I have always loved Susan Cooper's Dark is Rising series. It's a beautifully crafted series, and it made a deep impression on me. One phrase resonated stronger than the rest. She called 31st October, the day of the dead when the year, too, dies.
I think that's a lovely way to describe this time of year, when the world outside is settling down for the winter sleep and the nights are drawing in. It works for me.
In that spirit, I'm making New Year Resolutions, sort of. I fail drastically at Resolutions or any plan that I say out loud or put in a post. However, January, February and March are dreadful months for me. Like many people, my mental health falls off a cliff at that time of year. Trying to start new routines or stick to plans is almost guaranteed to fail. However, if I try to set a new course now, I have a fighting chance. I hit a peak of mental and creative energy in September and I'm still benefitting from that. I may actually get things changed around!
Last year, I chose the word Mindful as the word for a year, and when I remembered it, after the dark of January, February and March and the slow climb up and recovery for the next few months, it started all this chaos. The word Mindful hasn't exactly been peaceful, but perhaps that's not the point. I haven't paid as much attention as I should have to the whole theory of Mindfulness, but I'm starting on a journey to find that, and it's a complicated one. If I stick to Mindful and keep it in front of me, then I believe I've got a chance of finding peace - and, more importantly, writing more and at a higher standard.
I may be keeping Mindful, but I'm also adding Purposeful. I'm looking at writing from different angles and I'm trying to find the corners where I fit. When I sit down at a keyboard, I need to know what purpose this writing is serving. Is it just for fun and my own pleasure? That's awesome and completely allowable. Is it for the werewolf story that's been nagging at the edge of my mind for over a year, or for Kane and his erratic ghosts? That's equally wonderful. It's just as fine to write to find out what I want to be writing, or chase down old plots, or try poetry in strange forms. It's absolutely the opposite of what all the blogs and YouTube channels and articles tell you about how to be a successful writer, but I'm finding my purpose and all bets are off!
To be fair, I've already changed some of my writing habits, and you can see that in previous blogsposts. I'm switching from Wordpress to Blogger, and I'm taking down a lot of the stories that have been on my blog and converting them over to Amazon. I'm also reassessing how I've been writing, and so the usual Monday fiction is likely to disappear, hopefully replaced by regular publication on Amazon.
This time last year, I got caught up in a November writing challenge. I had a lot of fun writing it, I'm not going to pretend that I didn't, but it wasn't what I needed. It took me away from ideas that I've been wanting to develop or plots that I want to work on. This year, I've decided that I'm not going to join a public challenge. I'm easily distracted even without group chats and workshops, and I'm thinking about Mindful and Purposeful. I'm still going to try writing a novel in November, and it's not something that I've got ongoing. The idea fell on me this morning, as a sort of New Year's Day present from my imagination. It may lead nowhere, but I'm currently drowning as I get old stuff edited, polished, tidied, and onto Amazon's metaphorical shelves. And it may lead somewhere after all.
I feel a wonderful sense of adventure as I type this, just before I settle down to my first stint at the new idea. I can't wait to see where it leads and what it means for this year. I hope that you'll be around to share what happens, and I'd be honoured to know what you think.
This is a pic that I took of a completely normal and non-haunted book
“Just let me take a quick picture,” Violet said.
I sighed. “It’s just a basic burger. It’s nothing special. And you already took a picture when I sat down.”
“But now it’s got a bite taken out of it,” Violet said. “It’s more authentic.”
“It’s just a burger.” I stared at her. “There’s a MacDonalds in every High Street. Think about it, Burger King is everywhere and you can get burgers in half the pizza and curry delivery places in town. This isn’t fancy!” I put the burger back on the paper wrapper. “Take a picture if you must.”
“You’re right,” Violet said thoughtfully. “It’s not really fancy. Hang on.”
I could feel my jaw drop as Violet picked out a spray of plastic foliage from the display next to the table and arranged it artfully across the soggy bun. “That’s better.” She snapped some pictures, turning the paper to get better angles. “You can eat it now.”
“Somehow I don’t feel so hungry,” I said. “Not after that plastic thing has been on it. I mean, the furnishings here have seen some stuff.” I winced as I saw the manager approaching.
“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she said firmly.
“But this is exposure!” Violet said.
“We’re leaving,” I murmured. “I’m really sorry.”
“People can’t get enough of food content,” Violet said, protesting as I grabbed her arm. “It’s organic marketing.”
“I’m really, really sorry,” I told the unimpressed manager.
“Sales can go through the roof from the right sort of post,” Violet called over her shoulder as I pulled her out of the burger place. “I’ve seen it happen.”
“Please don’t come back,” the manager said, shutting the door as I pulled Violet away and down the street.
“Vi, it was just a £1.50 burger, but I was looking forward to it.” I stopped and looked at her. “I know that you want to do the whole influencer thing, but cheap burgers aren’t going to get you noticed. Why don’t you do hair and beauty?”
Violet’s shoulders slumped. “Kylie would kill me,” she said. “She’s really good to me, but she’d never tolerate me sharing salon secrets.”
“Kylie’s a good friend as well as your boss,” I said. “And I suppose you’re right. You have a waiting list for clients and you star in all of her social media posts. Maybe you can talk with her about collaborating or something.”
Violet shook her head. “Hair and beauty is oversubscribed,” she said. “And, to be honest, I don’t want to always be doing hair. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job,” she added quickly. “But it would be nice to do something else.”
I patted her shoulder. “You’ll find something,” I said. “I just don’t think that it’s going to be food. Anyway, let’s get a burger from the food van. I’m still starving.”
I worried about Violet. She was a genius at the salon, and I know that Kylie treasured her, and she had the sweetest, kindest, most generous soul that I’d ever met. She also had the resilience and depth of a petal. She was sort of a friend, and sort of a cousin, and I felt that she was also sort of my responsibility. I’d been in the same classes at school, frantically dragging her away from daydreams to get her to lessons on time, scaring off the bullies, and hoping against hope that something – anything – would stick as she drifted through life. She came to life when she was styling hair, with a drive and authority that would match any sergeant major. Away from that, however, she was a vulnerable sweetheart with a heart of gold. I spent a lot of time worrying about what fad she’d pick up next.
“I’ve got it!” Violet tumbled into my flat, her smile wide and her eyes bright. “I’ve got it – and it’s perfect.”
“What?” I looked at the book she was waving at me. “A reading club?”
“No! Cleaning tips,” Violet was almost vibrating with eagerness. “Cleaning is a pretty crowded niche, but antique cleaning and recipes is a little more open.”
“You’ll be brilliant with that,” I said sincerely. Violet may have had the strength of a dandelion clock, but she kept her flat immaculately clean. “You could do surgery on any surface in your flat.”
Violet waved a hand. “I’m not talking about current stuff,” she said. “Look, it’s a book of household tips that’s over a hundred years old.”
“Look at this,” she said. “It’s like another world. There’s a section on how to use a mangle.”
“What’s a mangle?” I asked, looking at the tattered book in front of me.
“It presses water out of clothes,” Violet said. “It’s a sort of early spin dryer, except that it doesn’t spin.”
“I don’t even know what one looks like,” I said, an uneasy feeling growing in my stomach.
“And it tells you how to make indelible ink – look!” she said, leafing through the faded pages. “Take 20 grains of sugar and dissolve in 30 grains of water…”
“Water doesn’t have grains,” I said as she frowned over the old print.
“No, grain is a type of old measurement. It’s tiny, like a tenth of a gram or something. But it’s all in proportion. It’s two parts sugar to three parts water. Then you add sulphuric acid.”
“What!” I craned to see over her shoulder, but the tiny, cramped printing defied me. “You can get Sharpies from the supermarket.”
“But that’s no fun.” Violet said. “Lots of people want to go back to homemade, natural treatments.”
“Sulphuric acid isn’t natural,” I said, “Or it shouldn’t be. Where could you get it from?”
“I can get hold of sulphur,” Violet said uncertainly. “How hard can it be?”
“Perhaps you should start with something easier that won’t terrify any followers,” I suggested.
“Hmm, perhaps,” Violet said. “But there are loads of old housekeeping books around that are going for pennies, and I can share them with my followers.”
I thought about it for a moment and I couldn’t see any pitfalls. “It sounds great,” I said. “Don’t forget to send me the links so I can follow.”
Violet was prepared. She’d set up accounts on Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, X, LinkedIn and even Goodreads. She posted, tweeted, shared and reviewed and I found myself relaxing. She’d found her place and she was having a blast.
“She’s really getting into the old book stuff,” Kylie told me when I bumped into her at the coffee shop.
“To be honest, so am I,” I said. “I’m not posting or sharing, but we have a great time when we get out to go to sales and charity shops. There’s all sorts of stuff out there, and some of the books are hilarious.”
“It’s given her a new topic of conversation at the salon,” Kylie said. “I can’t begrudge her, though. It’s given her a new lease of life and I’m thinking of entering some competitions.”
“You should come along to the next book fair,” I said. “Though you might want to bring some sanitiser and wipes. Not all the stalls are well dusted.”
Kylie chuckled. “I’m surprised that Violet would touch those old things. She’s always been particular.”
“You should see her, once she’s got them home,” I said. “She’s got tiny vacuum cleaners and brushes, and she’s been taping up loose pages and spines.” I grinned as I picked up my latte. “She even has a spreadsheet.”
Then she got the book. The slim, tattered volume was tucked in the back of a box of a trader at a collector’s fair, along with some random 1980s cookbooks, bought from a house clearance company. I ignored it, but it caught Violet’s attention. It was a small volume with old recipes and it seemed to call to her.
“Look at this,” she said, waving the book past my face. “It’s got little sayings around the edges of the text. Look – ‘Wilful Waste Makes Woeful Want’. It’s true, though, isn’t it? You always end up down if you waste stuff.”
I nodded hesitantly.
“And there’s a recipe for Spiff Pudding here. I’d never heard of that before,” Violet continued. “I can’t wait to try it. It’s got currants in it.”
I listened patiently as she worked her way through the book, but then work got busy for me, so I wasn’t meeting up with Violet so much. I followed her social media, of course. Every morning I dutifully logged in on all the different sites and liked and shared everything. I even skimmed the text over my morning coffee. I started noticing things, however, or rather the lack of things and I started to feel uneasy. I remembered us chuckling over a facsimile copy of Mrs Putnam’s Receipt Book, which must have dated to the early nineteenth century. There wasn’t a mention of it in any post. There was hardly a word about Soyer or Acton or Glasse or any of her staples. Instead it was all about that little book. She started every day with a tweet of one of the trite sayings printed at the edge of the page. There were dissections of the recipes and videos of her trying them out. There was even some quite deep research on the book’s background, which I thought had been a bit beyond Violet, but she had been focused.
The posts churned out, more than I thought the thin book could have held, There were recipes, tips for cleaning, hacks for nineteenth century laundry and even videos as Violet tried out using honey infused with onions to treat a cold. Despite this, the articles seemed flatter and lifeless, with nothing of the inner joy that Violet took in life. Even the language seemed different. Violet didn’t usually worry about spelling and grammar, but the over-correct text next to each picture was jarring. Finally I got a call from Violet’s boss at the salon.
“I haven’t heard from her all week,” Kylie said. “It’s not like her, and I’m more worried than anything else. Have you heard from her?”
“I’ve not heard a thing,” I said. “She’s still posting, though, so she must still be sort of okay.” Inside I was terrified. Violet lived for her job, something was badly wrong if she was risking it.
“I don’t think that means much,” Kylie said. “Violet was telling me how she sets posts up to go live weeks in advance, just in case.”
I felt a chill run through me. “I’ll call in at her place tonight,” I said. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
I wasn’t reassured when Violet answered the door. She had always been slim, but now she was barely skin and bones. Her eyes were sunken and her smile was strained. I could see her trying to find an excuse to keep me out, but I pushed past her into the dark hall before she had a chance to stop me. “Are you okay? What’s happened?” I almost stumbled when I went into the living room and stared around in shock. Violet had always been a minimalist, with the immaculate room being kept in perfect order, but now it was a mess. Plastic flowers and bits of twigs were heaped everywhere. Black coffee mouldered in half a dozen mugs scattered around next to crumpled paper and crumb-covered plates. The curtains were closed even though it was bright outside.
“I’ve been a bit tired,” Violet said. “And I haven’t had much appetite. But I’ve had some meals from The Book.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. After all, this was a book that suggested making ink using sulphuric acid as one of the ingredients. I looked around. “Where is it?”
“Hmm?” Violet’s eyes were losing focus and she was swaying.
I swore and grabbed her. “When did you last have something to eat?” I snapped as I guided her down on her chair.
“I made baked tomatoes for breakfast,” Violet murmured.
I stared at her for a moment. She looked like she hadn’t eaten in a month. “Hang on,” I said, and strode into the kitchen and stopped suddenly. It was almost as much of a shock as the living room. Instead of clean, clear order, the room was overflowing. Packets were stacked haphazard on the usually empty counters, and the bin was spilling over. Someone had been eating plenty here. I opened the fridge and poked at the densely packed shelves, crammed with cream and butter. Something very odd was going on, and I was getting more worried by the minute. I returned to the living room. “You need to see a doctor,” I said firmly. “You’re nothing but skin and bone.”
Violet shook her head. “Honestly, I’m fine. I’m just a bit run down.”
“Kylie is worried about you, you know,” I said. “Why didn’t you at least call her?”
“What day is it?” Violet asked. She checked the calendar on her phone. “What’s happened? I think I’ve lost three days.”
I looked at her. The porcelain skin was now looking thin and dry. Her hair, normally gleaming and fantastically styled, hung lank around her head. And instead of the cutting-edge fashion she normally wore, the stained t-shirt and jeans fell loosely around her. “You can come and stay with me,” I said. “I’ve got a sofa bed in the living room, and it will give you a chance to relax. Come on, I’ll grab your toothbrush.”
“I have to bring The Book as well,” Violet said.
“Which one?” I asked as I rummaged in her bathroom.
“You know, The Book. The one called ‘Good Things’. It’s been an absolute life saver. And it was written in 1896, you know.” Violet looked wildly around and then relaxed as she picked up her book. “Here it is.”
I frowned as I came back in. “Are you sure that’s it?”
“Yes, look – it says ‘Good Things’ on the front.” Violet said, displaying the thick volume. “And I’ll need my camera as well.”
“I suppose so,” I said reluctantly as I rummaged through her cupboards. “I’ll pack some clothes for you as well. Should I pack some warmer things? I mean, if you’re feeling under the weather, you might want to snuggle into a sweater. What do you think?” I looked up. “Violet, should I pack a sweater?” I waited for an answer but she was caught up looking through the book. “Violet!”
“Yes, that’s probably a good idea,” Violet said vaguely. It didn’t reassure me.
I didn’t feel better about things when I got Violet back to my flat. I settled her down on the couch and made her some cocoa. “Are you sure you won’t see a doctor?” I asked, setting the mug down next to her.
“I’m fine,” Violet said. “I’ve just been overdoing it. I’ll have a look through The Book and see if there are any recipes for invalids. That will make a good blog post.”
I dragged out spare blankets and pillows and then looked hard at the book. It didn’t look like the book I remembered. It was plump and sleek and it seemed to gleam a little under the living room light. “I’m just nipping to the shop for some bits,” I said. “And I’ll call in at the pharmacy as well.”
“Ask if they have any quinine wine,” Violet said. “The Book recommends it.”
I stumped off down the road and, when I was sure I was out of sight of my windows, rang Kylie. “I’m really worried,” I said. “But I can’t get her to see a doctor.”
“Perhaps some time with you will sort it out,” Kylie said, though she didn’t sound convinced. “And she’s owed some holiday time. She never takes time off.”
“It’s that damn book, I’m sure of it,” I said. “She’s following health advice from a time when they gave opium to babies and put arsenic on the wallpaper. I’ll pick up something more modern at the pharmacy in the supermarket.”
“Let me know how it goes,” Kylie said. “But I’m sure that you’ll work it out.” I didn’t feel sure at all.
Violet had fallen asleep when I got in, with the book tucked in close to her. I looked closer. It had ‘Good Things’ embossed on the cover, just like I remembered from the first time I saw it, but it didn’t look the same. I went into the kitchen, pulled out my phone and started checking Instagram. And it was there! No-one would believe me if I just came out with the words, but the book changed. Over the weeks the thin, threadbare copy seemed to swell and the cover grew sleeker at every image. At the same time, the images showing Violet’s hands holding the book grew thinner and paler until they were almost skeletal. I couldn’t hear Violet moving, but I didn’t want to take a risk. I carefully shut down my phone and poked my head back into the living room. The book hadn’t moved, but I had seen far too many horror stories. I went back to the kitchen and texted Kylie. <Check the book in Violet’s Instagram. It’s the same, even though it changes.>
Kylie texted back. <Are you sure it’s the same book?>
<According to Violet, it’s the same book and the same printing is on the cover.>
<You need to burn it!> Kylie texted. <It’s possessed.>
<How am I supposed to burn it?> I texted back. <I’m in a second floor flat with no fireplace. Besides, Violet would never permit it. She’s even sleeping with it right now. The hard part is going to be getting hold of it. We can worry about what to do with it after that.>
<I have an idea.> Kylie texted back. <I’ll be there in an hour.>
I had doubts when Kylie arrived. “Are you sure about this? I’m not sure it’s ethical. I’m not sure that it’s even legal.”
“Desperate measures,” Kylie said breezily. “And do you have a better idea?” She pushed past me into the room and stopped suddenly. “What the hell is the matter with you, Violet? You should be in a hospital!”
Violet managed a tired smile. “I’m okay, really. I’m just a little run down.”
“We had burgers for dinner,” I said. “Proper meaty ones from the butchers, with chocolate pudding afterwards.”
Kylie looked at Violet in disbelief. Violet looked like she could be blown away like a dead leaf. “Well, I’ve got something that will pick you up,” Kylie said, recovering. “I’ve got a bottle of tonic wine for you and a bottle of prosecco for us.”
I still had reservations as I brought out three wine glasses. The tonic wine was strong stuff and though Violet had wolfed down three huge burgers and two helpings of pudding, she didn’t look like there was anything to mop up the alcohol. Then I caught sight of the gleaming book nestled in Violet’s lap. I didn’t like the idea of getting Violet drunk. but if that is what it took, then that is what I would do. “Tonic wine,” I said. “It’s like the quinine wine that the book recommends. It will be just what you need.” I watched as Kylie poured a generous glass for Violet and then two more reasonable measures for her and I.
“The Book is never wrong,” Voilet said, and took a mouthful. She blinked. “What is in this stuff?”
I picked up the bottle and looked at the label. “It says it has added iron.”
“That won’t hurt,” Violet said and took another large mouthful.
“You’re looking a little peaky,” Kylie said, ruthlessly topping up Violet’s glass. “Iron has to be good for you.”
It took half a bottle before Violet started to nod. I exchanged an uneasy look with Kylie. It seemed more about exhaustion and lack of resources than a couple of glasses of wine. “Let’s get a blanket on you,” I said cheerily as I stretched Violet out along the sofa. “What you need is a good night’s sleep.”
“That’s absolutely right,” Kylie said, shaking out a throw and slipping it over Violet. The book fell out of Violet’s hands and onto the floor. Violet murmured and shuffled in her sleep, but the tonic wine was too much for her. Kylie automatically bent to pick up the book, but I stopped her. I nipped quickly into the kitchen and came out with a tea towel, which I used as a barrier as I picked up the book.
“I’m going to take a walk,” I said, marching briskly to the door. “Keep an eye on Violet, will you?”
Kylie nodded, her eyes wide and fixed on the book as I marched out of the door, phone in one hand and a book wrapped in a tea towel in the other. “Be careful!”
I moved with purpose, down one street, then another, then I cut across a park, past an arcade of shops and then down the back of the industrial estate until I got to the canal. I hesitated. I had seen Jumanji. Things could come back from a watery grave. Then I pulled myself together. That had been a wooden box, not a paper book. Besides, there were things in the canal that would clean brass. An old cookbook didn’t stand a chance. I found the footbridge, got to the centre and shook out the tea towel, sending the book into the water with a splash.
I stood there, almost transfixed by the reflection of the setting sun bouncing off the murky water. I expected something to show for it, like lights or explosions or steam. Then I got a text alert. It was Kylie.
<Violet is looking better. She has some colour in her cheeks. Have you done it?>
Yes, I thought, as I turned back to the flat. I’ve done it.
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.”
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…
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“We have to do something,” Elsie whispered. The faded ghost peeped around the corner. “She’s in a world of her own, pining away. I think that she’s lost weight, and she wasn’t that stout to start with.”
“You can’t interfere with someone’s love life,” Mr Kennington said with all the authority of a deceased head librarian. “It rarely turns out well.” He hesitated. “Although when it is successful, it is usually in cases such as this, with strong affection between numbskulls.”
Elsie ignored Mr Kennington’s criticism. “She absolutely adores him. Everyone can see how she can’t take her eyes off him. But she can’t seem to grasp that he’s besotted by her.” Elsie sighed. “It’s so romantic.”
“She may not return his affections,” Mr Kennington pointed out. “She seems to have some – ahem – attraction to the lad, but she may not believe it worth pursuing.”
The third member of the library’s ghosts drifted over. “It’s up to him,” Tony said. “It’s the man that has to make the first move. And he hasn’t. Made a move, I mean. He’s bottling it. And maybe she likes him but has a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend.” He caught Mr Kennington’s eye and looked away hurriedly.
Mr Kennington glared at Tony before settling his translucent cuffs. “That’s not the only reason she would refuse,” Mr Kennington said. “After all, the young man is not likely to be a good provider.”
“We only know what Rhia told us.” Elsie said. She looked wistfully between Rhia, sorting out the classic fiction, and through the door into the office where Liam was engrossed in his computer. “And as she’s the only one who’s been able to see us since I, you know, died here, it seems only right that we help her out.” Elsie turned to the young ghost. “Tony, go and see what he’s looking at, there’s a love.”
Tony looked at Mr Kennington. “I suppose so,” Mr Kennington grumbled, waving permission. “She has been respectful and listened well to instructions when it came to the classical section. In fact, she’s been respectful of the library as a whole. Perhaps we should be at least supportive.” He nodded at Tony who disappeared through the wall to check on Liam and his laptop.
Elsie and Mr Kennington carefully composed themselves as Rhia picked up a faded book and walked past them to the back room. The ghosts followed and Mr Kennington cleared his throat and wagged a faded finger. “Your cleaner did not attend again this morning. It is completely unacceptable. You need to speak to her. In fact, it was Mr Liam who did that vacuum thing and dusted this morning.”
Rhia managed a smile. “Hello, Mr Kennington,” she sighed. “Liam can’t afford to pay the cleaner anymore. He said he’ll take over that job.”
“It is inappropriate for the owner of the library to dust,” Mr Kennington said firmly. “The first owner, his esteemed ancestor, would never had done such a thing. He had a woman for it.”
“Times have changed,” Rhia said. “And we need new subscribers. People aren’t coming here like they used to, and those that do get a day pass. Liam doesn’t know what to do. He says people don’t like old books anymore.”
“Hi,” Tony said awkwardly as he slid out of the wall behind Rhia. She jumped and turned around.
“Tony, I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Rhia said. “Anyway, I need to get on.” She waved a battered book at them. “I have to keep busy, and the quiet is a good time to catch up on some overdue maintenance. I’m going to see if I can do something about this spine before it goes.”
The ghosts watched her as she walked briskly into the workroom before Elsie and Mr Kennington turned to Tony. Tony had only been dead three years and had managed to keep up with a lot of the technology. He shook his head.
“I think Rhia’s right. He’s looking at stuff like auctions and articles on the best way to sell old books. He looks pretty down as well.”
“See,” Mr Kennington nodded. “He’s not a good provider. Rhia is mostly sensible and would not choose a husband who couldn’t provide for her and a future family.”
“It’s not really like that these days.” Tony avoided Mr Kennington’s eyes. “Anyway, it looks bad. Perhaps he can ask her for a date once he has sold the library.”
“What?” Mr Kennington snapped, before taking a deep breath. “He can’t sell the library.”
“It’s not going to happen,” Elsie said with fake confidence. “It can’t. I mean, we live here, if you know what I mean.”
“We’ll probably be still here, but I think they’ll turn this into a bar or some flats.” Tony looked between the two other ghosts. “They’re not likely to demolish the place, it’s still a good building. It’s just that they’ll get more money for renting out cheap accommodation.”
“Flats?” Mr Kennington said. He didn’t always remember modern terminology.
“Apartments, small sets of rooms where people live,” Tony said helpfully.
“But then how will my Albert ever find me?” Elsie asked, her pale eyes wide. “If the library isn’t here, how will he know how to meet me?”
“He isn’t coming back.” Mr Kennington said with as much patience as he could manage. “You have been dead over 100 years. If Albert was going to come back, he would have already got here. The more pressing question is what will happen to the books.”
“I waited for him.” Elsie said. “I promised him. I said I would wait and always be in the library whenever I could so no matter what happened while he was away, he could find me.”
“I have overseen this library for nearly two centuries.” Mr Kennington pulled himself to his full height, such as it was, and drifted slightly upwards. He shook his head sadly. “It is all my fault. I have spent far too much time coaching Tony and now that Mr Pierce and Miss Ellis have found peace and moved on, well, we are spread thinly.” Mr Kennington looked at the other ghosts. “Not that I blame either of you,” he said quickly. “It’s been a pleasure to see you come on, young Tony, and I certainly don’t want any more deaths in the library.” His translucent finger tapped at his pale chin. “We need to take action. I shall instruct Rhia about attracting more subscribers to our library, exhibit our treasures to the world as we should. There are some treasures in these shelves, you know, true treasures that would be lost in one of the big public libraries.” He started pacing. “I should have taken action sooner, but that can’t be changed. And I can hardly blame Rhia for the state of affairs, after all, the fairer sex rarely understand business.” He paced faster. “If only I could reach Liam! His grandfather could see us, you know, and was a wonderful man. He knew his own mind, of course, and perhaps didn’t always treat my advice with the weight it should have carried but…” Mr Kennington paused, staring at Liam’s small office. “But the young owner is so, well, young, and untried in the cutthroat world of libraries. And with his father not setting the best example…” He whirled around and faced the stunned ghosts. “We shall have to have an advertising campaign in all the appropriate newspapers. Perhaps even a picture!”
Tony shrugged. “People don’t bother much with papers these days,” he said. “Besides, adverts cost money. If Liam can’t afford a cleaner, then he can’t afford hundreds of pounds and a marketing manager.”
Mr Kennington drew the ghostly equivalent of a deep breath. “This is a crisis, and there’s nothing else to do. He shall have to sell a book.” Mr Kennington started pacing again. “It’s a dreadful thing for a library to do, and it should be resisted until there is truly no other way. But if the entire library is at stake, we have no choice.” He glared at the other ghosts. “This is absolutely the last resort, but I’ve always been aware of the possibility of unknown disasters. With that in mind, I have been holding one or two things in reserve.” He drifted towards the classics section. “It was before your time, Elsie, but Charles Dickens visited Leeds.” Mr Kennington sniffed. “He was not complimentary about our good city, but he did sign some copies of that Oliver Twist book.” Mr Kennington’s mouth twisted. He was not a fan of serialised fiction. “I know he signed quite a few, because the rascal came in and tried to force Mr Horace, the owner at the time, to purchase them.” Mr Kennington shook his head. “There was a dreadful scene and several of the dozen books he brought in fell down the crack at the back of the bookcase. No-one noticed as the rogue got quite vocal and had to be escorted out. Mr Horace threw his books at him afterwards. I couldn’t get out to see what was happening, of course, but the constabulary were called and there was quite a scuffle, Mr Dickens being popular.”
The ghosts drifted over to the classics section. Sure enough, behind the collected works of George Bernard Shaw, was a crack where the thin pine of the original shelves had split. Elsie slid in to check.
“They’re dusty, of course, but they seem okay and you can still see their autographs. But we can’t tell Liam. He can’t see us,” she said, dusting down her pale dress. “How are we going to get the books out?”
Mr Kennington looked over to where Liam was slouched at his desk, his head in his hands and a blank look on his face. “We tell Rhia. I’m sure that she can create a convincing ruse to find them, and they are bound to be worth something.” He drifted over to Liam and tried to put a paternal hand on his shoulder. “He was always such a serious little boy, you know. I remember how he came in at every opportunity he had. He has always cherished this place, but he has never had the guidance that his forebears had.” Mr Kennington sighed deeply. “The best we can do is to talk to Rhia and hope that she can persuade Mr Liam to invest the small sum raised by the books into an advert in the Yorkshire Post. That has to be a start in attracting new readers. And then,” he said, shaking his head, “We need to work out how to get them respectably married – once Mr Liam can provide properly of course.” He frowned. “Do you think that they will raise enough funds with those novels?” He shook his head. “I shall start working on contingency plans, just in case.” He cast his eye over the two ghosts. “The library must go on!”
You were my perfect victim. You were young, bright and energetic and I was so glad when I stumbled across you when you visited that fake medium. You were the only one who believed in him because you had just a hint of my presence as I followed you home, but you shook it off and eventually went to bed for your lovely, long healthy sleep.
It was glorious. Here was someone who slept eight hours every night. That is a gift to one of my kind. During the day I could creep into a corner or a shadow and remain an unobserved spirit. I would even hide under the bed. Then, when night fell and you slid between your covers and slept, I could creep into your dreams.
You had never remembered dreams before. When I first crept into your sleepscape I was shocked at how bright it was, filled with sunlight and good memories. But it was also full of your energy and you were worth the effort. It took weeks for me to make it my home. I eroded the sunlight, filled the golden fields with a nameless dread and sent strange shapes to hunt your dreamself. I nibbled at the corners, cutting off the good memories and making the perfect opportunities for every shameful moment of your life to echo. Every dark thought, every insidious fear, every tiny morsel was savoured as I nurtured your sleepscape like a master nurtures a perfect pupil.
You didn’t notice at first. I’ve been around for a very long time and I don’t make mistakes like that. Instead you noticed that you were a little tired, a little run down. You laughed with your friends about your strange dreams and tried changing your diet around. Once I became settled, I took a little more. You were finding sleep harder and harder and the nightmares were scaring you. You cut out all caffeine and went to a counsellor. I went with you, of course, and took notes during your discussions. You gave me wonderful tools to use for your torment.
Then you cut out sugar and went to the gym more. I basked in the dark thoughts that were brimming in your sleepscape and fed to satiation. I gave you sleep terrors and laughed as you woke screaming. I noticed that your boyfriend was a little too perceptive, so I made sure your nightmares featured him. I was relieved when you dumped him, as he was getting close to the truth.
I drained draught after draught from you as you slept, your torrid dreams feeding me to repletion. You, however, lost weight as you tried different diets and exercises. You went to the doctor and got sleeping pills and I celebrated. You had started to wake a little too often and now these wonderful pills kept you in my domain for so much longer.
You were finding it harder and harder and I gave some thought to moving on. The bright, bubbly victim I first met had gone. You were gaunt and pale, with dull eyes and slow speech. You dragged yourself from work to home to sleep to work and suffered. You were now insipid fare. I looked around for a suitable candidate, but you were now far too exhausted to speak to anyone and my choices were becoming very limited. I couldn’t survive long without a host, but you were so drained that you were barely adequate to keep me in existence.
Thank goodness I had my lucky break. You were far too tired to drive but at the same time you were far too tired to see sense. You lost concentration as you drove to your work and so you swerved to miss a fragment of dream and hit a tree. I was frantic, wondering if I would be able to transfer to one of the crowd who rushed around to help you, but they brought you into this place.
I have never been in a hospital before. It is truly a marvellous place. As you slip deeper into a coma and I perch unseen on the end of your hospital bed and plunder the last of your sleepscape, I have so many other potential hosts I can choose from. The patients are not worth considering, but there are plenty of visitors, along with technicians, secretaries, cleaners, maintenance, porters and all manner of healers. The chirpy blonde girl who chats to your unhearing form as she cleans the room is perfect. I wonder what her sleepscape looks like.
“Did Miss Elsie tell you about the saucer?” the milkman asked.
I was still getting used to the country way of doing things. Back in London, I wouldn’t even think of talking to a delivery guy. Out here, however, I didn’t have a choice. “I think that it’s great that she kept up the old ways,” I said diplomatically. “She had a list, and it’s mostly harmless. But milk isn’t good for hedgehogs.” I took in the milk, bread, and large bag of apples, checking them for freshness out of habit. I couldn’t exactly call in to a corner shop if there was something wrong, but I’d had good quality from the milkman so far and I was not complaining, even if he was a little odd about saucers. “That’s what it was, right? I mean, people can talk about fairies, but a saucer of milk is for the hedgehogs.”
The milkman raised his eyebrows. “If that’s what you say,” he muttered, looking over his shoulder. “You’ve been here a week, right? That’s seven nights, in the house?”
I nodded. “And it’s been wonderful and peaceful,” I said. Truthfully, I couldn’t sleep because I wasn’t used to the quiet, the night was too dark, and I was still coming to terms with the lack of pizza delivery services. “I’ve been busy in the garden. I’m sure that… Miss Elsie would have approved.” I waved a hand over the front of the house. “I think I’ve found some flower beds under the grass, and I’m planting some honeysuckle borders, with wildflowers underneath them.” I smiled. “And I’ve just got a whole bed of marigolds in. They always look cheerful, and I’ve got the tomato seedlings ready to go next to them.”
“Those marigolds are doing well, looking very strong, and the Fair Folk would like the honeysuckle,” the milkman said. “But you should still put down a saucer of milk. I can get you a saucer if you’re short of one.”
“I have saucers,” I said. “And I’m not giving that to hedgehogs. It’s not good for them – look it up.” I sighed. “But I can maybe put down some cat food if that makes you feel better. I think that’s what they recommend. Do you bring cat food on your deliveries?”
He stared at me, then rummaged in his pockets. “My name’s Joe, right?” he pulled out a notebook and pen and tore out a page. “That’s my name, and this is my number,” he said. “You can call me any time.” He frowned. “And it’s not right, a young lass on her own with the nearest neighbour half a mile away.” He scribbled a few more numbers. “Jed’s part of the mountain rescue and he understands the Fair Folk. You can ring him if you can’t get hold of me.” He folded the paper over and pushed it into the bag next to the bread. “And there’s Smitty, up the hill. He gets a bit carried away, but he won’t see you hurt.” Joe looked around the garden. “I’m going to give you a bit of advice, seeing as you’re not from here and I know what’s what.” He glanced around the garden and then past me, down into the stone-flagged hall. “Keep a diary,” he said. “Your mind will play tricks on you, if you’re not careful, so if you think that anything’s odd, then write it down.” He looked around again. “And whatever you do, don’t put down any cat food. Please.” He shuddered. “I’ll be back tomorrow, just in case.”
“I don’t think that I’ll need anything,” I said carefully.
“Oh, you will,” Joe muttered. “You absolutely will.”
It was hard getting used to a new place, I thought as I carried the bag into the kitchen. The rent for a room in a shared house in London cost double my current mortgage on a nice stone cottage in the Yorkshire Dales. I had a woodburning stove, a huge garden, sheep in the surrounding fields, and a lot less stress. And while I may be a fair walk from my neighbours, I was on a main road that carried the local internet cables. Working remotely wasn’t a problem. I just didn’t know who to talk to. Back in my last place, I chatted to my housemates as I made my dinner or picked up my mail. Now that I was all on my own, I had to make an effort if I wanted a conversation. The Face Time calls filled a gap, and I had to do a lot of fast talking for work, but it wasn’t quite the same. And while there were times in London where I could go a few days without speaking to anyone, I was always aware that there were people around me. When I decided to move half way across the country, I thought that I liked being alone. I paused before opening the fridge. The sounds of sheep drifted in through the open window, and there was a distant sound of a tractor, but no voices. Maybe I should arrange things so that Joe called every day. I know that he came down the road anyway, travelling past my door as he trundled between two small hamlets, so it wouldn’t put him out.” I opened the fridge and dumped in the apples, then froze for a moment as I hefted the jug of milk.
Less than five minutes ago, this milk was pristine, gleaming white and icy cold, damp with condensation and with an impressively distant use-by date. The previous jugs of milk from Joe, all three of them, had been equally pristine. I held it up to the light, barely able to believe what I was seeing. The milk was curdled, the thin, greenish liquid floating above the revolting lumps looked diseased and a layer of gunk lay over the opaque mass at the bottom. I shuddered and dumped it straight into the bin. I wasn’t risking pouring it down the drain, it would stink the house out. My stomach lurched and I switched on the kettle. There was still milk left from the last delivery which had been perfectly good this morning, and it would be fine for a strong cup of tea. I went back to the fridge, and nearly dropped the milk. It had been fine this morning, fresh and clean-tasting on my cereal and in my tea. Now it was as rancid as the milk that I’d just brought in.
I pulled out my phone and started making notes. I put my hand in the fridge, and it felt cold enough, and while it was a pleasant, late spring day, it wasn’t that hot outside either. I took a few photos of the contents, just in case, then put the bread carefully in the bread bin, after taking a photo. An alarm went off on my phone and I groaned. It was time for work, but I had so many questions.
I trudged into the small office that I’d created and switched on the PC. At least the internet hadn’t been affected, I thought, as I went through my usual log in. And the study was undisturbed. All my notes were in the same place, my pen was still working as I jotted down the notes for my schedule, and I could find my files. I still felt an uneasy prickle at the back of my neck though. I looked carefully around my office, taking photos. I’d unpacked my books before I’d done anything else. My clothes were still in bags and boxes upstairs, but my bookshelves were neat and carefully arranged. All my pens were working, including the highlighter that had followed me around three jobs and never seemed to run out. I could find all my files on my PC, and there didn’t seem to be any corrupted data. The pictures on the wall were fine, the lampshade was fine, the small electric heater next to my desk was working. My heart broke when I spotted it.
Gladys was my rather ragged philodendron. I bought it when I was a student, named it while drunk, and I’d carried it from place to place ever since. I’d cherished it and neglected it by turns, depending on exam season and work pressure, but I’d kept it going and I loved it. I ran a timid hand over what was left of it. The leaves were a leathery brown, with no trace of moisture, and drooped sadly and finally over the edge of the pot. The stalks were brittle and even the soil in the planter looked dead, drained of all moisture and goodness. I called Joe.
I waited impatiently at the doorstep, a deep, earthenware saucer in my hand. I refused to believe that putting down a saucer of milk for the fairies would make any difference. I refused to bow down to superstition and would swear that it was the hedgehogs. I’d still put in an emergency order to Joe who was trundling back. It was just one of the quirks of living in the countryside, that was all. I still had the peace and quiet, the spectacular views, and the generous garden. I let my eyes roam over the plants, then sagged against the door jamb. The marigolds that had looked so fresh this morning were starting to wilt. I stared at them until I heard the grumble of Joe’s van and rushed towards the gate.
“I’ve got some milk for you,” Joe said. “And I’ve added some honey.” He waved a large squeezy bottle of honey at me. “For the next two weeks, you need to put some honey in with the milk, as an apology to the Lords and Ladies.” He hustled over to the small square of stone by the corner of the house behind a lush fern. “Miss Elsie always left the saucer here,” he said. “If I were you, I’d put some milk and honey down now, and then again this evening, then every evening as you go on.”
I followed him, placing the saucer down and grabbing the milk. “My houseplant died,” I said. “I can’t believe it. I’d had it for years.”
Joe nodded sympathetically. “That must be a blow,” he said.
I filled the saucer with milk. “Do you think that will be enough?” I asked. I fought with the stiff cap of the honey.
“I can’t make promises,” Joe said. “No-one can. But you’re not skimping, and you’re going to add honey, right?”
I squeezed out a lavish quantity of honey into the saucer, splashing milk over the stone. “Yes, I think that I’ll be adding honey for two weeks, to make it right,” I said. I looked at the depleted bottle. “I’ll add another couple of bottles to my next order,” I said.
“It’s always good to have honey in,” Joe said. “It’s nice with lemon and ginger if you have a cold.”
I stood straight. “Thanks for coming,” I said. “I can’t imagine what would happen if I hadn’t got the milk in place.”
“I’m happy to help,” Joe said.
“Listen, I’ve got to get back to work,” I said. “But I’d like to say thank you. Why don’t you and your wife come around for dinner sometime. It won’t be too fancy, just some good food to show I’m thankful.”
Joe blushed. “I’ve no wife,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “And I’ve no girlfriend. It can’t be too late as I’ve got to be up early in the morning for my rounds, but I’d love to come for a meal.”
I smiled happily. “I finish work at 4pm on Tuesdays, so why don’t you come around and I’ll make something nice.” As we walked back to the gate, sorting out the details, I noticed that the marigolds were recovering nicely. Things were definitely looking up, but I couldn't help wondering what other traps were out there for the unwary. I'd need to make a list, a very careful and detailed list, just in case. And I mustn't ever forget the saucer.
