The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  My thoughts drift for a while, and eventually I fall asleep. In my dreams, I see myself living here at the house, growing food in the summer and barely having to see another living soul. For the first time in my life, I actually quite like that idea.

  Seven

  “I'm so sorry to have to give you such awful news,” Officer Michaels says, as we sit at the kitchen table. “The call came in just after I saw you this morning, actually. The police department in Boston got wind that you were down here, so they asked if I could drop by to...”

  His voice trails off for a moment, as if he's run out of things to say.

  “I'm really sorry,” he says again. “I can't imagine how awful this must be for you.”

  “Was it started deliberately?” I ask.

  He hesitates.

  “Was it?” I add.

  “It seems to have been a tragic accident,” he continues. “Your brother Doug and his wife Karen were asleep in their home, and some kind of wiring fault caused the fire to start. I know this might not be much consolation, but the coroner thinks smoke inhalation was the cause of death, which means they didn't suffer. They probably just passed in their sleep.”

  I pause for a moment, thinking back to my last phone conversation with Dougie yesterday. We argued, as usual. At the time, I was so pissed at him. Now I know I'll never get to speak to him again.

  “She was pregnant,” I whisper finally.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My sister-in-law,” I continue. “She was six months pregnant, which means... I guess that means the baby's dead too.”

  “Yes, M'am, I'm afraid so.”

  Putting my face in my hands for a moment, I try to process all of this. Yesterday I was struggling to figure out how I could get Dougie and Karen to see my side of things, and now...

  Now they're gone.

  Which means the house is mine.

  I lower my hands and stare down at the table for a moment, before looking over at Officer Michaels.

  “Are you sure it was an accident?” I ask.

  “What makes you ask?”

  “Just that, if something had reached out to their home somehow and...”

  Again, my voice trails off. A moment later, I hear a faint bump upstairs, and I look toward the ceiling.

  “Are you alone here?” Officer Michaels asks.

  I turn back to him and nod.

  “Of course,” I stammer. “Absolutely. I'm completely alone. I was just wondering whether...”

  For a few seconds, all I can think about is the bizarre claim that Greta made.

  “You're from around here, right?” I ask cautiously.

  He nods. “Born and bred, M'am.”

  “So you must know the area. You must know about any stories that people tell.”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “What about this house?” I continue. “Have you ever heard anyone talk about anything odd that might be here? About anything that might be living in the house?”

  “I believe the house is supposed to have been empty since your father died.”

  “I know, but apart from...” I pause, aware that I'm going to sound crazy. “Apart from people. Have you ever heard about anything else that might live here? Have you ever heard about something called a Witcharoo?”

  I wait for him to ask what I'm talking about, but instead he simply eyes me for a moment with a hint of concern.

  “Have you?” I add.

  He hesitates, before suddenly getting to his feet.

  “I should go,” he says, forcing a smile that seems kind of unnatural. “You obviously have a lot to deal with here, and I don't want to intrude on your grief.”

  “You've heard something, haven't you?” I ask, as he turns and heads to the door. “You have to tell me!”

  “You know what people are like in small communities,” he replies. “They talk a lot of nonsense. I'll see you around.”

  Getting up, I hurry out to join him in the hallway. Suddenly he seems like he can't get out of here fast enough, and he's already got the front door open.

  “M'am,” he continues, turning to me. “Let me give you some advice. This house is... Maybe you should think about packing up and -”

  Before he can finish, there's a loud bump from upstairs.

  As if a door was slammed.

  “Good day, M'am,” Officer Michaels adds, with a hint of panic in his voice as he turns and hurries down the steps.

  “Wait!” I call after him. “You've heard of this thing, haven't you?”

  “Absolutely not,” he replies, fumbling to get the door of his patrol car open. “You have a nice day, okay? I'm sorry, but I really have nothing else to say to you.”

  “How did Greta Sinclair die?” I ask.

  “Uh, exposure. Yeah, exposure.”

  “But her face was -”

  “Her face was nothing!” he snaps, turning back to me before looking up at the house's windows, almost as if he's afraid of something. “Greta Sinclair died of exposure. She was old, obviously she fell while she was out late at night. We'll never know what she was doing or where she was going, but -”

  “She was here,” I tell him.

  He opens his mouth to reply, before hesitating.

  “Greta was here,” I continue. “Right before she died.”

  He watches the windows again for a moment, and I swear I can see the fear in his eyes.

  “Well,” he stammers finally, “I'm sure you're mistaken about that.”

  “But -”

  “I really don't want to interfere. I'm sure you'll understand.”

  With that, he climbs into the car and pulls the door shut, and the wheels spin as he floors the throttle. He damn near hits the gate in his hurry to get away, as if he's terrified of something here at the house.

  “Oh God,” I whisper, leaning back against the door for a moment. I can't help thinking about Dougie and Karen, and about their poor unborn child. Karen in particular was always so careful about electrical things, she always went around the house before bed each night and unplugged anything that wasn't essential. She was more than fussy, she was paranoid, so I can't imagine how a fire could have started accidentally.

  And now the house is mine, and there's nothing to stop me staying here.

  It's all mine.

  Turning, I look into the empty hallway, and then up the stairs toward the landing.

  I wait, expecting to hear a bump, but there's nothing. It's almost as if something in the house became agitated while Officer Michaels was here. Whatever it is, however, it's calmer now.

  “Are you real?” I call out, stepping back inside and swinging the door shut.

  Again, I wait.

  Silence.

  “Are you real?” I ask again. “I just need to know. It doesn't necessarily change anything, but I need you to give me a sign, just so that I at least know. Are you...”

  My voice trails off.

  Snow is still swirling outside, but the silence of the house is so much louder than the noise of the storm. I wait a moment longer, before realizing that I need a drink. Hurrying to the kitchen, I grab one of the bottles of wine I bought from the store, and then I start hunting for a bottle opener. My hands are trembling slightly, and I'm starting to feel a little frantic, but suddenly I stop next to the sink, and all the fear seems to drain from my body in an instant.

  I look down at the bottle of wine, and then I set it on the counter.

  I don't need it.

  For the first time in years, I feel like I don't need a drink. I've tried to ditch alcohol so many times, without any success, but now it's as if a switch has been flicked in my head.

  All around me, the house is so calm and quiet.

  “Witcharoo?” I say finally. I feel ridiculous, but I have to be sure, so I head through to the hallway. “Is there something called a Witcharoo in this house? If you're here, just give me one sign. I promise I won't leave or do anything to try to hurt you, and I won't try to make you go away,
but I have to know. One sign. That's all I'm asking for.”

  I wait.

  Nothing.

  Not a creak.

  Not a bump.

  Just silence.

  “Please,” I continue, stepping toward the bottom of the stairs, still looking up at the empty space at the top. “Just one sign. I need to know if there's something else here with me in the house.”

  I wait.

  No reply.

  “Are you real?”

  Epilogue

  Five years later

  Another blizzard. Great. Sometimes I think the winters out here are just getting longer and longer. The last snow only cleared at the end of May, and now here comes another storm when November has barely begun.

  Struggling from the car with bags of groceries in my arms, I use my butt to push the door shut and then I stumble through the snow. Fortunately, the steps have been cleared and de-iced, so at least there's no risk of me slipping and hurting myself again. Still, there's so much snow in the air, I can barely breathe as I reach the front door. I'm about to reach into my pocket to find the key, when I hear a very faint clicking sound.

  Did I lock the door?

  I try to turn the handle and find that the door easily swings open. I swear, I remember locking up before I headed into town for my monthly food shop, but I guess I must be mistaken.

  Once I'm in the hallway, I push the door shut and kick my boots off, and then I start carrying the groceries to the kitchen. Behind me, I hear the bolt click into place on the door. It's the weirdest thing, but that bolt has a tendency to lock itself whenever I come home and shut the door. I keep meaning to check it out and try to get to the bottom of it, but I never remember. I guess it's just one of those weird things that happens in this crazy old house.

  It takes quite a while for me to get all the groceries put away. After a while, I hear the kettle starting to boil. I don't remember switching it on, but I guess I'm getting a little forgetful these days. I spend almost all my time in the house, often working on freelance articles so I have enough money to pay all the bills, and maybe all that staring at a screen is messing with my thought processes a little. Still, it's not like I have any choice, and I also happen to love my work. So if a little forgetfulness is the price I have to pay, then so be it.

  Finally, I pour myself a cup of tea and head through to the front room. Sitting in Dad's chair, I tell myself I can afford to relax for an hour or two before I get back to work. Besides, I can always write after dinner, and lately I've been staying up until well after midnight most nights. I prefer to sleep during the day, with the blackout blinds down, and get my work done during the night hours. Maybe that makes me a bit of a loner, but I don't really care. I just get on with my own life, and I honestly don't feel isolated at all.

  I start to close my eyes, but at the last moment I hear a very faint bump next to the chair, like a solitary footstep. At the same time, I notice a brief hint of Dad's old cologne in the air.

  I open my eyes and look around, but of course there's nobody else here. I notice, however, that the bag of wood is running low, which means I'm going to have to get some more from the supply that I had delivered to the woodshed. Still, I can do that later, after I wake up from my nap.

  I still remember that day, five years ago now, when I stood in the hallway and called out over and over again. “Are you here?” I asked so many times.

  It was all I wanted to know.

  “Are you here?”

  “Are you here?”

  “Are you here?”

  I must have shouted those three words a hundred times that day, five hundred even. Maybe even a thousand. Over and over and over, begging for just one sign. And I've asked again and again in the years since, just to double-check, to make sure I wasn't mistaken. And yet it answered me only once, back on that first day, and in my father's voice.

  “Yes. I'm here.”

  The Writer

  One

  “Mummy? It hurts! Mummy, where are you?”

  Opening my eyes, I stare across the dark bedroom and see that the door is still open. I wait, telling myself that the voice must have been the last whisper of a dream, and for a few seconds the house remains completely quiet. My heart is pounding, though, and deep down I know that the voice didn't come from a dream at all.

  It came from the room next to mine.

  “Mummy?” it calls out again. “Why won't you help me?”

  Maybe it'll go away. Maybe it'll just stop.

  A moment later, I realize I can hear a faint, distant sniffling sound. She's sobbing.

  “Mummy?” she whimpers, her voice choked now with tears. “Mummy, please, it hurts so much! Mummy!”

  Slowly, anxiously, I sit up on the bed, keeping my eyes fixed on the doorway. I know from experience that she won't come to me. I have to go to her. Always. I also know that she won't give up. I've tried waiting the voice out, I've tried putting my fingers in my ears and hoping she'll go away. It never works. On the nights when she returns like this, I always have to go to her room and see her face. It's almost as if that's what she wants. To be seen.

  As the sobbing continues, I start climbing out of bed. The house is cold, colder than it should be with the radiators on, but I don't stop to take my dressing gown from behind the door. Instead, I make my way out to the corridor, and then I look along to the open door next to the top of the stairs.

  I closed that door before I came to bed. Now it's wide open.

  She's still whimpering and crying as I make my way along the corridor. My heart feels heavy and I want nothing more than to turn and walk away, but I know how this works. She won't leave me alone until I've seen her. This has happened so many times now, and there were nights early on when I'd run to her, weeping and putting my arms around her. It took so long for me to learn what's really happening, but even now I feel a part of my soul stirring, telling me that my daughter is in pain and that she needs me. Another part of me, however, has been strengthened over the past few months, enough to push away all my natural instincts.

  When I finally reach the door to her room, I look through and see Hannah sobbing on her bed.

  “Mummy?” she whimpers, holding her right hand up so that I can see the thick, bloodied wound in her palm. “I've got glass in me. Can you get it out?”

  I open my mouth to reply, but then I tell myself to stay strong.

  “It's not you,” I whisper.

  “Mummy?” Tears are streaming down her face. “It hurts. Why won't you come and help me?”

  “It's not you,” I say again, even though I can feel my resolve starting to weaken.

  “Mummy -”

  “It's not you!”

  With that, I turn to go back to my room, but at the last moment I hesitate. With a hand resting on the jamb, I wait, telling myself over and over that I just have to walk away. That thing on the bed is an illusion, or a fantasy of some kind, or a trick. I don't know what it is, not exactly, but I know what it isn't.

  It isn't Hannah.

  It can't be Hannah.

  “Mummy?” her voice whimpers again, sounding closer suddenly, as if she's right behind me. “I've got glass in me. Why won't you take it out?”

  “Please,” I whisper, trying to stay strong. “Don't make me do this.”

  I mustn't turn around.

  “Mummy,” she sobs, and now it sounds as if she's breaking down. “Won't you help me? Don't you love me anymore? It hurts so much!”

  “You're not real,” I stammer, with tears streaming down my face. After a moment I turn to her, hoping that I can make her go away if I say the words to her face. “It's not you. You're not -”

  Suddenly I gasp as I see that she's right behind me, and that there are large shards of glass embedded in her face and chest. Blood is soaking through her clothes, and the left side of her head has been crushed, pushing the eye down toward the base of her nose while thousands of glass fragments glisten in the meaty wound.

  “I've got g
lass in me!” she gurgles, retching blood as she steps toward me. Her jaw is broken on one side, preventing her from speaking properly. “Help me, Mummy! Take it out!”

  ***

  “John! Let me in! John, help me!”

  Banging on his back door, I finally see a light flickering to life in the hallway beyond his kitchen. A moment later, his silhouette steps into view and I see that he's tying the cord around his dressing gown as he comes through. I'm sobbing loudly, still banging on the door, but finally his confused face appears on the other side of the glass, and he looks down at me for a moment before quickly starting to turn the key in the lock.

  “Beth -”

  “It happened again!” I whimper, stepping inside as soon as the door is open. Turning, I look back out at his garden, terrified that the vision of Hannah might have followed me from the house. “She was in her room!”

  “Calm down,” he replies, pushing the door shut before turning to me. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”

  “I saw Hannah!” I sob, taking a step back. Looking down at my hands, I see that they're trembling wildly. “It was just like last time! She had glass in her! She had glass all over! It's just how I always imagined she must have been, after the...”

  My voice trails off.

  I can't say those words.

  “Sit down,” John says, taking my trembling hands and guiding me through to the hallway. “My God, Beth, you're freezing. It's a cold night, what were you doing out there without a coat?”

  “I just had to get out of the house,” I whimper. “I ran. I couldn't stay there...”

  “It's okay.” He leads me to a chair in his office, and he moves some old newspapers aside so that I can sit down. “Another bad night, huh? This is, what, the third this month?”

  “I'm sorry!” I gasp, as he goes to the cabinet and starts pouring two glasses of whiskey. “I didn't know where else to go.”