The Haunting

by Raymond M Hall

  Sebastian sat on the bed and put his arms around her whispering that she was safe now. She looked up at him through her fingers and began to cry. Not wailing or moaning but quietly crying in relief.

  After she cried herself out and was only making sniffing noises and the odd sob he gently raised her up into a sitting position, pushing the pillows behind her in support.

  ‘Why on earth did you have your door locked, there's only the two of us here for goodness sake?’ He asked.

  She looked at him through eyes puffed up with crying,

  ‘I didn’t lock the door; there isn’t a key anyway.’

  He looked at the lock underneath the door handle and saw that indeed there was no key.

  ‘Then why couldn’t I get in? I tried everything, but it wouldn’t budge. What happened Caroline?’

  She began in a whisper,

  ‘I was asleep and remember dreaming that someone was in the room. It was a man, an older man and he was leaning over me. The dream seemed so real that I tried to wake myself but suddenly he was tearing at my nightdress, ripping it and laughing, he was laughing Sebastian!’ She began crying again, and Sebastian cuddled her making soothing noises as if she were a young child. She seemed to have closed down, and he gently led her out of the room and into his own. He helped her into a spare pair of his pyjamas and laid her down on the bed, sliding under the covers to lie beside her, still making soft, soothing noises. They lay like that for some time before he heard the soft snuffling as she fell into a light sleep.

  The dawn chorus was under way as he woke. Sebastian still had his arm under Caroline’s shoulders, and he winced as the sensation of pins and needles hit home. Carefully extricating the offending arm, he massaged it to bring back the circulation. Caroline stirred and without opening her eyes, rolled over to face him, smiling. He smiled too but was taken aback when she reached forward and kissed him on the lips.

  ‘Whoa, Caroline, it’s me!’ He exclaimed.

  She opened her eyes and realising it was her brother laughed gently.

  ‘Sorry, Seb, old habits die hard, thought you were someone else.’

  Her laughter died away as she recalled the horrors of the previous night.

  ‘What happened Seb?’ She whispered.

  ‘You had a nightmare, that’s all, nothing to worry about.’ He soothed.

  ‘So, did I tear my clothes myself then?’ She asked.

  ‘Must have, we all do strange things in our sleep, just look at all those sleepwalkers.’ He said, trying to reduce her fears and provide some logical explanation.

  Sebastian couldn’t resist the temptation,

  ‘Maybe you were reacting to creepy James.’ He ventured.

  Caroline raised herself up on one elbow and smacked him playfully.

  ‘He’s not creepy, in fact, he’s the perfect gentleman.’ She asserted.

  Sebastian frowned,

  ‘So I guess you will be seeing him again?’

  Caroline jumped out of bed,

  ‘You bet I am, today as a matter of fact. James has invited me on a trip to Lincoln, business and pleasure he said.’

  Sebastian lay back on the bed,

  ‘I can guess what the pleasure is likely to be, but I wonder what sort of business?’

  Caroline shrugged her shoulders as if to say; I don’t care as long as he gives me plenty of attention and walked out heading downstairs for the bathroom. She didn’t make it, though, and Sebastian heard her high pitched squeal. He leapt out of bed and ran to her. She was standing outside her bedroom, surveying the remains of the door. It had been smashed very thoroughly, and only a single piece of wood remained, joined to the wall by the hinges. To make matters worse there were red stains splattered over the wall and the axe Sebastian had used the night before was laying on the floor also covered in a thick red liquid. He approached it with some trepidation and before he could pick it up the unmistakable coppery tang of blood flooded his senses. It must be blood; he thought as he finally reached down and lifted it from the floor, but how? And whose blood?

  Both stood looking at the devastation, and Sebastian wondered how on earth he had slept through what would have made a tremendous noise. And the blood, where had the blood come from?

  Caroline couldn’t bring herself to cross the threshold and told Sebastian he would have to gather her clothes and pack for her. She insisted he fetched clothes for her to wear from her room and when dressed left the sanctuary of his bedroom and descended to the kitchen, not bothering with the bathroom, deciding that could wait until she was somewhere safe. Making for the door, car keys in hand, Caroline left, announcing she would stay at the pub. Sebastian wondered who would be paying the bill, himself or perhaps James? He smiled grimly, already knowing the answer and thinking it was going to be an expensive exercise. If she chose not to return to the bakery, and he was convinced that was the case, he would have to persuade her to go back to London.

  He dutifully packed all her belongings, put them in his car and drove into Upper Marston. She wasn’t at the pub, so he walked to the estate agency and found her there sitting in front of James.

  ‘Thought I might find you here.’ He said.

  She looked up and smiled grimly,

  ‘I was just telling James about last night.’

  James looked up at Sebastian and allowed a smile to creep across his face.

  ‘Can’t begin to understand what happened but your sister is, of course, terrified. I’ve suggested she come and stay with me, I have plenty of spare rooms.’

  His smile broadened, and Sebastian decided he had a cricket bat face. A face that needed the harsh attention of said item and he would be only too happy to wield it.

  ‘So, did you book in at the pub?’ He asked.

  ‘No, I came straight here, and dear James has been so good.’ She replied.

  ‘I’ll get your baggage then.’ Sebastian said, walking out onto the pavement.

  He unloaded her bags from his car into her own, she never locked her car, and he again shook his head, addressing a single sparrow hopping about on the pavement next to him.

  ‘My sister is a stupid naïve bitch!’ He exclaimed to the sparrow, which took no notice at all.

  Walking back into the office, he told her to call if she needed anything,

  He looked at her, ignoring James altogether,

  ‘Good luck.’ He said, in a tone which left no doubt in her mind that in her brother’s view, she would need all the luck in the world. James was wearing his same sickly smile and nodded goodbye.

  Sebastian drove back to the house still fuming with the latently promiscuous behaviour of his sister to be greeted by a Detective Inspector.

  ‘Got the results and thought you would be interested.’ He announced.

  Sebastian invited him inside, and the Inspector sat at the kitchen table producing a manila folder in which there appeared to be several sheets of paper. The Inspector went on to outline the pathologist's report on the body. Apparently, it had been there for a long time, a very long time. It had been difficult to date exactly but was certainly at least three hundred and fifty years old and was the body of a woman and quite a young one at that. The hair on her head was still intact and would have been a rich chestnut brown when the girl had been alive. There were no broken bones or any other signs of injury and the pathologist supposed she would have died from lack of oxygen in the confined space, probably within twenty four hours of being sealed into the vertical tomb.

  Sebastian explained to the Inspector about the incident upstairs the night before and wondered if there had been any reports of break-ins locally. He thought that to be the only logical explanation for the broken door and the bloodied axe. Perhaps the person who had wielded the axe had cut themselves by accident.

  Sebastian led the way upstairs, and the pair stood outside Caroline’s bedroom. The Inspector had a quizzical look on his face, and Sebastian had turned a strange colour as they both looked at the undamaged door. The Inspector turned th
e handle, and the door opened easily. There was no evidence of any broken pieces of wood, and certainly, no blood spatters. Even the axe was missing. Sebastian went back downstairs with the Inspector following closely behind him and out into the yard. It was standing against the bakery door and upon examination revealed no traces of blood whatsoever.

  Sebastian glanced at the face of the Inspector and caught the disbelieving look.

  ‘You know, sometimes dreams can be so graphic they appear to be real.’ The Inspector said, condescendingly.

  ‘But, surely my sister and I couldn’t have had the identical dream at the same time?’

  The Detective Inspector smiled,

  ‘Who can tell what goes on inside our heads? But one thing for sure, whatever you experienced last night must have been in your imagination.’

  The policeman drove off leaving a very disturbed Sebastian staring at the chair in front of the old kitchen range. He could see as well as smell the rich pipe tobacco wafting up. It was facing away from him, and the high back could well have concealed the smoker. Turning to look out the door he could see the pile of rubbish which the old chair had recently adorned. Now though, it was back in its place by the range and whoever had moved it was enjoying a pipe. Sebastian tiptoed towards the chair and quickly walked around to confront whoever was sitting there. But there was no one, only the rich smell of tobacco hanging in the air.

  Chapter 22

  Luke lay in the wagon, stunned by the blow to his head. Even when he did regain consciousness, he would still be very drunk and might not recognise the difference. The soldiers marched through the night, and when dawn broke, they were still plodding wearily along the road.

  Luke opened his eyes and immediately closed them again, the searing flash of pain almost blinded him. He remained in the bottom of the wagon for some time, building up the courage to open his eyes once again and when he did it was with much trepidation. Only the wooden side was visible, but the bumpy progress, as the unsprung axle managed to find every pothole in the road, was very uncomfortable. Trying to adjust his position he attempted to sit up but was severely hampered by the giant manacles around his ankles. He looked drunkenly down the length of his legs and studied the heavy shackles, noticing the length of chain looped through their fastenings. His bleary slitted eyes followed it up his body to the wrists where he saw two more manacles attached. He lay down and closed his eyes again deciding that whatever had happened the previous evening he was a prisoner, and this time there would be little or no chance of escape. He cursed himself for returning. His wife had gone, who knew where, and his bully of a father had not improved with age. He had left a perfectly safe and comfortable place only to walk back into what he had escaped from the first time. As he gradually returned to lucidity, the frightening thought occurred to him that he would no doubt be held accountable for the deaths of the two soldiers two years ago and hanged for the crime. He decided to say very little in the hope that he wouldn’t be recognised after two years and lay back.

  The troopers stopped a few times and rested in hedgerows beside the road. The breaks were not long, and the officer was soon riding up and down the line spurring them on,

  ‘Come on you lot, this one’s for the Black Swan, if we don’t get him aboard by nightfall, we’ll be stuck with him.’

  The men got to their feet and began to march once again; Luke bounced painfully on the rough boards as it was pulled along by a single horse. The name ‘Black Swan’ meant nothing to him but his ears pricked up at the word ‘aboard’. He reasoned that if he was to be put aboard ship then perhaps he had not been recognised. For once, he was pleased his rough appearance had placed him in the guise of a Gypsy. He knew that many of the wandering groups of Romanies had been taken by force and shipped over to the colonies and although this was not a happy outcome it was infinitely more acceptable than hanging by the neck and kicking out in a jig as he was slowly throttled.

  Towards the evening he began to smell a change in the air. There was a definite tang of salt, and he guessed they must be approaching the sea. The wagon ground to a halt and the weary soldiers leaned against it. Luke had no view at all now and strained his ears to get some idea of where they were. He could hear shouting and the noise of lines squealing through blocks. They must have come to a halt beside a ship; maybe this was the ‘Black Swan’?

  In the dim light of a cloudy dusk, he was pulled off the wagon and manhandled up a narrow gangplank. As his feet touched the deck, rough hands grabbed at him as he was pushed through an open grating into a hold of sorts. There was a single candle in a lantern, and he could dimly make out a group of men, women, and children; all were chained in a fashion, and looked to be downtrodden and miserable. Some were standing and a few squatting on the bare planks.

  Luke heard shouted orders, and the deck above their heads became alive with activity. From the motion of the ship, he surmised they were pushing off from the quayside. The reluctant passengers surrounding him displayed looks ranging from surprise to naked fear. The children began crying, those nearby becoming infected by the act, and soon the hold was filled with the cacophony of young voices in distress. A harsh cry rang out from above,

  ‘Shut those kids up, or they’ll be feeding the fish before we clear the harbour.’

  The coarse comment was met with loud guffaws of laughter from the rest of the crew. The mothers below cuddled their offspring close, shushing them to be quiet, fearing the man above might well carry out his threat.

  As the ship got under way, the prisoners began to talk, and it became apparent they were all from one group. A man by the name of John appeared to be the leader as everyone deferred to him or looked at him before speaking. Luke addressed himself to him asking where they had been taken.

  ‘Wickham Skeith,’ John replied. ‘We were camped outside the village and doing no harm to anyone, but the villagers were suspicious. We weren’t to know there had just been a witch swimming in their pond. They call it the ‘Glimmer’ for some reason, it’s a big one in the village centre. Apparently, two women were swum, and both proved guilty.’

  ‘What happened to them?’ Asked Luke.

  ‘They’ll be hanged, nothing surer.’ Said John, sadly.

  ‘Were they of your folk or villagers?’ Luke asked.

  ‘Villagers, likely someone wanted them punished or out of the way, it’s an excellent way to settle scores.’ Replied John cynically. ‘They came for us just before dawn, soldiers everywhere, we didn’t stand a chance. The bastards hit the kids and molested our women folk before herding us up the road in these chains. They told us we are bound for the colonies to be indentured servants, whatever that means.’

  Luke looked at the man, a sad look clouding his features,

  ‘It means nothing less than slavery.’ You will serve as field workers on the plantations and your women and children house servants.’

  John moved among his people making soothing noises to the children and trying to comfort the adults; he could do nothing else.

  Some of the prisoners were obviously feeling uncomfortable in that they needed to relieve themselves. Luke shouted up through the grating imploring that this most basic need be met. The grating slid across, enough to allow one man entry.

  ‘Stand back, you scum.’ The crew member shouted.

  The prisoners backed away from him as he descended, fear evident on their faces, which made him laugh. He went over to the side of the ship and opened a hatch revealing a contraption made from a plank of wood with a circular hole cut in it and sitting horizontally. The device had sides and a top, but the sea was clearly visible through the circular hole. The design of the contraption entailed the man, woman, or child leaning out to perch above the sea.

  ‘There, the man said, relieve yourself whenever you have the fancy but mind, when the ship rolls or we hit rough weather you might have to time it right or suffer the consequences.’ He seemed to find this hilarious and bent, hands on knees as he wheezed through his laughter.


  Luke thought that although the system was very basic, it had huge advantages over the traditional ‘slops’ bucket. He could imagine how unpleasant that would be when full and at the same time a sea was running. The prisoners lined up and took it in turns to perch over the hole, relief evident on their faces.

  It was early evening when the grating was again slid open, and this time several crewmen descended into the hold. They were carrying containers of water and several pots of a thin gruel together with roughly hewn slabs of bread. The prisoners ate and drank, grateful for some nourishment after their forced march. Luke tasted the bread, and even through the adversity he had suffered still took the time to rate the quality, knowing he could do much better.

  The journey seemed to the captives to be endless. They tied up at a port and guessed they were still in England by the language, but the local dialect was so different it might just as well be foreign to them. Luke having travelled to the North could at least understand some of the words and told John he believed they were in the port of Bristol on the West Coast. He guessed that their next and final port of call would be either the colonies of the Indies or The Americas.

  They lay at their berth for two days, tied up to the wharf and the never ending boredom was beginning to have an effect on everyone. Luke wished that they would be permitted to go on deck. At least they would have some fresh air and be able to look at something other than the wooden planking of the ship.

  On the third day, they heard the hustle and bustle of the crew preparing to set sail and sighed in relief; anything was better than being idle in the hold.

  The next day was even better. The grating was slid all the way back allowing fresh air into the hold. One by one the prisoners were led up and permitted to walk the deck, dragging their chains behind them. They breathed in the fresh sea air gratefully, and the colour began to return to pasty white complexions.

  It became a daily routine, weather permitting, and the prisoners were the better for it. A small sail was rigged above the grating which funnelled fresh air below. Luke had meant to keep track of the days they were on board, but after thirty he began to lose count as one day blended into another. On one occasion he dared to quietly ask one of the more approachable crew members how long the voyage would last, the man smiled, not unkindly and told him it would be many more weeks yet. Weeks, thought Luke, are we sailing to the end of the world?