Day 22 – Horror

A/N: I'm no good at splatter horror and monsters and the like, so I settled for a Gothic ghost story instead. Sorry if it isn't particularly scary.

It was a dark and stormy night. The rain was coming down hard, making it almost impossible to see more than a few yards ahead. Carver rubbed his eyes wearily. It would probably be safer to find a place to stay for the night as soon as possible. In this weather, he'd never make it safely to Beth's place. Why his sister had felt the need to make her home in a tiny little village somewhere in the Lake District was beyond him anyway. But, right now, he had a pretty good idea of why there were so many lakes around here.

He remembered passing a village a while ago, but the idea of attempting a U-turn on the narrow winding country road was less than appealing, so he kept going, at a snail's pace, careful not to get too close to the trees lining the road, their branches almost meeting overhead. It felt like driving through a green tunnel, which was rather charming during daytime. Now, in the rain and the dark, it was just creepy.

There was a junction ahead and, next to the road, he could just about make out the silhouette of a church spire. He debated briefly whether or not he should just go on, but then decided it was worth a try. And, sure enough, right next to the church and the cemetery, there was a large, rectangular building with a light shining from one of the ground floor windows. This had to be the old rectory.

Carefully, he parked his car and dashed over to the door. The house looked run-down and gloomy in the dim light but, when he rang the bell, it was only a moment until he heard steps inside. Bracing himself against the doorframe, he waited patiently while the bolts were pushed back. The door opened just a crack.

"What is it?" It was a woman's voice, but it was firm and no-nonsense.

He caught a glimpse of a middle-aged lady in a dress and apron, her hair tied back in a severe bun.

"Good evening, ma'am." He did his best to sound non-threatening. His bulky frame tended to intimidate people, especially women. "I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour, but the storm caught me by surprise, and I'm looking for a place to stay for the night. Is there a hotel nearby, by any chance?"

She shook her head. "Not what I'd call nearby, no. You better come in. I'll tell Master Nate he has a visitor."

"That's very kind." Carver exhaled deeply. Much as he hated the thought that he was taking advantage of a stranger's generosity, he was really relieved he didn't have to go out there again.

The old woman led him into a small study and took his dripping coat from him without a word, then motioned for him to sit down in an armchair near a fireplace that appeared to actually be in use. While he waited, he took the opportunity to look around. The study was lined with bookshelves and there was a heavy wooden desk in one corner. No phone, no computer, at least not that he could see. It was an old-fashioned kind of place, to be sure, and he wondered who "Master Nate" was.

Carver smiled to himself. Really, it was almost like stepping straight into one of those old mystery stories he used to read as a kid. Weird, but also fascinating. Just then, the door opened, and a tall, dark-haired man walked in, greeting him with a nod.

"Welcome to the old Rectory. I am Nathaniel Howe. Of course we can put you up for the night in this inhospitable weather, Mr …?" The man's voice was hoarse and rough, and there was something odd about the way he was speaking, almost like an actor on a stage. He seemed to have a flair for the dramatic, underscored by his choice of clothes – dark pants and a white shirt with a high neck and ruffled sleeves that made him look a bit like a highwayman in an old movie.

"Hawke. Carver Hawke." He nodded back, regarding his host with barely hidden curiosity. "I'm very grateful for your hospitality, sir."

"It's nothing. Mrs Woolsey will have your room ready presently. I hope you'll have a glass of wine with me before you retire for the night." Howe pointed to a carafe and an empty glass on the small table. He'd brought his own glass, already filled to the brim with what looked to be a heavy red wine. "We don't get many visitors out here."

Carver accepted with a grateful smile and settled back in his chair, taking a sip from his glass, then raising his eyebrow in appreciation. "That's a fine wine."

Howe nodded, unsmiling, his dark face wearing a thoughtful, almost brooding expression. "My cellars are well-stocked these days. But, tell me, what brings you out here?" He took the other armchair, throwing one long leg casually over the armrest. His face was pale and tired, but his grey eyes were alert, and Carver felt vaguely uncomfortable under his intense gaze.

"I'm on my way to visit my sister. She recently bought a cottage near Windermere." He shivered. The room still seemed damp and cool, despite the warmth of the fire, and he wondered whether he had caught a cold. "She's a writer of children's books, and she says there's less distractions around here than in London."

"Very true." Howe almost smiled. "I'm a writer myself, you know. Though my muse seems to have left me lately." His face darkened even further. "I must have done something to scare her off."

Carver shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Something about Howe made him uneasy, though there was no denying the man was interesting, even intriguing. But, right now, exhaustion won out over curiosity. "If you don't mind, sir, I'd like to get some rest now. It's been a long drive."

"Of course." Howe got to his feet in a fluid motion. "I wouldn't want to keep you. I hope you'll have a quiet night."

"I'm sure I will." Carver got to his feet, hiding his yawn behind one hand.

To his surprise, Howe shook his head. "This is an old house. Don't be surprised if you hear funny noises or see… unusual things. Have a good night."

He disappeared with a quaint little bow, leaving Carver more than a little confused. Unusual things? Definitely a flair for the dramatic, he decided.

Mrs Woolsey took him to a medium-sized, spotlessly clean room on the first floor. It was warmer up here, and the bed looked old, but comfortable. He undressed quickly and crawled under the covers with a happy sigh. He was already dozing off when it occurred to him that Beth would worry, so he dug around in his bag for his mobile. When he finally found it, it was dead. He must have forgotten to recharge it before he'd left. Carver cursed under his breath. Well, there was nothing to be done right now. She'd probably figure out he had stopped somewhere for the night.

It was still raining heavily outside, the patter of the raindrops against the window pane monotonous and soothing. But he found that he couldn't fall asleep. He kept tossing and turning, replaying the conversation with Howe over and over again in his mind. Something had been off about the whole thing, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. And Howe hadn't lied about the noises. All around him there were floorboards creaking, shutters rattling, and a faint scrabbling that made him think of mice. The room had grown cold again, too; an icy draft coming from the direction of the window.

With a sigh, he sat up and reached for the light switch, intending to find a book and read for a while to settle down. But, when the lights went on, it took all his control not to scream. Someone was sitting on the broad windowsill, watching him silently.

His heart was racing, but he calmed down a little when he saw it was a girl, or a young woman rather. She was very pale and very pretty, with strawberry blonde hair and large green eyes, and she was wearing a thin white nightdress, with a heavy velvet dressing gown thrown over it and tied firmly around her slim waist.

"You gave me quite a scare!" His voice was shaky.

She smiled apologetically at him, and it was the most beautiful smile he'd ever seen. "I'm so sorry. I was just curious. We don't get a lot of visitors out here."

Her words were an almost exact echo of what Howe had said earlier, and Carver felt a shiver run down his spine. Something was very odd here.

"Who are you, then?" It was a blunt question, but he was too nervous for finesse.

"My name's Megan." She plucked restlessly at the neckline of her dress. "I bet you're from London. You sound like a Londoner." She sounded a little wistful. "I'd love to see London. What's your name?"

"I'm Carver." He tried to keep his tone light. "It must be lonely up here, for a pretty girl like you. Why don't you move to the city, maybe find a job there?"

Her smile turned sad and she got up from the sill, fiddling with the belt of the gown. "But I can't leave, you see. He will never let me go."

Carver frowned. He? Was she talking about Howe? He was still trying to come up with an answer when she finished untying the belt and let the dressing gown slide down over her shoulders. This time he couldn't hold back his scream.

Her dress was drenched in blood at the front, torn in several places as if someone had repeatedly slashed at her. There were deep gashes in her smooth white skin, but she moved as if she didn't feel a thing.

Carver felt as if his heart had stopped beating, as he realized that there was no way she could be alive with injuries like these; no way she could be standing there, smiling wistfully at him, her large eyes wet with tears.

He gasped hard. "Who did this to you?"

She closed her eyes for a moment. "He did. He was so angry, said I'd been with someone else." Her eyes opened again, and the look in them was full of naked despair. "But I hadn't. Never. I loved him so much and, besides, there was no one else, no one at all…" Her voice trailed off and she stared at the ground for a moment. When she raised her head again, the radiant smile was back. "You look nice, though."

Carver's hands tightened around the bedcovers, so hard he feared his knuckles would break. "Please…" He had trouble controlling his voice. "Please don't come closer."

Her face turned sad again. "You don't think I'm pretty?" She stepped closer, raising her arms and twirling around to show off her white dress.

A hysterical laugh threatened to rise in his throat and he fought it back as well as he could. "You're beautiful. But this isn't… right."

To his surprise, she nodded and took a step back. "No, you're right. It isn't. Such a pity." She sighed deeply, and then, without so much as a pop, she was gone.

Carver was shaking all over, trying to process what had just happened. Had it been a dream? She had looked perfectly real. But, if what she'd said was true… Who was this "he" who had done this to her? Howe? Was he staying in the house of a cold-blooded murderer? His glance settled on the door and, without thinking, he lunged over to it, bolting it firmly on his side. Would that be of any use if Howe came for him? He wasn't sure.

He reached for his clothes and put them on again, even though the room wasn't quite as cold any more. Still, he felt safer once he was dressed. And there was no way he could go to sleep after this any way. For hours, he sat on the bed, straining his ears, half expecting her to show up again, or for Howe to break into his room, axe raised, eyes crazed. It was almost morning when he finally fell into a fitful slumber.

When he woke, the room was brightly lit by sunshine, and birds were singing in the tree outside. Quickly, he gathered his belongings and set out for the stairs, eager to be out of this place.

Downstairs, a breakfast table was set in a room right next to the hall. To his surprise, there was a gas fire in the fireplace. Carver frowned. He was positive there had been a wood fire last night in the study. He hesitated in the doorway, unsure of what to do, when a door at the back of the house opened and Mrs Woolsey walked in, carrying a large breakfast tray and giving him a cheery smile. She looked older than he had thought last night, and a lot less severe. Her hair was almost completely white, and there were wrinkles around her eyes that he hadn't noticed in the dim light of the evening.

"Ah, Mr Hawke. Your breakfast is all set out, and I have your bill ready for you here. I trust you had a pleasant night?"

"I… " He was too confused to come up with a coherent answer. "My bill?"

"It's right next to your plate." She smiled serenely as she poured him a cup of tea, then she sat down near the window with a basket of knitting wool.

Gratefully, he reached for the cup, picking up the bill in an attempt to make sense of it. Old Rectory B&B was written in large, flowing letters on top of the small stripe of paper. Thirty-five pounds - a perfectly reasonable rate for a single room. But what-

"How's Mr Howe doing this morning?" He tried to sound casual.

"Mr Howe?" The old lady looked at him blankly.

Carver opened his mouth to speak, but then he thought better of it. "Never mind."

"You were very tired, when you arrived last night." Mrs Woolsey sounded almost motherly. "Perhaps you got the names muddled up. The only man around the house nowadays is Mr Varel, our caretaker."

"I'm sure you're right." Hastily, Carver wolfed down a slice of buttered toast, then settled the bill and grabbed his coat. "Good bye, Mrs Woolsey. I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"Of course you are." She followed him to the door, and he heard the bolts slide home from outside.

His car was just where he'd left it. Right next to the driveway, a low dry stone wall marked the boundary of the small churchyard, overgrown with grass and wild flowers, with gravestones scattered all over it. For a moment, he was tempted to take a look, to see whether he could find Megan's name on any of them, but then he remembered those sad green eyes, and suddenly he couldn't wait to be out of there.

He got into the car and turned on the engine, relieved when it sprang to life immediately. As he left the driveway, he could see Mrs Woolsey standing at the window, watching him go, a strange little smile on her aged face.

Carver had to force himself not to drive too fast. To his surprise, it was only a few miles to the next village. It was a pleasant, almost cheerful place, with a proper village green with a post office and a bakery. He decided to stop and have something to eat and a cup of coffee. He hadn't really felt hungry at the Rectory.

The girl at the counter smiled brightly at him as she took his order and, when she brought his coffee, he was struck by a sudden impulse. "Say, does the name Nathaniel Howe ring a bell? I was told he lived near here?"

"Nathaniel Howe? No, never heard of him." She shook her head. "I can ask my mum, if you want." Opening a door behind the counter, she called out. "Mum? Ever heard of a Nathaniel Howe? Supposed to live nearby?"

A small round woman with a friendly face turned up in the doorway. "Howe… Yes, of course. That writer fellow. But he doesn't live here anymore. He's been gone for a long time." She glanced up at Carver with a pained grimace. "A nasty business, that was. Killed his girlfriend and then hanged himself. About forty or forty-five years ago, I think."

Carver felt dizzy. Hanged himself. With a shudder, he remembered Howe's high-necked shirt, wondering what had been hidden beneath it. Still, none of this made sense. Had he been dreaming all along? Yet, he was positive he'd never heard of the murder at the rectory before last night. Or had he read about it and forgotten again?

As he returned to his car, he wondered what he would tell Beth. Somehow, he doubted she'd believe his story.