedge, she turned into the gravel drive and gazed at an exquisite brass sundial set on a plinth in the middle of a small rock garden. It had raised numerals around the edge of a circular plate and beehive patterning in the centre. It was eye-catching and inspiring. Her mind became a whirl with new ideas.

  Grace was standing beside the carport. ‘These are the plants. I’ll find a cardboard box for you.’

  There were two spindly rose bushes, a herbaceous plant just showing signs of growth, and a small shrub with fresh new growth. She offered her thanks.

  ‘If you are not ready to plant them you can always keep them in pots for a while. I’m sure they’ll keep.’

  Michaela agreed to her suggestion and followed Grace to the rear of the house. Positioned in the corner of the patio a stylish clay chimenea stood upon a wrought iron stand. She touched the granular surface and made a positive comment.

  ‘It is lovely on a cool summers evening,’ she said.

  ‘Do you cook on it?’

  She nodded. ‘Baked potatoes and corn on the cob are especially good.’

  ‘Do they emit a lot of heat?’

  ‘It’s not bad considering its small size.’

  ‘I was thinking of getting a barbecue, but I’m torn now.’

  They chatted for a few minutes and then Grace disappeared into the house for drinks, leaving Michaela to scrutinise the outdoor living space. The oval cast aluminium table was a bit bland, but she liked the lights hanging from a nearby tree and the archway to the garden. She wondered if she could do the same, but realistically it would be a while before she could have what she wanted. The patio would not be Sam’s priority and it would interfere with his movements to and from the house.

  Grace returned with two mugs of coffee and sat down at the table. Despite her lack of humour and stern demeanour, Michaela discovered they both had a creative side, and it gave her hope that she may be able to share time with her. She needed a friend who lived close by and hoped that once their friendship had evolved she may be able to share her thoughts on Catherine. In the meantime, Michaela presented Grace with her most amenable face and listened to her enthuse.

  Grace painted glass and showed Michaela some of her craftwork. One of the most straightforward items to paint was a glass candleholder. Purchased plain and painted with a personal design, it was effective. She had also produced a painted mirror and a lampshade, as well as other bits, which she shared via a photo album.

  ‘These are very good. I’d love to give it a go. My house needs cheering up.’

  Grace stiffened. ‘It’ll need a lot more than these to cheer that place up.’

  ‘We’re doing well. You must come and have a look. The roof and the windows are complete.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what made you want to live there. It’s going to be ages before it’s acceptable.’

  ‘It’s not that bad, really.’

  ‘Don’t you ever get sick of living in the dirt and grime?’

  Michaela chuckled. ‘I love a bit of muck. There is nothing better than waking up each morning to crumbling plaster and dusty floorboards.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re mad.’

  ‘I think it would surprise you to see inside. We’ve removed everything that was creating dust particles and damp, so it’s much improved.’

  ‘Have you replaced the broken spindles at the top of the staircase yet?’ Grace asked.

  Michaela tightened her grip on her mug. ‘You’ve been inside?’

  A long time ago. The spindles broke in an accident.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A little girl fell. She died.’

  Another death; another child. Her heart raced.

  ‘Rumour has it that someone tampered with the staircase. I take it you’ve heard of Catherine?’

  Michaela nodded, but inside she wanted to scream. Catherine was not involved; she had been a victim too . . . somehow.

  Grace leaned forward; her forearms rested on the table and her scrawny neck extended. She lowered her voice to a hush. ‘The story goes that the girl’s mother saw a hazy figure at her daughter’s rear, and she caused her to fall.’ She paused. ‘If you ask me it was an accident waiting to happen.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The spindles had been partially cut with a saw, and they were decaying. Hence, they snapped.’

  Panic creased Michaela’s ashen face. Placing her hand on her belly, she imagined the horrific incident and considered the pain the child’s mother must have gone through when her young daughter plummeted to the ground. Had the woman ever learned to live with her heartbreak?

  Distraught, she covered her mouth with the palm of her hand and wondered if her mother had known about the tragic accident. It could have been one of the stories she had wanted to share during their initial conversation; it would have explained why she had been so adamant that they sold Primrose Cottage.

  She should have let her explain.

  Hindsight was a wonderful thing. At the time, Michaela had told herself her mother was being her usual difficult and contradictory self and wanted only to belittle her at every opportunity. Yet it seemed, for once, she was trying to protect her from something more worrisome.

  Michaela folded her arms. She had so wanted to be the owner of a luxurious dwelling in the countryside, and she had had such strong positive instincts too. Had she been hasty and foolish? It seemed so.

  ‘It shouldn’t worry you,’ Grace said. ‘Accidents occur all the time. There's not going to be anything special about your house. There are no such things as ghosts.’

  Flicking back her walnut coloured hair, Michaela forced a smile. ‘Yes, you’re right. I can be far too girly at times. My mother’s always telling me I am far too gullible. I’ll believe anything you tell me.’

  ‘Did she approve of your renovation plans?’

  No, not really.’

  A slight smile passed Grace’s lips.

  ‘When she visits, I’ll introduce you. She’ll be fascinated with your painted glass . . . she’s always taking up new hobbies.’

  ‘Oh . . . okay.’

  After a few more minutes, they parted company. Michaela took her plants and walked back along the lane to her house, but rather than feeling satisfied that she had spent an afternoon socialising, the burden of the little girl’s death lay heavy in her thoughts. She replayed the conversation in her mind until she reached home. Then, she blurted it out to Sam.

  ‘It’s a horrific thing to happen, but it doesn’t mean to say it’s going to occur again,’ Sam said.

  ‘But everyone keeps telling us horrible things. We have our baby to consider now Sam, not just ourselves. We can’t be selfish anymore.’

  ‘You said you didn’t believe in ghosts and curses.’

  She was stunned. ‘Do you think the house is cursed?’

  ‘Maybe I should have said bad vibes.’ He scrutinised her expression. ‘Of course it’s not cursed.’

  ‘It could have been our little girl.’

  Sam drew her towards him and brushed her smooth lush hair away from her face. ‘Many houses have tragedies and deaths. They can’t all have bad vibes.’

  Or curses.’

  ‘Please don’t worry about this,’ he said. ‘And anyway, as you said, we have experienced nothing but good fortune since we moved in. You’re pregnant. What could be better than that?’

  She eased back. ‘Yes, you’re right. It was just a horrible accident.’

  ‘Don’t forget, you did say this house was mea
nt for us. You were adamant. Don’t lose faith now.’

  ‘Yes. I did have a strong sense of this place. I’m sorry. I’m just being over-emotional.’

  ‘I’ll forgive you. After all, you are pregnant.’

  She could not suppress her immense pleasure. ‘Yes, I am. We’re having a baby!’

  ‘I just hope he or she takes after me. I couldn’t cope with another you.’

  She rapped him on the stomach. Cheeky sod.’

  Chapter 6

  Michaela poured the steaming water from the copper kettle into the sink with some cold soapy water and swished it around with her hand. A lemon fragrance clung to the evaporating particles lingering in the air and the warm water softened her skin. One by one, she submerged the crockery, wiped away the grease and grime, and placed each item onto the draining board.

  Sam cupped her round buttocks with his hands.

  She jerked and squealed. Wicked man!’

  He leaned his head over her shoulder and was just about to press his lips onto her pink cheek when she flicked some water in his general direction. Yelping and jumping backward, he avoided the majority of the soapsuds. Encouraged by his playful response she filled a small dish with water from the bowl and tried again. This time her aim was accurate and wet soapy bubbles covered his cheek. Grinning, he wiped them away.

  In retaliation, he reached for the tea towel, and held one end with his right hand and smoothed out the rest of the fabric with the other. Seeing what was coming, she placed the dish back into the bowl and stepped backward. Screeching, she stretched out her hands for protection.

  In a quick forward and backward motion, he flicked her with the fabric. Her scream was instant and the sting lingered, reddening her bare skin. Moving with agility, she ducked, twisted, and turned, attempting to avoid Sam’s continuous thrusting action. It encouraged him further.

  The fun continued until she could barely breathe. Exhausted from her mingled screams and laughter, she leaned forward, fighting for air, and called a truce.

  ‘You’ve no stamina,’ he said.

  She smoothed her hair from her sticky brow. ‘I’ve plenty. I just wanted you to think I’m weak and feeble.’

  ‘So it’s all an act.’

  ‘That’s right . . . to make you feel manlier.’

  ‘You think I’m . . . I’m somehow lacking?’

  Michaela laughed. ‘You said it.’

  His jaw dropped in a poor attempt to look irritated. ‘And where would you be without my muscles and renovation skills?’

  ‘In a proper house somewhere . . . with a rich man.’

  With someone who couldn’t know how to change a fuse.’

  ‘He wouldn’t need to. We’d have servants.’

  He glanced at the washing up and smiled. ‘I have a servant.’

  Michaela’s jaw dropped and her eyes twinkled.

  Back to work wench.’

  ‘I can’t believe you said that,’ she said.

  ‘I love to see my woman at work.’

  ‘Your woman will go on strike if you carry on.’

  ‘Women should be barefoot and pregnant. You’re half way there.’ Sam said.

  ‘You’re lucky I’m in a good mood.’

  His face softened. ‘I am lucky, you’re right.’

  His frivolous expression dissolved, and he gripped her by the arms and stared at her with intensity. ‘You are beautiful.’ He brushed away the long strands of her hair from her face. ‘This pregnancy suits you.’

  ‘It still seems unreal.’ Michaela cupped her hands across her stomach. ‘I still can’t believe I have a little life growing inside of me.’

  Sam smiled.

  ‘It has only been six and a half weeks, and I’m already counting down.’

  After a brief hug and kiss, they parted company and Michaela continued with the washing up, her contemplations with her unborn child. She imagined play time, feed time, bath time, and considered the fun she would have teaching him or her to talk and walk. It would be a magical time, and she could hardly tolerate the wait.

  Suddenly, the warning daubed onto the house sprang into her head. ‘Death is lurking,’ the message had said, and it seemed to apply to children. She slipped a pan into the frothy water, reached for a scouring pad, and scrubbed and scrubbed. Water rushed over the edge of the basin, spilling down a gap between the sink and the adjoining cupboard. Children had died. She stood stone-still and stared at a row of white tiles above the sink and behind the taps. Alan and Janice had told them two deaths had occurred, one in a drowning, and one due to illness. They had not mentioned the staircase incident. What else would she discover? Had anyone ever raised children to adulthood at Primrose Cottage?

  With her maternal instincts dominant and blood draining from her face, Michaela considered her options. Maybe they should move out and sell up; she had to protect her unborn child. But where could they go since they’d tied up their money in the renovations? It would be ages before they would be able to sell the house, especially since everyone seemed to believe it was haunted.

  Michaela’s panic mounted and in her mind, her world shrank. Could she tell Sam she wanted to leave? He would be angry, and understandably. She had done the majority of the persuading while he seemed to believe they should have been listening to Jim’s warning. He may be a gentle, considerate man, but he had his limitations.

  She placed the pan on the washing up rack, wiped away the soap suds from the surrounding area, and wandered through the downstairs rooms searching for her husband. She must tell him how she felt; she had a baby to think of and couldn’t allow her selfishness to prevail.

  She looked into his office, the living room, and the fourth room. He wasn’t there. She peered up the stairs and listened for any noise. Not a sound, so she called his name. There was no response. Concluding he wasn’t inside the house, she headed to the window, held her arms close to her body and peered outside. Sam was pouring broken brick and plaster from a wheelbarrow onto a pile at the end of the drive. He appeared content and not at all concerned by the daubed messages and the talk of the haunting. Maybe she was making too much of it.

  In a flash, she remembered the historian, Roy. Perhaps he would be able to calm her fears. She reached for her handbag by the side of the sofa, snapped open the clasp and sifted through the contents and her purse, a notebook and other bits and pieces until she reached her mobile phone. Having found his number, she made the call and the ringtone sounded.

  ‘Hello,’ a voice said.

  ‘Hello. Can I speak to Roy Pollock please?’

  ‘I’m afraid he is not here. Who’s calling?’

  ‘My name is Michaela Pearson. I have just moved into the area and was wondering if he would share his historical knowledge.’

  ‘I’m sure he would, but he has gone away for a while. He’s travelling in Europe. It could be weeks or even months before he is back.’

  Michaela’s heart sank. ‘That’s a pity. I’ve moved into the house on Church Lane and I’ve heard a few rumours. I wanted to find out the truth about the place.’

  ‘Ah yes, I know the one. I don’t know much about it I’m afraid. I think he keeps his notes on a computer and I don’t have access. I’m sorry but I can’t help.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  Michaela ended the conversation and slumped onto the sofa with the phone clasped in her hand.

  Sam passed by the room, regarded her briefly, and appeared in the room. Everything all right?’

  She slung her phone into her handbag and forced a cheery face. ‘Yes, fine.’ She brushed past him. ‘I have to get on. I’ve gardening to do.’

  Ever since his night at the pub, Sam had attempted to block his anxieties, yet the ghost story remained dominant in his mind. Every creak and every groan were exaggerated, and every shadow and every chill, he believed, a result of Catherine’s movements. He lived each day on a knife-edge, fighting his nervous tension yet remaining determined to keep his anxieties private.

 
Was he paranoid? He had seen nothing that could be substantiated, yet his tingling spine and frequent adrenaline rushes continued. The natural expansion of the house as it warmed had caused him to jolt, as had the branches that swayed and formed shadows across the curtains at night. Often, a scream hovered in his dry mouth, but he kept his lips tight. Michaela could not discover his secret; her mocking would be unbearable.

  He had even searched the Internet to try to understand his fear. From what he could work out hauntings occurred because the spirit was bound to this world, maybe because of unfinished business, an attachment, or confusion. These spirits could also follow a pattern, such as stepping along a hallway at a set time. But nothing like that had occurred. So, who was Catherine, and if she did exist in spiritual form why had she not appeared? Should he fear her, or could they live in harmony? And most importantly, had she been responsible for the tragedies that occurred over the years? Was that even possible?

  Sam remembered his gut churning a few days previous when Michaela had returned with the knowledge of the little girl’s death, yet he disguised his fear, his primary focus being to calm his wife. Normally she appeared strong and in control, but this time she crumbled and fought back her tears. Clearly, Grace’s words had had a strong impact on her, and understandably due to her pregnancy.

  However, Michaela had regained composure quickly and soon returned to her chores. Sam, on the other hand, had plummeted into doubt. Was the house safe enough to bring a child into, and what about Michaela? He couldn’t risk her having an accident whilst she was pregnant, and so in an attempt to alleviate some of his fears, he had rushed to the top of stairs to examine their structure.

  The entire frame had wobbled as he applied pressure. He crouched down near the broken spindles and pressed. A piece snapped free. Then he walked along the landing to the joining at the wall and inspected the crumbling plaster and brick. He had to make a quick repair, and bashed out the broken spindles and blocked off the area with a piece of ply. Then he mixed some render and smoothed it into the gap at the wall joining to stabilise the framework. The result had been ugly, but at least Michaela would be safe.