The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories Read online

  Finally, I reach over and take my mobile phone from the nightstand. It's almost 1am, and I know that's far too late to be calling anyone, but I can't help bringing up Stephen's number and tapping the green icon. He's the one who insisted that I stay here, so he can jolly well pick up.

  The phone rings and rings, but eventually he answers.

  “Penelope?” he stammers, sounding as if he's only just stirred. “What's wrong? Has something happened to the painting?”

  “I heard a noise,” I whisper.

  “What kind of noise?”

  “A banging noise. Something bumping about in the house. It woke me up.”

  “What do you mean? What kind of banging?”

  “It was really loud,” I continue, still staring at the closed door. “It went on for several minutes, as if someone was hitting the pipes. Do you think it's a burglar?”

  “A burglar who broke in and then started banging on the pipes?” He sighs. “Penelope...”

  “Or it's her!” I hiss.

  Again, he sighs.

  “Stephen, what if she's come for me?” I continue. “What if the ghost -”

  “There's no ghost!”

  “But -”

  “For God's sake!” he yells suddenly. “Do you have any idea what time it is, you silly old bat? You're completely out of control, Penelope! There's no ghost at Longthorn Manor, there never was! Now grow the hell up and stop bothering me, you stupid cow!”

  With that, he cuts the call. I immediately try to ring back, only to find that he must have turned his phone off.

  I sit in silence, listening once again to the house.

  And then the banging starts again, sounding more furious than ever. Stephen is right, I suppose, that no burglar in their right mind would behave in such a way, which means that the noise must be coming from...

  “Go away!” I shout finally, unable to help myself. “Leave me alone!”

  The sound continues for a few more seconds, before once again stopping very abruptly.

  “I don't have anything for you!” I continue, feeling as if perhaps I can reason with this spirit. “I never did! Please, for the love of God, just leave me alone!”

  Now I'm really sobbing, with tears running down my cheeks. I'm so utterly scared, I feel as if my heart is about to explode in my chest, and for the next few minutes I sit listening to the silence. Stephen's harsh words are still rushing through my mind, but I keep telling myself that he doesn't understand what I'm going through. To him, all this talk of ghosts is just a joke, whereas to me it's so very real. I've spent my whole life running from the idea that something in this house is after me, and yet...

  And yet here I am, back at the house.

  I ran and I ran, but I ended up back here.

  Somehow, this thought seems to strengthen me a little. If I can't run, then surely my only option is to confront whatever is here. That's the one thing I never tried, and I feel as if this spectral presence will surely haunt me for the rest of my life if I don't face up to my fears.

  I wait a while longer, until the house has been silent for several minutes, and then finally I start climbing out of bed.

  I'm going to go out there and take a look. I'm not a little girl, not anymore. I'm a grown woman and I have a little more about me. Besides, if I stay in here, hiding in the bed, I think my heart will give out before morning comes. Perhaps I shall come face to face with a ghost on the landing, or perhaps – just perhaps – I shall find that there is some perfectly natural explanation.

  Either way, I have to take a look.

  When I reach the door, I hesitate for a moment before taking hold of the handle. I feel as if my whole life has been leading to this moment, as if I ran as a little girl and now I'm doing what I should have done all those years ago. I was brave once before, when Stephen made me open the door, and now I can be brave again. Taking a deep breath, I turn the handle and slowly pull the door open, and finally I find myself staring out at the dark, empty landing.

  There's nobody waiting for me, just as there was nobody waiting for me all those years ago. So far, so good.

  I step through the doorway, out onto the landing, but still there's no-one. It's almost as if I've silenced the house by coming to confront my fears.

  For a few precious seconds, in fact, I start wondering whether I have beaten back whatever was tormenting me.

  And then the banging sound returns yet again, filling the house with its infernal racket and causing me to instinctively take a step back. Every fiber in my body is screaming at me to retreat to my room, to hide under the bed-sheets, but I quickly tell myself that I'm long past that point.

  Besides, now that I'm on the landing, I can tell that the banging seems to be coming from not too far away. I make my way past the banister and around the top of the stairs, before stopping and flicking a switch on the wall. The lights come to life, but I still see nothing untoward.

  “There's no such things as ghosts,” I whisper under my breath, repeating the words that Mummy used all those years ago. “They're not real.”

  Stepping past some closed doors, I make my way toward the far end of the landing. Up ahead, there's the window against which I first saw the spectral figure when I was a child. There's nothing there now, of course, although I can't help worrying that a figure might appear at any moment.

  Making my way around the corner, I see that there's nothing ahead now other than a door to the smallest bedroom and the hatch for the dumbwaiter.

  And at that moment, the banging sound stops.

  “I can't keep up,” I mutter, trying to stay calm. “One minute it's so noisy, and the next -”

  Suddenly I realize that there's something right behind me. I can feel somebody's breath on the back of my neck, and I'm certain that at any moment I'm going to feel a hand touching my arm. I don't dare turn around, of course, and instead I simply stare straight ahead at the dumbwaiter's hatch.

  “Who are you?” I stammer finally. “What do you want?”

  I wait, but there's no reply.

  “I don't know the history of this house,” I continue, tense with fear. “I don't know anything about it, or about the people who used to live here. I've done you no wrong, I just -”

  Before I can finish, I feel the breath falling harder against the back of my neck, as if the person is coming closer.

  “I'm just here for a painting!” I whimper, with tears in my eyes. “That's all! I'm not stealing, I inherited the house. Well, my brother and I inherited it. We were here as children.”

  Again, I wait, half-expecting to hear a voice behind me. Before I can say anything else, however, I realize I can feel a very faint rustling sensation on my left arm, as if a hand is starting to brush the fabric of my shirt.

  “Please don't,” I whisper. “Please, just leave me alone.”

  The rustling sensation continues, along with a faint, tight pain. I can barely even breathe now, catching only a few snatched gulps of air, and fear is causing sweat to start running down my face. I'm feeling a little dizzy, as if I might faint at any moment, and the corridor seems to be spinning around me. Finally, convinced that something is about to whisper into my ear from behind, I feel compelled to be brave and turn around.

  And of course, there's no-one there.

  Clutching my left arm, I rub my hand against the spot where I felt the rustling and the pain. I still feel a little dizzy as I stumble back toward the landing, and finally I stop to rest for a moment against the banister. For a few seconds, the entire house seems to be tilting slightly, and I can't shake the overwhelming feeling that I'm being watched. I tell myself that I'm just being paranoid, that I'm letting my brother's silly games get to me, even after all these years. I look around, spotting nobody, until finally I glance toward the window.

  And that's when I see her.

  A face, old and haggard, is staring at me from the glass. A moment later, as I turn to run, I spot a shadow rushing toward me.

  Ten

 
“Penelope, over here! Penelope! Hurry!”

  I remember having to hold up a hand to shield my eyes from the bright morning sunlight. It took a moment to spot my friends Elsie and Mary over on the far side of the park, but finally I saw their hands waving at me. Smiling, I began to make my way over to join them. I was wearing the beautiful new dress that I'd been given just a day earlier for my sixteenth birthday, and for the first time in my life I actually felt pretty. Not beautiful, of course, or even particularly special. But pretty, at least, which was enough.

  I've never felt pretty again. Not since that day.

  “We're thinking of going to see a film later,” Elsie told me as I reached them. “Do you want to come? The Towering Inferno's on at the Roxy.”

  “Sure,” I replied, even though I'd never heard of The Towering Inferno and I wasn't really much of a movie buff. All I knew was that my friends were into movies, which meant that I had to tag along if I wanted to be popular. “What time do -”

  “Oh God,” Elsie said suddenly, rolling her eyes as she spotted something behind me. “You didn't tell us your stupid brother was coming.”

  “My brother?” Startled, I turned to see Stephen and one of his friends coming over to join us, and I immediately felt my heart sink. Stephen always ruined everything. “I didn't know.”

  “Alright, ladies?” Stephen said with a grin. “How are you on this fine day, Elsie? Mary? And what in the name of God are you two cool girls doing hanging out with my dorky sister?”

  “You're a real charmer,” Elsie replied, clearly not impressed.

  “Penelope, seriously,” Stephen continued, nudging my arm with the tip of his boot. “Should you even be out in daylight? Maybe you'd be better off sitting under a bridge, scaring billy goats as they try to cross?”

  Mary immediately burst out laughing, although she stopped as soon as I turned and glared at her.

  “That wasn't very funny,” Elsie muttered, glancing at me. “Don't listen to him, Penelope. You look really nice.”

  “Thank you,” I replied politely. “It's just a dress I was given by my -”

  “Mutton dressed as lamb if you ask me,” Stephen added, interrupting me. “It's a nice outfit, Penelope, but you kinda ruin it. Now, if Elsie was wearing it, or Mary, then we'd have a whole other story. Did I mention, Elsie, that you're looking particularly gorgeous today?”

  “Thanks,” she replied, rolling her eyes as she took a drag on her cigarette.

  “So what are you girls doing tonight?” he asked.

  “Seeing a movie,” Elsie told him.

  “What movie? Maybe we'd like to tag along.” He nudged my arm again, a little harder this time. “Hey Penelope, I'm going to see a movie with your friends tonight. Don't worry, I'll tell you all about it when I get home.”

  “Actually,” Elsie continued, “Mary and I are going with Penelope. Just the three of us.”

  “You want to sit in a cinema next to my dorky sister?” Stephen asked. “Seriously? What if she has an accident?”

  I turned and glared at him.

  “You know about the time she peed her pants, right?” he continued. “It was a few years ago now, when we were at Longthorn for the weekend. She thought she saw a ghost, and she got so scared that she ended up pissing herself. That's when she earned her nickname. Everyone in the family calls her Pisspants Penelope! So I hope you girls aren't going to see anything scary, 'cause if you do, there's bound to be some yellow water dribbling down from Penelope's seat!”

  “Don't be gross!” Elsie hissed, glaring at him. After a moment, however, I realized she was struggling to keep from laughing, and finally she couldn't help herself. She turned and tried to hide her face, but it was too late.

  I immediately got to my feet, feeling utterly ashamed.

  “No, Penelope!” she continued, reaching out to grab my hand. “I'm sorry, please...”

  “I have to go home,” I stammered, turning and hurrying away.

  “Penelope, wait!” she called after me, but I didn't look back. I couldn't. Stephen had humiliated me, and I knew full well that the story would soon spread to everyone I knew. Indeed, over the next few days, I noticed a subtle change in the way people spoke to me.

  I saw them holding back smiles and laughs.

  I heard them whispering when my back was turned.

  I felt their stares burning into me.

  And even when I moved away and went to secretarial school in Dover, I worried that the story had somehow followed me. I analyzed every glance, every conversation, worrying in case someone knew someone who knew someone who'd heard the story about silly Penelope Warton and her accident. I barely dared leave my bedsit for anything other than timetabled classes. I never went out with the other girls. To this day, I often wonder whether the story is still doing the rounds.

  “Pisspants Penelope!”

  I hear those words whispered all the time, even if they're just a figment of my imagination.

  I remember how I went and hid that day, after I'd run away from the park. I was starting to sob, so I crouched down behind a wall near the public toilets and I buried my face in my hands.

  And I closed my eyes.

  Eleven

  I open my eyes.

  Somewhere in the distance, in another part of the house, my mobile telephone is ringing. I blink a couple of times, feeling a little disorientated, and it takes a few more seconds before I look around and see that I'm sitting in one of the armchairs downstairs, next to the window in the drawing room.

  Morning has arrived.

  I don't quite remember how I ended up down here. I was upstairs during the night, I was on the landing and I felt frightfully scared, and then...

  The face.

  I grip the chair's armrests as the memory comes flooding back. There was a face at the window, staring straight at me. Just the memory of those awful, dark eyes is enough to send a shiver through my chest, and I can only sit in utter horror until the phone stops ringing and I'm once again jolted back to reality.

  I don't remember anything after I saw the face, but I can only suppose that I decided to come down here instead of sleeping in the master bedroom. That would make a certain deal of sense, although I'm not sure why my memory is so foggy. I must have had quite a turn.

  Easing myself from the chair, I feel my tired old bones creaking and groaning. I'm very rested, at least. In fact, I don't remember the last time I felt so chipper. My knees have ever stopped aching! A moment later, as if to let me know what's up, the carriage clock on the far table suddenly lets out a series of chimes, and I turn to see that it's already midday.

  Did I really sleep all through the morning?

  Hearing my phone start to ring again, I realize that Stephen is probably trying to get in touch. I hurry through to the hallway and then I make my way up the stairs as swiftly as I can manage, which isn't very swiftly at all. My knees aren't hurting right now, but I'm so used to moving slowly and it takes me quite some time before I get up to the landing. Just as I'm about to head to the master bedroom, my phone stops ringing again, but I suppose I can call my brother back. When I reach the bedroom, however, I'm perturbed to find that my phone is no longer next to the bed.

  Where could I have left it?

  I look around, but there's still no sign. Given that I remember very little from last night, I suppose it's not too shocking that I've forgotten where I left the phone, although I don't like it when I have problems with my memory. I've prided myself on remaining sharp as a pin, even past my fiftieth birthday, and I'm worried by anything that suggests my thoughts are becoming foggy. Rita Mevans from the fuchsia society went senile in her mid-fifties, and it was a slippery slope once the symptoms set in. I can't end up like her, I just can't. I'm too young to lose my mind.

  Stopping for a moment, I try to force myself to remember.

  “Come on, phone,” I mutter under my breath, “where are you?”

  I wait.

  Silence.

  So I start sear
ching, checking every possible spot in the house where I might have set the cursed thing down. I search for hours, losing all track of time, and eventually I happen to glance out the window and see that the sky is darkening. I'm sure Stephen's auctioneer should have been here by now to fetch the painting, but nobody has knocked on the door and I can't imagine the man would turn up so late. If I could find my telephone and call Stephen, I could find out what's going on, but I've checked the house from top to bottom and there's still no sign of it anywhere.

  I can't even phone a taxi to take me away from here. I'm rather stuck.

  ***

  Although I'm in one of the bedrooms upstairs, I can still hear the carriage clock when it rings out through the dark house. I stop what I'm doing for a moment and count until the clock falls silent, and I realize that it must be midnight.

  Really?

  Where did the day go?

  I'm sitting on the bed in one of the spare rooms, going through one of the many boxes I discovered in the wardrobe. It seems dear old Dottie was something of a hoarder, and the hunt for my telephone has rather fallen to the wayside as I look through old letters and diaries. I've always been fascinated by the history of my family, but information about Longthorn Manor has been rather hard to come by. Even now, all I'm able to find is a few mentions here and there in Dottie's diaries, but I hope that perhaps I shall come across something more substantial.

  Suddenly I hear the noise again.

  I look toward the doorway. While I have the light on here in the bedroom, the landing is pitch-black, but the banging sound has returned after having been absent throughout the day. This time, there's a rattling quality to the noise, as if something metal is being shaken quite violently. Instead of feeling scared, however, I feel rather more curious, so I get to my feet and head over to look out at the landing.

  “What are you?” I whisper, seeing the window at the far end and remembering the sight of that awful face last night.