From the diary of Edith Cushing, 1st September 1923.

I am desperately afraid that I have made a most terrible mistake. Tomorrow, the first girls will start to arrive for the beginning of term. Why am I bringing them to this place? I was so certain when this whole thing began. Now the doubts are beginning to weave a fabric in front of me, and I feel as though I am trapped.

But what else was I supposed to do with Allerdale? The land is useless for growing and after the speculation and rumour of what had transpired here; very few were interested in buying. Not, at any rate, for a sum that would have allowed me to continue my dream of a school for girls. Father's money and the royalties that I get from my publisher would not support the purchase and construction. It was Allerdale or nothing.

I have not seen Thomas, nor Lucille, for almost a year now. Not since the day they began to knock down the house. When I close my eyes I can still see his face, sallow and pale, watching me from our bedroom window. Even at that distance, the loneliness and sorrow in those eyes, which I had adored, was crushing. Even after fifteen years and all that I have sacrificed in the pursuit of relief, our separation still pains me in every single bone in my body. Do I still love him? Was it even really love, or simply a naive lust that we shared all those years ago? Whatever it is, it refuses to let me go.

Lucille very rarely showed herself at all. At worst, she would lurk in corners and watch the progress of the salvage of the house. There were moments I was sure she would lash out at the destruction of everything she had tried to protect. Yet the small matter of death seems to have mellowed her considerably. Perhaps without the house to anchor them, they will simply drift off. I wish they would go. I want them to find something of rest. Both of them. Maybe then the aching will fade.

But what if they aren't gone? What if they resent the constant presence of my girls? How will I make sure that they are safe?

These if's and buts will drive me to madness. If there is a problem, I will face it down. God, just, please don't let any harm come to my girls.

My heart did not beat as I ran down the hall. I wasn't even sure that there was a heart beneath my ribs anymore. Instead, it was as though I had contained within my breast a living animal that thrashed wildly, desperate to escape. I burst through the double doors at the end of the corridor, into atrium that connected the three levels of the school to the dining hall. At this time the hall would be loud, full of the chatter of 700 teenage girls, excitedly discussing the day's events. But I couldn't hear anything over the cacophonous roar in my ears. I stopped at the door, my trembling fingers rested against the old wood, ready to open. A sudden realisation hit me. The door didn't quite match the rest of the building. It must have been added later, or brought here from somewhere else as a sentimental gesture. The feeling of its cold grain was soothing against my palm.

You're being unreasonable. The voice in my head was harsh, scolding. There is always a logical explanation. And I would find my explanation.

"Elizabeth, I don't mean to be patronising, but I feel as though you are being outlandish. All the girls are accounted for, so they can't have vanished, as you say."

I looked at my shoes, feeling much how I imagined the students did when they were being reprimanded. You didn't have to be a pupil to feel the scorn of Vice-Principal Wilma Hall.

"What you heard was a recording. I make all of my senior music students apply for scholarships to the Royal College of music. Just this year they have changed the rules of their application process and they require a recording of their playing. No doubt my girls were making recordings and left one playing by accident when they heard the dinner bell."

You're an idiot. I felt so small under her gaze, like a bug being scrutinised, poked and prodded under a microscope.

"If being in the classrooms late at night riles up your imagination I would suggest leaving while it is still light outside."

"I just wanted to make sure that the girls were okay." I offered up with meek defiance.

Her resolved softened in an anomaly of emotion. "I do appreciate your concern. Perhaps you shouldn't read too many books, they'll rot your head with nonsense and you'll see monsters in every shadow."

To her I probably was little more than a student. I only had 5 years on the oldest pupil in the room. Yet, I was a colleague and I didn't want to skulk away from her like a dog that had been kicked.

"The voice of reason as always," I replied with forced cheerfulness, "Thank you for bringing me to my senses," I smiled and nodded to her in parting. I joined the queue of stragglers for the scraps of what was the evening meal.

Despite my forced positivity, the voice in my head had the last word. Piano lids do not just fall on their hinge. The laws of physics just don't work like that.

"Psssst." I turned around to see the whisperer. "Miss, have you ever read anything by Edith Cushing?"

Wednesdays were my day to man the after school study hall. It was a supervised quiet time after the final lesson to complete homework for the younger years. Those who had completed theirs were still required to remain and occupy themselves quietly.

"I can't say I have," I replied in a low monotone. I didn't want to show interest. She was fishing for a reason to procrastinate.

"Miss," she gasped in mock horror. I flicked my eyes surreptitiously at the name on the top of the exercise book that looked like it hadn't ever been opened. Milly. Year 10. Beside it laid a battered copy of a book with a dark cover. Two figures were drawn on the cover, a young woman in a flapping gown with a dark brooding man standing just behind her shoulder. "You work here yet you have never read anything by the woman who built Allerdale?"

I felt my face flush. She had a point. A pioneering girl's school, built in the 20s of all times, was a marvel in feminism and I probably should know more about the woman who had headed it. Slowly, I lowered myself into the space on the bench beside her.

"I suppose even teachers can learn a few things. Tell me a bit about her."

Milly grinned. I'd bit her dangling hook and had just offered her a few moments of break from the monotony of the study hour.

"Well, you know why she writes ghost stories, don't you?"

I shook my head. "Assume I know nothing about her."

"Oh Miss," Milly teased, "You're letting me down something dreadful."

I frowned, letting her know that I had a limit and she was reaching it. "Just tell me, or I'll move off and you'll have lost your chance to gossip."

She gave me a rue smile. "Well, her husband and his sister and Edith lived here, in what was the old house. Allerdale Hall they called it. My grandmother used to live near here and she told me what happened. Her husband, Sir Thomas Sharpe, was trying to dig up all the red clay to sell it for building. But the house is built on the site of an ancient battle between the Scots and the English." She leaned in close for dramatic effect, "That's why the soil here is so red, from all the blood."

"As a teacher of science, I feel the need to point out that the red is probably got to do with a high content of iron in the soil, but, go on…"

"Well, Sir Thomas built a machine to dig up the clay for him, but little did he know that he was actually digging up where they buried all the bodies. The ghosts of the soldiers there rose up and sabotaged the machine. It exploded, killing both Thomas and his sister Lucille. Edith was nearby and saw the whole thing. They say she saw ghostly red shadows meddling with the machine and called out in warning, but it was too late! Blown to bits was Thomas, all riddled with holes from the flying machine parts. The arm of machine fell on Lucille and smashed in her skull."

"And that's why she writes about ghosts?" I asked, raising one eyebrow in speculation.

"Yeah, because she's seen them. And they killed her husband."

"Well, thank you for that, I feel much more informed now." The sarcasm was laid on thick, but Milly kept playing the game with dogged determination.

"No problem, Miss. I've got lots more where that came from. If you like I could tell you about why sometimes the tools in the engineering block go missing, or why the piano in music plays itself?"

I could physically feel all the blood evacuate my face. The skin of my arms came alive with goose flesh. It felt as though every hair on my body was trying to abandon me. A coincidence, I reasoned. All ghost stories have a piano that plays itself.

With great agony, I forced myself to smile as I got up from the table. "Now I know you're just making these up."

Satisfied at her short relief, Milly didn't protest at my leaving. But before I walked out of ear shot, she winked at me. "Sure, Miss, they're all just stories."