My father lowered his head, recalling the drama.
"Imagine what it felt like for me as a boy to see the woman shot before my eyes."
He fell silent for minute before continuing, his mind locked in traumatic memory.
"I think your grandfather told you and named himself in the diary as being Emily's killer in order to protect his wife's reputation, should the incident ever be investigated. I know that he was greatly relieved when Emily was no more."
"Then what happened to Emily's body?" I asked. "There was nothing to show she was thrown into the old well."
My father appeared to hesitate in answering the question, but finally spoke.
"The well had been capped by then. She's buried under the floorboards in that room where you stayed as a boy." He paused, his eyes rounding on me. "And you are never to tell the police or anyone else. It's a family secret and should stay buried forever."
The shadow of Emily, it seemed, would always remain with me. A family secret to carry to my own grave.
OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR
I hope you enjoyed Emily's Evil Ghost. If you would like to read more of my books they are listed below and available through Amazon. But first a taste of my popular novel:
CURSED SOULS GUEST HOUSE
IT BEGAN with the prospect of a great summertime holiday in beautiful countryside. It descended into the jaws of hell.
"The Yorkshire Dales, that's where we should go," my wife Helen suggested as we sat together on the sofa in our two-bedroom apartment. She was flipping through pages of a country living magazine, and had opened a page showing outstanding views of rolling green pastures, hills and dales in the lush rural setting.
The photos were a welcoming sight compared to the outlook from our home in Birmingham, overlooking an endlessly busy main road at the front and an industrial estate at the back.
We had a week's summer holiday coming, and had been wondering how to spend the time.
"Well, what do you think Andrew?" she asked, as I looked across at the magazine photos.
"Looks good," I replied, distracted from watching a nature programme on the TV about tigers. "Don't think we'll meet too many of them in the Dales," I said, pointing to the shot of a tiger leaping at a terrified wild boar trying desperately to escape.
At that moment I didn't realise we too would soon become the victims of a terrifying powerful force intent on our destruction, with cunning far beyond any tiger.
"Be serious," Helen slapped me on the shoulder. "Stop watching the television and concentrate," she commanded. "I'm trying to arrange our holiday. Now I think we should do it as a hiking tour."
"Not sure about hiking. I want to rest on holiday. We can see places in the car." The idea of walking miles was not particularly appealing to me.
"You've become overweight since you got the office manager's job at Mason's Engineering. You need to lose some." Helen had mentioned my increasing size before. I realised the hiking idea was a bit of a ruse she'd been working on for a while.
It was alright for her as an instructor at the local keep fit centre, where we'd first met a few years ago. I was admittedly a lot shapelier then, enjoying regular exercise. Being office bound in a couple of jobs since had changed my lifestyle.
"Okay, we'll do a hiking holiday," I relented. Helen smiled, acknowledging my defeat.
A fortnight later we set off for Carnswold village in the Yorkshire Dales, complete with new shorts, tops, backpacks and hiking boots, heading towards bed and breakfast accommodation which Helen had booked as the base for our week stay.
The route I drove narrowed into hedgerow lined country lanes as we neared the property that would serve as our temporary home. Breaks in the hedges gave views across miles of pastures. Farmsteads and cottages dotted across the plain rose in and out of valleys to the hazy horizon.
The road descended along winding bends with woodland on each side, and crossed a river bridge as we entered a small hamlet lined with stone cottages. The road continued a little further alongside the river until we arrived at Sunnyside, the name of our cottage accommodation.
It was a name to fit the surroundings perfectly. Warm sunshine lighting the field on the other side of the sparkling river, and woodland at the top of a hill beyond. The world seemed restfully peaceful.
The enchantment didn't last long.
Carrying our suitcases from the car, we opened the gate on to a small paved front garden and rang the doorbell. A middle-aged woman with a droopy face answered.
"Mrs Meadows?" I asked. She nodded.
"I'm Andrew Swanson and this is my wife Helen."
"You're early," she snapped.
I looked at my watch. We'd arrived half-an-hour earlier than the three o'clock time of arrival Helen had given in the booking.
"I don't know if your room's ready yet. Wait a minute." She closed the door and left us standing outside.
"Great start," I remarked to Helen.
"Give it a minute," she replied, forever the mediator. "We've probably caught her in the middle of getting things ready for guests."
That I could forgive, but the woman's rudeness annoyed me. Several minutes later the door opened again.
"Come on in then," Mrs Meadows waved her head for us to enter. She led us down a gloomy narrow hallway, bearing faded floral wallpaper, to a desk where we signed in.
"Number five on the first floor," our host barked, handing over the keys. "Dinner's at seven thirty," the woman turned and walked away, entering a room further down the hall and closing the door.
I was unaware Helen had booked an evening meal for us as well, but some food laid on in the evening after a long hike seemed a good idea.
Our room looked drab, a deeply scratched chest of drawers, the wardrobe with a door that didn't close properly and bedside tables that wobbled. The en-suite sink was stained and the shower cubicle hadn't been cleaned.
"Let's try and make the best of it," Helen detected my discontent.
So making the best of it, we spent time taking a riverbank stroll into Carnswold village a short distance away. I saw a pub and suggested I wouldn't mind a holiday pint of beer. The suggestion was met with disapproval.
"No," said Helen, "on this holiday you can have tea, coffee, water and soft drinks. Maybe a glass of wine with evening meals if you're good. You're going to get some of that weight off."
Once again I conceded, and we settled on coffee in a cafe a little way along the narrow cottage lined high street, passing a small sub-post office and newsagent on the way.
After coffee and sandwiches for our late lunch, we continued the stroll down a footpath leading into a wood and out across a field, enjoying the sunshine and relaxation before returning to the unwelcoming lodging for dinner.
The meal was awful. I had beef casserole, which possibly contained the rubbery meat of a cow three hundred years old, and Helen's vegetarian sausages resembled compacted sawdust. Tasted like it too, Helen remarked, pushing them aside on the plate with her fork to attempt the pulp of remaining mashed potato and cabbage.
We looked across at a couple of dinner guests also staying at Sunnyside. Their grim faces showed signs of agreement.
After so called dinner we decided on an early night to be fit and ready for our trekking. Helen looked beautiful as she undressed, her lovely soft face and long, light brown hair, was a familiar sight to me in our everyday routine at home, but in new surroundings my feelings of desire seemed to be newly sparked into life.
"I'm so glad we met," I told her, undressing and approaching. She looked lovingly into my eyes. We kissed and slowly descended on to the bed.
"Aaagh!" she cried, pushing me away just as her back settled on the mattress.
"What?"
"There's a bloody great lump in the bed." Helen rolled to one side and pulled back the quilt. Sure enough, a bed spring from the innards beneath the sheet rose like a small hill in the centre. It was certainly an effective passion dampener, perhaps left like it by the joyle
ss guest house owner I thought.
We settled instead on trying to get a good night's sleep, which wasn't easy, sinking into sagging mattress on either side of the spring. We'd chosen the Yorkshire Dales for its hills and valleys, but hadn't expected to find them in our bed. I was not going to tolerate this place for much longer.
In the morning breakfast was served to us by a man we hadn't seen until now. I presumed he was Mrs Meadows' husband. His drooping face and similar age certainly matched hers. Without greeting he slapped down our breakfasts on the table, bacon and egg for me and a bowl of muesli for Helen, devoid of any other eating choice.
I complained to him about the room and the bed.
"This isn't the bloody Ritz you know," he growled in return. Then stormed out mumbling curses under his breath.
"He's right there," I said to Helen.
"We'll buy some food out," she tried to placate me. "We'll be hiking most of the time. Let's enjoy the daytimes."
Setting off for our first hike, annoyances with the accommodation soon melted away as we crossed amazing countryside, passing sheep, cows and horses grazing in lush meadows.
We'd been hiking for a couple of hours when the footpath led us off a field into a narrow lane. A few hundred yards further up the slope of the lane, we came alongside a high black wrought iron gate, tall red-brick walls stretching away on each side.
The name 'Longhurst House' was embedded in gold lettering on a grey plate set in the sidewall. Through the gate railings we could see a wide gravel forecourt, and beyond a magnificent L-shaped three-storey house with bay windows, crowned by a lantern roof at the corner and gables on each side. We stopped to admire it.
"That place must be very old," I remarked to Helen.
"Some parts of it date back to the 1650s," a woman's voice seemed for a moment to come from nowhere. "It's been extended and rebuilt over the years."
The voice took the form of an elderly woman who appeared from behind the side wall to greet us with a smile through the gate railings.
"Would you like to take a closer look at the house?" she invited, inquisitive eyes set in a wrinkled, kindly face. We nodded that we would.
Wearing gardening gloves, she lifted the latch in the middle of the gate and opened one side. We entered.
The woman had a green apron over her black dress. She removed the gloves and tucked them into the apron's broad front pocket.
"Just doing a bit of gardening," she said. A grass verge with a colourful flowerbed behind ran along one side of the gravel forecourt. On the other side, a lawn split by a paved path fronted the entrance to the house. The red-brick wall, at least fifteen feet high, surrounded the property.
"My family's lived in this house for three generations," the woman told us with pride. "Come and take a look inside if you wish." She led us along the path towards the front door.
"On a hiking holiday are you?" she obviously guessed from our clothing.
"Attempting to get my husband fit again," Helen joked. The woman smiled.
"Silly me, I'm forgetting my manners. I'm Millicent Hendry," the lady introduced herself as we reached the door. "My friends call me Millie, not that I have so many of them now as most of them have died with the passing years. Feel free to call me Millie."
In return I introduced Helen and myself.
Millie opened the sturdy wooden door and beckoned us inside. The entrance hall looked majestic, painted in deep dark red, with ornate coving and half-length wood panelling along the walls. She opened a door into the lounge displaying framed paintings of scenic Yorkshire Dales pastures, a carved wood surround fireplace and valuable looking Georgian chairs.
Another door opened into the lounge, also featuring a carved wood surround fireplace, a large oriental rug, brown leather sofa and a couple of armchairs. More scenic paintings hung on the walls.
At the end of the hallway a glass panelled door looked over the back garden, another wide gravelled area bordered by beds of shrubs and colourful flowers. A door to the side opened on to the kitchen, which was in complete contrast to the traditional setting we'd seen so far. Inside was a modern cooking range, cupboards and work surfaces.
"Health and Safety laws and all that," Millie said apologetically, noticing our surprise at the difference in style. "I used to do bed and breakfast. The old kitchen, flagstone floor, larder and wood burning stove couldn't meet modern legal standards. So a lot of the original has been replaced or covered over for some years now."
Helen and I shook our heads sympathising at Millie's sad parting with the past.
"Pity you don't do bed and breakfast now," I said, lamenting the fact that such a friendly person and wonderful place was unavailable as an alternative to the dump guest house where we were lodging. As I said it, Helen discreetly tugged my arm as if she wanted me to stop going further down that line.
"Well I get the occasional hikers calling to ask if bed and breakfast is available here," Millie replied. "If I like the look of them, sometimes I'm prepared to put them up for a while. Gives me a bit of company since my husband passed away ten years ago."
"I suppose we'd better be making our way back now," said Helen. "We've more walking to do before we return to our lodging and freshen up for dinner."
It was not exactly a welcoming prospect returning to Sunnyside, and heaven knows what foul food awaited for our evening meal, but Helen was right. As we made our way back to the front door, I told Millie about the terrible place where we were staying. We left the house and began walking along the garden path to the forecourt.
"In no way would I wish to interfere with your plans, but if you like, you're very welcome to come and stay here with me for the rest of your holiday," Millie offered. "I can provide breakfast and evening meals, and I have a lovely bedroom that I think you'd find very comfortable."
For me that seemed like an offer we couldn't refuse. Helen's less than enthusiastic face didn't appear so keen.
"Well, we've paid for the place where we're staying," she said. That was true. Because we'd booked at short notice we had to pay full price up front.
"We'll go back and demand a refund," I insisted, turning to Helen. "The place just isn't up to standard for the money."
"I didn't want to cause an argument," Millie intervened. "It wasn't my intention to interfere with your plans."
"You're not. Please don't apologise," I assured her. "I think Helen's just worried about running costs up." My wife gave me a thunderous look as I spoke.
"I'd enjoy your company, that would be enough compensation for the accommodation," said Millie. "My only charge would be for your food, and I can source that at low cost from a local supplier who I've known for years."
I was sold on the offer. Helen seemed to reluctantly agree.
"We'll stay one more night at our lodging and come over to you tomorrow morning if that's okay?" I asked to Millie.
"Perfectly fine," she agreed.
As we stood talking on the forecourt, a man appeared at the open gate holding two alsatians on leads. The dogs saw us and started barking aggressively.
"Quiet!" Millie ordered, with amazing forceful authority for a woman of her age it seemed to me. The animals immediately obeyed, looking almost guilty for making a noise.
"Those are my precious dogs, Rufus and Petra," Millie announced.
The man holding them on the leashes closed the gate behind him and released the animals. They ran to Millie and she bent down to stroke them The dogs looked thrilled to be in the company of their mistress.
Helen grabbed my arm. She was nervous of strange dogs, and large ones like alsatians in particular. A dog had attacked her when she was a girl she'd told me. It left an indelible fear in her psyche. I put my arm round her shoulders to reassure her all was well. Millie noticed Helen's reaction.
"It's okay. They won't hurt you," she added to my reassurance. "They are very obedient, and they know any guests of mine are my friends to be treated with the utmost respect."
As the dogs
wandered off towards the back garden, the man who'd brought them here drew near.
"This is my grandson Nicholas, or Nick as we call him," Millie introduced the newcomer. The man was huge. Tall, muscular and wide, wearing a light blue short-sleeved shirt, and navy trousers.
He nodded to our presence saying nothing, just studying us through curious wide eyes set in a large square face, topped by black curly hair.
"Nick takes the alsatians for a walk now and then," Millie continued telling us about her grandson. "And to dog training sessions every Saturday morning in the village, don't you Nick?" she prompted. The man nodded again. It appeared he was not a great talker.
"There's some homemade blackberry and apple crumble in the kitchen I've made for you," she told him. The news brought a smile to the man's face. He left, heading into the house.
"Forgive Nick, he doesn't say much, but has a heart of gold," Millie explained. "His mother, my daughter, and her husband died in a tragic car crash when he was a boy. I don't think he's ever truly got over the trauma. I brought him up and now he leads a fairly independent life working for a local builder. He has a flat in Oxton village a couple of miles away."
Helen and I weren't quite sure how to respond. It was such a sad tale. Millie saw our awkwardness.
"You're on holiday. Don't let me weigh you down with long past family woes," she brightened up with a smile. "Shall I see you tomorrow?"
"Definitely," I replied. Helen gave a half-hearted nod.
"I think you'll have a truly memorable time here," said Millie, as we walked towards the gate to leave. In the event, she was truly right.
Making our way back across the pastures to Sunnyside, I asked Helen why she'd tugged my arm when Millie suggested we could stay at her house.
"I don't know," she replied, "just this feeling about the place came over me."
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