The Haunting at Hawke's Moor (16 page)

Maybe she just had to keep taking the
laudanum. The thought worried her as she knew how dependent people
grew on it.

"A carriage comes," Lisle said when Anne
walked downstairs. Anne moved to the window and indeed saw a
carriage in the distance. "I suspect it's the vicar again."

Lisle was right and Anne stepped outside as
he arrived, wrapped in her woolen shawl.

"Miss Sands," the vicar said as he stepped
down. "I thought I would come see how you are."

"That is most kind of you." He took
her hand and really looked at her. He was a kind man, she conceded.
"Please come have some tea."

"That would be most welcome. I am also
going to see Mrs. Waggle. We must discuss the baptism of her baby.
The birth is eminent." Anne had no idea where this woman was, but
obviously she was out this way, or on the way. Distances out here
were large concepts. "I must say, you look unwell, but that is
perhaps not surprising considering the shock you've had. I took the
liberty of bringing a letter from your aunt."

Anne's eyes widened. She wanted to ask for
it now, but it would be rude. Instead, they walked inside to the
parlor where Lisle waited with a tea service.

"I hope you are recovering from the shock,"
he said once Anne had poured the tea.

"There has been something I wanted to ask
you," she said, but didn't quite know how to bring up the topic.
"Perhaps related to the theological theories around spirits."

"Miss Sands, as you know, there is only one
spirit. This fashion for searching for the supernatural is the sign
of a weak mind. I hope you are not succumbing to such ridiculous
notions."

Anne blinked. She almost felt
insulted. "So you do not believe a soul can be diverted from its
path?"

"If you mean when sin is grave enough?
I assure you, Alfie was a good boy and God is forgiving. Fear not;
Alfie is at peace."

"I'm not sure he is," she said and
received a deeply disappointed look from Mr. Whitling.

"If it makes you feel better, we can conduct
a prayer for his soul."

"It would," she said and took the vicar's
hand.

"Almighty Lord and Savior, we beseech
you to receive and hold dearly departed Alfie Hayman, ensure he is
reunited with the family waiting for him. Forgive any
transgressions and recognize the true kindness in his soul. And
give us the strength to rejoice his life."

"That is very kind of you," Anne said.
She had no idea if it would do any good, but it couldn't hurt.
Alfie had clearly deviated from the path.

The vicar chatted further about the
events around the district—people Anne didn't know. It was nice to
hear about normal country activities. For a moment, Anne could sit
back and pretend all was as it should be. She was simply a woman in
this community, receiving a visit from the vicar. This was the life
she should have. This was her house and now her community. She
should not be terrorized every time the sun went down. She was owed
more, and she deserved more.

"Before you go, Mr. Whitling, would
you carry a letter for me to the post?"

"Certainly."

"I won't be a minute," Anne said and walked
over to the desk where she kept her stationary.

Dearest Mr.
Harleston,

I beseech your advice on
how on how I can combat these spirits. They are proving malicious
in nature. I cannot be sure, but a death might even have been
caused. Please advise how I can act more forcefully to ensure their
departure.

Your Friend,

Miss Anne Sands

Anne folded the letter over and sealed
it with wax, addressing the back. "Thank you for taking this. I
won't delay you further. It was so kind of you to come see us." She
handed the letter to him and he put it in his pocket. He was about
to leave, and Anne feared he'd forgotten about her aunt's letter. A
flare of panic shot through her.

"Almost forgot," he said and pulled it out
of his other inside pocket. Anne took it gratefully and smiled. She
saw the vicar off and again wondered if she should have gone with
him—but to where? She had nowhere to go. Panic withstanding, this
place was the only place for her, faulty as it was. She felt so
angry about her salvation being tainted. It was unfair and
unjust.

As soon as the vicar was gone, Anne
withdrew into the parlor again, cracking the seal on her aunt's
letter. It had felt such a while since she'd spoken to any family.
In reality, it hadn't been that long since Harry had left. It just
felt much longer.

Anne sat down and began to read.

Dear Anne,

I was so pleased to
receive your invitation to join you when the house is in order. As
you say, the history of the property is interesting. On closer
consideration, I do recall there was some mention of difficulties
in that house. It was long before I was born, but I do remember my
grandmother mentioning a cousin of hers had been driven mad in the
house, claiming unnatural occurrences. A child of hers had
inexplicably died.

Anne felt a sense of dread creeping up
her spine. The troubles here apparently weren't a new development.
This house had acted against its inhabitants before. She fought a
sense of hopelessness.

The tale told to me was
that the house’s original occupant was haunting it. A Richard
Hawke. Complete nonsense, of course, but an interesting
tale.

The name was familiar and Anne
searched her mind. She had seen that name. Suddenly, it came to
her. She had seen his grave, along with others in his family,
including his daughter Elizabeth. A chill washed over her skin and
she shuddered.

A formidable man in life,
who was burned in his house by parliamentarian forces. No doubt an
exaggeration. With the death of his children, the house went to a
cousin, which was later linked in marriage to our family. I
understand the house was never really occupied fully as it was too
remote and unpleasant. Although I am sure it can be comfortable
enough. It has existed in the family since, slipping from one hand
to the next down the generations. And now it is yours.

I am sure all they say
about the house is over exaggeration. No doubt, concocted by the
touched mind of the woman who went mad. People have a habit of
grasping onto the fantastical. She was sent to a sanatorium where
she died shortly after, poor thing.

I am sure you will hear
such nonsense from people, but please don’t take such things to
heart. You were always a sensitive girl, even as a child. Please
let me know if I can be of any assistance.

Deepest love,

Your Aunt Hortense

Anne put the letter down and
considered its contents. If there was one thing she should fear, it
would be having the same fate as her great cousin, dragged away to
a sanatorium for the insane. She knew full well it was a
possibility if all the things she experienced were concocted by her
own mind. Lisle certainly believed so. But then others had felt it.
Well, Lisle had felt it, although she now denied it. Would a mad
person not assume others felt the same? Anne twisted her fingers in
her lap.

It was an awful thing, worrying about
one’s own sanity. Running around in circles questioning every
thought and motive. Instead, she turned her attention to the other
things she'd learned—that the spirit haunting the house was its
original builder, Richard Hawke. She knew nothing about him other
than that he'd lived and died here, and was buried in the
graveyard. More than one person had mentioned the fire, so there
was perhaps some truth to that.

There wasn't anything about him or the
history of the house in the contents of the modest library that
came with the house. The books were all from after that time,
focused mainly on local flora and fauna, as well as some
agricultural books, which Anne had planned to read at some point.
There was nothing in the house from the time when he had a life
there. Perhaps the fire had consumed such things.

Her mind traveled to the strongbox in
the attic. The box had looked old. It may even have survived a
fire—it was blackened enough. An urge to know bounded through her.
She might not relish returning to the attic, but the desire to know
outweighed her unease. It was daytime and the house's unwanted
inhabitants seemed to be slumbering.

Rising, she made her way up the stairs,
including the set that led up to the servants' area. Lisle's door
stood open, but Anne passed by, heading for the door that led up to
the attic. It creaked as she opened it and the dustiness stung her
nose. The light was so very faint, emitted from a small, dirty
window. The place was still. It felt deserted and unloved, which
was exactly what it was. This was where the unwanted things went.
If there was some way of relegating the ghosts in here and keeping
them shut away, that would be a tolerable outcome. If she could but
contain them, they could haunt to their hearts content.

Anne grabbed a rag and began to wipe some of
the dust off the window. The strongbox was exactly where it had
been before. The heavy iron lock untouched. She was going to need
tools to open it.

In a way, it felt as if she was betraying
someone's privacy breaking into this box, but if it related to the
person invading her life, then it could potentially provide
information she needed.

She retrieved an iron pole and a
sledgehammer. It took several attempts to break the lock. Anne
irrationally worried that the thing haunting the house could hear
the noise of these trespasses. Finally, the lock gave and Anne
unhooked its remnants and laid it on the floor. The lid was heavy
and it took all her strength to open it.

There was a jumble of contents. It
looked like someone had thrown things in there, expecting to need
them the next day but circumstances had interfered. A leather vest,
stiff with age and lack of care. There were also a pair of old
flintlock pistols and a pouch which she assumed held gunpowder.
There was another pouch inside, but its contents had rotten. There
was also a stack of letters, yellow and brittle, the writing faded
over the years.

Picking them up, she filtered through
them. Mostly, they were communications related to battle tactics,
who was to go where and how to engage the devil Fairfax's forces.
It certainly seemed to correspond with the right era. These were
letters received, though, from all sorts of persons. There were
none written by this mysterious and apparently formidable Richard
Hawke.

Anne brought the letters downstairs. They
didn't seem to indicate anything that would be useful, just
detailed the progression of the war they were fighting. There were
lists of supplies, and some account of discipline metered out to
soldiers.

There was one interesting letter that
suggested there was betrayal in his house. That was interesting. It
didn't mention anything more, other than that he needed to find a
spy working against them, apparently from his household.

As she'd read, the skies were darkening
outside. Anne sighed and tried not to let the fear build in her.
The reprieve of daylight was fading and night was approaching. Anne
wished she could just go to sleep and wake up with sunlight
streaming through the window, but that was a full twelve hours
away. Was this man coming for her that night?

Her insides tightened with fear and
she hated the cloying feel of it. This man was wreaking havoc in
her life. She reached for the bottle of laudanum. If this man
killed her during the night, she'd rather not feel it. Hopefully,
Mr. Harleston would give her some means of fighting this spirit.
She wasn't ready to give up on this house. She'd been chased out of
a house by a man before, and this house was hers. If she had to
fight him for it, she would find a way of doing so. For now, she
just had to survive the night.