Title: The Whistling Ghost.
Chapter One
The man stared angrily at the young, girl, his eyes raking her naked body. "Get…. in…that… bath," his tone was punched and precise.
"The water's freezing, Master, she said, backing up and shaking with terror. Her face, arms and thighs stung from the beatings that had started in the bedroom. And he wasn't finished yet.
He grabbed a handful of her long hair, enjoying the pain on her face as he pulled her so close that their breath mingled. "You need to bathe and be cleansed; you've ruined everything by bedding my fucking brother. Defy me, and you'll regret it."
Wincing as he held her hair in a vice like grip, she pleaded with him. "P…..please, Master, "don't make me do this. I'll do anything you ask. Your favourite, anything…..anything you want."
A fulminating silence filled the cold air as his lustful, angry eyes travelled over her trembling body. He loosened his grip, his eyes not leaving her beautiful face. He smirked and the venomous snarl was replaced by a look that she knew so well.
It was the respite she needed and knowing he could change his mind in a second, she seized the moment. She knew how to pacify him, excite him. Sex and subjugation was everything to him, nothing else mattered, except money. In her short life, she'd known unbelievable cruelty at the hands of this man and it had started at the age of twelve.
She smiled cautiously knowing she was living on a knife's edge. He could turn nasty in an instant and forget the pleasuring. If luck was on her side, this would be the last time she would have to debase herself. She mustn't hurry, if he guessed her intent, he'd kill her.
Slowly, her practised hand crept up his leg, finger by finger. It was an act she hated and one that he couldn't get enough of. He'd told her this was how to avoid pregnancy and it had worked until his brother had forced himself upon her, making her stand up against the church wall telling her exactly the same thing, word for word.
His body went rigid, and she sighed with relief knowing she had his undivided attention. She felt his desire, felt him tremble, but it was short lived as he pulled away from her, shuddering.
He yanked her to her feet by her hair. "Did you do this with him?"
"No Master. I swear." Her stomach knotted in fear as she braced herself for the next onslaught of beatings.
His anger had yet to be spent. His breathing became ragged as his chest heaved in agitation. "I don't believe you. You've bedded my brother, a man of the cloth. I bet you performed trick after trick for him. Have you no shame?" he spat as he slapped her across the face.
"Master, he made me do it."
"You are a liar!" His face went red with rage as he grabbed her, shaking her like a rag doll. "How could you do it to me? I can't look at you anymore. You need to be cleansed, you fucking whore!"
"Please, Master," she sobbed, fearing the same fate as the children.
He picked her up and threw her into the cold bath water, soaking himself from head to foot. This enraged him even further.
She gasped and tried to get up, crying, "Master! 'Nooooo!"
"You've been soiled. You were mine, not his and by God you're going to pay for daring to cross me."
Terror shot across her face as he pushed her head under the water. She kicked, she fought, but he held her steadfast. In a desperate attempt to breathe, she bit his hand.
"Aaaaagh!" he cried, shaking his hand and releasing his grip.
The respite was all she needed as her head shot out of the water, her eyes bulging in fear. "Master, please," she gasped. "I can explain."
His anger was now at fever pitch. Ranting wasn't enough. He pulled her dripping face next to his, his teeth bared like a rabid dog out of control. He slapped her so hard that he split her lip and sent her crashing back into the water. Blood oozed and mingled with the water, turning it bright red. "Whore!"
She pulled at his wrists, trying to tear them away, but his strength was tenfold to hers. She kicked, she fought, but her strength was ebbing away as the need to breathe took over. Fear gripped her as she gulped the freezing water which filled and flooded her lungs in seconds.
He hung over the side of the bath exhausted, his breathing ragged. She'd put up a good fight. He hadn't expected that. It had almost been invigorating. As he straightened, he looked down into her blue eyes that stared through the rippling water like jewels in a frozen face.
Sally woke gasping and choking. This was the second time this week she had the same dreadful dream.
The banging of the wardrobe, jolted her fully awake. "James!"
"Sorry to wake you."
It took a while for Sally to assimilate her surroundings; she still felt stuck in another century. "So you're definitely going to New York?"
"Sal', this is my last job. I have to go."
"I had that horrible dream again," she wailed, feeling like she'd swallowed half the bath water. Part of her still felt chilled to the bone.
He bent over and kissed her on the cheek. "Did you die in it?"
"No, but…"
"Then everything's okay. We only panic when you die in them."
She had felt the moment of that girl's death. Night terrors the doctors had called her dreams, Sally knew otherwise. "James, please don't go. I don't care about the money."
"I do, and I'm doing this for us. There's a big bonus riding on this one. All I have to do is look at the job, and cost the alterations." He kissed her on the cheek and cupped her petulant chin. "I wish I could be here to do the house move with you, but I can't. I'll make it up to you when I get back. I promise."
Sally felt close to tears and nodded her head. The dream had frightened the life out of her. "Call me as soon as you land."
"Will do." He winked at her from the door and, for a split second, it felt how it used to be between them before Carrie….
The front door slammed and Sally was left looking at an empty bedroom and loads of boxes. He'd done it; he actually was going to make her do this move on her own.
It was barely dawn and the flat looked strange. Everything was packed away in boxes, even the kettle so no coffee. No caffeine fix. Sally's mood was foul as she waited for the removal men. They eventually arrived two hours late.
They offered no apology and Sally walked out behind the three grumpy removal men, and took one last look at her flat before posting the keys through the letter box.
Getting into her MG, she turned on the ignition and pulled out of her parking spot. Her mood was getting worse by the minute as they crawled out of London and civilisation. She needed to concentrate and get her thoughts on track if she was to avoid hitting the van up the backside.
The rain was relentless, not normal rain, heavy downpours that made the motorway treacherous. Sally tucked in behind the removal van and cursed it for covering her with constant spray and belching out fumes. If anger could have propelled her, she'd have been at the house in record time, but she wasn't sure of the route and even less sure that she wanted to be in that house on her own.
Four hours of driving and they finally arrived at the drenched, quaint village in the West Country. Sally parked up behind the removal van and paused for a moment to look at their large Georgian house. Water dripped off the rotting windowsills; the facade looked like a soggy sponge and the steps leading to the front door had dog muck on them.
What a welcome!
Getting out of her car she slammed the door with unnecessary force. Her mood was no better as she lowered her head against the driving rain and silently cursed the removal van with its inert occupants.
Running up the steps to her front door and sidestepping the muck, she quickly inserted the key only to feel her heart sink as she stood in the empty hallway. Nothing had changed. The house still felt the same: cold, damp and unwelcoming.
Finding some paper, Sally removed the dog muck and stood in the doorway waiting for the removal men to make a move, but all three were busy reading their newspapers. She beckoned them.
The driver wound down the window. "If you don't mind, we'll wait for the rain to ease a bit."
"I do mind. Furniture can't move itself so I'll put the kettle on whilst you get cracking."
All three looked at one another, sighed and got out into the pouring rain. Their attitudes didn't change as they cursed the rain and stomped through the house with ill grace. Not once did they stop complaining about their backs, their plight and their low wages.
"We live on our tips, you know," one had said.
Sally sighed; hint taken. Handing out buckets of tea and biscuits, nothing seemed to appease them. She listened as one was planning to live in Spain, the younger one, his sex life and the older one, his retirement. When they'd finished, the grumpiest of the removal men stood in the doorway smiling for the first time. "Done then."
Sally went to her bag and handed him a ten pound not.
"Ta." He pulled a face, as though insulted.
Sally ignored him.
After they'd gone, she was left looking at boxes marked from one to a million, or that's what it felt like. As she looked around, she felt out of place in the house that was too large for her and James.
A rainy dusk fell like a black curtain making the house look dark and uninviting, so she went from room to room putting on lights, it made the house feel less intimidating but it still lacked that homely, lived-in feeling. Going into the kitchen, she switched the boiler on, turning it to constant. The house needed a thorough airing and warming up.
Sally didn't know where to start first. She was tired, ratty and niggled all at the same time, or maybe she was putting off going to bed? She shouldn't have had to spend the first night in 'their' home on her own. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. James could be a selfish bastard when he wanted to be.
She couldn't even watch the television because it was packed away. Flowery wallpaper stared back at her with dirty lines where pictures had been. There were chairs and furniture dotted everywhere and as Sally looked about in silent despair, she felt close to tears.
The thought of a long, hot soak in the bath might help make her feel more human, help her connect and accept the fact that London was only four hours away. With that in mind, she ran up the stairs and into the bathroom.
After sprinkling liquid bubble bath under the hot water, Sally stripped off and couldn't believe how cold it felt. It was late summer, almost autumn, but the bathroom felt like it was the middle of winter. As she clipped up her long blonde hair, goose bumps sprung up all over her body. Stepping into the bath, she slid her slender body into the bubbly water, wallowing and revelling in its warmth. "That's better," she whispered into the steamy bathroom that billowed about like fog.
She felt unbelievably tired and her body ached from head to toe from days of wrapping and packing things into boxes. Closing her eyes, her thoughts drifted aimlessly and she could feel herself slipping into a blissful sleep. Then, for no apparent reason, she jolted awake with an overwhelming fear of drowning that was so intense that she shot out of the bath and slipped on the tiled floor. "Damn it!" she cried out in pain.
Examining her bruised knees, she picked herself up, took a deep breath and wrapped a towel around her body. She then walked calmly, but quickly into the bedroom, pushing unwanted thoughts of being all on her own to the back of her mind.
The removal men had put their bed in the back bedroom and Sally had been too tired to argue about it. The room didn't have the benefit of street lighting, so it was unnaturally dark with unfamiliar sounds. She liked noise, it meant activity, people. This was her first night in this house, and already she was missing the heartbeat of the city. She was a city girl, not a country bumpkin. What did she know about the country, its ways and its people? Was she expected to make jam or take up knitting or worse, horse-riding?
Rain belting the windows like grit and the wind howling made Sally feel jumpy and isolated. She hadn't felt like this in London with neighbours either side and above. She had felt cushioned by people and never alone.
Before pulling the flowery curtains shut, she peeped over at the courtyard and at the barn that looked like it had been punched into the hillside. If she'd been in London she'd have been met by street lights instead of a dark, shadowy building that looked about as inviting as a dentist's chair.
Sighing and feeling tired, Sally pulled on her night-shirt and climbed into bed. Never had she felt more alone as she pulled the duvet up to her chin. Feeling nervous in the pitch-black room, she slipped out of bed, opened the bedroom door and put the landing light on. Climbing back into bed, she felt thankful for the strip of light under the door that offered a modicum of comfort.
Sally finally drifted off into a fitful sleep, but woke with her heart pounding with anxiety, and a gut-wrenching fear that made her feel sick. She momentarily panicked as she tried to take in her surroundings and collect thoughts that were stuck again in another century.
The dream became scrappy and distant. Recall was reduced to fragmented bits of a child crying over and over again for his mommy like an old record stuck in a groove.
Now, fully awake, she realised that she was in total darkness and could have sworn she'd put the landing light on. Maybe the bulb had blown. She hated the dark that crouched around her, smothering her. It made her feel too isolated and only emphasised her seclusion.
Sighing, she switched on her bedside light and couldn't believe it was only five o'clock in the morning. It was too early to get up, so punching her pillow back into shape, she tried to get back to sleep, but the church bells had other ideas as they rang out mercilessly as though telling her it was time to get up.
As she lay there pondering on what she was going to do at the unearthly hour, she heard a noises, nothing she could put her finger on. It felt as though the house had woken with the bells and was stretching its limbs in readiness for the day ahead which she knew sounded ridiculous. Even so, she stiffened at the sound of creaking floorboards and footfall outside her bedroom. She firmly told herself that old houses creak and the heating being left on was making the floorboards expand, that's all.
Grabbing her dressing gown, she plodded over to the window and pulled back the curtains. Dawn was breaking, crows and ravens were squawking on top of the barn creating more racket than a playground full of squealing children. She inwardly wished that she'd been greeted by a dawn chorus of robins, blue tits, sparrows, blackbirds, anything but those ugly birds with huge beaks and staring eyes.
The morning hadn't started well, she needed coffee. Walking onto the large landing, she reached for the light switch forgetting that the bulb had gone and was surprised when the landing was bathed in a soft light.
Refusing to feel spooked, Sally stood at the top of the stairs and held onto the Georgian, mahogany banister that wove down the stairs like a semi coiled snake, her footsteps masked on the worn, shabby green carpet. The previous owners had left a fading tapestry hanging down the wall. It depicted a village with peasants standing around a pool of water. Faces peered beneath the rippling water like water nymphs. Sally had never seen such a strange, vile piece of work and wondered who could have commission it. At the bottom of the stairs was a row of Victorian bells that were no longer in use and gathering dust.
Going into the unfamiliar kitchen that had been modernised with light oak cupboards, Sally found herself fumbling irritably for the light switch, hating the dark as much as she hated being on her own. Plugging in the kettle, she waited for it to boil. Getting a large mug out of one of the boxes marked 'kitchen', she sat at the table feeling like an intruder in her own house. She wanted James with her, not in New York. She wanted things back to how they used to be and their marriage back on track. Was it possible? James had been really trying; Sally was still acting like a scolded cat, even after they'd made love.
Looking out onto the wet, dismal courtyard it reflected her mood perfectly. The rain was still coming down in sheets and the wind was blowing a gale. It was so early that Sally didn't know what to do with herself. As the kettle boiled, she filled the mug with hot water and smelt the heady aroma of lavender waft by her. She shook her head; it was nothing, the old lady had probably cleaned the cupboards out with a detergent that smelt of lavender, so she ignored it.
As she sipped her coffee she looked around the empty kitchen mentally assessing where she was going to put things. She was spoiled for choice with the amount of cupboards. Her thoughts were miserable company as she hugged the mug of coffee, the steam drifted up merging with Sally's cold breath. Shivering, she got up and opened the cupboard that housed the boiler to see if it was still on. It had been turned off.
Sighing, she picked up her coffee and walked through to the drawing room, trying not to think or to analyse. She wished she could turn her brain off like the boiler. Maybe her mind was playing tricks on her or maybe she was just tired.
Pulling back the silky, pale green curtains, she tried to concentrate on the view whilst her mind constantly drifted backwards and forwards like a pong- pong ball. She felt anger towards his boss for sending James to the other side of the Atlantic with no warning, especially on their moving day. When God rang, you jumped, but not for much longer.
Snapping herself back to the present, she stared at the cottages that would have looked chocolate-box if everywhere had not been so wet. Sally had done her homework and knew that most of the cottages dated back to the fifteenth of them stood straight, they hunched over the cobbled pavement, bent and warped with age. The oak beams looked like gnarled fingers grasping the façade for support. The roofs were at different levels; some were thatched, others were slate, some were bending in the middle warped with age. All had stood the test of time and were well battered from hundreds of years of storms, and wars.
Turning, she looked at the empty room and had never felt more alone. It still felt too dark and shadowy. If it hadn't been for the rain, she would have opened all the windows and given the place a thorough airing because the smell of damp was hanging around like rotting compost.
Sally's mood was getting no better as the minutes ticked by. She had a full day ahead of her with no one to talk to. Going back into the kitchen, she plugged in the kettle and looked around. The gas boiler fired into life, making Sally jump. Had she turned it back on? She couldn't remember, but rationalised that she must have done.
Sally drifted from room to room, her thoughts chaotic. She was preoccupied and tired with too many errant thoughts vying for her time. She took her coffee into the snug at the back of the house, hoping the room would feel a bit more welcoming - it didn't. She hated the flowery wallpaper, and the red patterned carpet that looked like it belonged in a pub. The inglenook fireplace was dirty and un-kept. Logs were piled up one side; some had become dislodged and rolled onto the floor, smearing soot everywhere.
Going over to the curtain, she yanked it to one side to try and get some light into the room, but part of the rail came away from the wall bringing plaster with it. "Bloody Hell!" she cried as she tried to push the rail back and giving up.
The courtyard stood there drenched to the skin, uninviting and shadowy. The huge barn had been partially converted into a garage. The upper stories had been left with an unbelievable amount of ancient clutter, conveniently left behind by the old hippies who'd probably thought that they could do it for themselves.
Her thoughts drifted to the vendors. At their arrival for the viewing, the husband had crept up behind Sally making her jump out of her skin at the sight his long grey hair, sunken, wrinkly eyes and wild eyebrows. He was ancient, bean-pole thin and covered in age spots. He apologised profusely.
His wife hovered in the background with a fixed smile. She looked tense, agitated yet superior in a strange kind of way. She had worn an old, red flowery dress that looked straight out of the sixties and it fitted where it touched, stretched to capacity around the middle.
As they walked from room to room, the smell of incense trailed after them to the point where it had become overpowering, but it couldn't quite mask the smell of damp that hung in the air reminding Sally of old cellar bricks that had gone mouldy with age – and the vendors smelt exactly the same.
It had rained at their first viewing and all the lights had been conveniently put on inside the house, an estate agent's trick, but even that couldn't hide the lack of natural light, or the strange, uneasy feelings that washed over her.
As they walked through the rooms, crystals were prominently displayed; a large rose quartz, a huge amethyst crystal, plus other crystals had been dotted about almost haphazardly.
Sally knew a little about crystals and she picked up the one on the hall table. "This is a dragon's eye. It supposed to ward off evil. Is that right?"
The old lady gave Sally a piercing look before taking it from her, saying, "It protects, that's all and it is also used to bring balance. She placed it back on the table.
When they were shown into the snug at the back of the house, Sally noticed a very large amethyst. "That's beautiful," she said and meant it.
The old lady smiled. "It helps with my healing sessions and my meditations." She smiled smugly.
She spoke humbly, but Sally knew the woman was egotistical and was about as humble as a politician. Sally had this way of making snap decisions about people and she was often right.
"Really," said James, his eyes mentally taking in measurements, whilst his hands roamed over the surface of the walls; "Right up your street, Sal'."
"What do you mean?" asked the old lady.
James laughed. "My wife sees things, hears things…... You name it and she's experienced it."
"James!" interjected Sally. "We're here to view, not to talk about me." She steered the conversation away. "Did you retire down here?"
"Yep," said the old man. "I dowse for the most precious and powerful commodity on this planet – water. And people don't give it enough respect," he snapped angrily.
The old lady looked at Sally as though judging her reaction before saying to her husband in a condescending manner. "You're not always successful, dear; you often need my help."
Sally was spooked and mentally backed up. She tugged on James' sleeve. "There are a few more properties for sale nearer to London that we should take a look at as well."
"I like this one, Sal'."
The old lady looked ill at ease and her eyes darted to her husband before she composed herself with the fixed, false smile.
James was oblivious. All he could see were pound signs. James' enthusiasm for the house hadn't matched hers; it was as though they were both looking at a different house. Part of Sally's brain was tuning into the house and its atmosphere knowing that old houses were like sponges and could soak up good and bad memories, this house felt like the latter.
Feeling perturbed, she hissed, "James, can we talk about this…privately."
The old man beamed a smile and walked over to Sally and placed a friendly arm around her. "The house likes the both of you, I can tell."
"Its bricks and mortar," said Sally, not liking his touch.
No," argued James, "Properties can have a soul, I should know, I've designed enough of them."
"Ah, an architect?" said the old man.
"Yes," said James proudly.
Sally tugged on James' arm, her eyes pleading, "That's why the property has to be right for us. We mustn't rush this."
James started to hesitate, and the old man jumped in. "I will drop the price considerable. I want this house to go to someone who can restore it back to its former glory. We're too old."
"Really," James' eyes had lit up like sparklers with excitement.
"James…!" Sally screwed her face up in alarm.
"Shhhhhhh! "I think we can do business."
Sally glared at James, resenting the 'shhhhhhh!', but all James could see were pound signs
"Oh, good," said the little old lady. "Be guided by your husband. He sounds a talented man."
James held his heart in mock attack as he looked at Sally. "Please, Sal', do this for me, for us. It's the change we're looking for."
Sally looked at all three and felt a slow anger burn up inside at being coerced. It was as though she wasn't there, didn't matter, redundant. She fell silent knowing she still had time to make him change his mind. First she had to get him back home and work on him.
"Then all's settled," said the old man, shaking James' hand enthusiastically and ignoring Sally. "It's a deal."
Like Hell it is. Sally fixed a smile on her face whilst, inwardly, she seethed with dislike for the odd, old couple.
James edged towards Sally and put his arm around her, whispering in her ear. "This is for us, a new start and I promise you won't regret it."
The old woman looked away and nervously tidied the curtains whilst her husband looked tense and twitchy.
"I'm not sure about country life, said Sally. "I'm a townie."
James looked at her, saying, "If we're to have children, I'd rather bring them up here than in London."
Sally looked at him stunned. Children? She was yet to conceive, and the rate it was going she had more chance of seeing pigs fly. Trust James to hit her vulnerable spot. She was being rushed, she needed time to think, take stock.
"Oh, that's such a lovely thing to say," said the old woman, clasping her hands together with a feigned joy. "The area needs new people, young people, especially children."
Sally's face fell. She didn't like the house, or the vendors. Was James blind, could he not pick up on their eagerness, their willingness to sell cheap, or could he only see profit?
"Well that's settled," said James.
Like fuck it is. "James, I'm still not sure….." She shook her head.
James put his arm around her, pulling her close and out of ear shot. "I can make some serious money on this place. Please, Sally, I need you with me on this one. If you still don't' like the place after I'm done, then we leave and I'll live anywhere you want…..even the moon. Okay?"
"With our non existent children," she whispered back angrily.
He gave her a lopsided grin. "One never knows." He gave her another hug.
Sally stared at him unhappily, but didn't reply. She didn't want the old couple to pick up on their discord. She whispered, "There's a strange smell in the place."
"It's damp coming up from the footings through the floorboards. "I'll put it right."
"What if you can't," she whispered back. "Some things are not meant to be put right or fixed."
James smiled. "Believe me; I'll make this the house of your dreams."
Chapter Two
Dawn drifted into early morning and Sally found herself delving half heartedly into boxes, not really knowing where to start first. Her enthusiasm was on the back burner as she roamed from room to room restless, unhappy and lonely. Something didn't feel right. She sensed sadness, emptiness and something else, something she couldn't quite put her finger on.
Walking into the dining room where a lot of the boxes had been placed, she sat on the window seat and listened to the rain pelting the small panes of thin glass. She had to make a start. Anything was better than watching the clock tick away the hours or worse let her thoughts and misgivings run wild.
Kneeling down she opened one of the smaller boxes marked fragile and precious. She pulled out objects haphazardly until she came to an object wrapped in tissue paper. Opening it with care, Sally looked at her grandmother's ivory pillbox that was intricately carved and felt a lump come to her throat.
Her grandma could be a fierce woman when riled with a tongue that could strip flesh from bone, but she had a kind heart and welcoming arms. She could almost feel her presence, her warmth and the smell of carbolic soap that lingered in the air. It was ingrained in her memory and stored like a computer chip, never to be forgotten.
As she picked up her granddad's old pipe, long forgotten memories flooded to the surface belching out snippets like a home video. She felt taken aback by the intensity of emotions that shot through her as thoughts of her grandparents resonated hauntingly close.
One particular day, she'd chased after the rag and bone man who'd got a cart full of fluffy, yellow chicks. Sally wanted at least two chicks to make up for the refusal by her parents to let her have a dog so she'd done a swap with her dad's old jacket that had been stuffed in a cupboard. How was she to have known it was still in use?
Sally had looked into the cardboard box that housed two yellow chickens, her excitement at fever pitch. "Can I keep them?"
Her dad had looked thoughtful. "No choice now." He looked at his wife, Tess. "They could help out at Christmas, if we're a bit short." He turned to Sally, saying, "Are you ready to go to your grandma's?"
"Why me all the time?" Even though she loved her grandparents to bits and didn't mind going, just this once she wanted to spend sometime with her newly acquired chickens. "Why can't one of the others go just this once?"
"'Cause your sister's sensitive, and your brother's selfish."
"What about my chickens?"
"I'll see to them. Now be off with you."
Sally caught the bus to get to her grandparents' home and because she spent so much time there which she never questioned, she had her own little brown suitcase packed with a change of clothes. Her mother took her and made sure she got there safely before coming straight back.
One day when they'd arrived at her grandparents' house; her granddad was in his armchair puffing on his pipe and sending out the usual clouds of smoke. "If God 'ad meant you to bloody smoke, he'd 'ave put a bloody chimney on your 'ead." The comment was followed by a clout. "Tell, him, Tess."
"Keep me out of it," Sally's mom had replied, walking straight back out the door. With a, "ta ra."
"Stop nagging, woman" said her granddad. "And stop clouting me, you'll scramble me brains."
"What brains?" snapped her grandma
He'd winked at Sally, giving her a toothless grin before saying. "I'm sick of you naggin', woman, I'm off to the lav'."
Even in the freezing cold, her granddad spent ages in the outside toilet, studying form on any animal that had four legs and raced. Sally secretly placed all his bets with a close neighbour.
"She wouldn't understand this gambling lark, Sal'" he'd said. "She'd 'ave me guts for garters. And you don't want that, do ya?"
"No grand-dad, but why do you do it? It cost money."
"It's me nest egg for your gran."
There was a blue- brick entry that ran parallel to the terraced houses and often smelt of cat wee. After placing one of his bets, she paused at the gate that led to the yard; she could hear her grandma and the next door neighbour talking in hushed tones. This got Sally's attention as she listening unashamedly.
"'Ow's your Arthur?" asked Mrs Collins, the next door neighbour.
Both women were leaning their elbows on the blue brick wall that separated the houses. This meant a lengthy conversation.
"Not good. It's that pipe" she'd heard her grandma reply. "He's got lumps in his throat like golf balls. Serves him right, but I don't want to be a widow. I'm too young."
"I know 'ow you feel. I never expected to be a widow at my age."
"That was a nasty business 'ow your 'ubby went."
"It was, and me with no kids. Still, you'll be all right, they've sent your Sally."
"Yeah, she's a good kid."
"She don't look like the rest of 'em, though. 'Ow come?"
"Throwback, I think, can't be sure, though."
"If she 'ad red eyes, she'd look like one of them albinos."
"Well, she ain't got red eyes; she's just blonde, that's all."
Sally digested this remark with some careful thought. Throw-back? Albino? She'd ask someone later, probably her mom. As she slipped by the gossiping women she wondered what the word 'widow' meant. Instinct told her not to ask her grandma. She could be touchy.
Sally placed the pipe and the pillbox on a table. Reminiscing had upset her. It felt as though the past was punching a hole into the present making her feel like a small child again seeking comfort in the arms of two people that had truly loved and wanted her.
Sighing, Sally listened to the sound of a milkman slamming gates and rattling bottles. He banged so hard on her neighbour's door that it reverberated down the street. Noisy sod, she thought, thinking that if the bells don't wake her in the mornings, the milkman would.
"Got the kettle on, Bert?" shouted the milkman in a strong, West Country accent. "And a bit of toast wouldn't go amiss."
Her thoughts drifted to their house and all the previous occupants. Over the years, a succession of people had owned it, some only staying a year, some less, the old hippies had stayed the longest, but that hadn't put James off buying it, it had worried Sally, and that was an understatement. You don't move, if you're happy.
"We're moving."
"That's different."
"No it's not."
His mother was far from happy at their imminent move, saying, "What about medical facilities down there? I tell you, it will be bumper to bumper with tractors, deadly if you need a hospital."
"I don't intend dying yet, mother," James had said, not amused at all. His own brush with mortality had left him feeling vulnerable.
"I blame you, Sally, can't you control him?"
"I'm afraid James has always got just what he wanted. He's spoilt."
"Not by me!" exclaimed his mother. "He was brought up a lot differently to you."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" snapped Sally, seething at his mother's snobbery. "I was brought up with values…."
"What are you implying?"
His dad jumped in before war was declared. "Leave them alone, Margery. They're old enough and big enough to know what they want."
His mother looked like a pot on the boil; Sally looked hurt and offended as they stared at each other with bitter hostility, neither finished with the other.
Thoughts of James' mother depressed and angered Sally, so she archived them. She turned her attention back to all the boxes and decided that the first job had to be putting away all the kitchen utensils. She had to eat.
Dragging a box through to the kitchen, she looked around at the job in hand. Delving into the box marked kitchen, she pulled out utensils and placed them on the work-top. The job felt daunting, but it had to be done. She thought of James and wondered what he was doing at that precise moment; was he thinking about her. She hoped so because she was really busy thinking about herself.
As she opened cupboards, she felt uncomfortable as though she shouldn't be changing things, had no right. She felt like an intruder in her own house; as though she was prying and grubbing about in someone else's personal space, but the job had to be done.
Filling the upper cupboards first, she tried to rid herself of the feeling of being watched, observed. With every object she put away, she found herself surreptitiously turning around and half expecting something or someone to be standing there, but there was no one there. She was starting to feel uncomfortable to the point where she walked up to the front door to make sure it was shut properly. It was.
"Get a grip, girl. It's an old house."
She hated being there on her own and felt ill at ease, not wanted. Something didn't feel right, she sensed deep unhappiness and more, but again couldn't put her finger on it.
Getting bleach out of a box, she knelt down under the sink unit and was pleasantly surprised to be met by a sprig of lavender.
After putting her overactive imagination to bed, she felt imbued with a new lease of energy. As she rummaged around in the cupboards, storing objects at a furious pace, she actually surprised herself by singing which helped take her mind off all her troubles. She knew she had to keep busy if she were ever to get through the days ahead. It would be different once James was home. They could start going places and visit country pubs. The moor would be a delight with the striking colours of autumn, making her forget how much she hated the season with its cold, wet days.
The place had so much history. Was her writing brain kicking in? Was she feeling more upbeat? As if on cue, the telephone rang. Sally went to answer it, knowing it was James. "Hello."
"It's me James. Are you okay?" he asked. "Fitting in? Been down the pub?"
"I've been here less that twenty four hours and not had time to go down the pub, or anywhere else for that matter." She could feel the mood of earlier slipping away because when James was reduced to idle chatter he had a bomb shell to drop.
"What's the weather like?"
"Pissing down!"
"Tut, tut, language."
"When are you coming home?"
"Miss me?"
"Yes."
"There's a slight problem." He sighed down the phone. "I'm going to be away for at least two weeks, er….. probably a bit longer. "
Sally went quiet and held her tongue. She was fuming.
"Sally, you still there?"
"Yes." Her tone was clipped.
"I'm really sorry. There're a few problems that I need to iron out."
"Really…."
"Sal', don't be like this. Everything I'm doing is for us."
"It's a pity I haven't got a flat to go back to."
"What do you mean?"
"What I said."
"You can always go and stay with my mom and dad."
"You bastard, James! I can't believe you've just suggested that."
"Look Sally, I've got to go. I can't talk to you when you're like this. I'll telephone later when you've had time to calm down."
"Please yourself." Sally slammed down the phone, trembling in anger. How could he? When he rang back, both barrels came to mind.
Walking into the kitchen, she picked up the empty mug of coffee and threw it up the wall and watched in silent fury as it broke into small pieces. The fact that she had to clean up the mess added to her anger.
By lunch time, her mood was foul. The rest of the kitchen utensils had been packed away with ill grace, not caring if she could find them later, or not.
Looking out at the foul weather she decided that they should join company. She needed some fresh air, needed to walk off her bad mood and dispel her anger. Maybe that would lift her spirits that were at rock bottom. She hated change, always had.
It was a perfect time to visit the church. She loved churches and had done features on them for magazines along with country houses. She'd always loved freelancing; it gave her independence and freedom to do what she wanted, when she wanted. The plan had always been to fit it in around being a mom, that bit hadn't worked – yet.
Putting on her anorak and pulling up the hood she stepped out onto the deserted street. Quaintness looked nice on paper, but in reality would the dream live up to the reality? Would she need a brain transplant when boredom got a strangle hold?
Standing on the step, she winced at the rain and looked towards the sky. On every side of the village, dark woods climbed the giant hills that crouched around the village like a giant fist. The moor stood beyond wild and beautiful with tree-filled valleys, undulating hills and heather that carpeted the ground, vying with the gorse.
Next door's house was different to theirs, it was a small cottage built in the sixteenth century with a thatched roof that looked badly in need of repair. Sally and James' house was Georgian and detached, but only just. It stood at the very end of the street, high and imposing with three steps that led to the front door. It didn't look as though it quite belonged, almost out of place next to all the little cottages, like an appendage, an afterthought.
She stepped onto the shiny cobbles that glistened in the wet. Rivulets of water ran over them, pumping up the moss that clung to the crevices making walking a slippery affair, but they were part and parcel of the whole quaint village. Sally felt sure they were ankle breakers.
The village looked sodden with dead and mouldy flowers hanging out of tubs. Autumn was almost upon them and Sally could detect the change in the air, it even smelt different. It was cold damp and miserable. Sally was a summer person; she hated the cold, the fog and the frost, anybody who liked it couldn't be normal.
As she meandered further up the street, she could see lights on in the cottages with people huddled around log fires as though it were mid winter. The scene looked cosy, quaint and Dickensian. In the distance, she glimpsed the church spire shrouded in mist, reminding her of a wizard's hat. Scaffolding had been erected around part of the roof for repair work. Sally's hood hung over her face and water dripped onto her nose. She wiped it with the back of her hand hoping no one saw her. She could do etiquette when needed, when required.
There wasn't a soul about, not even a cat. Sensible people stayed in doors on days like this, but Sally wasn't one of those people. She needed some stimulation and a visit to the church might give her the lift she needed. She loved old churches, graveyards, loved browsing through them, looking at crypts, inscriptions. James, who was a complete agnostic, didn't share her love of churches, let alone graveyards and had said that it was morbid. He was wrong, the dead held fascination.
The visit might even inspire her to write something. Writer's block had become a giant wall and it was something that always happened when she was unhappy, unsettled. She needed an angle, something, anything.
The incline to the church was steep and she was thankful for her old trainers that were well-worn from her running around the streets of London to keep fit. She maybe in her very early forties, but she'd looked after her body in the vain hope that one day she just might conceive, miracles could happen, but she needed James here on the job, not the other side of the Atlantic.
Walking through the side gate of the church, Sally stopped to look at the church that dated back to the fifteenth century. She wasn't an avid church goer but she believed there was a God, believed in an after-life; she couldn't do anything else with some of her past experiences.
The wall that surrounding the pink, sand-stoned church was covered in lichen so, too, were all the gravestones which all leaned in one direction as though battered by the prevailing winds and years of storms. Most of the graves were overgrown and a grey mist hovered inches above them, amalgamating with the steady rain. Normally, Sally would have poured over the graves like a blood hound, but she felt disinclined to mooch. She'd come to see inside the church, maybe pray…
The other graveyard was up a steep hill and it looked out over the sea. Sally had been there on their first visit to the house. She had made the excuse of wanting to see the sea, in truth she'd wanted to get out of the house and away from the overwhelming, creepy vendors.
"James," she'd said, "I know you want to crawl all over the place, I'd like to see some of the area to make sure I like it as much as you like the house. "Do you mind?" Her tone clipped, not to be argued with.
"You go ahead."
The odd, old couple had looked concerned. They needn't have been; James had made his mind up.
She had fallen on the other graveyard whilst deep in thought. She'd meandered around the back of the village in a silent daze, full of introspection and had passed some neglected allotments; to the right had been a gate swinging in the wind with unusual force.
That had drawn her into the cemetery.
The first thing that caught her eye was the lack of flowers and shrubbery, there was bramble everywhere around the perimeter. It was also on a slope which, in itself, was unusual. She had a vision of dead people slithering down the slope and falling into a heap at the bottom. As Sally walked to the highest point, she saw what must have been the sea heaving in the distance, merging with the grey sky.
She smiled at an old man tending a grave. He looked sad and miserable as rain bounced off his back.
He didn't smile back. "It's a waste of me time putting flowers 'ere, the rabbits will 'ave 'em before the day's out."
Sally smiled weakly, "It's the thought that counts."
He looked up at her, his eyes watery and old. "You an import?"
"I beg your pardon?" She felt taken aback, insulted.
"You're an import. I'd know that accent anywhere. "Londoner?"
"No. Brummy."
"Then you're a posh one."
Sally shook herself back to the present. She was there to see the church, not mull over an old man's rudeness.
A gravel path went all around the perimeter of the church, and her feet crunched her arrival. Not all churches were open to the public; she hoped this one would be an exception. Sally had come armed with money, pad and pencil, ready to take down anything of interest.
She'd done her homework. Inside she knew there was a thirteenth-century stone altar in the north chapel and the west door led to a Norman arch which went back as far as the thirteenth century. The huge tower contained a clock, chimes and bells.
The oak foyer smelled slightly musty, churches often did. Notices of coming events were pinned haphazardly to the oak panels making it look as though it had been invaded by woodworm from countless drawing pins. There were dark-oak wooden benches either side for weary travellers, and a box to put money in. Sally put a pound coin in the box and heard it drop to the bottom.
Going through the heavy, oak door, the smile died on her face. The air felt stale as though the church hadn't been used for years. Sally stood for a moment uncertain of what to do next. It was unbelievably cold. Maybe it was because it was so large, not small like some churches; this looked more like a cathedral without the grandeur.
As she walked further into the church, the atmosphere changed, it became oppressive and heavy. The air was still and motionless like the calm before a heavy storm. She'd never experienced that before in a church. She always felt welcomed by them, but not this one.
Again she felt as though she didn't belong and was an intruder. Or maybe, she'd done too much research and it had put her mind into overdrive. She'd done some thorough delving into the bloody civil war between Crown and Cromwell. The whole area was a relic of feudal times. Maybe the church held memories like a brain.
Pulling herself back to the present, she looked at the stained-glass windows depicting religious scenes and thought it a shame that they were encased behind wire mesh – a sign of the times. When the sun caught the glass, Sally knew that a rainbow of colours would dance on the white-washed walls.
Her eyes were drawn to an ancient tapestry that stood alone and hung off a brand new, shiny rail as though being given pride of place. It mirrored the one in Sally's house. She peered closer. The hair on the naked water nymphs head was so fine that it looked like human hair, but the hair between their legs looked pubic, wiry and springy. It looked obscene, distasteful and certainly didn't belong in a church.
Looking up, she mentally shook herself and tried to admire the richly carved ceiling stretching the whole breadth of the church. There was also a balcony, richly carved, where the singers had sat in medieval times. Sally paused and listened, it felt like she could almost hear them, like a memory, distant and just out of reach.
The font was sculptured with emblems of the Crucifixion. She needed to taker a closer look and take some notes, but her brain felt foggy as though she had a hangover. She hadn't touched a drop – yet.
Pulling off her hood because it was blocking her view, she tucked her hair behind her ears. She stood there for a moment drinking in the atmosphere and trying to quell a strange feeling of unease.
She passed ancient oak pews, ramrod straight with bibles tucked behind a wire. Red velvet kneeling pads hung from hooks, faded and worn from years of use. Sally crept along the flagstones, her trainers hardly making a sound as she passed stone tombs where the elite and the aristocracy of those times were put to rest.
As she stood there, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She paused and listened to the sound of low-pitched whistling being carried on the wind. It was getting closer as though creeping through the crevices like a mournful lament.
She was starting to feel more uneasy by the second as her eyes cautiously darted around, seeing nothing. Her attention was eventually drawn to a steep spiral staircase; at the top was a wooden, studded-door that creaked open inch by inch.
Biting onto her bottom lip, she cautiously called, "Is…is anyone there?" No answer.
She felt the temperature drop as a strange, cold, energy swirled around her like an icy draft. It grew in intensity, pressing down on her until she felt breathless, crushed. Her eyes scanned the church. She felt fear and it wasn't just her own, someone was terrified. Moments later, she heard the sound of a body hitting the floor with a thud. In that split second, Sally felt an echo of the last moment of life, the breath leaving the body, then total silence.
Before she could make a run for it, an icy coldness rushed at her, circling her until she felt almost suffocated. The church started to blur and go out of focus making her feel sick and dizzy. She could barely think straight; she feared passing out. With each second that passed, she felt paralysed with fear and barely able to move with the invisible energy squeezing her tighter.
The floor wavered as though it was coming up to meet her. She blinked furiously, terrified of fainting. At the Altar, the milky grey mist was forming into images of people from another era dressed in rags; they weren't quite in focus like a picture that faded in and out, not a constant image. Misery lurked everywhere. She could taste the stale air that was redolent with death, pain, despair and unbelievable anger.
Sally held onto the back of a pew and put a hand to her mouth to stop herself crying out. She was barely breathing with fear as she tried desperately to clear her head, get some air into her lungs, but the air was stale and vile; it smelt of vomit and people drenched in stale sweat.
Slowly and with limbs that didn't want to move, she backed up. Her eyes were taking in every detail, whilst her mind felt scrambled with fear. Death was all around her like a big, black shroud and it was slowly closing in on her, so was the stench.
She had to get out of there and fast, she turned but her legs buckled and sent her sprawling head first down the aisle. "Oh, dear God help me!" she cried softly, fearing being swallowed up by the icy mist.
Close to hysteria, she scrambled to her feet shaking from head to toe with cold and fright. Every nerve in her body felt taut with tension and her brain felt tight with fear. Running agitated fingers through her hair, she slowly turned around and took a quick look back to the Altar and froze.
"Oh, dear God," she screamed inwardly, her mouth gaping in horror at the images that were edging towards her like lepers with open wounds and spewing projectile blood. Her throat went dry; she could barely swallow as she stumbled her way towards the door, not wanting one of them to get near enough to touch her or infect her.
Once outside, the church door slammed shut behind her. Sally closed her eyes in relief at being out of there in one piece. Staggering into the rain, she needed to feel clean as she gasped for air. Bending down she put her hands on her knees and greedily gulped the air as though it were nectar.
"Are you okay?"
A kindly, young vicar stood in front of her, bending slightly so that he could look into her face.
Sally straightened and looked up into concerned bright blue eyes. "No…Y…yes. I'm fine." She was anything but.
"Did you want to visit the church?"
"Well…I….." she stammered incoherently, words failed her.
"You found it locked. Come on, I'll let you in."
"No. No, it's okay, really."
The vicar put the key in the door and beckoned her inside, leaving Sally no choice but to go back inside. At least, if it happened again, she'd have company, a witness. That would certainly make a change.
There was no oppressive atmosphere, no coldness, just masses of fresh flowers and fruit that hadn't been there a moment ago. Her eyes darted around wildly. "I don't understand."
"It's a flower festival and harvest festival combined. It's in aid of our dear departed vicar. It's the villagers' way of saying thank-you for his long service to the community."
"What happened to him?" Inwardly, she knew.
"Nasty business." He rubbed at his chin thoughtfully.
"What d'you mean, nasty?"
He nodded towards the spiral staircase. "Fell from top to bottom, broke his neck, poor chap."