Joseph Delaney: The Spook's Mistake

There was a way to solve my problem. I had a special key, made by Andrew, the Spook's locksmith brother. Although it would open most doors, and I expected the one before me to present little difficulty, I was reluctant to use it. It just didn't seem right to go into someone's house without their permission, so I decided to wait a little longer to see if Arkwright turned up after all. But soon the cold and damp began to seep into my bones and changed my mind for me. After all, I was going to live here for six months and he was expecting me.

The key turned easily in the lock but the door groaned on its hinges as it slowly opened. The mill was gloomy within, the air damp and musty and tainted with the strong odour of stale wine. I took just one step inside, allowing my eyes to adjust, then looking about me. There was a large table at the far end of the room, at the centre of which was a single candle set within a small brass candlestick. I put down my staff and used my bag to wedge open the door and allow some light into the room. Pulling my tinderbox from my pocket, I had the candle lit within moments. That done, I noticed a sheet of paper on the table, held in position by the candlestick. One glance and I could see that it was a note for me so I picked it up and began to read.

Dear Master Ward,

It seems that you have used your initiative, otherwise you would have spent the night outside in the dark, an experience that would be less than pleasant. Here you will find things very different to Chipenden.

Although I follow the same trade as Mr Gregory, we work in different ways. Your master's house is a refuge, cleansed from within; but here, the unquiet dead walk and it is my wish that they do so. They will not harm you, so leave them be. Do nothing.

There is food in the larder and wood for the stove by the door, so eat your fill and sleep well. It would be wise to spend the night in the kitchen and await my return. Do not venture down into the lowest part of the house nor attempt to enter the topmost room, which is locked.

Respect my wishes both for your good and for mine.

Bill Arkwright

I found Arkwright's comments about the dead very strange. Why would he allow them to disturb the tranquillity of his house? Surely it was his duty to give them peace by sending them towards the light? That's certainly what the Spook would have done. But my master had already explained that Arkwright might do things differently and it would be my duty to adapt to his ways.

I looked about, now able to see the room properly for the first time. It was not in the least inviting — it wasn't really a living room at all. The windows were boarded up, so no wonder it had been gloomy. No doubt it had been used for storage when the building was a working mill. There was no fireplace, and apart from the table the only items of furniture were two hard-backed wooden chairs, standing in opposite corners of the room. But there were several crates of wine stacked against the wall and a long row of empty bottles. Dust and cobwebs festooned the walls and ceiling, and although the front door opened directly into the room, Arkwright clearly used it only as a means to reach the other parts of the house.

I moved my bag away from the door, before closing and locking it. Next I took the candle from the table and went through to the kitchen. The window over the sink wasn't boarded up but it was still very foggy outside and the light was starting to fail. On the window ledge lay one of the biggest knives I'd ever seen. It certainly wasn't for the preparation of food! However, the kitchen was tidier than I'd expected, free of dust, with plates, cups and pans neatly stacked in wall cupboards and a small dining table and three wooden chairs. I found the larder filled with cheese, ham, bacon and half a loaf.

Rather than a fireplace there was a large stove, wider than it was tall, with two doors and an iron chimney that twisted over it to enter the ceiling above. The lefthand door opened to reveal a frying pan; the right was filled with wood and straw, ready for lighting. No doubt this was the only way to heat and cook in a wooden building like this.

Wasting no time, I used my tinderbox to light the stove. The kitchen soon filled with warmth and then I began frying three generous rashers of bacon. The bread was dry and past its best but still good enough to toast. There was no butter but the food went down very well and I was soon feeling much better.

I began to feel sleepy so I decided to go upstairs and look at the bedrooms, hoping to work out which one was intended for me. I carried the candle with me and it proved to be a wise decision. The stairs could hardly have been darker. On the first floor there were four doors. The first led to a lumber room full of empty boxes, dirty sheets, blankets and miscellaneous rubbish which gave off an unpleasant smell of mould and decay. The walls had damp patches and some of the heaped sheets were heavily mildewed. The next two doors each led to single bedrooms. In the first, the crumpled sheets showed that the bed had been slept in; the second contained a bed with a bare mattress. Was that meant to be mine? If so, I longed to be back in Chipenden. There was no other furniture in the bleak, uninviting room and the air was chilly and damp.

The fourth room had a large double bed in it. The blankets lay in an untidy heap at its foot, and again the sheets were rumpled. Something didn't feel right in this room and the hairs on the back of my neck began to rise. I shivered, lifted the candle higher and approached the bed. It actually looked wet, and when I touched it lightly with my fingers, I found it saturated. It couldn't have been wetter if someone had emptied half a dozen bucketfuls of water over it. I looked up at the ceiling but could see no hole there nor any signs of staining due to leaks. How had it got so wet? I quickly backed away through the door, closing it firmly behind me.

The more I thought about it, the less I liked this floor. There was another level above but Arkwright had warned me to keep away, so I decided to take his advice and sleep on the kitchen floor. At least it didn't feel damp and the heat from the stove would keep me warm until morning.

Just after midnight something woke me. The kitchen was in almost total darkness, with just the faintest of glows from the stove.

What had disturbed me? Had Arkwright returned home? But the hairs on the back of my neck were rising again and I shivered. As a seventh son of a seventh son, I see and hear things that other people don't. Arkwright had said that the unquiet dead were present in the house. If so, more than likely I'd soon know about it.

Just then there was a deep rumbling sound from somewhere below that vibrated right through the walls of the mill. What was it? It seemed to be getting louder and louder.

I was intrigued but I decided not to get up. Arkwright had told me to do nothing. It was none of my business. Even so, the noise was scary and disturbing and I couldn't get back to sleep, no matter how hard I tried. Eventually I worked out what the sound was. The waterwheel. The waterwheel was turning! Or at least it sounded like it.

Then there was a shrill scream and the rumbling stopped as quickly as it had started. It was a scream so terrible and filled with such extreme anguish that I covered my ears. Of course, that didn't help. The sound was inside my head — the remnants of something that had taken place many years earlier in this mill. I was listening to someone in terrible pain.

At last the scream faded away and everything became peaceful and quiet again. What I'd heard would have been enough to drive most people from the building. I was a spook's apprentice and such things were part of the job but I still felt scared — my whole body was trembling. Arkwright had said that nothing here would harm me but there was something strange going on. Something more than just a routine haunting.