The floor spread out before her leading up to a large central staircase. It was carpeted in rich deep burgundy. A three-foot spread of carpet was sentineled by two feet of dark wood, mahogany she thought. There was a thick crimson rope strung across the stairs as if to bar entry.
It made her chuckle for a moment but she passed over it and looked further around.
The walls were a rich cream and large portraits hung all around. There were several of a severe looking man and woman with lots and lots of children. Must have been before television, she thought with a chuckle.
Stepping a little further into the room, her footsteps echoed all around her and she did a little twirl, feeling rather ungainly with the suitcase. This place was just amazing. Perfect for her writing and so different to everything she was used to, it would surely ease her nerves.
Either side of her across the great expanse of the hallway was a door leading into a room and then in front of the stairs was a passageway, with the same wood block floor. She decided to explore those later, for now she turned to the door on her left. As she did, she noticed a small table to the left of the entrance. There was a large vase of flowers on it. What a wonderful treat. Quickly she walked across and admired the white lilies and pink and red roses that made such a beautiful display. Reaching out she took one of the blood-red roses in her hand. A sharp prick caused her to cry out before she could pull the rose to her nose. Ignoring the pain she breathed in deeply expecting the scent of a country garden. With a grimace she pulled the rose away. The scent was sickly, and reminded her of rotting flesh. Shaking her head she looked at her finger to see a drop of blood. The rose must still have its thorns. An old Chinese proverb came into her mind. “A thorn defends the rose, harming only those who would steal the blossom.”
Maybe the house thought she was stealing from it... where had that thought come from?
The doctor had told her that the anxiety medication she was on could make her feel, one a little drunk, two confused, and three possibly suffer hallucinations. It had been a really reassuring conversation! Was this medication supposed to help or make things worse? Only, that was just her control issues talking. She hated to feel out of control and sometimes the tablets made her feel that way. Maybe she should ease up on them for a few days and see if the change of circumstances was enough to get her mojo back?
Still sucking the blood from her finger, she noticed an envelope in front of the flowers. It was cream, heavyweight paper with her name written in an extravagant script.
Miss Rosie Benson.
Picking it up, she turned the envelope over to see that it was sealed with a round red circle of wax with something stamped into it. Peering at the wax and feeling a little giddy at such a formal form of correspondence, she stared at the seal. That was what it was. One of those that used heated wax. Just like she wrote about in her own stories. Suddenly the idea came to her that she would have a romance through correspondence. Her hero and heroine would not know who they were conversing with until after they had fallen in love. It could be a historical version of You’ve Got Mail. She loved that film. Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, there was just so much chemistry between them. Again she tried to discern the shape in the seal. It looked like a human skull but that couldn’t be possible, could it? A shudder ran through her and her eyes would not leave the seal. What sort of people would have a skull as their seal?
Pushing the thought away, she slid her finger under the seal and broke the wax. Why did it look like blood? What was wrong with her? First she sees blood red roses, then she pricks her finger and now a blood red seal. It looks like she has become obsessed. Then she remembered back to the incident. There was plenty of blood and maybe it was understandable that she now saw it everywhere.
Deftly, she pulled the single sheet of paper out of the envelope. Once more it was written in an ornate script with a real fountain pen. Such lovely penmanship gave her an entirely new feeling. This one was of romance and old time courtesy. It took her back to an age where life was different, and in her mind, so much better. There were no cars polluting up the planet. No computers and phones constantly demanding your attention. It was a world where you could relax and be yourself. A world of charm and manners, of ball gowns and garden parties and suddenly she wanted to write again. Already this house had done her such wonders. Amy was right, this was the perfect place to finish her book and to escape the past.
The letter was still in her hand and as she looked down, blood from the rose prick had soaked into the beautiful paper. It looked like a crimson ink blot and filled her with despair. Such a beautiful letter and she had destroyed it. Was Clive right? Did she destroy everything she touched?
At the mere thought of him the scar on her cheek throbbed and the burns on her arm and chest flamed with heat. She had to stop this. It was simply the rantings of a bully and one who knew that she was about to let him go. It was just a way to hurt her and by allowing it to do so she gave him a power he didn’t deserve.
Raising the letter she began to read.
Dear Miss Benson,
As you may well be aware, the house is owned by my wife and I, we are The Duncan’s. We do not visit it regularly but Matron has been checking in on occasion. She is getting weaker now and needs to rejuvenate, hence your position here. Your job is to give the house a little life. To live here and ensure that its needs are met.
You have been carefully selected and we are sure that you will make the house happy. However, there are rules that we hope you will follow. As it is such a large house the upper floors are off limits as are the outbuildings. You are to live on the ground floor only and not to force any doors that appear locked. Matron has prepared a room for you to sleep in and one to write. They are opposite the library. The kitchen is stocked and will be kept filled with adequate supplies. Write anything you need on the list on the fridge door.
Matron looks after the place. She may pop in from time to time but it is unlikely that you will see her. If you do, please do exactly as she says.
Though I doubt we will meet on this side of the vale we hope you enjoy your stay and know that we will.
Yours sincerely,
Jeremiah Duncan
Rosie held the letter in her hand and almost let out a laugh. What a strange document. It was also a little creepy, but she had heard from Amy that this was not unusual. Amy spent her life house sitting for rich clients. She loved the job. Was always in a different location, always in a fantastic house and all her needs were paid for. Though she had mentioned that some of the clients could leave the strangest of requests. She had been asked to sing to the house plants. Only Gilbert and Sullivan songs. She had also been asked to put flowers on a pet's grave and read a chapter of a book a day to another grave, but at that job they never told her whose. It was creepy but she was paid well and the job was soon over.
Rosie turned the letter over in her hand. There was no mention of how long they wanted her here. She had been told it was an open assignment and that she would get more details as time went on. Well if Matron was ill then she guessed it would depend on when she was well enough to work again.
Folding the letter over and putting it back in the envelope she left her case near the table and decided to fetch in the others before she explored.
Stepping outside the door she walked down to her cases. They were scattered around as if they had been kicked over by a petulant teenager. What had happened?
For a moment she just stared at the cases, her mouth open. Who could have done this? Then the old sickness was back in her stomach. He had found her! Looking around she searched for Clive. There was no cover close to the house. The trees were dotted about the grounds but there was nowhere for a car to be parked and it was too far from the road for him to have walked. Slowly she began to back towards the house. What if he was inside?
She whipped around, her heart pounding so hard that it tightened her chest and made it hard to breathe. Her hand went to the scar, her burnt hand and she was frozen
on the spot. Then a breeze lifted her hair and she let out a laugh along with a great gust of tension. The wind had knocked over the cases.
Picking them up she went back inside and placed them on the beautiful floor. Then she shut the door. Taking one last look around at the grounds. They looked so peaceful, so beautiful and so well maintained. Matron must have had help. The house, what she had seen, was immaculate inside and so were the grounds. She hoped that it would not take her too long to keep it that way. Nothing must disturb her writing if she was to meet her deadline.
Closing the door, she locked it and placed the key on the table below the flowers. Now it was time to explore. Yet, her joy of the house was gone. Thinking of Clive had left her feeling sick and nervous. Would she ever escape his clutches?
3
Rosie spent the next forty minutes exploring her new home. The room to the left of the hallway was a library. It was wonderful, like something out of her novels. It was decorated in a mushroom color. The walls rich and the upholstery matching. The carpet was a similar color with veins of green running through it. There were several little sofas in a deep rich chestnut velvet spotted around the huge room, and against the sidewall, a huge fireplace surrounded by sofas, chairs, and a writing desk.
The room opposite was a large kitchen with an attached pantry. There were red slates on the floor. A huge range cooker and deep mahogany units. The sink was old fashioned and ceramic. The taps steel. When she turned them on the pipes rattled ominously for a few moments before spitting out some brown water. That was just what she needed!
Feeling a little despondent she held her hand on the tap as it vibrated from beneath the earth and then eventually the water ran clean. Maybe it was safe to drink? Maybe it had just been left for a while. She glanced around. The house was immaculate. There was not a speck of dust or a cobweb in sight. If Matron was ill she had done a very good job of keeping the place in order.
Turning she saw two doors. One was in the corner of the room and the other the middle of the same wall. She went to the left one first and found it was a pantry, fully stocked with jars, cans, and bags of everything from fish to flour. Much of it she would not know what to do with. In a panic she searched the kitchen. There was not a microwave in sight. More dread settled on her. It looked like she was going to have to cook. Then she spotted cans of beans, tuna, ham. Hopefully there would be bread, cheese, eggs, and bacon. She could manage omelets, sandwiches, and a good old breakfast. Looking out of the kitchen window, she noticed a small garden. There were lettuce and other salad vegetables growing. Behind the gardens were some old and dilapidated looking buildings. These must be the outbuildings mentioned in the letter. They were off bounds to her and she wondered if maybe it was because they looked a little unsafe. A few of the roof tiles looked loose and the roof itself dipped in the middle. Behind them was a woodland. The trees looked thick, dense and uninviting.
Then she turned to the door in the corner. There was a note on the door.
This room is out of bounds.
Do not enter.
How strange!
Rosie had always been one of those people who did not take well to authority. She had always been a rule breaker as a child, and seeing the sign made her hand reach down for the handle. It was old brass, darkened by many years and no doubt countless hands. As she touched it she felt a slight shock and pulled her hand back with a laugh. It had to be static... and yet the floor was slate. How would she build up any charge?
It didn’t matter. She had the urge for a cup of tea and remembered seeing some bottled water in the pantry. It took her a while to work out how to light the range. She filled the heavy black kettle and placed it on the ring before finding the fridge. Pulling the door open she was assaulted with a smell of decay and stepped back. The door closed and the scent was gone. A groan escaped her. If all the food was rotten then how would she cope? Until she received her first pay check money was tight. With a feeling of despair she opened the fridge again. This time there was no smell and she looked in. It was stocked to the brim with everything she could need. There was meat, cheese, salad, vegetables, milk, and yogurts. The bottom half was a freezer and she looked in there to find lots more supplies.
The sound of the kettle boiling behind her made her jump and she let go of the door. With a laugh she turned away and made some tea. Strong and black just the way she liked it.
With the cup in her hand she explored the rest of the house. On one side of the stairs there was a large dining room, and a couple of box rooms. On the other she found her bedroom, a small bathroom, an office and a small sitting room. It was just perfect. So she set up her laptop in the office that adjoined onto her bedroom and opened up a document. For a moment, she looked around the large room. The office was painted in a deep russet. It should have appeared dark and depressing but instead it made the room look big and grand. The drapes were an even stronger orange brown but deeply complemented the walls and there was a pale ochre rug on the polished wooden floor.
It was a sumptuous room with a large hardwood desk and an old-fashioned captain’s chair. It was the sort of room she had sometimes dreamed of and here she was able to have it all to herself. Maybe it would help encourage her muse to put in an appearance. So she took a breath and looked down at the blank screen.
This was when she usually started to panic. To write she needed to be totally immersed in her story. There was no room for outside influence and thoughts but since the incident she could not let her mind go and truly relax. The slightest noise would force her back to the terrifying night. She would almost feel the force of the blows. Feel the skin melting as he shoved her hand into the boiling soup and then pulled the pan over onto her. Then her cheek would burn, a white hot pain just like the knife slicing through her tender flesh.
Shaking her head she pushed the thoughts away. She was torturing herself. Forcing the memories to come back when there had been no trigger. It was something her counselor had warned her against and she knew she had to stop it. So she took a deep breath. In and out, concentrate on nothing but her breathing and let her mind go blank. It took a while but before she knew it characters were popping into her mind and the plot of her book began to take shape.
Looking back at her laptop she began to type. Soon she had mapped out her main characters and set up the premise of a story. Of course her main characters hated each other in person but they were introduced in correspondence by a good friend. Her female character would be Henrietta Carter and her hero would be Miles Drake Browning. The minute she had given them names, they came to life in her mind and pulled her into the tale they wished to tell.
Henrietta was willful and disobedient but her family needed her to marry. Miles was jaded and bored with the same women who chased him for his wealth.
As the characters formed, her fingers flew across the keyboard. First she wrote out the character traits for all her key players. Giving each one a detailed life and characteristics. Then she wrote a plot. Over the next several hours she honed and built upon it until it filled her with excitement and joy. The happy ending was satisfying and yet not too predictable and she knew that she wanted to write this book.
As she saved the document it occurred to her that the room was dark. How long had she been writing? That very thought brought her out of her zone and she was instantly hungry. A quick look at her watch told her it was almost 9 pm and she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. A laugh escaped her. She was back. This move had been the best thing she could have done.
Getting up from her desk, she pushed back the chair and realized just how dark the room was. Away from the laptop screen it seemed like a pit of gloom and for a moment she did not want to move out of the laptops comforting glow. A curl of fear appeared in her stomach and froze her to the spot. This was silly and she turned and headed for the door. That would be the logical place for the light switch. It seemed a long way and the further she got from the laptop the darker it seemed. It was almost too dark and she put her ha
nds out in front of her. What if something was there? What if someone was there?
Ignoring her fear, she took another step and another. She had counted another six steps before her fingers found the wall. Then she started to search for a switch. The surface should have been smooth paint but it seemed to crumble under her fingers. The urge to pull her hand away was strong but she had to find the switch. Panic was waiting to consume her and if she did not bring light to the room soon she knew that it would win. Her breath was coming faster and faster. The laptop screen shone in the darkness but it was so far away. Had she really walked that far or was her vision starting to fade with panic?
Her hand scrabbled across the wall until it hit the doorframe. That had to be a good point of reference. She searched around the frame and her breath got faster, her chest tighter and her heart pounded so loud she could hear nothing else.
At last her fingers found the switch and she pushed it down. For a moment nothing happened and she heard a small cry escape her strangled throat.
What now?
Then glorious light flooded the room and all was back to normal. She had simply had a panic attack. A worthless one at that, for she could have pulled out her phone and put on the torch app at any time. That thought filled her with relief and a little guilt. How long had she been here and she hadn’t even sent Amy a text to tell she had arrived safely. With the room flooded with light she went back to the table and closed the laptop.
Leaving the room she found light switches as she went. They cast a yellow light duller but warmer than she was used to. It reminded her of years gone by before LEDs and the blue and harsh lights she had become used to. Once she arrived at the kitchen, she pulled out a pan and began to make an omelet. As it cooked she typed off a text to Amy.
The Ghosts of RedRise House Page 3