The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  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: December 2016

  This book's front cover incorporates elements licensed from the Bigstock photo site.

  A woman watches from a window as her brother approaches the house...

  A little girl realizes that her family's new home is trying to warn her about something...

  A teenager with a debilitating mental health problem starts hearing a scratching sound, coming from the attic...

  The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories is a collection of short horror stories by Amy Cross. From families looking to start over in a new house, to people trying to scrape a living in a harsh world, all the characters in these stories have one thing in common. They're all about to find that death isn't necessarily the end, and that some houses harbor the most terrifying secrets.

  The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories contains the new stories The Ghost of Longthorn Manor, Black Pages, Isn't This the House..., Touched, My Father's House, The Swimming Pool and The House Speaks, plus a completely new version of The Writer. This book contains scenes of violence, as well as strong language.

  Table of Contents

  The Ghost of Longthorn Manor

  Previously unpublished

  Isn't This the House Where...

  Previously unpublished

  The House Speaks

  Previously unpublished

  Touched

  Previously unpublished

  Black Pages

  Previously unpublished

  The Swimming Pool

  Previously unpublished

  My Father's House

  Previously unpublished

  The Writer

  Completely rewritten version

  The Ghost of Longthorn Manor

  and Other Stories

  The Ghost of Longthorn Manor

  One

  For fifty years, I swore that I would never again set foot in Longthorn Manor. I promised myself that no matter what happened in my life, nothing could ever compel to me to even go near the place. But then three peculiar things happened in an even more peculiar order.

  First, Aunt Dottie died. This was not entirely unexpected, although she had been hanging on for some time. When news arrived of her death, the deeds to Longthorn Manor were inherited by my brother Stephen and I.

  Second, Stephen determined that the old painting above the master bedroom's fireplace is, in fact, an original by an old master. An auctioneer in London assured him that the painting would fetch £2m at least, maybe more. Stephen, of course, immediately began to salivate at the prospect.

  Third and finally, Stephen was unable to fetch the painting himself, so he insisted that I must retrieve it from the house before burglars struck. I tried to reason with him, to tell him that I could not possibly go to Longthorn Manor again, but he was quite insistent. And Stephen always gets his way.

  He sort of wore me down.

  So here I am, struggling with the house's front door, trying to determine why it won't open. I've turned the key, I've made sure there are no other locks, yet still the door remains firmly stuck in its frame. Deep down, I'm starting to hope that perhaps I can use this as an excuse to turn back, but at the last moment I feel the door shudder slightly, and finally it swings open. I almost fall though, struggling to stay on my feet, and then I find myself staring into the pitch-black hallway.

  Already, I can tell that it's so cold in the house. So much colder than outside.

  Stepping forward, I reach across to the wall, and fortunately I find a light-switch without too much trouble. A bare bulb flickers to life above me, and I'm immediately presented with the sight of the old staircase that used to terrify me so much as a child.

  For a moment, my resolve falters and I feel that I must turn and leave at once.

  Still, I quickly tell myself to be strong. I shall simply locate the painting, get it packed up, and then wait for the man my brother has sent to pick it up. All things considered, I expect to be here for no more than an hour or two. So with that reassurance in mind, I swing the front door shut.

  There is no ghost here at Longthorn Manor. There never was. So long as I keep focusing on that fact, I'm sure I shall be fine. Still, I can't help thinking back to my previous visit to the house, and to the terrible fear that gripped my soul when I was just a child.

  Two

  I was screaming so loud that day, I'm surprised my head didn't fall off.

  I was six years old, barely, and Mummy had to almost drag me down the stairs. I was yelling and sobbing and trying to hit my poor Mummy, and I remember being absolutely filled with certainty that the horrible dead creature was coming for me. Mummy was trying to reassure me, but I didn't stop screaming until we were in the drawing room, which is where I finally collapsed into her arms and sobbed for all I was worth.

  “There now,” Mummy said, stroking the side of my head as she held me close. “There's nothing to be afraid of, Penelope. You're perfectly safe.”

  Mummy has been dead a long time now. Two decades. I still remember the smell of her perfume, though, and the feel of her fingers as she ruffled my hair. Even after all these years, I miss her terribly.

  “Now tell me what happened,” she continued, her voice filled with the Irish accent she'd never lost even after moving to London before I was born. “It's okay, just tell me why you're so upset.”

  “She saw a ghost.”

  I remember turning and seeing, through my tears, that Stephen had followed us and was standing in the doorway.

  “What happened, Stephen?” Mummy asked.

  “I told you. She saw a ghost.”

  Mummy sighed.

  “She did!” he continued. “On the landing, outside the main bedroom. I saw it too.”

  Unable to stop blubbing, I hugged Mummy even tighter. In my mind's eye, I could still see that horrible woman silhouetted against the upstairs window.

  “There's no such thing as ghosts,” Mummy explained, calmly and with her usual air of authority. “Stephen -”

  “We both saw it,” he replied, interrupting her. “Ask Penelope if you don't believe me. There's a ghost here, and it was standing in front of the window at the far end of the landing.”

  Again, Mummy sighed.

  “Ask her!” Stephen said again.

  Mummy continued to stroke the side of my head.

  “Okay, Stephen,” she said finally. “That's enough for now. Go and play somewhere else, and I'll talk to your sister.”

  “Don't you believe me?” he asked.

  “Just go and play.”

  “It doesn't matter,” he continued. “She's real. I bet we'll see her again while we're here. She'll come and get Penelope!”

  “Stephen, go and play right now!” Mummy said firmly, and this time I heard my brother stomping away from the room.

  Still hugging Mummy, I realized after a moment that she was gently trying to push my shoulder, as if she wanted me to sit back so she could see my face. I refused, burying my head deeper against her bosom and hugging her tighter than ever. I think I was shivering.

  “You mustn't believe everything your brother says,” she said after a little while, as I heard Stephen banging a door shut upstairs. “Now come on, tell me, you didn't really see anyone upstairs, did you?”


  I tried so hard to remember. Stephen had yelled at me, telling me that there was a ghostly figure right behind me. I remember that I froze, and that then I turned and looked toward the window, and then...

  I saw her, didn't I?

  I'm sure I did.

  And that had been when I'd panicked. I'd started crying, even though I couldn't see the woman's face very well, and Stephen had grabbed me and pulled me toward the top of the stairs. By that point, Mummy had heard the commotion and had come running up. Now I was safe in her arms, and I felt that I'd be alright so long as I never had to let go of her again.

  “You didn't see a ghost,” she continued, kissing the top of my head, “because ghosts don't exist. And even if they did, there wouldn't be one here. It's just you, me, your brother and Aunt Dottie for the weekend. There's no such thing as ghosts, sweetheart. Mummy promises.”

  Three

  There's no such thing as ghosts.

  That's what I keep telling myself as I make my way slowly, and a little awkwardly, up the stairs. Ever since my fiftieth birthday, my knees have been giving me trouble, and a big old staircase like this is no simple matter. I even have to stop halfway to catch my breath, and I can't help thinking back to the days when I'd run around this house as a carefree child. Stephen would race up the stairs, and I'd hurry after him. Wherever he went, I'd always follow.

  I can almost see and hear us now, running past me as I stand here. Sometimes, I simply cannot believe that I'm fifty-eight years old. I think I'll wake up suddenly and find myself back in bed as a little girl.

  I'd like that.

  But no. I'm being silly. And perhaps I'm romanticizing the whole thing, too. I was never carefree as a child. Not after that visit to Longthorn Manor, at least.

  After taking one more deep breath, I turn and resume my arduous trek up the stairs, until finally I reach the landing and look along toward the window at the far end. That was where I first saw the spectral figure, or where I thought I saw it. In truth, I have sometimes wondered whether my brother simply put the image into my mind, and whether my childish imagination then ran with that vision and conjured up the rest. Certainly, as far as I know, nobody else has ever reported seeing a ghost at Longthorn Manor. This is not known as a haunted house.

  Thanks to my advancing years, it takes a few more minutes before I reach the master bedroom, but finally I come face to face with the grubby, cracked old painting that's supposed to be worth so much money. I can't claim to be overly impressed by the cursed thing, which simply shows a bunch of hunters riding out on their hounds, chasing a poor little fox. I remember seeing the painting when I was a child, but nobody ever mentioned anything about it being valuable. Still, I suppose Stephen must know what he's talking about.

  Reaching into my pocket, I take out the mobile telephone I was given for Christmas, and I tap at the screen until I find Stephen's number. These new-fangled devices are rather confusing, but I get there in the end.

  “Are you at the house?” he asks as soon as he answers.

  I miss the days when people didn't know who was calling.

  “I'm standing right in front of the wretched thing,” I tell him. “Don't worry, it's still here and it's perfectly safe. How much longer do I have to wait before the man comes?”

  “Is it damaged?”

  “It looks alright to me.”

  “Well, you're hardly an art expert, are you?” He sounds agitated. “As long as it's in one piece, I suppose that's the most important thing.”

  “When's the man coming?”

  “Eh?”

  “The man you arranged to come and pick up the painting.” I check my watch. “He'll be here soon, I hope.”

  “Oh. Tomorrow morning, I think.”

  “Tomorrow morning?” I feel a flash of panic in my chest. “You told me he'd be coming today!”

  “He couldn't make it today.”

  “But...”

  My voice trails off for a moment. This is not the news I wanted to hear.

  “Why didn't you tell me earlier?” I stammer finally. “I wouldn't have come today if I'd known! I'd have waited!”

  “Don't think I didn't realize that,” he says with a sigh. “Listen, old girl, I don't want that painting just sitting around with no-one looking after it. You'll just have to stay one night and keep an eye on it, and tomorrow -”

  “Absolutely not,” I reply. “That's out of the question, Stephen, and you know it is.”

  “It's only one night, Penelope.”

  “I shall have to try to find a room in a nearby village,” I continue, starting to feel terribly flustered. “Oh Stephen, why do you spring these things on me? You know I don't like this house! You could have told me what you'd arranged!”

  “You can't leave that painting unguarded!”

  “It's been unguarded ever since Dottie died!”

  “Yes, but now the man from the auctioneer's office knows about it!” he hisses. “What if he decides to show up a day earlier and steal it?”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I'm just covering all the bases,” he continues. “That thing is worth millions, Penelope, so you'll damn well sit and guard it for the night.”

  “This house -”

  “Oh get over it!” he snaps. “It's just a house!”

  “But...”

  Again, my voice trails off. I stand for a moment in complete silence, staring at the painting before slowly turning and looking at the open door that leads out onto the landing. I listen, just in case I might hear something.

  “You're not still fussing about the ghost, are you?” Stephen asks. “Penelope, that was just a wind-up. We were kids. There's no such thing as ghosts!”

  “You must remember the -”

  “We were making it all up!” he continues, interrupting me again. “We both were. We were scaring each other. You're not remembering it right.”

  I open my mouth to argue with him, but deep down I don't trust him. Stephen has always shown a tendency to twist the truth so that it better serves his purpose. He'll tell me whatever he deems necessary, just so long as I do what he wants.

  “I can't stay the night here,” I tell him. “Please, Stephen, have pity and -”

  “No!”

  “But if I -”

  “No, Penelope!”

  “Please!”

  “No! Penelope, listen to me! No!”

  I wait, trembling slightly, scared that at any moment I might hear some distant bump somewhere off in the house.

  “Get a grip, woman,” he continues, with an even more theatrical sigh than before. “We're splitting the value of the painting after the sale, so it's not like you won't get something out of all this. You're almost sixty years old, for pity's sake. All that talk of ghosts was just a childish game. Now, I have to go and have my supper, but I'll call you again this evening to check how things are going. And don't you dare leave that house before the man comes tomorrow! I'm telling you, Penelope! You have one job to do, so do it! For God's sake, woman, just develop some gumption for once!”

  I open my mouth to reply, but he cuts the call, leaving me standing in silence.

  Four

  “Did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “Footsteps, Penelope! Outside the room!”

  “There were no footsteps!”

  “I heard them! Someone's on the landing!”

  Turning, I saw Stephen's face in the moonlight. I remember the sight so clearly. He was looking toward the closed door, and his eyes were wide open with fear. We had to share a room during our visit, because Mummy said there was no point in messing up two.

  “It's her!” he continued, lowering his voice. “It's the ghost of Longthorn Manor!”

  “There's no ghost of Longthorn Manor,” I whispered, although my heart was racing. “Mummy said so!”

  “Mummy just wanted to make you stop crying.” He hesitated, still staring at the door. “I can't believe you didn't hear her, Penelope. That can on
ly mean one thing. It means you're the one she's coming for.”

  “Liar!”

  “No, seriously, that's how it works! I heard her, so that means I'm safe. You didn't hear her, so you must be her target.”

  I stared at him for a moment, before turning and looking at the door. My heart was pounding and I knew he was spouting a load of rot, but I still felt fear gripping my chest.

  “There's only one way you can stop her,” he continued.

  I wanted to ask him what I should do, but I was too scared to even speak. Instead, I lay quiet and listened to the silence of the house. It must have been after midnight, and Mummy and Aunt Dottie had gone to bed several hours earlier. The house was completely quiet, and I was certain I'd have heard footsteps if there'd been any.

  In the back of my mind, however, I was worried that perhaps Stephen was right, and that the ghost was coming for me. I trusted my brother so completely.

  “You have to go and open the door,” he whispered.

  I shook my head.

  “You have to, Penelope! She's coming for you! The only way to stop her is to open the door. If you do that, she'll know you're not scared of her and she'll back off! That's one of the rules!”

  “But I am scared of her!”

  “You mustn't let her know that! Go and open the door!”

  I could feel tears welling in my eyes. I wanted to call out for Mummy, but I knew she'd be upset if I made a fuss.

  “Mummy can't help you,” Stephen continued, as if he was able to read my mind. “You have to do it yourself. If you don't, the ghost will come into the room and take you away, and you'll never see Mummy or me or anyone else ever again. Is that what you want?”

  “No,” I whimpered.

  “Then be brave and go to the door! Open it!”

  I remember shivering under the bed-sheets, and I remember Stephen telling me over and over what I had to do. I was terrified, of course, but Stephen was insistent and eventually he persuaded me. In truth, I have never been able to stand up to my brother. I remember climbing out of bed and staring across the dark room, and then finally I began to step barefoot across the cold floorboards.