The Haunting at Hawke's Moor (15 page)

"You're being fanciful again," Lisle said
and drew her blankets up. The dismissal was clear and Anne closed
the door.

Did she dare return to her bed? The
house seemed quiet now. Either way, she needed the blankets. At
this point, her skin was icy cold and her breath was condensing in
the chill of the house. She had to return to the room either
way.

As quietly as she could, she entered
her room. There was nothing—no creaks, no ghostly steps. Smoothly,
she slunk under her blankets and drew them up over her head. If she
were to sleep any more that night, she wasn’t certain, at every
moment expecting another attack.

Anne actually slept, waking just at
dawn. Sheer exhaustion had claimed her. She'd had no dreams, had
just closed her eyes and woken what seemed a moment later. Light
was building outside the window and Anne sat up and looked around
the room. The only thing out of place was the broken inkwell on the
floor next to the desk. It had been the pen that rolled around the
floor in the dark. But all was calm.

She still felt drained, as if she had
exhausted her reservoir of fear last night. At this point, she
couldn't feel anything. What was certain was that she had been
attacked last night. Panic crept around the edges of her
consciousness, but it kept at bay—probably because she knew dawn
was here and the house, and its unwanted inhabitants, behaved
during the day.

They had to leave—today. It was easy
to bandy around saying they had nowhere to go, because she truly
didn't. She could perhaps seek her aunt, but she would only be
allowed to stay a few days. She would be utterly destitute, likely
finishing the week in the workhouse. The question was if the
workhouse would kill her faster than these spirits would. She
imagined the fear entering the workhouse, a place of permanent
desolation.

Her life had devolved to the point where she
had to consider whether staying would be better than the workhouse.
She was not in an enviable position. A snort turned into a laugh,
relieving some of the frantic tension she felt. Then she cried,
wracking sobs that hurt her ribs.

She felt calm when she walked downstairs,
finding Lisle working in the kitchen. Everything seemed so normal
during the day. The house was quiet and still, and work was
required. Anne passed through the kitchen and went into the yard,
where the cow was waiting patiently in the stable, eager to get
out. Maybe she'd just let the beast roam and seek it when it was
time to return. How far could it go?

Actually, they wouldn't be returning,
most likely. The hard reality that they had to leave resurfaced.
She could imagine them walking out to the road, along the road
hardened by frost, carrying what they had to and trying to find a
ride somewhere, having no destination, and no means. They'd be like
vagabonds, begging for food and shelter.

It seemed an impossible choice,
particularly now that everything was calm. But every moment, night
crept closer and closer. Would it be possible to find peace in one
of the outbuildings? Would they be out of reach there? Could they
exist that way—occupy the house during the day and leave at night?
It would be a much better prospect than leaving. But was she too
terrified to stay one more night? This spirit had tried to kill
her, had pushed her down the stairs. She doubted it was an
accident. What else could it do? Throw a knife to stab her, bring
the ceiling down on her head?

Looking out across the moor, Anne
sighed deeply. There really was a wild beauty to the moors, the
distance fading into the mist’s swirls. She wasn't feeling the cold
so harshly today. Perhaps it was warmer, or else, she was too
preoccupied to feel it.

Resolutely, she knew some form of
action was required. Turning back to the house, Anne entered the
kitchen, still feeling calm and almost languid. Lisle was
baking.

"The house attacked me last night," she said
as Lisle looked up.

"You're being ridiculous."

"You know there are spirits in this house.
They attacked me and it was terrifying. The whole house shook with
their rage. They tried to murder me."

"It is all in your imagination," Lisle
said.

"It is not!" Anne replied, finally
growing angry. "One grabbed me by the ankle and pulled me from
underneath my bed."

"You're hiding under the bed now? The doctor
said this might happen."

"What might happen?"

"An adverse response to death. It happens
sometimes, he said. People become fanciful and imagine things.
Become paranoid."

"The house shook as if the earth was
undulating!"

"Well, there is nothing out of place,
is there? Not a plate has fallen off the shelf," Lisle said,
pointing at the plates that stood on their edges on their shelf
behind her. Simply bumping the shelf would have them fall, but they
were all still there. "It is all in your imagination."

Anne couldn't argue the logic, but it had
seemed so real. She had been terrified.

Lisle moved over to a drawer and
pulled out a flask, pouring two capfuls into a glass and giving it
to her. "What is this?" Anne asked.

"Laudanum. The doctor said to take some if
nerves were fraying."

"Fraying?"

"I'm sure his advice would stand in the case
of a person becoming completely unhinged."

"I am not unhinged. You ran out into
the cold night intent on digging Alfie out of his
grave."

"A reaction to death, just as the doctor had
said. Now take it," Lisle said, waiting for her to take the
laudanum.

"Have you been taking this?"

"Yes."

Mad people never believed they were
mad. Maybe this was all just her imagination taking a terrifying
turn, a reflection of the stress she felt—her inner demons finding
an external projection.

"This will calm your nerves," Lisle said and
looked down at the glass then back to her, waiting for her to take
it.

Tentatively, Anne picked it up and
held it to her lips, swinging the contents into her mouth.
Bitterness made her stomach revolt, but she swallowed
it.

"See, it will all be fine," Lisle said with
a tight smile then returned to her baking.

Anne wasn't sure which she wanted to be
true, madness or ghosts. What a choice. She laughed again and Lisle
gave her a suspicious look.

The laudanum took effect and Anne
started to feel as if she was walking on clouds. Her whole body
felt as if it had heaved a huge sigh of relief. Her mind wandered
to the time she had taken Harry ice skating on the Thames. He must
have been eight at the time. She had watched from the Embankment as
he skated out with the other boys—seemingly every boy in London.
She had laughed when he'd fallen on his bottom, growing angry with
himself as he didn't master this skill as quickly as he would
like.

She sat in the parlor and Lisle
brought her apple cake. It tasted exquisite. She remembered eating
apples when she was young, remembered the crisp flesh breaking in
her mouth. She could almost taste that first bite, the liquid of
the apple suffusing her tongue.

And then it was growing dark. Lisle
gave her another glass of the bitter liquid, but she didn't argue,
instead ate more. A pie of some sort, before Lisle led her upstairs
to bed.

Anne's mind was trying to say she should
take care, but the thoughts never quite formed. Closing her eyes
and disappearing into her dreams seemed like an excellent idea. Her
body felt as if it was wrapped in cotton, cradled in sheer
softness.

Dreams and dreams, sweet dreams, memories.
Then a face. She didn't know this face. A girl, pretty. Maybe
sixteen.

"Who are you?"

"Elizabeth."

"I don't know you."

The girl sat on her bed. There was
something not right about her. Her clothes were old, very old. She
had dark hair, was pretty. "I have been here."

"Have you been watching over me?"

"Yes."

"You've been trying to hurt me."

"No, not I. Someone else."

"A man."

"Yes."

"He is not here now?" Something in her
mind said she should worry, but she couldn't bring herself to.
Actually, she just wanted the girl to leave her alone, so she could
return to her dreams. "He wants to hurt me."

"Yes," the girl said.

"You died. You were so young," Anne said,
sadness washing over her at the girl's fate. She felt like crying.
"That man hates me."

"Yes."

"I have done nothing to him. Why does he
hate me?"

"He sees someone else. Someone who seeks to
harm us."

Anne watched her, her mind wanting to
disappear into another dream. "I just live here."

"He only sees an enemy."

A vision of Harry as a toddler
returned, standing at her skirts looking up at her with his large
eyes. It was possibly the loveliest thing she could ever remember
seeing. She smiled. The softness of her pillow embraced her cheek.
She wanted to be with Harry, when everything had been so good. The
little boy for whom she was the brightest jewel in the world. She
wanted to live in that moment forever.

Chapter 18:

Anne had no idea what time it was when
she woke. Gentle sunshine shone in the window, but she suspected it
was long after dawn. She felt more rested and calm than she had in
a long time. There was a respite to her problem, at least for
another six hours, if not more. If the house had raged last night,
she hadn't noticed; although she did vaguely recall speaking to a
young woman, but most likely that had been another of the colorful
and vivid dreams she'd had throughout the night.