The Ghosts and Hauntings Collection

by Cat Knight

  “Welcome to Highcliff Hall,” Wanetta said as Brainerd lifted the suitcases out of the truck.

  She wore a sturdy apron over a sturdy dress. Over the apron hung half a dozen crosses—gold, silver, and a large wooden one.

  Catherine smiled. “You must be Wanetta.” Catherine offered her hand, but the old woman didn’t shake.

  “Brainerd will take your bags,” the old woman said. “I’ll show you the house.”

  “Thank you, but I have a question. Who is the girl in the tower?”

  “There is no one in the tower,” Wanetta answered.

  “I saw her, up there.” Catherine turned and pointed to the window the adamant expression giving way to confusion. But there was no girl in the window. There was no one.

  “No one has lived in the tower for nigh on two hundred years,” Wanetta said.

  “But I saw her,” Catherine insisted.

  “The glass is old, and the sunlight fools the eye.”

  Catherine wasn’t going to argue. She knew what she had seen, and she was going to explore the tower at the first opportunity. The last thing she wanted was some uninvited “guest” sneaking around.

  A surprisingly fresh fragrance filled her nostrils as soon as she entered. Somehow, she had expected a musty old scent, but Wanetta clearly kept house well. Sniffing and taking in another deep breath, she noticed pomander balls of orange and clove placed judiciously in a bowl on a small table and hanging around the walls.

  To the right of her a huge door had a cross placed on it. Catherine guessed that it must be the door that led to the tower.

  Carved and ornate, it looked like something from an ancient castle. But it wasn’t the size or the carvings that surprised her but the padlock - a huge padlock securing a rusted hasp. A padlock that looked as old as the door itself.

  “Why is that door locked?” Catherine asked.

  “Because it leads to the tower,” Wanetta answered. Catherine smiled in a thin line.

  “Where is the key? I want to see the tower.”

  “No one goes into the tower.”

  “I understand, but I want to see it. Where is the key?”

  “There is no key.”

  Catherine stepped over and rattled the padlock. “There has to be a key. I want you to find it.” Her eyes bulged out at Wanetta, but her smile continued.

  “No one has gone inside the tower since before I was born.”

  “All the more reason to check it out. Now, show me the rest of Highcliff.”

  They started on the ground floor with its large dining room, complete with oak table and chairs for ten. Catherine had no idea how she would ever use it. The kitchen was almost modern. A gas stove and oven, fridge and microwave, provided all conveniences. It was much like what she was used to—although the plumbing was decidedly not current century.

  Above the kitchen table a large plait of garlic and wreaths of herbs hung low from the ceiling, and stores of herbs and preserves lined the shelves in the pantry. From the pantry, a linked short hall finished its path to a door leading to the outside.

  There was a laundry room off the hall, but Catherine was not interested in that. Opening the outside door, Catherine viewed the source of the preserves and herbs that seemed to fill the place. A moderate sized vegetable garden, mostly finished now, except for some plants that were seeding, sat close to the stone wall, a walking path between. It had been well worked, and now lay resting until planting season came again.

  Leaving the garden Catherine went back to tour the rest of the house. She walked past the dining room and two smaller rooms, a parlour and a den that had been converted to a TV room. The flat panel TV looked completely out of place.

  “There is a satellite dish on the roof,” Wanetta explained.

  “Telephone?” Catherine asked.

  “In the kitchen, master bedroom, and parlour.”

  Great,” Catherine said.

  The second floor offered a master bedroom and bath which pleased Catherine. The claw foot tub was something out of an old movie, and she couldn’t wait to take a bath. There was also a shower head and curtain if she preferred showers. The rest of the second floor was a succession of large bedrooms that had been converted to small ones with tiny baths. Not that the size bothered Catherine. She wasn’t looking to entertain.

  The tour ended back in the parlour where the large windows filled the room with light. Catherine decided this was where she would write her novel. When she hit a roadblock, she would simply look over the cliff and out to the blue sea.

  After the house, it was Brainerd’s task to show Catherine the grounds. He started with the front which faced the cliff.

  “Don’t get too close,” Brainerd told her. “The edge is fragile and gives way sometimes.”

  From the top of the cliff, Catherine could see Kilmaran below, the small bay, and further, the broad ocean. The sea breeze tousled her hair, and she didn’t mind. The scene was straight out of some magazine, a photo shoot of a near-perfect retirement. She had no illusions about how difficult the life might be, but she was thankful for the solitude. While writers might visit pubs for inspiration, they wrote great books alone with their tears.

  As they walked the perimeter of the property, Catherine felt eyes on her everywhere she went, as if someone was watching her. Several times, she looked back at the tower, trying to catch a glimpse of the girl she had seen earlier. Despite the fact that the girl had disappeared, Catherine couldn’t shake the feeling. It was like walking through a department store and noticing the cameras.

  “Have you ever been inside the tower?” Catherine asked Brainerd.

  “No, ma’am,” he answered.

  “Has anyone been inside the tower?”

  “Not that I know of, ma’am.”

  “No one does any inspections or anything?” A hint of irritation coloured her words wondering if Brainerd could string more than a few words together at a time.

  “No.” He answered. Curbing her temper, she continued imparting curiosity into her tone.

  “Well, does it have electricity?”

  “I wouldn’t know ma’am. I doubt it.”

  “But surely you would know. You’ve been here forever. You know all about this place.”

  “Aye ma’am, a life time, near to it, but I’ve never been up to the tower. No one has for a hundred year.”

  “But it could be full of birds or animals. The roof could leak. There could be all sorts of problems.”

  “Aye, but it doesn’t leak, and there are no animals.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “They couldn’t abide the spirits.” Catherine stopped walking and turned to face Brainerd.

  “Spirits? What spirits?”

  “I wouldn’t know, ma’am. I only know they’re there.”

  This time impatience rushed over her and her words fell out in a sharp tumble. “How do you know?”

  At that moment, a HOWL rushed over them, a howl that she couldn’t pinpoint. Yet, it was a howl that raised the hair on her arms, the breath caught in her throat.

  Catherine whirled around scanning the surrounds, as if hoping to catch it before it ran. Perhaps because it was daylight, and nothing moved, the howl seemed incredibly eerie.

  Brainerd raised his head and fixed her with a stare. His eyes were steely with accusation. “Them be the spirits. Now, you know what they sound like.”

  “Nonsense.” A shudder ran over Catherine and she stalked off toward the Hall.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Wanetta had made a simple, delicious lunch of soup and salad. Feeling calmer Catherine pondered Highcliff Hall. She couldn’t quite wrap her mind around her situation. She had inherited a solid house that had seen centuries. It had a tall tower that no one had entered in living memory a tower where a teenage girl lived, seemingly beyond detection. That sounded crazy. Catherine pushed the girl and the tower out of her head, and decided to organise her new home.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  It took only an
hour arranging the master bedroom, Catherine congratulated herself on her efficiency, happy that she didn’t have more clothes. Then, she tackled the parlour. With Brainerd’s help, she moved a heavy table to a perfect spot in front of the windows and a small sofa to the side. She ran the telephone line to the table since she needed an internet connection. As she stared her laptop computer, she wondered what sort of modem and router she would need.

  “Is there an electronics store in the village?” Catherine asked.

  “Aye, on the square.”

  “And do I have to take the road to reach the village?”

  “There is a path along the cliff, but I don’t recommend it.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s steep and slippery, especially when a squall blows in.”

  “And dark, I suppose.”

  “Darker than the bottom of the sea, the very bottom of the sea.”

  “But if the path is dangerous, how can I get to the village quickly?”

  “In the car shed is a bicycle. I’ll fix it up if ye wish.”

  “I do wish—until I can get a car.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Dusk had arrived by the time Catherine had transformed the parlour into a writer’s cubby hole. She looked out over the cliff, and a sudden chill blew across her neck, as if someone had left a window open. She spun, and there stood Wanetta.

  Catherine noticed her heart skipped a beat but with years of practice at playing it cool she kept the shock out of her voice.

  “Did you feel it?” Catherine asked casually.

  “Feel what?”

  “A draft, a cold draft. There’s a window open somewhere.”

  “The windows are shut tight, but Brainerd can start a fire before we leave.” The notion of being by herself hit Catherine harder than she expected. She curbed a trace of fear from entering her tone.

  “You’re leaving? You don’t stay here? But I thought you did… I was told...”

  “No ma’am, not when the heir is here. But I’ll be back in the morning. Same as Brainerd. Supper’s in the fridge.”

  “Don’t bother with a fire.” Catherine snapped, “If I need one, I’ll do it.” She blinked her eyes, shocked at the ferocity in her voice. Wanetta seemed not to notice, but simply inclined her head.

  “Yes, ma’am. Is there anything else?” Catherine felt anxiety tighten her belly. She covered it with impatience.

  “Any luck with the key to that padlock?”

  “No, ma’am, but I have begun the search.” With that, the old woman shuffled away, leaving Catherine rubbing her neck, chafing away the cold and feeling unreservedly lonely.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Catherine read while she ate dinner and sipped her tea making it the way Wanetta did, sweet and creamy. There was something very soothing about Wanetta’s tea and she had to admit the old woman could cook. After dinner, she squashed the flicker of anxiety that worried her belly and walked through the Hall, looking for the source of the cold breeze. Catherine scoffed at herself.

  It wasn’t like her to feel so irritated over nothing. It was the combination of the locked tower with its squatter tenant and the absolute refusal of Wanetta and Brainerd to co-operate with her which upset her. Brainerd’s explanation of the howling creature was ludicrous. Everything had its explanation, she would take care of things here soon enough.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  As Wanetta had promised, the windows were secure. Stumped, she retreated to the master bedroom.

  What she noticed as she entered the room was the darkness outside. It flashed through her mind, that anyone would see her, if they were out there, but she would see naught. Moving to the window, she cupped her eyes around her hands and looked. In the inky night, she saw nothing, not even the cliffs. And there were no outside lights, at least none that had been turned on for her.

  Irritation ran through her. The fantastical tale from the Hag combined with the superstition from these yokels must have wormed its way into her mind. Ludicrous. Get some sleep. But none-the-less, she made a mental note to have Brainerd install several lights. Just because Brainerd and Wanetta go to the village at night doesn’t mean I have to be alone in the dark. It just makes sense to have the surrounds well lit. Pulling the curtains tight to shut out the blackness, the last thing she did before she went to bed was to lock the bedroom door.

  It was one of those falling dreams, one where she tumbled out a window or off a cliff. She was falling, and she had no chance to save herself.

  The ocean crashed against the rocks but it was so dark she couldn’t see anything. And she was falling. For a moment, she wondered if she was going to wake up. People said you always wake up because you never see yourself die. If you do…

  Catherine woke with a start, gasping with relief, her heart thundering in her chest. She lay quietly, resting for a moment, happy to be out of the dream. Then, she noticed the darkness in her room had lifted. Moonlight streamed on her bed, slivering light in from a window she thought she had covered. Shifting slightly, she squinted before her eyes opened wide. If the moonlight was disconcerting, the figure standing in the middle of the light was terrifying. Catherine’s body unintentionally recoiled, as she moved, slowly, pointlessly, backwards.

  Chapter Four

  During her career as a journalist, Catherine had often found herself in dangerous situations, and always found her way out again. Catherine was frozen, gazing through the dark. The black figure in the moonlight shouldn’t be there… couldn’t be there. Her throat dried up and she tried to swallow but a huge lump was constricting; and it hurt. The problem was… she wasn’t even sure the shape was real. She tried to shove that thought out of her mind. It was there. OK. It IS real. It’s not a phantom. I have to deal with this. Do something if you want to survive.

  “I’m armed,” she managed to squeak out, pointlessly. It was a lie, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say and she knew that often a lie paid off better than the truth.

  The figure didn’t answer. The figure didn’t move. It stood absolutely still. It offered nothing.

  Catherine waited another half minute before she spun, lunged, and turned on the lamp. She had pictured the move as smooth and quick, but it was awkward and fumbling. Still, she managed the light and whirled to the window.

  The figure was gone. There was nothing. Just a window with the curtains pulled apart and the moonlight streaming through. Holding her breath, she rolled out of bed and ran to the door jerking at it; not remembering she had locked it earlier. She turned the key and then turned it back.

  Her mind was whirling. Get a grip. Get a fucking grip. But, where was he? If the man hadn’t come through the door, then she wasn’t going to unlock it now and let him loose to hide anywhere. Where is that son of a bitch. She turned back to the room. The window. She moved quickly and closed the curtains that had somehow been pulled aside.

  Looking around for a weapon she reached out and grabbed a hold of the poker from the fireplace. Armed with it, she searched the walk-in closet. No one waited there. Then, she searched the bath. Nope, no one there either. For one long moment, she wondered if the man had stood outside the window. But no, if that were so, then the curtains would still be closed. No, he had been in the room. How did he get in?

  In the back of her mind, she knew she wasn’t going to discover a secret entrance in the middle of the night. That would have to wait for daylight. She didn’t turn off the light but grabbed a pillow, a blanket, and her mobile phone and retreated to the bath and locked the door. Finding the most comfortable corner and settling down for the rest of the night, like a seven-year-old, she left the light on, holding the poker.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Catherine woke stiff and cold, colder than she should be. The air was dank and hung heavily around.

  She stretched out her limbs and rolled her head back and forth, listening to her neck bones protest. She had had many uncomfortable nights in many uncomfortable places, but no other night compared with her retreat to the bath. N
one-the-less, what sleep she had managed, left her with a better outlook. She would figure it out.

  Standing and looking around Catherine vowed to discover how the man had entered and left the bedroom. She wasn’t about to spend a second night wondering who might happen along to watch her sleep. And the first person she had to question was…Wanetta.

  Fruit and oatmeal greeted Catherine as she entered the kitchen. Wanetta put a cup of tea on the table as Catherine sat.

  “Wanetta,” Catherine said. “Is there a secret entrance to the master bedroom?”

  “What?” Catherine was sure she heard her the first time and fixed her with a stare.

  “Last night, I woke up and saw a man standing in front of the window. When I turned on the light, he was gone. Where did he go?”

  “Out the door, I would expect.”

  Jabbing the spoon at her oatmeal Catherine pulled it in and out several times, not eating. Wanetta busied herself and as far as Catherine could tell, ignored the burn that Catherine stared into her back.

  “The door was locked and so was the window.”

  Catherine’s voice was clipped and icy. Wanetta didn’t turn around.

  Catherine resisted lunging at the old crow and throttling her. She needed an attitude adjustment, but now wasn’t the right time. Instead keeping her voice calm, with just a slight enquiry to it she said again,

  “Nope, the windows and the doors were locked.”

  “Then, I wouldn’t know, miss.”

  A wave of rage rose up in Catherine and fighting to keep her temper, she offered in a light sing song tone,

  “Well, I don’t know either. I woke up, he was there. He got in without my seeing him and he got out again.”