Helen Phifer - The Ghost House

It was magnificent; the walls were built from the same deep red sandstone as the Abbey ruins just below the entrance to the woods. It was remarkable to think that someone could actually afford to build such a stunning home and then abandon it. It had lain empty with no one to care for it for decades. The current owner was an elderly woman who lived in New York. As far as Annie was aware the woman had never even been to look at the house, which had been left to her by the last owner, a distant relative. Maybe if she had she would have done something with it; the potential was endless. Then again, if it had been developed her brother wouldn’t have been able to afford to buy the farmhouse, which had a clause in the contract that whoever owned the farm had to be the caretaker of the big house. Ben was a builder so it was perfect for him. Annie loved the peace and tranquillity that being up here brought to her bruised mind.

All the downstairs windows were boarded up to stop the local teenagers from going inside and breaking their necks. The upstairs windows were, surprisingly, all intact. Hundreds of tiny panes of stained glass with the most intricate patterns of lead beading running through them. Annie didn’t envy whoever once had the job of keeping those clean; they were grimy now with over sixty years of dirt. The front door was an amazing work of art. Set into a Gothic arch the huge oak door had the biggest brass knocker she had seen. It was a scary goblin face with a mouth full of pointed teeth. Annie knew that if she had been a visitor to the house she would never have used that thing, it would probably clamp its teeth shut and swallow your hand whole.

Taking the key she pushed it into the lock and was relieved when it turned – at least Ben had sorted out one thing. Pushing the heavy door it let out a loud groan. Annie was apprehensive to go in alone. She heard Ben’s warning in the back of her mind but he was out of the country and she was housesitting so technically she was in charge. Her stomach was churning with nervous excitement at finally being able to explore the house. Stepping inside she shuddered; a mix of emotions overwhelmed her but the feeling that shocked her most was the warm surge of familiarity, which rushed through her veins. It was so strong that she wanted to shout, ‘I’m back, I’ve finally come home.’ But why? Why do I feel like this and who am I telling it to? The feeling of déjà vu confused her but she brushed it off as wishful thinking.

The house was amazing. The entrance hall was so large it alone could accommodate a party. The walls were covered in begrimed and dusty oak panelling, the air smelt damp and fusty, and Annie tried not to breathe through her nose because it was so overpowering. She tried to picture the house as it used to be and an image began to form in her mind of the house when it was a family home. Fearfully she pushed it away.

The house was dark and full of shadows so she decided to start at the top and work her way down. That way if the floors were as rotten as her brother believed and she fell through the ceiling she would have all day to try and contact someone to come and rescue her. As brave as she felt she didn’t want to be lying in a heap on the floor when what little light there was began to fade: that was far too scary.

Cautiously she walked across the floor to the staircase, which was a sweeping, grand statement; it didn’t seem too dangerous. Placing her hand on the ornately carved oak banister she tested the first step. It creaked loudly but held her weight. Placing both feet on it she bounced up and down to see if she would fall through: she didn’t. Taking one step at a time she reached the first floor and grinned because the stairs hadn’t collapsed on her. Why are the men in my life such drama queens? Treading carefully along the corridor she peered into the many rooms she passed; their doors were either wide open or missing. Each room was now an empty shell but she could picture exactly how they used to look with ornately carved beds covered in sumptuous, richly coloured throws. The wardrobes and drawers all matching, small bedside tables with heavy brass lamps and delicate pieces of cut glass on display along with pretty perfume bottles. The only thing left in them now was the beautiful marble mantelpieces and, in a couple of rooms, some discarded beer cans with faded logos – Annie didn’t think you could still buy those brands.

At the far end of the long hallway was the only closed door on the whole floor; Annie found herself drawn towards it. Standing outside she closed her eyes to try and picture what was on the other side but her mind was blank. Her fingers reached out, wrapping themselves around the dull brass knob. She pulled her hand back sharply. The metal was so freezing cold the tips of her fingers felt numb. Her mother’s voice spoke clearly in her mind, ‘Curiosity killed the cat. When will you ever learn?’ Annie, who had been at loggerheads with her mum since she could talk, whispered ‘never’ then gripped the knob and twisted it with all her strength until it gave a little and slowly turned. There was no sensible reason why she was so desperate to go in there but she knew she had to.

She was greeted by a schoolroom and gasped with pleasure to see two small, well-worn pine desks with matching chairs tucked neatly underneath them. A huge bookcase filled the back wall. It was laden with books and Annie, who loved to read, grinned with pleasure. The mantelpiece in this room was lined with a row of tin soldiers, all stood on guard ready for their next battle. Annie walked over and picked one up, murmuring with delight that they were real – it wasn’t her imagination. How had this room stayed intact when the rest of the house was an empty shell? Turning back to the desks she pulled out a chair and sat down, her fingers tracing the lines and grooves in the soft wood. Lifting the top to peer inside she smiled to see a dusty, old black leather book. Picking it up she blew away some of the dust.

From somewhere inside the house she became aware of the soft tinkling of a piano, the tune was vaguely familiar to her, comforting. She looked at the title of the book, which was written in elegant gold script: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland . A man’s muffled voice called out; it was deep and sounded to Annie as if it was coming through a loudspeaker. A chill ran through her body. It sounded like someone she knew a long time ago but now couldn’t quite remember.

‘Alice, where are you? I want to come and play.’

Goosebumps broke out all over her arms; she knew she was the only person in the house.

‘Alice, I’m coming to find you ready or not.’

Whoever the voice belonged to wasn’t asking whomever Alice was to play the game, it was telling her she had no choice. Instinctively Annie looked around for somewhere to hide, her heart beating so hard she was afraid the steady thud of it would give her away. Then came footsteps climbing the stairs that were so loud they made the floor vibrate. Annie knew that it just wasn’t possible, but they kept on coming. Soon they would be on the landing and heading straight towards her. Standing quickly she whacked her thigh on the sharp corner of the desk and bit her tongue so as not to cry out, ‘I’m not ready, I don’t want to play with you, whoever you are.’ The footsteps got louder and she looked at the door, which had swung shut: there was nowhere to hide in this room.

The sudden silence was deafening. She knew that whomever had been calling out was now standing outside the door, listening. Annie backed away putting some distance between herself and the door, adrenalin making every sense in her body alert. She had been in the police force for five years and was a capable fighter. Her self-defence training and regular Saturday night brawls with drunks had turned her into a competent fighter, but what really scared her was the thought that whomever was standing on the other side of the door may not be the sort of person that she could grapple with. Do I believe in ghosts? Her body taut, feet automatically taking up a fighter’s stance she raised her fists, which were clenched so hard her knuckles had gone white.