The Haunting of Thores-Cross

by Karen Perkins

  We’d played there often, although never alone. We’d pretended we weren’t scared of it, that the only ghosts were in actuality the occasional tramp sheltering from the ravages of the Yorkshire weather. But still – there’d always been something about the place. I shuddered, finished in the bathroom, and went downstairs, following the scent of brewing coffee and burning toast to the large kitchen-diner below the guest bedrooms on the other side of the house.

  *

  Breakfast over Dave left to go to his office in Harrogate, and I took the dogs for a walk. This was where my day usually started – apart from waking me up, walking alongside Thruscross somehow kick-started my creative centre and I came out here making soggy notes as the beasts ran and swam and played, rain or shine, two or three times a day – sometimes more, despite the fact we had enough land that I could just let the dogs out to amuse themselves.

  Today, the walk did nothing for me. Tired and unfortunately uninspired, we walked slowly (yes, even the beasts now) back to the house. I looked up at Mark and Kathy’s as we passed, remembering that Dave and I were invited for dinner tonight. Was that why I’d dreamed of the place?

  Half an hour later, we were all in the office. Clean-ish dogs collapsed in a heap; notebooks; pot of coffee and a plate of biscuits – all the essentials – were close at hand, and I settled down to get the next chapter of my latest book down on paper.

  I cursed. Hadn’t there been something in my dream the other night? An idea for their next battle? I couldn’t remember, but knew the harder I tried, the further away the idea would slip. I sighed in frustration and just started writing to see what came out of my pen.

  I checked my watch and massaged my neck with a groan. It was only lunchtime, yet I felt mentally exhausted. I read over what I’d scribbled and frowned. This was usually the bit I enjoyed most, where I got completely lost in the story and was just as eager to find out what happened next as I hoped my readers would be. Unfortunately what I’d written today was crap – boring crap that did nothing to move the story on.

  I left the notebooks on the coffee table by the sofa and crossed to the desk. I had a series of large noticeboards on the only section of bookshelf-free wall, where I had laid out the overall plot for the book. Instead of studying my plans, I spotted the old inkpot hidden away on the shelf alongside. How had I forgotten about that? I took it down and put it on a sheaf of papers on the desk where I could see it, then went down to sort out some lunch. I’d try again later.

  Chapter 13 - Jennet

  16th September 1776

  I put the posset on to warm through and sat down with a sigh; I were knackered. August were a busy month with the sheep and I had spent the entire week with Richard’s man, Peter Stockdale, spaining the flock. We had to separate lamb from ewes until the gimmers – the young females – were weaned and could return to breed. The wethers – males – would be moved to the best pastures down by the river to fatten them up for meat for Pateley Bridge Market, but it were exhausting to chase lamb and ewe around the moors and drag the lamb away, bleating for its dam.

  I giggled to myself, remembering Peter face down in the muck after a particularly stubborn gimmer had got away from him. I had laughed so hard I fell as well, and the pair of us had rolled in mud and sheepshit with the bemused ewes looking on for a good ten minutes until the last chuckles had died away. The job had taken twice as long as it should have.

  Maybe the new enclosures that Thomas Ramsgill were forcing on the valley for the King were not such a bad idea. He had a team of men – including Peter Stockdale – building the dry stone walls. They might look ugly cutting their way across moor and pasture, but his sheep had been unable to escape. His massive flock had been spained in not much more time than it had taken me and Peter Stockdale to do my twenty five beasts. I dreaded to think how long it would have taken me on my own. A couple of the ewes were past wool production as well, and I had a lot of meat to butcher and hang in the chimney.

  *

  I got up from the table to stir the posset, adding a healthy glug of whiskybae from the flask Richard had left a couple of nights ago. It were Friday night, Richard would surely be going to the Gate and then he would come here. I smiled and got out the sheep’s stomach and liver I had saved, then started chopping. I had energy again.

  Meat done, I prepared vegetables, then went to the well to fetch water. I wanted my body and clothes as clean and fresh as possible, and I realised I were singing as I washed; the clear, icy water making my body shudder in anticipation of what were to come. I felt like a real woman, preparing for my man.

  Richard had become a regular visitor over the past month. Although daylight visits were rare, he spent two or three nights a week in my bed. And it were more of a bed now – I did not make do with straw and heather any more, Peter Stockdale had arrived a week ago carrying a proper feather-filled mattress and bolster on his first day, then parcels containing brocades and blankets and even a cotton nightgown the next! The softest gown I had ever touched. I wondered if he knew what were in the packages. What had Richard told him he were delivering?

  *

  I had been ready a couple of hours when the door opened – he did not knock any more – and my impatience flew from me as I returned his greeting kiss. Richard had brought joy back into my life; I were not alone.

  I dished up the meal, and he tucked in with relish. I picked at my own platter, enjoying the sight of him eating at my table.

  ‘What’s up, lass? Why’s thee staring?’

  I reddened and looked at my plate. ‘Nowt.’

  He put down his knife. ‘No, come on, lass, what is it?’

  ‘Well, it’s just . . .’ I paused, but he were still watching me. ‘It’s been so hard,’ I continued in a rush. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without thee – or without Peter.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Jennet, it’s nowt. The least I could do.’ He stretched out his hand and grasped mine briefly, then picked up his knife again and continued eating. ‘We have to be more careful though, lass. Billy Gill made a crack in The Gate tonight about how well I’m looking after thee. He saw me t’other night, but Stockdale jumped in saying there were a problem with sheep. I think he took it – didn’t say owt else, anyroad.’

  I paled. Does that mean he won’t visit as often?

  ‘Don’t look so worried, lass!’ He laughed. ‘It’ll take more than Billy Gill to stop me coming here – he knows better than to put about rumour concerning me, or any Ramsgill for that matter!’

  I smiled and looked up at him from below my lashes. He’s so important and powerful! He pushed the plate away. ‘Enough of that, lass. Nice as it were, I’ve a hunger for summat else.’ He took a swig of the whiskybae, ignoring my posset, stood, took my hand, and walked me upstairs to our richly covered bed.

  Chapter 14 - Emma

  1st September 2012

  ‘Have you got the wine?’

  ‘Yes! Both red and white,’ Dave shouted back. ‘Where’s the torch?’

  ‘In the mudroom, on top of the cupboard,’ I called.

  ‘Come on, Emma! We’ll be late!’ Dave hated being late.

  ‘Hold your horses, I’m coming!’

  Eyeliner, mascara, lipstick: I was ready and went downstairs to spoil the effect of my expensive linen wraparound top and black trousers with a heavy coat and wellies. Dave was still scratting about looking for the torch.

  ‘Come on then, I’m waiting for you!’ I called to Dave, laughing at his scowl.

  Trudging up the lane, I was strangely nervous. I’d not been to the haunted house since it had been derelict, and Mark and Kathy Ramsgill had not been particularly keen on our build. Their invitation to dinner had been a surprise, and I hoped it was a genuine display of neighbourliness and perhaps friendship. We were very isolated out here, and I couldn’t bear the thought of problem neighbours – especially since I worked from home. I hoped tonight would go well.

  *

>   Wolf Farm was less than a hundred yards away over field and wall, but a couple of hundred by road – well, lane. We reached their gates only ten minutes late and pressed the intercom to gain entry. I remembered the place as open and perched on the hillside overlooking the reservoir, but now it resembled a prison with a high wall surrounding the house and garden, topped with cameras. The only way in was through heavy locked gates, and it struck me as a shame; the complete antithesis of the way of life that had built the sandstone farmhouse back in the 1600s.

  ‘David and Emma Moorcroft,’ Dave barked into the intercom and the gate slowly swung open. The front door shed a welcome rectangle of warm yellow light, beckoning us over the gravelled drive and yard.

  ‘Welcome!’ Mark Ramsgill greeted us. ‘Come in, come in, just leave your boots by the door, let me take your coats. We’re through here. Oh, thank you very much. Pinot Grigio and Merlot, Kathy will be pleased. Come through, come through.’

  I had an impression of a friendly, cluttered, colourful hall littered with the detritus of family and dales living – lots of muddy boots, coats, umbrellas and hats – and then we were ushered into the front room, the one which no doubt looked over our house and the water. If either could be seen over that high garden wall, that is. I’d have to hope we were invited back in daylight to find out.

  ‘Hello, hello, come in, ooh lovely.’ Mark had passed the wine bottles to Kathy. ‘It’s nice to meet you properly at last, I’m so pleased you came. Would you like a drink? Wine or maybe gin and tonic?’ she asked.

  ‘Dry white for me, please,’ I said.

  ‘And G and T for me,’ Dave added.

  ‘I’ll get them.’ Mark bustled at the sideboard. ‘Better not keep Kathy out of the kitchen too long. Please, sit down, make yourselves comfortable.’

  ‘Can I give you a hand in the kitchen?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh no, no, ignore Mark, everything’s under control. Roast dales beef – oh, I hope that’s alright? You’re not vegetarian are you?’

  ‘No, that sounds lovely, thank you. It smells delicious,’ I replied.

  ‘Emma’s what you’d call a selective vegetarian,’ Dave joked. ‘No red meat allowed at home, but she can’t get enough of it when we eat out! I think she just doesn’t like cooking it.’

  ‘Trying to eat a balanced diet, Dave. Anyway, I wouldn’t complain if you wanted to cook.’

  ‘Yes, you would.’ He laughed. ‘It’d be inedible! How about you Mark, can you find your way about in the kitchen?’

  ‘Oh no, that’s Kathy’s domain.’ He handed me a glass of wine and gave another to Kathy.

  ‘Yes, the kitchen’s mine. Mark can barely put beans on toast together!’ Kathy sat next to me on the sofa, checking her watch.

  ‘You have a lovely home,’ I said to her with an embarrassed smile. The room was very much like the hall; colourful and full of an assortment of knick-knacks from around the world. It was a good size, painted cream to show off the paintings and textiles adorning the walls, with exposed beams and a lovely stone arched fireplace with blazing fire that took up most of one wall. They had a comfortable leather suite, an incongruous flatscreen at one end, and a rustic looking dining table and chairs standing in front of the fire. ‘Do you do a lot of travelling?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ She laughed. ‘I’m terrified of flying so I bring the world to me – mainly courtesy of car boot sales and TK Maxx. I love all the different cultures and types of art, I find them fascinating.’

  I nodded and studied the knick-knacks. Buddhas nestled against Hindi deities and Egyptian and Chinese figurines. I spotted a boomerang, a couple of carved elephants, crystals and a collection of brass and copper plateware, including a beautiful Russian samovar.

  ‘Are there any countries not represented?’ I asked.

  ‘Not many,’ grumbled Mark.

  ‘Oh, don’t listen to him,’ Kathy said. ‘He picked half of this stuff out, he just doesn’t like to admit it.’

  Which half? I wondered. Looking at Kathy, I guessed her choices were the representations of the East. She was shorter than I, with long dark hair pulled back in a couple of combs, bright blue eyes and flushed cheeks, although that was probably the effects of cooking, and she wore a long, floaty red and gold skirt with a gold-coloured tunic. I’d put down money that the crystals were hers, too. Mark was taller, also dark haired, although greying now, a little plump and dressed simply in jeans and checked shirt.

  ‘Would you excuse me?’ Kathy heaved herself off the sofa, checking her watch again. ‘The stove calls for a moment.’ She walked quickly into the kitchen, taking her wine with her.

  ‘So how long have you been in now?’ Mark asked with a broad Yorkshire dialect. ‘Does it feel like home yet?’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s been about a month. We haven’t finished unpacking yet, mind you. We love it here don’t we, Dave? It was definitely worth all the hassle.’

  ‘You were brave, doing a build from scratch. I remember all the problems converting this place,’ Mark replied. ‘Constant arguments with the architect and builders; I were glad to see the back of them. Never listened to a ruddy word I said!’

  ‘Yes, they’re like that.’ I laughed, glancing at Dave. ‘It’s even worse when you’re married to your architect! But we survived, didn’t we Dave?’

  ‘Just about,’ he muttered.

  ‘You’re an architect?’ Mark asked, embarrassed. Dave nodded.

  ‘So what do you do, Mark?’ I asked to fill the awkward silence.

  ‘I’m a teacher, over at Pateley Bridge. History and PE. It’s where I met Kathy, actually.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, I were straight out of school myself and she were my star pupil! Oh, don’t worry, we didn’t get together until after she’d left, but twenty years and two kids later, we’re still as happy.’

  ‘How old are your kids?’ I asked, not sure how to respond to that.

  ‘Seventeen-year-old twins – Alex and Hannah. We’re starting to think about university at the moment, which Kathy is finding difficult. But we hardly see them anyway, to tell you the truth. They’re always out or staying at friends’ houses.’

  ‘So you’re getting the house back to yourselves?’

  ‘Yes. Do you have children?’

  ‘No, no, just dogs, three of them.’ Dave laughed. I sipped my drink to avoid reacting. ‘And they’re more than enough trouble!’

  ‘Dinner is served!’ Kathy came back in carrying bowls of soup. ‘Hope you’re hungry!’

  ‘Oh, that smells delicious, Kathy.’

  ‘Spiced pumpkin – home-grown.’

  *

  ‘Mark was just telling us how you met, Kathy.’

  ‘Oh, ignore him. It wasn’t anything like as sordid as he makes it sound; he likes to shock people and play devil’s advocate. I’m hoping to go back to school myself once I’ve finished my training. I dread to think what he’ll say to everyone.’

  ‘Oh? What subjects do you teach?’

  ‘No, not as a teacher, as school counsellor. I’m in my fourth year of training and should get my diploma in June.’

  ‘Oh right. That sounds rewarding.’

  ‘I ruddy well hope so,’ Mark cut in. ‘You wouldn’t believe what it involves. I thought it would just be college once a week, but she has to volunteer as a counsellor. Volunteer! She don’t get paid! Then she has to have counselling herself and a supervisor. It’s costing us a ruddy fortune!’

  ‘It’ll be worth it, Mark, and in time I’ll earn quite a bit in private practice. It’ll take a while, that’s all.’

  ‘Where do you volunteer?’ I asked.

  ‘A local service that offers counselling in rural areas. It’s a real lifeline to some of the more isolated, and you’re right, very rewarding, even if I’m not getting paid for it yet.’ She glared at Mark; it was obviously a sore spot.

  ‘How’s your beef, Dave?’ Mark asked and I realised Dave hadn’t sai
d very much since the architect gaffe.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Tender and absolutely delicious. You should ask Kathy about those dreams you’ve been having, Emma. You never know, they might mean something.’

  ‘Dreams?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘Yes.’ I glared at Dave. They were mine to talk about, not for him to use as small talk at the dinner table. ‘Nightmares really, but very real, very accurate somehow.’

  Kathy and Mark glanced at each other. ‘About the village?’ she asked. Thruscross village dated back to the Vikings and had been flooded when the dam was built in the 1960s.

  ‘No, just the reservoir. Why, do you dream of the village?’ I asked.

  Kathy nodded. ‘I keep getting stuck in the mud, only it’s not a foot deep like it is when the tide goes out. I sink further and further down and I know there’s no end to it.’

  Mark rolled his eyes. ‘When the tide goes out,’ he said in an exaggerated falsetto. ‘It’s not the seaside, eh Dave?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ she said. ‘They’re always letting the water out to make sure the lower reservoirs stay full.’

  ‘Maybe there’s a book in the dreams somewhere,’ I said, keen to change the subject.

  ‘A book,’ Kathy repeated. ‘Are you a writer?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, historical fiction, mainly.’

  ‘Have you had any success?’

  ‘Yes, some,’ I said, modestly.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of you,’ Mark said.

  ‘I write under my maiden name, Carter.’

  ‘Oh! You’re Emma Carter!’ Kathy exclaimed. ‘You write those pirate books. My daughter, Hannah, is a big fan. She loves all the description aboard the ships, says you must be a sailor.’