The Haunting at Hawke's Moor (3 page)

He shook his head like she was insane
and jumped down, grabbing their trunks off the back and put them
down on the gravel. "Nasty history this place. Part of it burned a
few centuries back, they say. Mam says it should have burned
completely and never been rebuilt."

Anne didn't know what to say. She knew
nothing of the history of the place, but it did look old. Obviously
there was something the locals took offense to. She saw no evidence
of burning, though.

Without saying anything more, the man
stepped up on the driver’s seat and slapped the reins on the horse
rump, taking off the way he'd come.

Taking her key out, she walked up the
stone steps to the heavy oak doors. The lock siezed when she stuck
the key in, getting no leverage to turn it. She had to resort to
using some of the butter she'd bought at the general merchant's and
smearing it on the key. It took half an hour to unlock it, but
eventually it gave, rather suddenly. Anne's finger and hand were
sore from effort, and she rubbed the ache away. An exhale of stale
air greeted them. Dust covered every surface in the unnaturally
still air.

"So this is home," she said as she
stepped in. The window glass were covered in dust, leaving the hall
and the rooms to the sides with a murky atmosphere. Lisle seemed to
prefer the drizzle outside.

Anne's footsteps echoed as she walked
in across a disintegrating carpet. It smelled like decay, but there
was evidence of a life once lived. She walked into the parlor,
where everything was a uniform dust color, including the sheets
that covered the furniture. Grabbing one, she lifted it off,
releasing a plume of dust into the room, making her cough.
Underneath was a sofa covered in moth-eaten green
velvet.

It would take countless hours of work
just to get rid of the dust. The soft furnishings had to go,
showing a century of decay. Once they'd cleaned everything, she
would have to see what could be salvaged, knowing anything that
went would probably not be replaced.

The house was large. It seemed larger
on the inside than when they'd driven up. The rain continued
outside and Anne hadn't left the house since they'd arrived, but
then there was so much to do inside. Everything was covered in a
thick layer of dust that turned into a stubborn paste when they
attempted to clean it. Anne's hands were red and raw from the
unaccustomed work.

Sitting on her haunches, she looked around.
This seemed like an impossible task, cleaning a century of muck.
Even the framed paintings had a layer of dust on them, but she
could tell they were all old, displaying dress from centuries
past.

Nothing could be heard other than the
rap of brush bristles on the floor. She’d gone through and removed
all the dusty sheets, leaving them down in the laundry to deal with
at some other time. Most of them were unsalvageable, but she would
think on that later. They really weren't in the position to discard
anything that could be of use.

Lisle was unhappy and grumbled whenever Anne
was near enough to hear. They'd found some old lye soap, which was
dry as bone, but did reconstitute with a bit of water. If she'd
thought of it, she would have bought some proper detergents from
the merchants, but it hadn't crossed her mind. It probably should
have. Thinking back now, she had no idea how she could have
overlooked it.

Squeezing her fingers in her palm, she
tried to soothe away the ache and irritation. It wouldn't be a lie
to say her hands were accustomed to more delicate treatment and she
wondered how long it would take them to recover. Getting up for a
moment, she walked out of her bedroom and into the hall. Hunger bit
into her stomach. They hadn't eaten since morning. It was probably
time for some of the bread Lisle had baked. She'd added too much
salt, but it was still edible, provided one was hungry.

Anne walked downstairs and kept going
into the kitchen which Lisle had done her best to clean. There were
still shelves covered in dust, but the floor, the fireplace and the
preparation tables had been scrubbed. The fireplace smoked quite a
bit, but there was nothing they could do about that for
now.

Grabbing some bread, she returned to
the main parlor. Faded silk hang on the walls, the lightest pink,
but she guessed they had once been red. A tapestry hung on one
wall, depicting a medieval battle scene. She didn't know the
history of it, or even if it had belonged to her family. It could
have come with the house, but she'd never heard of this house
mentioned, or knew of the people who'd built it or lived here. Her
great aunt, as far as she knew, hadn't lived here, but someone had.
Someone with their family's portraits on the walls.

Her steps echoed across the room,
particularly as they had removed the carpets with great effort,
leaving large geometric shapes in the dust on the floor. The
staircase was made of very dark wood and ornately carved. Again, it
looked medieval, perhaps even older than the house, which appeared
to be late Tudor in origin, with sectioned windows and gabled
roofs. Lead plate windows distorted the view outside of the dark
and gray, unending moors. The sun was a fuzzy orb on the horizon,
barely seen through the clouds.

Feeling a moment of despondency, she sat
down on the musty sofa, acknowledging that she might be cleaning
for the rest of her life. The kitchen garden would also have to be
started soon. They wouldn't stay healthy for long if all they ate
was bread.

On the fourth day, the weather cleared
and Anne decided it was time to seek out the farm she had been told
about, the one belong to the Turners. Donning her cloak, she set
out, the blustery wind forcing her to wrap it tightly around her,
the wind making wearing a hat impossible. The umbrella would be
useless as well, so if it started raining, she would have to get
soaked.

The ground was uneven and there was no
path to follow, which made traversing the moors difficult. She felt
tiny, like an ant, in the middle of this vast expanse of land and
sky. The wind howled across the land and after a while, she could
see more cultivated land on the horizon, and white dots that must
be sheep. That had to be the Turners, she decided and kept going. A
moment of fear assaulted her, wondering if she would make it back
before dark. The sun set so early in these parts. Getting lost on
these moors would be horrible, but then hopefully any light in the
windows of Hawke's Manor would guide her home. She hoped
so.

As she walked, she wondered if someone
by the name of Hawke had built the house. At some point a Hawke—and
she could safely assume it was a man—had lived there, and the house
had been named after him.

The walk became easier as she reached the
Turner's pasture land. At least they had sheep, which meant there
was perhaps lamb she could purchase.

In the distance, she could see the
Turner's farm was modest, a cluster of squat stone buildings, grass
growing on the roofs and the yard surrounded by gates. Stone fences
ran from the farm across the land, sectioning pastures. A cow
grazed nearby, but she didn't see anyone around.

As she got closer, a man appeared
inside the fenced section, wearing the same gray wool as everyone
else she’d met, a white linen shirt and a piece of cloth tied
around his thick neck. He had short, brown hair and a flat face. It
took him a moment to realize someone was approaching, when he
turned and leaned on the fence, waiting patiently as she made her
way nearer.

"Hello," she said, pausing. There was no
smile; he just stared at her. "I'm Anne Sands. I've taken up
residence in Hawke's Manor."

He looked past her as if he was
expected to see someone coming behind her. There were miles of
pasture behind her—who was he expecting to see? He stared at her
for a moment—a hard, unfriendly stare. "Aye, I heard someone was
milling around there."

Anne smiled, feeling uncomfortable. "I just
thought I would introduce myself."

Again, he didn't say anything. She didn't
know if he was generally unfriendly, or just unkind to persons who
were obviously not from these parts.

"Must be a right mess up there. No one
goes near that place."

"It does need some tidying."

"Best not to bother. I doubt you'll be
staying."

"I'm residing here now," Anne said,
confounded by the man's rudeness.

"All the same. It's a nasty place and you'd
be best going back where you've come from."

"Well, I won't be," she said sharply. "What
I wanted to inquire was if we could purchase some meat from you?
Perhaps even a milking cow? I can pay." She cringed at the
statement because she couldn't say that too liberally. But for
right now, until she had the garden growing, they had to
survive.

"A cow, you want? Aye, I can sell you a cow.
Meat too, if you wish." He walked over and slapped a cow on the
rump. "This lass is decent enough. You have a hand to tend to
it?"

Anne didn't know if she should be honest
about her situation. But she did believe that honesty was the best
policy. "It is just I and my maid."

"In that bloody house all alone?" He shook
his head. "Too daft to know better. They told you the house is
haunted?"

Anne dismissed the statement. No doubt
superstition was strong out in these parts. "The more the merrier,"
she said with a tight smile, wishing this transaction was over.

"You even know how to care for a cow?"

"We will have to learn. I make no claims
that my situation is ideal, Mr. Turner, but we have to make
do."

His harshness seemed to soften in the
slightest, but she might be imagining it. "The main thing is to
keep her away from clover. Does them a nasty turn."

Anne blinked, registering the comment. She
had no idea why clover was bad for cows, but she was prepared to
take his word for it. "Is there a road between here and there?"

"Not for miles. Fastest way is to go back
the way you came."

Anne looked lost for a moment. The cow had
no harness and she didn't know what to do. Her utter confusion was
embarrassing, but she'd never had to so much as touch a cow before.
"Does it have a harness?"

"I can fashion one if need be."

"Yes, I think it will be necessary." He
disappeared into one of the squat buildings and returned with a
rope, which he knotted very fast until it fashioned a harness.
Putting it on the beast's head, he urged her to a gate not far
away. She handed him a sum of coins and he counted them
diligently.

This could be the worst cow in all of
England, she conceded, being unable to tell. "I will have to bring
her back if she has no milk," she said.

"She'll milk alright. The question is if you
can get it out."

Anne muttered as she took the rope. The
animal followed, not perhaps gladly. Turning her attention back,
she watched the horizon, again wondering if she would get back
before dark.

A short while away, the unfriendly Mr.
Turner yelled. "Don't be daft and go running around the moors at
night. It's a bad place to be in the dark. Wouldn't be the first to
break your neck out there."

"Yes, thank you for your concern, Mr.
Turner. I'm sure we'll make it back alright."

"Wasn't speaking of now, lass," he said with
a chuckle.

That was the second time someone had said
the manor was haunted, but maybe people said that about places that
were abandoned, for whatever reason. Abandoned for probably good
reasons as well. This place was so very remote, it was no wonder no
one chose to live out here, provided they had a choice. She would
never choose to live here if she could manage an alternative.