The Portrait

 

Photo by The Metropolitan Museum of Art on Unsplash

Kent waved the letter at his wife. “It's the valuation.” Rupert watched carefully as Kent ripped the envelope, struggling with the expensive, heavy.  

“You can't be thinking of selling it,” Alison said. “That portrait has been in your family for generations.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And you know painting is haunted. Look what happened last time it was sent for cleaning.” Rupert nodded. At least someone else was paying attention. He looked critically at the portrait. It had worn well over the years, and the jewel shown still remained with the family. At least, he didn’t remember it being sold off.

“Those sort of accidents are normal for a house of this age.” Kent looked uneasily over his shoulder. “It was a coincidence. The gargoyle that fell on him was probably loosened by a storm and could have fallen at any time.” He sighed, still struggling with the envelope. “And we have to face reality. We are in a Grade I listed English Stately Home with a leaking roof. We can't just get any old tiles from the local builder's yard and get the cheapest quote plus scaffolding. Did you see how much the only firm I could track down wanted? We need the money.”

“Do you want to sell it?” Alison asked as Kent finally pulled the letter out of it's rich, cream envelope. “Soames is talking about expanding the market garden side. We’re making a decent profit there, then there are the guided tours and the lavender farm.”

Kent set the letter face down on the table. “I don’t want part with the portrait. I grew up with it, and I was always fascinated by the man in the picture. I can’t believe that all the stories I heard were true, but if even a tenth of his adventures were real, he was such a character.”

Rupert grinned. Every exploit was true, and the gold and jewels that he stashed from the profits were a guard against just this sort of crisis. His grin faded. He didn’t understand why Kent hadn’t sold any of it. Surely he wasn’t emotionally invested in some cold metal and a few chunks of pretty rock.

Kent put his hand on the letter. “I really don’t want to sell it, but sentiment won't patch the roof.” He absently straightened out the letter. “I wish we didn't have to.” He straightened his shoulders. “And if I'm not getting a good enough offer, I'm keeping it. There are grants, after all.”

Jenkins stuck his head round the door. “It's Soames about the gardens again. He's in the study, sir.”

Rupert waited until Kent and Alison left the room and stood square in front of the portrait, his hands behind his back. He loved this estate, loved it with every fragment of him, and he wasn’t going to see it fail. He leaned a little closer to inspect the detail on the jewel. The artist had done a wonderful job, and it would be a shame to lose the portrait. But what had happened to the jewels? The family had been quietly prosperous for generations, but now it was finally time to use what had been put aside for just such a problem. It was hard to remember after so many years, and his recollection was foggy around the time of his death, but he would swear an oath that none had been sold. He turned to inspect the letter. £350,000 was a significant sum, but it wasn’t enough to leave a cushion and he wasn’t going to let his portrait leave. He concentrated. He’d not spent the last few centuries drifting around like the Grey Monk in the Long Gallery and he wouldn’t allow a letter to defeat him. It took some work to manipulate, but after a mentally strenuous ten minutes, the offer was £35,000, take it or leave it. The old ghost knew that Kent would never settle for that. But he still needed money.

Rupert thought back. His son had been something of a gambler, so he’d hidden most of the marginally legal spoils to keep safe for his grandson, but then he’d caught the fever his son had brought back from a gambling hell and was never able to tell young Henry where to look. That’s why the jewels had never been sold. No-one knew that they existed. Rupert straightened up. All he had to do now was remember where he’d left them.

The tension hung heavily in the air after Soames left. “It sounds like a good deal,” Kent said. “If anything, I think Soames underestimates some of the profits.”

“I think that he’s over-cautious on the start up costs as well,” Alison said, tapping the papers in front of her. “But we still need more money than we have, and if the roof isn’t fixed soon, we could get structural damage.” She stood and laid a hand on Kent’s shoulder. “I don’t want to see the portrait go, either. It’s the soul of the house. But we are running out of choices.”

Kent looked around the panelled study. “We can’t lose the house,” he said. “This room hasn’t changed since the seventeenth century. Can you imagine what a property developer would do to the place? The wainscotting would be gone, the oak beams in the red parlour would be plastered over, the nineteenth century wallpaper would be stripped…” He sunk his head in his hands. “We have to make it work.” He jumped, startled, as a crack rang through the room.

“What now?” Alison said. “Not the chimney!” Another crack sounded from the fireplace and a shower of ancient soot fell into the unused fireplace.

Kent swore and hurried over. “We can’t afford anything more,” he said, pulling out his phone and switching on the torch. “But it was capped years ago.”

“It’s not the chimney,” Alison said. “Look.” She pointed to a split in the panelling at the side of the fireplace.

Kent aimed his phone into the crack. “Hang on.” He gently ran his fingers over the tiny gap, then slid them up to a burnished rosette on the fireplace. “I wonder…” He pressed the rosette, tentatively at first, then harder. “I remember going to stay with Phil and Larissa one year, and they were so proud of their priest hole.” He put his phone down and pulled out a pocket knife. “Come and look.”

Alison hurried over as the split grew wider. “A real priest hole!”

“I’m surprised to find this,” Kent said, gently prising open the crack. “We were Protestant all the way through, but I did hear that Rupert, from the portrait, had a hidden cupboard for all of his ill-gotten gains.” Ancient hinges protested, but gave as he swung the door open. “I thought that the tales of gold and jewels were just stories. You know, adding to the legends of his time as a privateer and explorer.” He reached towards a sad leather bundle that filled the floor of the cupboard, then drew his hand back. “We should probably get someone in,” he said.

“Probably,” Alison agreed. “We should get someone in to authenticate the leather and all that.”

“We definitely need witnesses,” Kent said. “But if we get the security guy from downstairs and call Soames back…” He picked up the phone and shone the bright light closer to the bundle. There was a rich gleam in the dust.

“I’ll give them a call,” Alison said. “And why wait longer. You may not be Rupert, but you’re definitely related. And we get to keep the portrait.”

“We always keep the portrait,” Kent said.

Dark Cupboard

Image from Unsplash, taken by Thom Milkovic

Jim looked around. “It’s not a bad little flat,” he said. “It’ll turn a good profit once we’ve tidied it up a bit.”

Steve nodded. “It really just needs a few coats of paint and perhaps new doors on the kitchen cupboards. Everything is pretty sound.”

“She didn’t want to leave,” Jim said thoughtfully. “I mean, she handed over the keys alright, and the place was cleared, but she kept warning me about the cupboard.” He nodded to the cupboard set into the wall, with chipped paint and an ornate chain.

“I’ve got the bolt cutters here,” said Steve. “I’ll get into it in a sec.”

“I’ll nip back to the van and get the camera,” Jim said. “She seemed a sweet old dear, and a little confused, but she may have been playing crafty. There could be structural stuff inside that cupboard and there go our profits.” He glanced over at Steve. “Don’t start without me, we need to document this.”

“I’ll get it opened up,” Steve said. “I’ll get the lamp shining in by the time you’re back. It’s probably where she hid the empty bottles. She was talking about spirits when she left.”

“Or it could be a Ouija board,” Jim said with a shudder. “You know I hate anything like that.” He glanced uneasily at the cupboard. “Back in a tick.”

Steve shook his head as he heard Jim clatter down the stairs. You couldn’t even read your newspaper horoscope around Jim. He hefted the bolt cutters and checked the chain. It was steel but old and the bolt cutters were top of the range. The chain fell apart without much effort.

The cupboard was dark inside, much darker than Steve expected. He pulled out his phone to use the torch and shivered as a cold draught ran through the room. He looked closer and saw a few chalked symbols, faded and barely visible under some dusty leaves, on the base of the cupboard. The stench was stomach churning.

“There’s nothing here, Jim,” Steve called, heading to the windows. He had to get some fresh air into this room. “But we may have a sewer line issue.” He tugged at the window catch. “Have you got some WD40?” The window was jammed, no matter how hard he pushed and shoved. He frowned. They had been fine earlier and there had been nothing in the survey. He could hear Jim on the stairs. He had better get the chalk marks wiped off before he got here, or he would have a fit. “Hang on, Jim, I need a cloth.” Steve strode over to the door, shivering as another blast of icy stench ran over him, and grabbed the door handle. It wouldn’t move. “Jim, the door’s stuck. Give it a push, will you?”

There was a rattle. “I can’t shift it,” Jim said. “Is there a lock?”

Steve peered at the door. “I can’t see anything.”

“I’ll get the toolbox,” Jim called. “Back in a tick.”

The light in the room dimmed. Steve turned around, hit by another icy, stinking draught, but there was nothing over the window and the sun seemed just as bright. He shivered as the room got colder and, as he heard a low, malicious chuckle, he wondered if they would have been better leaving the cupboard alone…

Particular

Image from Unsplash, taken by Saif Akhtar

I looked down at my husband’s grave. The funeral had been yesterday and the flowers were already drooping. I stooped and pulled out a faded leaf. Alan always liked things just so, and it was the least I could do for his memory.

He had liked his tea brewed for exactly four and a half minutes. He had insisted that his newspaper was placed at the side of his breakfast dish with the sports pages showing. He had always checked that his dinner knife was exactly perpendicular to the edge of the table. I accommodated his little ways as the years went on. After all, a prize winning research chemist had to have a few little foibles after working with dangerous chemicals all these years.

But while he was so particular about the brand of salt on the table and the angle of the curtains when they were opened, it was a shame that he had paid less attention to other details. It was always risky taking a mistress who worked in the same lab as you and who also dealt with dangerous poisons. And his genius for new compounds was lacking when it came to cyber security. I had known all his personal passwords for years, and I suppose plenty of other people had as well. Perhaps most dangerously, he forgot that once, long ago, I had also worked in the lab with him on dangerous chemicals, the same lab I regularly visited to bring his freshly home-made lunch, with the sandwiches always cut on the diagonal.

The police had found the email apparently from my husband to his mistress, ending their relationship. They had found poison in the mistress’s bag, coyly left next to my husband’s coat in the cloakroom where I left his lunch. They had ascribed the hysterics she had to guilt.

I straightened the roses – not lilies. My husband had been particular about flowers as well. If only he had been as particular and paid attention to me.

Missed Meeting in the Library

 

Photo by Tim van Cleef on Unsplash

Melody tapped her translucent pink fingernails on the desk and looked around. “I wish that I was still alive,” she said.

“You get used to it,” Elsie said, drifting past. “But you know how courting happens in the modern world, don’t you? How can we get Rhia and Liam together?”

Melody looked at Mr Kennington. “I just wanted a few moments of drama, you know, nothing too big, just a note to say that I died in a library.” She shook her ghostly head. “I thought I’d die in a car crash or in a club. I never went to libraries.”

“We will all support you as much as we are able,” Mr Kennington said. “And though you may not have frequented a library in the past, your contribution to our work now is valued.”

Melody paced around. “I was getting headhunted by London firms,” she said. “I was a real rising star. Now I’m stuck here.”

“People were hunting you?” Mr Kennington asked, aghast.

Melody ignored him. “I couldn’t stop my mind working, even though I came here because of a different account. I was looking around, trying to frame some angles.” She shook her head. “That’s when it hit me, the – what did you say it was?”

“Rhia told us that it was an aneurysm,” Mr Kennington said. “I’m unsure what that means, but could it have been a result of the hunting?”

“How old are you?” Melody asked.

A slight grimace passed across Mr Kennington’s face. “Normally it’s considered bad form to ask ages as it could mean the age that I had attained when I died or the age I am now, but I imagine that you are curious about how long I’ve been here.” He drew himself up to his full height, drifting a little above the floor. “I died two weeks after the battle at Alma.” He sighed at Melody’s blank look. “You know, the Crimean War? I died in 1854.”

“Was that the Charge of the Light Brigade? That’s a long time ago,” Melody said. “I guess that it means that you don’t always use current usage – expressions that are normal to me. When I said that I was being headhunted, it means that other firms were trying to get me to leave my current employer and join them. I worked in marketing.” She tilted her head as she regarded Mr Kennington. “I found different ways to sell items and services, like adverts, social media campaigns, endorsements, and all that good stuff.”

“I bet you were really ruthless,” Tony said, sliding through a bookcase and over to Melody. “I can’t believe how you negotiated with Rhia about the exhibition.”

“It’s a start,” Melody said. “I need to be able to use a computer, though. Going through Rhia takes time that this library doesn’t have. Besides, she’s busy here and I could use the computer at night when no-one’s around.”

“Tony can switch the boxes off and on again,” Elsie volunteered. “He was trying to explain a…” She waved a hand. “You had to make a line of things.”

Mr Kennington and Melody turned and looked at Tony, who flushed. “Thanks a lot,” Tony said. He looked at Melody. “I’m still having trouble navigating, but I can manage basics.”

“You need to show me!” Melody said. “I need to be monitoring the feeds in real time if things get hot.”

“I’m not exactly sure of your meaning,” Mr Kennington said.

“This exhibition is just the start,” Melody said. “There needs to be engagement on the right feeds.” She paused to translate. “A lot of universities and colleges are interested in research material, like the piles of records stuffed into your cellars. They also follow what’s going on by using the internet. One the computer that Tony uses.”

“I think that I begin to see your point,” Mr Kennington said. “If we can be noticed on this internet computer, then the universities and colleges will direct their students to visit here – and subscriber numbers will rise.”

“That’s right,” Melody said. “And I need to watch to see how the figures, that is, the number of people watching and reacting to our content, the things that we post, to get an idea of how well things are going and whether we need to change some things, what we need to stop doing and what we need to do more of.”

Mr Kennington was a little glassy eyed. “I see.” He straightened his translucent jacket. “Then you must gain access to this internet computer.” He turned to Tony. “How soon can you facilitate the necessary training.”

Tony wasn’t listening. Instead he followed Elsie towards the massive exhibit taking up most of the spare space on the main floor of the library. “Are you alright, Elsie?”

“Elsie is a lovely girl,” Mr Kennington told Melody. “But I have concerns about your exhibit. You are correct that the records we hold about the social impacts of the Great War are unparalleled, but that is when she died. It was quite sad, really.” He drifted slowly after Tony, Melody following close behind. “She was never much of a reader, but she was respectful enough. She only came here to meet her beau. They had an agreement that once her young man returned from France, they would get married. Unfortunately she passed from influenza, collapsing in this very place, and her young man never returned to the library.”

“That’s so sad,” Melody said.

“I’m still not sure about her competency at reading,” Mr Kennington said. “However she may find the exhibit distressing.”

Elsie stopped next to Rhia as she put the final touches to a display in the corner. “That’s my name, there,” Elsie said, pointing at a list on the board in Rhia’s beautiful calligraphy.

“That’s right,” Rhia said. “Elsie Stretton, Spanish influenza.”

“And that’s my nan, and my auntie,” Elsie added.

“This is a list of all the people in the parish who died of Spanish Flu,” Rhia said. “I’m trying to show how many were infected.”

“And this is the names of the soldiers who died overseas of the Fluenza,” Elsie said. “That must have taken some working out. They were so far away from here, so it must have been hard to work out what happened.”

“There’s lots of information in the stacks,” Rhia said. “And I had some help from Tony. He’s wonderful with computers.”

“And that name, that’s Albert,” Elsie said, suddenly still.

“Albert Birkenshaw, yes he died of the Influenza when he was at Etaples,” Rhia said, shuffling through the copied photos. “It’s very sad. He was wounded in action and got a medal for bravery – the Military Medal, and he caught the flu the day before his discharge. A lot of soldiers who survived the Great War were killed by the Spanish Influenza.”

“My Albert is dead?” Elsie asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Tony laid a gentle hand on her insubstantial shoulder. “It’s has been a while,” he said. “And if he could have got back here, he would have done.”

“Albert was an estimable young man, with great potential,” Mr Kennington said. “I was always confident that he would have returned if at all possible.”

“My Albert is dead?” Elsie repeated. “So he won’t come back to meet me here?”

“I’m afraid that he won’t be able to meet you here,” Mr Kennington said. “He would never let you down if he could possibly help it.”

“Albert can’t come here to meet me,” Elsie said. “If he could, he would.”

“Indeed,” Mr Kennington said sadly, as Elsie started to fade.

“And if he can’t meet me here, why am I waiting?” Elsie asked herself. “What if he’s waiting for me outside the Pearly Gates? I can’t be hanging around here.” There was barely a trace of her left, a wisp hanging in the air. “I’ve got to go and meet my Albert.”

“Goodbye.” Mr Kennington said softly to the empty air. “And God Bless.”

Tap Tap Tap

Photo by Jp Valery on Unsplash

It started when the house along the street blew up. We were told it was safe and I suppose it was. The houses either side of the gap were fine and there was no trace of gas or anything. But that night the tapping started.

First it was on the windows, a light, tap tap tap, like a branch against the panes in a light breeze. Except there were no branches near my window. Just the tap tap tap after dark. It started to unnerve me. There was never any trace when I pulled back the curtains to look and nothing seemed out of place when I looked at the windows from the street in daylight.

Gradually I got used to it and talked about perhaps it was mice or birds in the attic. I even added it to the ghost stories that were exchanged at work - I live in York, after all, and there are always ghost stories. However, as the nights grew longer and the days got cooler, the tapping changed.

It was the day after my birthday, 22nd of September, when I sat bolt upright in bed. The tap tap tap was now coming from the living room. I remember how frozen I felt, pinned to my bed as the gentle tap tap tap seemed to patter against the wooden floor. I crept to the door of my bedroom and listened. There were no human footsteps, no rustle of clothes and no sigh or grunt of someone moving. I opened the door just a crack, peering out into the hall. No light shone from under the living room door. As I gathered my courage to confront the noise, the tap tap tap faded away and I realised it was dawn.

That was three days ago. I forgot about the tapping as I went away for work. I lost myself in the hectic pace of the conference and the after conference drinks, happy to forget about strange noises, but now I was back. There was no sign of any disturbance in the house. Nothing had moved. I had a quick shower and got into bed with Netflix playing loudly as I wriggled down into the bed.

But it didn't drown the tapping. I can hear it now, tap tap tap in the living room. I am lying here, terrified, as the tap tap tap gets nearer and nearer. The tapping is in the hall now and getting closer to my door.  I pick up my phone from the bedside cabinet and scroll through my contacts, looking for the number that had been forced on me. Now I was desperate. I found the name - Rev D King, Exorcist. My fingers trembled as I dialled the number, burrowed under the covers. Dawn is two hours away and the tapping is getting closer.

Just in Case

 

Image from Unsplash taken by Annie Spratt

“You can’t be too careful.” Dan said as he nailed another horseshoe on the top door. “The fairies cause problems.”

Yvonne looked critically at the horseshoes. “Shouldn’t they be the other way up?”

Dan looked shocked. “If they are on the other way, all the luck would drain out.”

Yvonne chose her words with care. “Dan, you know that fairies aren’t real, right?”

“How can you be sure?” Dan asked, standing back and looking at his handiwork. “You know that there are a lot of strange things in this world that never make the papers.”

Yvonne nodded. “Absolutely. But have you ever seen a fairy?”

“That’s not the point.” Dan said. “Milk is going missing from the dairy.”

“And that’s nothing to do with the local cats?” Yvonne asked. “What other proof?”

“The iron keeps them away.” Dan said. “It proves that it’s working.”

“Did you ever see a fairy before you put the iron up?” Yvonne asked.

Dan rubbed his sleeve over the latest horseshoe to knock off the dust. “Just because I haven’t seen a fairy, doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”

Yvonne sighed. “You’ve been a vampire here for four hundred and seven years. If there were any fairies around here, I think you would have noticed by now.”

Monster in the Forest

 

Photo by Brayden Prato on Unsplash

“I told you to stay away from me.” Cana rolled away from him, clutching at her long knife. There was plenty of room in the clearing and the fire was still bright.

“I thought we stayed close when camping in the woods,” Sion said. “To keep warm.”

“It’s past midsummer,” Cana said. “It’s not cold.” She rolled over and looked at the stars peeking through the canopy of leaves overhead. “The fire will keep away wolves, and the horses will warn us if anything approaches. Get some sleep. We should reach the castle by noon tomorrow.”

“You won’t come into the castle with me?” Sion asked.

“I’ve been warned about monsters in the castle,” Cana said. “Besides, as you have often told me, I’m just a girl.”

“Tomorrow I go to fight a monster,” Sion said. “This could be my last night on this earth. Won’t you at least make it a little warmer for me.”

“No,” Cana said, shifting a little further away from him and wrapping her blanket closely around herself.

“I could come back laden with jewels and gold,” Sion says. “The rumours say that there is treasure beyond counting.”

“And that is why you are going to the castle,” Cana said. “If there was no castle then the villagers could rot under monsters for all you cared.”

Sion laughed. “A man has to make his way in the world,” he said.

“I’m only here because of the steward’s orders,” Cana said. “You could turn back at any time.”

“I received no encouragement from village,” Sion said. “Don’t you fear monsters?”

“We fear them,” Cana said. “And we have learned to recognise them. You are going into this with a black eye because you couldn’t learn to take ‘no’ as an answer and the men of our village are protective.”

“And the women are no fun,” Sion said. “You are sleeping with a knife under your pillow. Don’t think I didn’t notice. Is that why the priest refused to bless me and my weapons?”

“It’s because you wouldn’t confess your sins first,” Cana said. “The whole village heard the argument.”

“Tomorrow I face a blood sucking, immortal creature that has powers that no-one can measure,” Sion said. “Won’t you warm my bedroll, to give me a fragment of comfort to take into battle?”

Cana turned back and looked at the greasy, red face, predatory intent clear. “Save your strength. You’ll need it.” She looked coldly into his eyes. “And you’ll never make the castle if you try to force me.”

Sion laughed again. “It’s worth asking, at least.” He placed his sword in the clear ground between them. “There, do you feel safer?”

“The horses will warn of any movement,” Cana said. “Goodnight.”

***

Cana watched him leave the next morning and then tidied the campsite. Those who tracked the creature in the castle came at all times of year, so she stacked up firewood against the winter. She had lost count of those that she had brought here, seeking their fortune and, perhaps, fame. There had even been a few that had wanted to serve what they thought lived in the lonely fortress that was a short ride down the path. They all needed a campfire the night before they approached the castle and firewood was always needed. She shook out the blankets, checked her pony and the packhorse, and quickly scouted around the perimeter. There were raspberries in the forest, and she picked a good basket full before the shadows lengthened. Then she made up the fire again and waited.

She slowly became aware of a familiar presence on the edge of the clearing. “You defeated him?”

Calixtus nodded and joined her near the fire. “To be truthful, he was a careless warrior. And he was avoiding me as he searched for the fabled treasure. I think he would have fed you to me to buy time if he could.”

“And you’re unhurt?” Cana asked.

“I can’t be hurt like you,” Calixtus said softly. “But no, he didn’t land a blow. The black eye didn’t help. Let me guess, he tried to flirt with Maria?”

“He tried more than flirting!” Cana said. “Fortunately for him, her husband reached them before she could do much.”

“How is Maria?” Calixtus asked.

“She’s well.” Cana said. “Rhia has had her baby, it’s a boy and they are calling him Calix, after you.” She frowned. “Father John’s joints are hurting him, I think, though he isn’t saying anything.”

“I’ll call in soon and see what I can do,” Calixtus said. “And I’ll have a look at the mill while I am there.”

Cana smiled. “You know so much. Perhaps you should take an apprentice.” She loosened her tunic.

“Perhaps I should,” Calixtus said. He held up his hand. “I won’t need blood for a while. The would-be warrior gave me plenty and there are many animals in the forest. But thank you.”

Cana shook her head. “You have saved us from so many monsters. Now, sit, share some raspberries and let me tell you all of the news.”