The Haunted House From Hell E-Book

Mark L'Estrange

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

When Catherine Porter murders her only son and takes her own life, no one can understand why. Vilified for her crimes, she becomes synonymous with everything evil and wicked amongst the locals, and parents begin using her name to scare their errant children into behaving.

Soon after her death, reports begin to circulate that her ghost has been seen inside her old house. Over the years, the sightings continue, sending most of the house's occupants running from the property, screaming into the night, never to return.

When the Jefferson family moves in, they decide to hold a séance to finally rid the property of its unwanted guest. But in doing so, they unleash something even more terrifying: a malevolent force that will stop at nothing to take back its domain.

Leseprobe

THE HAUNTED HOUSE FROM HELL

MARK L'ESTRANGE

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Epilogue

Dear Reader

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2021 Mark L’Estrange

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Edited by Terry Hughes

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

To Miika and all my friends at Next Chapter, thank you for all your support and encouragement in helping me to realise my dream.

This one is for all of you.

Prologue

Catherine Porter heard the horse and carriage pull up outside, just as the grandfather clock in the hallway struck 11pm.

She turned up the gas to help brighten the room, and made her way towards the front door to admit her son.

Outside, the rain lashed down on the cobbled stonework and she had to strain to hear his footsteps on the other side of the wooden door, as he drew closer up the path.

Before he had a chance to reach for the bell-pull, Catherine opened the door.

“Mother,” said Martin Porter, evidently shocked by his mother’s attendance. “Where on earth is Moresby?”

“I gave the servants the night off,” she replied, standing back to allow him entry.

Martin wiped his feet on the coarse coir doormat and pecked his mother on the cheek as he brushed by her on his way in. He walked over to the ornate hall stand and placed his bag underneath. Having removed his topcoat and hat, he surveyed his appearance in the mirror, sliding his index finger across his moustache.

“Filthy night,” he remarked.

“Well, you’re home now so why don’t you come into the parlour and sit beside the fire?”

Martin turned to her. “Did you receive my telegram? I did say I would be home this evening expecting supper, and yet you saw fit to give the servants the night off.”

Catherine smiled. “I know, my darling boy, I’m sorry. But I had Cook make your favourite. Why don’t you pour yourself a drink and I’ll bring it in for you? I had Moresby decant a bottle of that Madeira you’re so fond of.”

Martin’s eyes lit up. “I thought you were saving that for Christmas?”

Catherine nodded. “I was, but I thought after your latest triumph in London, it would make a nice treat.”

Martin Porter spun around, and for a terrible moment, Catherine feared her son was about to launch himself at her. The look in his eyes flashed menace.

“You read about my work?” he enquired, his eyebrows dipping together as he scowled.

Catherine nodded.

“Do you think father would have been proud?” asked Martin.

“I’m sure he would have. I know I am.”

Martin seemed perplexed. “You are?”

“It’s not every day a mother can boast about her son giving his first address to the Royal College of Surgeons,” she replied proudly.

Martin relaxed. “Ah, yes, of course,” he nodded. “It did go rather well, even if I must say. Did you read Simpson’s account in the Times? Extremely flattering.”

Catherine placed her hand on his arm. “Why don’t you go inside and warm yourself? I’ll be in in a minute with your supper.”

Martin nodded and made his way into the parlour, where he was greeted by a roaring fire and a full decanter sitting on the sideboard.

He poured himself a large measure, and knocked it back without bothering to savour the rich aroma that he usually enjoyed from that particular vintage.

Martin felt a shudder of warmth seep through his aching limbs, and he allowed himself an audible shiver to dispel the night air.

The train from London had taken far longer than anticipated and, by the time it finally arrived at St Albans station, he was beginning to wish he had refused old Cuthbert’s offer of a drink at his club. If there were a championship for talking tedious nonsense, the tiresome old bore would walk away with the trophy, and he had bent Martin’s ear for the best part of two hours before he finally managed to make his excuses and leave.

Martin refilled his glass and made his way over to the fire.

Standing with his back to the guard, he warmed his behind, drying off the bottoms of his trousers, which were still wet from the puddle he had not seen as he left the station.

The Madeira floated on his tongue as he swilled it around in his mouth, savouring the flavour. His mother was right, he did deserve this. But not for his address – that he could have done with his eyes shut.

No, his other work was far more important, if not vital for the survival of their future generations.

Naturally, his mother did not understand, and even refused to discuss it. But Martin knew that his father would have. Had he have not been taken by that stroke the previous summer he would have probably insisted on working with his son to achieve his momentous goal.

Only a fellow surgeon would understand. But, that said, Martin was loath to reveal his work to any within his present circle, some of whom had already proved to be far too judgemental and narrow-minded.

But once his mission was finally recognised and celebrated, as such revelations should be, then, and only then, would he reveal himself to his peers and revel in their adoration.

Martin smiled triumphantly and, in his mind, he could hear the cheers and applause from the Royal College as distinguished fellows clamoured to shake his hand and pat him on the back.

Such accolades would indeed be worth the wait.

Catherine trundled in his supper on a serving trolley, and laid everything out on the table for him.

The aromatic smell of succulent steak and kidney in a red wine gravy assailed his nostrils, and brought an even broader grin to his face.

“Oh Mother, splendid,” he cried, making his way over to the table, and placing his half-empty glass next to his plate.

As he began to eat, Catherine retrieved the decanter of Madeira from the sideboard, and brought it over for him. She topped up his glass, and placed it beside him.

After his third mouthful, Martin looked up. “You’re not joining me?” he asked.

His mother shook her head. “No thank you, I ate earlier. I find it hard to digest such a large meal this late at night.”

Martin nodded his understanding, scooping a dollop of creamy mashed potatoes on to his fork, before shovelling it into his mouth.

Catherine sat opposite him and watched as her son made short work of his supper.

Ordinarily, she would have scolded him for rushing his food in such a manner. But, under the circumstances, it hardly seemed worth the effort.

He was enjoying his meal, and that was the main thing.

Barely stopping to draw breath, Martin polished off his meal with gusto, determined as ever to track down the last pea on his plate, before eventually replacing his knife and fork and pushing his plate away.

“That was delicious!” he announced. “One of cook’s best and no mistake.”

“Have you room for a little cheese?” asked Catherine. “Those water biscuits you like arrived yesterday.”

Martin nodded before throwing his head back to drain his glass.

Catherine left him alone while she fetched his cheese.

With shaking hands, she cut him generous portions of Cheddar and Stilton and placed them on a board, along with some grapes, an apple, and a stack of water biscuits.

She had noticed that her son was now on his fourth glass of Madeira, so she was confident that she could retire in peace after he had finished the rest of his meal.

Martin devoured his cheese with the same enthusiasm he had applied to his main course.

Catherine watched as he swallowed another full glass from the decanter.

When he was finally done, she refilled his glass once more, noticing that there was barely enough left for another, should he desire it.

“Why don’t you take this over to the fire and relax in the armchair?” she suggested. “I’ll make sure the fire in your room is lit so that it will be lovely and warm when you retire.”

Martin took his mother’s hand, and lifted it to his mouth to bestow a kiss.

“Whatever did I do to deserve such a wonderful woman in my life?” he asked rhetorically.

Catherine bent down and kissed the top of his head, smelling his hair as she used to when he was a baby in his crib.

As she climbed the stairs, she felt a single tear escape her eye, so she brushed it away with the back of her hand.

Upstairs, Catherine made her way along the landing until she was outside Martin’s door. Turning the handle, she went inside. Everything looked just the way he liked it. The servants had been informed by her son, in no uncertain terms, of exactly what he expected, and the consequences should they fail to adhere to his requirements.

The bed was neatly made, his pyjamas were draped over the foot, with his slippers warming by the fireplace.

His dressing table was immaculately laid out, with everything on top of it displayed at the correct angle, and in order of size. Catherine walked over to the largest wardrobe, and opened the door. All her son’s clothes were meticulously arrayed within, with each item facing the same way, as he insisted.

Reaching inside, Catherine retrieved the large, leather-bound scrapbook from under his folded undergarments, and took it over to the fire. She removed the wire fireguard and placed the book on top of the flames, adding a few extra logs from the pile beside the grate.

She watched as the paper caught, and within seconds the book became a flaming mass. Returning to the wardrobe, Catherine resettled the remaining garments to remove any evidence of her tampering before shutting the door.

Before leaving the room, Catherine turned and took one last look to ensure that the last of her son’s scrapbook was destroyed before she shut the door and made her way to her own bedroom.

The bath had been set up for her in front of the fire, which she had assured the servants she would light when she was ready. The water was tepid, having stood for so long, but it was more than suitable for her purposes.

Catherine removed her shoes, and placed her jewellery on her dressing table.

Opening the top drawer, she removed the letter she had written earlier, and made sure that it was prominently displayed, so that the servants would find it upon their return.

She took out the cut-throat razor with which her husband had shaved until his dying day and carried it with her over to the tub.

Climbing in, fully clothed, Catherine sat down, allowing the lukewarm water to cover her body, up to her neck.

She undid the cuffs of her dress, and pulled back the sleeves, revealing her bare flesh.

Taking a deep breath, Catherine whispered a silent prayer, then she sliced through each wrist with a deep vertical thrust.

Placing her arms under the water, she watched as the colour grew crimson.

Her final thought was for Martin’s immortal soul.

ChapterOne

Derek Cole had worked as caretaker and general handyman for the Wentworth Trust since taking early retirement from the police force due to stress.

He loved his present occupation.

The company had offices all over England, and their main interest came from buying up dilapidated old houses from people who had inherited them from distant relatives, and who did not have the inclination, let alone the finances, to restore them to their former glory.

Wentworth could rip out the interior of a property within a week and, by the end of the same month, would have the place fully rewired, centrally heated, with new fixtures and fittings, ready to be sold on for an absolute fortune.

Derek worked in Hertfordshire, where he had lived his entire life. At present, he had more than 30 properties on his list, and it was his job to complete regular checks to ensure that boilers were working and taps had not frozen during the winter months, not to mention carrying out any remedial repairs as and when necessary.

He spent the bulk of his working day in his van, driving from one property to the next and he loved the freedom it gave him. The beautiful Hertfordshire countryside was more inspiring to him than any painting he had ever seen, whether portrait or landscape, whoever the artist might be.

If it had been up to him, Derek would have opted to stay overnight at some of the properties he maintained, with a couple of notable exceptions. But, although the company allowed it, Maggie would never hear of it. They had been married for more than 40 years, and she had always been a good wife. But, just lately, Derek had seen a change creep over her personality, and it was not one he warmed to.

It was almost as if she had grown bitter about the fact that she had opted to be a housewife and spend her time looking after him and the home. They had never had children, due to a problem with Maggie’s tubes. According to the specialist, there was an operation that could have rectified the situation. But as there was no guarantee and Maggie hated hospitals at the best of times, she had decided not to go through with it.

For the most part, Maggie had been content with her lot. Or so it seemed to Derek.

Immensely houseproud, Maggie always ensured the house was scrupulously clean, regardless of whether they were expecting visitors. Even though they could easily afford it, she absolutely refused to hire a cleaner, even when her knees began to play up a few years ago.

She proudly hosted regular coffee mornings, and volunteered her services at their local church, with everything from flower arranging to tabletop sales.

There was hardly an evening when she was not attending some function or other. But still she always ensured that Derek’s dinner was on the table by 7pm, without fail, and woe betide him if he did not make it home in time.

But, just recently, Maggie had grown less enthusiastic about her duties. Most dinnertimes were spent with her complaining about the way someone kept their lawn, or what someone else had worn to a church function. The slightest thing seemed to set her off and, as Derek had learnt to his detriment, when she was in such a mood there was nothing to be gained from arguing with her, apart from being on the receiving end of an earful.

So Derek had learned to stay silent, and nod in agreement when necessary.

Most mornings, Derek sprang out of bed, eager to hit the road and complete his round, relishing the journey ahead.

But today, alas, was not one of those days.

Having spent more than 15 years as a uniformed police constable, Derek considered himself a level-headed and straightforward kind of man, not the sort who was given to idle fantasy or daydreams.

He did not believe in unidentified flying objects, or the Loch Ness Monster, Bigfoot, or fairies at the bottom of the garden.

But, for all that, he had seen and heard things that were very much out of his comfort zone. He had felt a familiar shiver of anticipation when he received the email detailing his call list for the day.

There, at the top of his laptop screen, was the instruction he dreaded.

Go to Porter house. New buyers arriving this afternoon. Ensure all is as it should be.

Derek knew the house well and not just by reputation. As a bobby on the beat he had often been called upon to chase local kids away when they had been spotted in the grounds, up to no good.

Even entering through the main gates had given him an odd, eerie feeling, which he had never forgotten to this day. The old Porter house, as it had always been known, had been acquired by Wentworth’s almost 20 years before. The property dated back to the mid-19th century, but, during the majority of the 20th century the property had been rented out, because the descendants of the original family who owned it refused to live in it.

The house had, over the years, been used as an asylum for fallen and deranged women, a workhouse, a convalescent home for injured soldiers during the two wars, and, in between the wars, an adoption agency for orphaned children, as which it continued to operate after the Second World War until it was closed down in the sixties after a government inquiry discovered that some of the children were being farmed out to wealthy men who were allowed to use and abuse them as they saw fit.

After that, the property remained empty for a while, but then the family began to rent it out as a private residence once more. This too, proved to be less than successful as rumour had it that most tenants did not last more than a couple of weeks at best before refusing to stay any longer.

Eventually, the house was inherited by a distant relative living in Canada, who, aware of the house’s reputation, did not even bother to come over to England to inspect it, but instead, put it up for auction and Wentworth bought it.

Those who lived locally were made aware of the terrible secret of the Porter property when the local paper ran an article about the house back in the eighties.

According to the story, a mother poisoned her only son and heir, before committing suicide in the house. Since then, the property was said to be haunted by the ghostly apparition of the woman, wandering along the corridors, crying bitterly for her crimes.

The press had dubbed her “The Wailing Woman” and, since then, the title had stuck. Just after Wentworth acquired the property, an enterprising psychic society in the vicinity had asked permission to hold a séance in the house, to see if they could contact the spirit of the woman.

But the members of the board refused, concluding it would not be good for business to encourage such events. Even so, a local author who wrote extensively about the history of the area penned a book tracing the lineage of the family who had owned the property since it had been built, and naturally included a chapter on the incident with the mother and her son.

This inspired another author, one who was better known for his more lurid tales, to elaborate on the tragic event, and even managed to include several eye-witness accounts from some of those who had seen the weeping woman during their time spent at the house.

The Porter house had been on Wentworth’s books since they first purchased it and it was now, by far, the longest-held freehold property they owned. And now that they had finally managed to unload it, the directors were determined that everything should go like clockwork.

Although the property had been properly maintained over the years, a lot of the fixtures and fittings were felt to be outdated so, as part of the deal, Wentworth’s had supplied and fitted a brand-new kitchen, and replaced two of the bathroom suites.

A gang of cleaners was sent in the day before it was viewed, and again on the day before the second viewing, just to ensure that the property would be seen at its absolute best.

There were rumours back at the main office that the agent who eventually clinched the sale was given a massive bonus and an extra two weeks of annual leave.

Derek, for one, would not be sorry to see the house leave their books.

The property had shaken his belief system in such a way that it was impossible for him ever to return to his old way of thinking.

The first time he actually entered the property, he felt an icy chill sweep through his body like a cold rush or an arctic wind. Although he was at the time aware of the stories surrounding the old house, he put still his initial experience down to that fact that someone had obviously left a window open, probably somewhere upstairs.

But, on inspection, he soon realised that this was not the case.

The property seemed to be permeated with the cold, and even when Derek, as part of his duties, tested the central heating system, although each radiator was too hot to touch, the very atmosphere inside the house still made it feel as if icy fingers were stretching out and grabbing at his very soul.

That same feeling overwhelmed him as he drove in through the gates for what, he hoped, would be his last-ever visit to the Porter house.

Derek parked his van on the gravel drive and stared up at the daunting property from his seat. It was early morning and the autumn sun had barely started to make its climb across the eastern sky, but even so, the daylight gave him courage.

As he walked to the front door, Derek felt eyes staring at him from the darkened windows above. But he refused to look up and pander to his overactive imagination.

Although he had never actually seen the wailing woman for himself, he had, on many occasions, caught a glimpse of something from the corner of his eye as he was making his rounds. Added to which, there was an eerie feeling of someone close behind him that he often experienced while walking through the old house.

To date, he had never turned around to see if anything was lurking behind him. This was not something he would ever admit to. Derek could not imagine what the reaction would be from his former colleagues, some of whom he still met regularly for a pint in the local, if he ever let on to the fact that, deep down, he was afraid.

Derek made his way round the house, switching on all the lights as he went. He justified this by telling himself that it was part of his job to test the electricity, but deep down he knew the truth behind his actions.

Even in broad daylight the Porter house appeared gloomy.

He whistled to himself as he made his rounds to block out any unusual noises that he might otherwise feel obliged to investigate. Old houses were forever creaking and groaning without outside interference, but, under the circumstances, Derek preferred ignorance.

He switched on the boiler to start up the central heating, as instructed, for all the good it would do. When the renovations took place, it was decided to leave the open fireplaces in the downstairs rooms in situ, as a character feature. Derek had overseen the delivery last week of fresh logs for the fires so, once the heating was on, he made his way to the utility room and collected some to build a fire in each room.

Once he was satisfied with everything, Derek took himself back out to his van for a cup of coffee. He carried a full flask each day but usually enjoyed it inside whichever property he was visiting.

This house was the one notable exception.

As he drained his cup, he noticed one of the Wentworth company cars turning into the driveway.

Derek screwed the cap back on his flask and placed it on the passenger seat, before stepping out and slamming the door.

He recognised Pam Stewart as she waved at him through the side window, before pulling up across from his van.

“Morning, Derek,” she said, brightly, “just arrived?”

Derek shook his head. “No, I’ve been here about an hour, been checking that everything is ship-shape and Bristol fashion, as per instructions.”

“Well done. Anything to report?”

Derek shook his head. “Only that I won’t be sorry to see the last of this place after today.”

Pam shot him a serious glance. “Not so loud,” she cautioned, looking around them to see if anyone might be lurking close enough to overhear their conversation.

Derek nodded his understanding.

“Come on,” continued Pam, “you can help me unload the box of goodies I’ve got in the boot.”

Derek followed her around to the back of her car, and she released the catch using the remote on her keyring. Sitting next to her briefcase, he saw a cardboard box inside filled with all manner of refreshments.

“What’s all this, then?” he asked curiously. In all his years on the job he had never known of the company supplying tea and coffee for their new clients.

Pam brushed it off. “Just a little something to say welcome,” she explained. “Be a darling and take them into the kitchen for me – I want everything to be just perfect when they arrive.”

Derek shrugged and bent down to lift the box.

He carried it into the kitchen, followed closely by Pam.

While she took charge of placing the contents of the box in the fridge and inside the cupboards, she ran through a list of instructions which, one by one, Derek assured her he had already dealt with.

When she was done, Pam took the empty box out to her car, and placed it back in the boot. She turned to gaze at the front of the house one last time, just to ensure that everything looked just right.

She was running her eyes along the top row of windows, checking that Derek had drawn all the curtains to make the place look more welcoming, when something suddenly caught her eye.

The attic at the top of the house had three windows, looking out to the front.

Pam strained to focus, shielding her eyes with her hand.

There was someone standing at the middle window, staring down at her.

ChapterTwo

Pam placed her other hand over her mouth to prevent a scream escaping.

“What’s the matter?” Derek asked, re-emerging through the front door.

Pam looked at him, her eyes wide in shock.

She pointed towards the top of the house, without saying a word.

Derek came down the steps to join her, and looked up, following the line of her finger. He, too, had to strain his eyes, but all he could see were the empty windows staring back at them.

He turned to Pam. “What do you see?” he enquired, desperately trying to keep the trepidation from his voice, for he already suspected what her answer would be.

“There was someone there,” Pam stuttered. “Standing at the attic window, I saw them as clearly as I see you now.”

Derek looked up, once more. “Well, there’s no one there now – perhaps it was a shadow from the sunlight against the pane,” he suggested. Hopefully.

Pam turned to him, scowling. “I think I’d know the difference between a reflection and an actual person,” she hissed. “Someone must be up there.”

Derek held his hands up. “I checked the entire house when I arrived, and there was no one anywhere inside. Plus which, there was no sign of a break-in.” He looked deep into her eyes. “If there was someone up there, I think we both know who it was.”

Pam pulled back. She was all too familiar with the rumours about the old house. The company lawyers had even suggested that they mention it to future buyers for fear of being sued at some later date for failing to disclose the house’s history.

But Pam refused to believe that what she had just seen was anything other than an intruder from this world, not the next.

“Stop talking rubbish!” she spat. “I want you to go up there right now and check it out.”

The authority in her voice did not betray Pam’s alarm but Derek could see the woman trembling where she stood. Whether she wanted to believe what she saw, or not, it was clear that the rational side of her mind was desperately trying to keep a firm hold on her sense of reality.

For himself, Derek was not overjoyed with the prospect of searching the house again that morning. But Pam was his superior and he could do without her making a complaint against him for refusing to carry out his job.

Finally, he agreed. “All right, you stay here,” he told her. “I’ll go back upstairs and have a look around.”

As he turned, Pam’s arm shot out and grabbed him by the cuff. “You will be careful, won’t you?” Her eyes were almost pleading.

Derek patted her hand. “Listen, whether or not we want to believe what’s there or not, we both know that it won’t do either of us any harm. She never has done in the past.” He sighed. “That said, if I’m honest, I’m not looking forward to this.”

As he reached the top step, Pam called out to him.

“Wait.”

Derek turned. Pam was nervously nibbling at her thumbnail. She waited a moment longer before calling him back.

“You’re right,” she admitted solemnly. “It’s just that I’ve been here so many times and she’s… I’ve never seen anything. I was beginning to believe it was all just an elaborate folk tale, designed to scare children and stop them trespassing.”

“Whatever it is,” offered Derek, “after today, it’s no longer our concern.”

Pam managed a half-smile.

Derek noticed that she appeared to be purposely keeping her eye level straight ahead. It was almost as if she were afraid to look up again, just in case she caught another glimpse of something loitering at the upper windows.

A sudden breeze kicked up some of the dead leaves littered across the grassy banks on either side of the drive, making both of them shiver involuntarily.

“What time can we expect the new owners?” he asked.

Pam checked her watch. “Well, contracts are due to be exchanged at noon, so I suspect they are already on their way. Once I receive the call from the solicitors, the place is legally theirs.”

Derek scratched his head. “I take it they know about their permanent resident?”

Pam looked startled. “Good thing you said that. The husband knows all about it, full disclosure, but he asked that no one should mention it to his wife and daughters, so please remember that when they arrive.”

Derek nodded. “I suppose he thinks it’ll be a lovely surprise for them,” he speculated. “Something to talk about at dinner parties.”

Pam chuckled. “That’s very funny,” she observed. “Odd that you should mention that, when the husband and wife came down for their viewing, the wife commented on the fact that the large downstairs room would be ideal to host one.”

“Why do you think he doesn’t want his missus to know anything before they arrive?”

“Well,” Pam lowered her voice, and again looked around her as if afraid someone might overhear their conversation. “I got the distinct impression that the wife was not exactly overjoyed by their prospective move. They live in London at the moment, but I believe they rent their property, so this is their first step on the ladder, so to speak. I happened to overhear the wife speaking very disparagingly about living outside the capital.”

Derek frowned. “Why, it’s a lovely house, save for the unwanted guest, in a beautiful area, lots of parks, good schools, fresh air. Better than stuffy old London, I’d have thought.”

Pam shook her head. “You don’t understand,” she remarked. “I get the impression that their circle of friends all lived in London, so their moving away might mean they can no longer afford to live there.”

Derek shrugged. “Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. They’ll soon change their mind when they settle in.”

“Yes,” whispered Pam, “that’s if the G.H.O.S.T doesn’t send them packing overnight.”

“And what if it does?” Derek continued. “You’ve done your bit by making the owner aware, caveat emptor, and all that. After 12 o’clock it’s no longer your problem.”

“Yes, I know,” replied Pam, uneasily.

They waited out the rest of the time in their respective vehicles. Under normal circumstances, Derek would have been on his way to his next job by now, but Pam had insisted he wait with her, at least until the new owners arrived.

Just after 12, Pam received a text to confirm that the contracts had been exchanged.

Approximately 15 minutes later, the lorry arrived with the new family’s belongings.

Derek waited in his van, as instructed, just in case he was needed to demonstrate how the boiler worked, or to show them where the stopcock was housed.

The house came fully furnished, which had been another idea by someone on the board as a selling point.

Pam approached the lorry and spoke to the three men in the cab. She explained that as the formalities had all been taken care of, they could begin to unload if they were confident that they knew where everything went.

The driver, Larry, thanked her, but told her that the Jeffersons were not far behind, so they preferred to wait.

Ten minutes later, a Jaguar pulled into the drive. Pam recognised the driver as William Jefferson, the new owner.

While they were exchanging pleasantries in front of the house, a silver Mercedes rounded the corner, and pulled up next to the Jag.

“This’ll be my wife and daughters,” Jefferson explained, before suddenly turning around to face the house. “You haven’t forgotten my request about you know what?” he asked, from the side of his mouth.

“Not at all, Mr Jefferson, rest assured, my staff and I have been fully apprised.”

Once the Mercedes was parked, the two back doors flew open, and Pam watched as two excited girls came careering out, screaming to each other that they were going to bag the best room.

They raced passed Pam and Jefferson, almost knocking the estate agent off her feet in their haste.

“You must forgive them,” said Jefferson apologetically, “They’re both very excited by the move. Or, at least they were once we bribed them with new tablets and what-not.”

Pam watched as Mrs Jefferson emerged from her car. She looked as if she had just walked out of a beauty salon, which, considering the hour and the drive from London, meant that she must have been up with the lark, if that were the case.

The woman was wearing a dark-green roll-neck jumper, and what looked to Pam like riding jodhpurs tucked into knee-high brown boots.

She reached back into her car and pulled out a hacking jacket, which she threw around her shoulders as she stared up at the house.

Jefferson walked over to her, excitedly. “Isn’t it marvellous, darling?” he enthused, kissing her on the cheek.

Pam could tell by the woman’s demeanour that, unlike her husband, she was somewhat less than enamoured by the look of their new home. Even so, she managed a smile when she approached Pam, before making her way over to the lorry to dish out her instructions to Larry.

Pam, felt obliged to go into the house with the family. She knew it would be far safer with people around her, but even so, she prayed that the weeping woman would not choose this particular time to make another appearance.

Celia Jefferson soon established herself as the one giving orders to the workers, whereas her husband seemed perfectly content to stand aside and keep out of the way.

Pam remained on hand to answer any last-minute questions either of them might have although, if truth be known, she was itching to leave the old house for the last time. The sight of the figure up at the window earlier was still very much on her mind and just being inside the house now was making her feel uncomfortable.

She considered heading back outside and bringing Derek in for moral support, but decided it might look too obvious, so she stayed put and smiled whenever one of the Jeffersons glanced in her direction.

At one point, Celia appeared in the hallway and strode over to her purposefully.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” she announced, “on the deeds to the property it states that this is called Willow House.”

Pam nodded. “Yes, that’s correct. I believe it was named after the man who commissioned it to be built in the mid-19th century.”

Celia nodded. “I see, I only ask because on my way here this morning, I stopped off for petrol at the station around the corner, and the chatty woman behind the counter asked if we were new to the area, and when I told her we were moving here, she insisted on calling this place Porter House. Any idea why?”

Pam cleared her throat.

She looked around desperately, hoping that Mr Jefferson might be nearby, but she heard his voice coming from the large dining room. He sounded as if he were on his phone, so Pam realised she was on her own.

“Well,” she began, “from what I understand, the Porters were the first family to occupy this property, and they stayed here for several generations, until…”

Pam looked perplexed. “Until?” she repeated.

“Er… until the end of the 19th century, when the only surviving member died without issue.”

Pam nodded. “Oh, I see. How quaint.”

Just then, their attention was drawn to the Jefferson girls rushing down the stairs, calling out excitedly.

“Mummy, Mummy,” yelled the eldest, “we’ve chosen our rooms. Mine is at the back with a lovely view of the woods.”

“And mine is in the attic, facing the front of the house,” chirped in the younger girl. “Oh mummy, it’s beautiful, but I don’t like the bed in there – could I swap it for one of the others?”

Celia sighed. “The attic? Why on earth would you want to sleep in the attic?”

Pam felt a shudder slide down her back.

Her memory of the figure at the attic window returned once more.

“It’s beautiful Mummy,” replied the younger girl. “Oh, please say I can have it.”

“And what’s wrong with the bed? I seem to remember it was a fine sturdy one.”

The young girl wrinkled her nose. “It’s old-fashioned and nasty-looking, but there’s a lovely one in the room below. Please can I have that one instead?”

Celia turned to Pam and rolled her eyes. “Oh, I suppose so.”

The two girls held hands and jumped together in unison.

Just then, Larry entered the house carrying a large box.

“Larry, just the man,” called Celia. “Would you follow Jennifer upstairs, please? She has chosen her room, but the bed is not up to her majesty’s standards. Do you think you and your team could dismantle it and swap it with the one from the room below?”

Larry smiled and put the box down to one side. “No problem at all, ma’am, I’ve got all the tools in the van.”

Jennifer rushed forward and grabbed Larry’s hand. “Goody, come with me please, I’ll show you.”

“Me too,” chipped in the elder girl, taking his other hand.

Together they led the poor removal man back up the stairs.

Just then, William emerged from the dining room. “What’s all the noise about?” he asked, evidently annoyed by the commotion.

“The girls have chosen their rooms, but Jennifer wants a different bed,” replied Celia. “Who were you on the phone with?” she demanded. “We agreed no work for the next couple of days.”

William sheepishly stuffed his mobile back in his pocket. “Sorry, I had to take that, I’m missing an important meeting today and they just needed a few questions answered.”

Celia was fuming, and as far as Pam could tell, she was not attempting to hide the fact. “You are all supposed to be equal partners so why is it that they cannot seem to wipe their noses without your input?”

William flushed and stole a quick glance at Pam. “They’re not that bad, really.”

Pam decided to try and defuse the situation. “Mrs Jefferson was just asking why the locals often call this house Porter House.”

William shot her a desperate look. His bottom lip trembled slightly, as he tried to think of something to say.

“I explained,” Pam continued, pretending to ignore his discomfort, “that the house is known locally by the name of the family who lived in it for so many years when it was first built.”

William’s shoulders relaxed.

“Still seems a little odd to me,” stated Celia. “Still, there’s no accounting for the thought processes of people living this far from town.”

She took out her car keys and dangled them in front of her husband. “There’s some provisions in the boot. Please retrieve them before they go off.”

William obediently took her keys and made for the front door.

As he passed by, he gave Pam a grateful wink.

ChapterThree

The sound of a child screaming pierced the night.

Before William Jefferson had a chance to move, his wife slapped him hard on his shoulder. “Will, that’s one of the girls, oh my God!”

William fell out of bed in his haste to react to his child’s distress. He picked himself up off the floor, and, not bothering to stop for his slippers or dressing gown, ran from the room and along the corridor, towards his daughter’s room.

As he reached the door, Mitzi appeared from within, rubbing her eyes.

“Are you all right, darling?” he asked compassionately, placing his hands on her narrow shoulders.

The girl nodded. “I think Jennifer is having a nightmare – her screaming woke me up.”

William ruffled her hair, then made for the end of the corridor, towards the staircase that led to the attic rooms.

He took the stairs two at a time, mistiming his step in the darkness and almost falling backwards. Reaching out, he just managed to grab hold of the banister rail to stop himself.

Once on the upper landing, William grabbed the handle of his younger daughter’s room and, twisting it, rammed his shoulder against the wood.

The door refused to budge.

Confused, he checked the lock for a key, but there was none there.

He was positive that he had checked earlier in the evening to see if there were working locks on the insides of the girls’ rooms, and there were none there. So, what was preventing him from getting in?

He banged on the door. “Jennifer, it’s Daddy, open this door at once!”

Placing his ear against the wood, he could hear the sound of someone approaching the door from the other side. He pulled back a little, waiting for the sound of a lock being released, or a chair being removed from up against the handle.

But the only sound he heard was his younger daughter turning the handle, and opening the door.

Without waiting for an explanation, William rushed past her and barged into the room, half-expecting to see someone else waiting inside.

He switched on the overhead light. The room was empty. He searched through the wardrobes and under the bed, but there were no signs of an intruder. William checked the latch on the window and found it was still secured.

He turned back to the door, to see his wife comforting their little girl, with their elder daughter just behind her.

William went back to the door and crouched down in front of Jennifer.

Although he had calmed down a little since discovering that no one had broken into his child’s room, his heart was still racing.

He looked into his daughter’s eyes. “Darling, why was your door locked? Daddy was trying to get in, didn’t you hear me?”

The girl nodded.

“So why was the door locked?” he pressed.

The little girl shrugged her shoulders.

“What are you talking about?” demanded Celia from behind. “How could the door be locked?” She came into the room and checked the inside of the door. “There’s no lock or key.” She announced, pointing towards the handle.

“I know,” replied William, desperate to keep the anger from his tone. “But when I first arrived, I could not get the door to open, and I had my full weight against it.”

Celia checked the handle, moving it back and forth as if to demonstrate that it functioned properly.

She looked back at her husband. “Well, I hope you’re not suggesting that your eight-year-old daughter was preventing you from opening it with her superior strength?”

“Of course not,” William replied, no longer able to contain his annoyance. “But something was on this side, there must have been. Otherwise, why wouldn’t the stupid thing open?”

Celia moved back around the door.

Mitzi was cuddling her little sister and gently rocking her back and forth.

Celia crouched down beside her husband. “Jennifer darling,” she began, “what made you scream out like that? Did you see someone in your room?”

The little girl gazed from one parent to the other, then nodded.

“Oh my God,” cried Celia, rising to her feet and bringing her husband with her. “There was someone in her room. We need to call the police at once.”

“Hang on a minute,” insisted William. “If there was someone else in here, where are they now?”

Celia scanned the room, and pointed to the large wardrobe at the far end.

“I’ve checked that,” William assured her. “I looked under the bed, in all the cupboards, and the window is locked and bolted. No one else was in here with her – she must have had a bad dream.”

Celia thought for a moment. “So why couldn’t you open the door when you arrived? There are no locks – someone must have been pushing from the other side.”

William placed a hand on her shoulder, and looked into her eyes. “That’s what I thought, which is why I was asking her why the door wouldn’t open, because if someone had been in here, where did they disappear to?”

Celia waited a moment longer. “You definitely checked all the hiding places?”

William heaved a sigh. “I’ll do it all again, you watch me.”

While he set about his task, Celia turned her attention back to her younger daughter.

The girl did not appear to be afraid. At least, there were no outward signs of it. Her eyes appeared clear and alive, with no red rims or tear streaks down her cheeks.

Celia decided to try another approach. “Jennifer, why did you scream so loudly? What upset you?”

The girl leaned against her big sister for support. “When I woke up, the old lady was standing over my bed and I got scared.”

William heard his daughter’s explanation and, having finished his latest search of the room, came over to join them. “What’s that she said?” he asked his wife.

Celia turned to him, deep lines of concern etched across her face. “She said she saw an old woman standing over her bed,” she repeated.

William shuddered. “What?”

Celia ignored him, and went back to Jennifer. “What old lady, darling?” she asked gently. “Where did she go to after you woke up?”

The little girl moved forward, closer to Celia. Comforted by her mother’s tone that showed she was not in any trouble, she replied: “She said that she used to live here, a long time ago, and that I had nothing to worry about – she was going to keep me safe.”

Celia’s hand shot to her chest.

She took several deep breaths before responding. “And where did she go to when Daddy arrived?”

Jennifer looked across the room and pointed towards the window.

William shook his head. “You mean she climbed out of the window?”

Jennifer giggled. “No, Daddy, she went over to the window, then I heard you outside, and next time I looked, she was gone.”

Celia and William exchanged glances. Neither was comfortable with the eight-year-old’s explanation, but, as there was no evidence of an intruder, they both surmised that their daughter had been the victim of a nightmare, nothing more.

Finally, Celia suggested: “I know, why don’t you spend the rest of the night with Mitzi, eh?” She looked at her eldest daughter for confirmation, and the elder girl smiled and nodded. Celia relaxed. “Good, now you two run along, and I’ll be up in a moment with some hot chocolate, help you both get back to sleep.”

The two girls hugged each other excitedly and Mitzi grabbed her little sister’s hand and led her back towards the staircase, heading down to her room.

Once they were out of earshot, Celia turned to her husband. “This does not bode well, does it? First night in the new house, and already the girls are having nightmares.”

William gave her a reassuring smile. “We should have expected it, now I come to think of it.”

Celia frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well, first night in a big old house such as this. Not to mention, this is the first time the girls have spent the night apart. I wasn’t too sure myself that Jennifer was ready.”

“Well, neither was I,” Celia replied defensively. “But you saw how excited they both were when we arrived, adamant that they wanted their own rooms. What should we have said?”

“It’ll be better once we’ve let them choose their own decorations. They are both a tad dreary, especially Jennifer’s room.”

Celia nodded. “I suspect you’re right. We’d better get on to that first thing – I don’t want any more nights like this, if I can help it.”

“Once the girls start school and make some new friends, we can arrange some sleepovers. It’ll be fine,” he assured her.

On the way back down the stairs, William caught himself biting his lip. It was an annoying habit he had indulged in since childhood whenever he was nervous or upset.

Things had not gone as he had hoped.

The appearance of the ghostly spirit so soon after moving in had put him in a very awkward position. Knowing his wife as he did, he was sure she would not rest now until she figured out what was going on.

He considered confessing everything to Celia, just to have it done with. But then he knew that she would demand to know why he had dragged them all to live in this place without at least divulging what he knew about it.

The truth was the business was not nearly as stable as he had been making out, and the mortgage on their new house was far less than the rent they were paying in London. Not to mention the fees for their daughters’ new school were a fraction of those they had paid up until now.

But how could he explain to Celia that they needed to tighten their belts?

She had not exactly married him for his money but she expected a certain standard of living, which he had promised to provide.

William heard the sound of his wife’s footsteps on the landing outside their room.

He closed his eyes when he heard their door open and pretended to be asleep.