Peter James - The House on Cold Hill

Then he heard a small voice: ‘Woooooo, wooooo, wooooo! I am the ghost of Cold Hill House!’

Jade’s voice, he realized.

Then she said, ‘Chill, Dad! Mum! GOTYA!’

An instant later the overhead light came on. He saw Jade holding up a torch inside a transparent green outfit of some kind draped over her head, standing by the door.

‘Christ, Jade!’ Ollie said.

Jade pulled the robe up and off, revealing her face, and stood there, grinning.

Caro lay still, too stunned to speak.

‘That is really, really, really not funny, darling,’ Ollie gasped.

Jade jigged up and down. ‘I’m the phantom of Cold Hill!’

Ollie moved to get out of bed, then realized he was stark naked. ‘Joke over, OK!’ he said sternly.

‘You scared me,’ Caro said. ‘You scared the hell out of me, darling.’

‘I thought I’d wear this at my party. What do you think?’

‘I think you should go to bed, NOW!’ Ollie said.

‘But do you like it, though, Dad?’

‘Go to bed. I’ll tell you what I think in the morning.’

‘I did scare you, though, didn’t I? A bit?’

‘Just go to bed, OK?’

‘Wooooo, woooooo wooooo!’ She pulled the robe over her head again. ‘Wooooooo, I am the ghost of Cold Hill House. Wooooooooooo!’

She danced out the room, closing the door behind her.

Ollie turned to look at Caro. She was staring, wide-eyed, up at the ceiling. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Maybe that’s her way of dealing with it. At least she’s cool with all that’s been happening.’

‘Lucky her,’ Caro said.

Ollie barely slept a wink for the rest of the night. Caro tossed and turned beside him, awake much of the time also. He was thinking. Thinking. Churning everything over.

Those words on his screen — where had they come from? He toyed with the possibility that it was another prank by Jade, but dismissed it. There had been something in his office, something dark and malevolent. Something watching him with unseen eyes. Some energy force?

He shivered. He was feeling it again now. That there was something here in this room, up on the ceiling looking down at them. Mocking them.

Hating them.

Or was he just losing the plot?

He took several deep breaths to try to calm himself — and to convince himself that this was all in his mind. He wanted to turn the light on, and go to sleep with it on, something he’d not done since he was a small child. But he did not want to disturb Caro any more than she had been already. And at this moment she seemed to be asleep.

He stared constantly at the green digits on his clock radio: 12.20; 12.50; 1.25; 2.12; 2.45; 3.15.

He had a headache that was becoming increasingly insistent.

Bob Manthorpe.

Dead.

The old cleric had seemed so alive, enjoying retirement. Could there possibly be any link between his visit and the man’s death?

Ridiculous. It was just coincidence. Unlucky timing.

He got up, went to the bathroom and swallowed two paracetamol. As he returned to bed, Caro asked him, her voice sharp, clear and wide awake, ‘Are you OK?’

‘Just a bit of a headache.’

‘Me too.’

He felt the bed move as she climbed out, heard her cross the floor, then the bathroom door close. He heard the toilet flush. The sound of running water. Then her footsteps approaching. Then the faint boing of a spring beneath them and the bed rocked a little. Sheets rustled.

Some moments later she asked, her voice quavering, ‘Ollie, what are we going to do? We can’t live like this.’

He reached across, took her hand and held it tight. ‘We’re going to deal with it. We’re going to get it sorted. Trust me. I know what we have to do.’

‘I’m scared. I’m scared for Jade, I’m scared for us.’

He swallowed, not wanting to tell her that he was scared too. He had to be strong for her.

And for himself.

3.38; 3.59; 5.03.

The room was filling with a very faint grey light. From outside Ollie could hear the sporadic birdsong of the dawn chorus. Looking at the clock again, he realized he had actually slept for over an hour. He could just make out the ceiling now; the shape of Caro’s dressing table; the chaise longue beneath the window, strewn with their clothes. Dawn. A new day.

He felt calmer now. Caro was asleep, breathing deeply. Then, suddenly, he was back in his parents’ house in Yorkshire. But on the walls of every small room he entered was written, in thick black letters,

Ollie’s mother was admonishing him, saying, ‘You’ve brought this on us all. You and your stupid ambitions.’

‘Told you so,’ his father kept saying, repeating it over and over and over.

In sudden panic Ollie remembered he’d left his laptop, with all the Cholmondley website information to be uploaded, in the garage. He rushed through the door, but the garage was empty. His father followed him and lowered his voice. ‘Cholmondley’s a crook, you know that, son, don’t you? You don’t want to get involved with a man like that. Get yourself a proper job. Do something decent.’

‘Where’s my laptop, Dad, what have you done with it?’ Ollie shouted at him. ‘Where is it?’

‘I’ve sent it away to have some adjustments made. The truth will set you free!’

Ollie woke with a start, drenched in perspiration. Then relief flooded through him as he began realizing it had just been a dream. He rolled over and looked at the clock.

8.11.

But his sense of relief was short-lived, turning rapidly into gloom as everything started to come back to him. He lay still, trying to think clearly. Remembering the conversation he’d had with the retired vicar on Thursday. Remembering his advice.

Slipping out of bed as quietly as he could, he walked across to the window, opened the curtains a chink and peered out, his eyes raw with tiredness. Tendrils of mist were rising from the lake, and several ducks were moving serenely across the surface, looking purposeful but unhurried. The grass had grown since last weekend and he would need to spend some of today on the ride-on mower, and with the strimmer. But before that, he had other tasks.

He went out and along the corridor to the airing cupboard, changed into his jogging kit, then went downstairs. As he entered the kitchen, he smelled curry. The remnants of last night’s meal lay on their unwashed plates, along with the takeaway cartons from the curry house on the draining board. Bombay and Sapphire were standing by their food bowls, meowing. He topped them up, changed their water, cleared away the dishes and cartons, then went through to the scullery, unlocked the back door and stepped out into the cool, fresh morning air. It was a fine, still morning, with an almost cloudless sky, full of the promise of those glorious late summer days that occurred so frequently during September.

He did a few half-hearted stretches then jogged down to the lake, stopping to watch the ducks for some moments. Then he ran round to the far side, through the gate into the paddock, and traversed it, making a trail through the tall, sopping grass. At the far end he let himself out of the gate, then tackled the hill.

He ran some way up it, through a large field, until he had to stop to get his breath back. He gulped down air and then, feeling too exhausted to go on for a moment, he sat down on the wet grass. A bunch of sheep stood some distance away, a few looking at him with mild curiosity, one of them bleating. Ridiculous, he thought. Normally he’d have run all the way up a hill like this with no problem. Maybe the move and all that had been going on in the house had sapped his energy.