The Haunting at Hawke's Moor (12 page)

The doctor sounded so assured, Anne forced
herself to believe him. He excused himself and prepared to leave,
saying he was very sorry, but had much to do.

"I will return in a few days as well,
Miss Sands, to perform the burial service," Father Whitling said,
earnestly placing his hand on her arm. Nodding slightly to Lisle,
he followed the doctor into the carriage and they started leaving,
a noisy departure growing increasingly silent the further away they
were.

Lisle snorted and then returned to the
house. Anne stayed where she was and slowly turned, looking up at
the façade of the house. Could it be true? Was it Alfie's heart
that had given out? A reasonable person would accept that as the
rational explanation. Still, she would burn sage and cover all the
mirrors in the house to stop Alfie's spirit from returning.

Alfie's funeral was a quick affair.
Mr. Turner had led the coffin on a cart and the vicar held the
service. Lisle cried throughout until she couldn't bear it anymore
and wandered off, back toward the house. The graveyard was
monstrously overgrown. Gravestones were scattered, some moss
growing on the rough surface.

The vicar and Mrs. Turner left, leaving Mr.
Turner to fill the grave.

"Thank you for your assistance, Mr.
Turner," Anne said. "I couldn't have done this without your
help."

"It's nothing," he said gruffly. It wasn't
nothing. Mr. Turner, for all his curtness, had come through when
she needed someone to.

"I thank you all the same and I hope
to return it if at any point I can be of assistance."

Mr. Turner looked at her with
disapproval and she guessed from his perspective, she was all but
useless. She chuckled as his utter lack of manners and turned to
walk back. The cart horse waited patiently while Mr. Turner
continued filling the grave. The other graves were unkempt and two
grooves lay in the overgrowth showed where the cart had
come.

Her eyes drew to the other graves.
Elizabeth Hawke. Daniel Hawke. Rufus Hawke. There were other graves
too, Theodore West, Marjerie Willow and William Couth. There were a
few without names, and a couple where the wind and rain had eroded
the writing. Then a larger one. She walked over and saw what looked
like a double gravestone. A skull and crossbones were carved into
the stone. Richard Hawke, the Baron of Thornsten, passed from this
world in violent circumstances, the sixteenth of May,
1643.

Anne wondered if this was the man who had
built the manor. The place was named after a Hawke and this seemed
to the prominent one. Returning to the other Hawke graves, she saw
that both Elizabeth and Daniel had died on the same day, and they
were young, likely the children of the Baron.

Anne recalled the mention of a fire that had
destroyed the original house. Or had it been the battles that raged
in this area at the time? The baron had been a royalist, who had
been defeated when parliament fought in this area.

Feeling iciness creep up her spine,
she shuddered and left Mr. Turner to complete the burial. No wonder
she had not seen the graveyard, considering how overgrown it was.
Perhaps she should come back and care for these graves when she had
some time to spare.

Rain started to fall as she walked
back toward the house. She'd forgotten her umbrella and was soaked
to the bone in icy moisture when she reached home. Father Whitling
had changed out of his ceremonial attire and was waiting for her to
change.

They had tea before he left. Anne felt
out of sorts and the conversation was stilted. It didn't seem to
bother Father Whitling, who was probably used to colorless tea
after burials. He mentioned that the doctor had completed the death
notice and all other necessities were now completed. After serving
tea, Lisle took to her room again and wasn't there when Father
Whitling sought to leave. Anne had to go find his coat and help him
dress.

With a solemn farewell, the reverend
departed and Anne watched him go, biting the nail on her
thumb.

She still didn't know what had happened. Her
emotions were at such extremes, she couldn't trust her own opinions
at the moment. Both the vicar and the doctor had assured her that
Alfie's death had been unfortunate but resolutely natural—a part of
God's plan.

She still couldn't shake the fear that
it hadn't been. Believing them was a tempting thought. There were
so many consequences that came with her fears.

All was silent now and Anne turned, feeling
as if she needed to do something but didn't know what. Tentatively
she walked toward the building where Alfie had had his room. His
things were still there, not that he had much. There was no family
to send them to.

The door to his room was open and she
walked in. It was utterly silent. She walked over and opened the
small window, hoping fresh air would lift the heaviness. The bed
where he'd lain was still unmade and his everyday clothes lay
neatly draped over the back of a chair as though he fully expected
to rise in the morning and put them on. His Sunday clothes were
gone. Likely he'd been buried in them. Sadness washed over her
again.

Her gaze traveled to his things on the
rough wooden table, seeing the bowl where the sage was. It had
water in it. She moved closer and examined it. The sage had been
doused and looking closer, she saw that it had been done so not
long after she had placed it there. Alfie had doused the sage. Why
would he had done that? Probably because he thought it was
superstitious lunacy. To any rational person, it would
be.

Anne frowned. But then there was the chance
that the removal of the sage's protective power had invited the
spirits. She just didn't know what to believe anymore.

Shutting the door, she left, feeling unable
to deal with Alfie's things at that moment. She returned to the
house. The belief that Alfie's death had been an unfortunate heart
condition didn't hold as firm in her mind now and her suspicions
returned. Why would Alfie douse his protection?

A strange feeling came over her as she
walked back into the house. Her chest ached as if she were holding
her breath, but she wasn't. She couldn't quite catch her breath,
each feeling heavy and labored. The feeling of being watched had
returned. The house was darkening and Anne tried to hang onto the
rationality she had worked so hard to instill in herself, when
another thought occurred to her—maybe Alfie had doused the sage
because he wanted to. He had turned his back on his relationship
with Lisle and that suggested he had turned to something
else—something that has been more compelling. Maybe he had invited
the spirits. The thought sat uncomfortably, but she couldn't escape
it. Could spirits have seduced him and called him to his grave like
sirens?

Anne grabbed another bushel of sage and
wound the dried leaves tight into a cinder. Lighting it with a
stick from the kitchen fire, she walked around the still house,
letting the smoke linger in every corner. She didn't want her
suspicions to be true, but she wasn't prepared to take any chances.
Moving in the space, she listened for every noise, hearing her
breath echo across walls and ceilings.

The house grew darker still, and for once,
Anne absolutely dreaded the dark. There was an oppressive feeling
in the house, one of patient anticipation. The smoke of the sage
rose and curled, but something in the back of her mind said they
were beyond the power of sage to calm things. Perhaps it was Lisle
with her high emotions and palpable grief, stirring the spirits in
the house. But you couldn't tell someone to stop grieving. Lisle
had a right to her grief. Else just the event of a death making the
spirits restless. She hoped her fears were wrong.

Every nerve ending in Anne's body was
on edge, every noise in the house made her jump. Again, she felt as
if she'd been running and she couldn't catch her breath. This
constant worry must be taking a toll on her health. Everything felt
pensive. Nothing was seen, but hints of whispers sounded
occasionally as if people were quietly talking in another room.
That wasn't true, of course, and if she listened intently, she
heard nothing. It was as if another sense was picking up these
whispers.

The house was restless that night. A
death had probably caused some stir amongst the spirits, awakened
them. Perhaps these things added energy to the spirit
world.

Anne just wanted to go to bed and draw the
blankets over her head, let the house carry on without her. She
couldn't shake the cloying unease as she crawled into bed, tucking
her feet up as close to her as she could manage. A little bubble of
safety and the house could do as it wished.

She had placed sage on the floor on every
corner of her bed. With the blankets drawn over her head, the smoke
was not so noxious. Right now, she would rather have the sage and
the safety she felt it gave her, rightly or wrongly, than to
breathe easy. She wanted to disappear into pleasant dreams and
forget the horrible few days they'd had. What she truly wanted was
a pair of arms wrapping around her and holding her safe—a wish
she'd never truly had fulfilled. Her relationship with her husband
had been too cold for such comforts.

There was a slight thump downstairs,
as if someone had walked into furniture. She was just going to
ignore that. It could be robbers ransacking the house for all she
cared; she was not getting out of her little cocoon of
safety.

Then there was a distinct scrape. She heard
Lisle's voice somewhere above. Lisle. Anne flung the covers off and
sat up, listening intently. Maybe the spirits were bothering her.
Footsteps and Lisle's voice again. "Lisle?" Anne called, but
received no reply.

Getting up, Anne grabbed her dressing
gown. She needed to check on Lisle. If spirits were toying with her
tonight, she might have to… She didn't know how to answer that
question. Maybe Lisle was remiss in burning her sage. That had to
be remedied. It was very important right now. Forgoing the sage had
done Alfie irreparable harm. They could not make that mistake
again.

Thunderous steps were heard down the
stairway. Anne ran to the door and watched as Lisle ran past,
calling for Alfie.

"Lisle!" Anne called, running after
her into the darkness of the house. Lisle was at the door,
frantically trying to unlock it. "What are you doing?"

"It's Alfie. He needs me."

"No, it's not."

"I saw him. He spoke to me."

"No, Lisle," Anne said, trying to pull
her arm away, but Lisle refused to give, shaking her off with
surprising strength. The crazed girl managed to unlock the door and
throw it open. A blast of cold air hit. It froze Anne to the bone.
It was snowing out, patches of it covered tussocks of grass.
"Lisle, stop."

"He'd cold. He doesn't want to be in
the dark," she said as she ran outside.

Anne ran after her. She couldn't let
Lisle go, grabbing her by the waist and slowing her down. Lisle
fought to free herself, but Anne refused to let go. "Lisle, it
isn't him," she beseeched. "It is the house playing tricks on
you."

"It's him; I saw him. He spoke to
me."

"Lisle," Anne said sharply, drew her
near with as much strength as she could manage. She slapped the
girl across the face, the sound dissipating in the stark darkness
around them. The shock took Lisle aback as Anne hoped it would.
"Alfie would not want you to run across the moors at night in your
nightgown. That was not the Alfie you knew. He would not put you at
risk like that."