The Ghost of Shapley Hall Read online

“I...”

  “Never mind,” she added, waving her hand at me as she took a sip of wine. Rachel's moods always had a habit of changing on a dime, and at that moment I could tell she was starting to become a little tetchy. For the next few seconds she simply looked down at her glass, and it was clear that she was waiting for me to say or ask something.

  I waited as long as I could, but finally I just had to surrender.

  “Okay,” I said finally, “why don't you tell me the history of the place?”

  “I don't want to bore you.”

  “I'm genuinely curious.”

  “You don't like ghost stories.”

  “I didn't say anything about ghost stories,” I continued, stepping around behind her and putting my hands on her shoulders, and starting to give her a gentle massage. “Just tell me the history. The facts. Leave out all the rattling chains and groans in the night, and stick to the story of your family. That is something I'd genuinely like to hear.” I waited, but clearly she needed a little more persuading. In the distance, more pipes were bumping elsewhere in the house, but I refused to react. “Why don't you start with your uncle?” I asked. “If he owned this place, why was he living in the village before he died?”

  She paused, before turning to look up at me.

  “No,” she said finally.

  I frowned. “No?”

  “Another time. It's just -”

  Suddenly there was a loud, heavy bump from upstairs. We both looked toward the door, where the bottom of the staircase was just in view, but the house had already fallen silent again.

  “Was that... just the house settling?” I asked cautiously.

  She paused, before getting to her feet and making her way to the door.

  “Rachel -”

  “I think I just want to go to bed,” she replied, stopping and glancing back at me. “I'm not really in the mood for anything. Just blow out the candles when you come up.”

  “But -”

  “Good night. Try not to be too noisy when you come up. I'll be asleep.”

  “Did I say something wrong?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No. You didn't say anything much at all.”

  With that, she turned and headed out into the hallway and then up the stairs, leaving me standing alone in the candlelit kitchen with no idea what I'd done wrong. I mean, I knew I'd not been very receptive to her hints about the house, but I still didn't think I'd said anything to merit such a sudden change in her mood, not unless she was annoyed that I hadn't fallen for her trick with the sobbing sound. She'd probably expected me to panic and start believing in ghosts, which in turn meant that she thought I was extremely gullible.

  Grabbing a plastic cup of water, I began to drink, before feeling something tickling my tongue. Spitting the water back out, I looked into the cup and saw a beetle swimming helplessly in the Evian.

  A moment later, the faucet belched again, and another burst of dirty water splattered down into the sink.

  ***

  “Rachel?” I asked, feeling my way along the pitch-black corridor. “Rachel, can you let me know where you are? I can't even find the bedroom, for God's sake!”

  I stopped for a moment, but the only sound came from behind the walls. I could hear regular little clicking sounds, which I'd quickly realized came from the legs of beetles scurrying through the gaps behind the plaster. They were in the ceiling too, and under the floorboards, and I couldn't help feeling a little grossed out by the idea of so many little legs creeping through the house all around me. Shapley Hall might not have been alive, but the walls were teeming.

  I glanced back the way I'd just come, but all I saw was the window at the far end, with a patch of moonlight shining through across the bare wooden floor. I turned and looked ahead, but I didn't much fancy going into the depths of the house, not without a candle. Not because of ghosts, but because I was tired and the rooms were cold. I wanted to get to bed and steal some body-heat from my girlfriend, and try to ignore the sound of all the beetles that seemed to have woken for the night.

  “Rachel?” I called out, convinced that she had to be able to hear me. Thumping the wall to get her attention, I immediately felt more beetles scattering behind the plaster. I knew I was somewhere close to the bedroom, probably even in the right corridor, but I figured that if she was sulking...

  Sighing, I turned and began to make my way back to the top of the stairs, figuring that I could get my bearings and start the search again.

  Suddenly I stopped as I saw a figure up ahead, silhouetted against the window about thirty feet away. I hesitated for a moment, ready to call out to her, before realizing that this figure seemed a little taller than Rachel, and that she seemed to be wearing trousers instead of the usual loose skirts Rachel preferred. Despite my misgivings, I paused for a moment before leaning against the wall.

  “Playing dress-up?” I asked, watching the dark figure up ahead but still unable to make out her features. “Listen, I'm sorry about -”

  Suddenly I heard footsteps over my shoulder. I spun around, but I couldn't see a damn thing in the pitch-black corridor. I waited for a few seconds, before turning back and looking at the silhouetted figure again. It was too far away for me to see her face, and its silhouette was a little hazy thanks to the moonlight shining through the window, but somehow I could tell I was being watched.

  “Hey Rachel,” I continued as I folded my arms, determined not to let her know that she was freaking me out. “Been busy, huh? I was trying to find our room. I thought you said you were going to sleep?”

  I waited, but the figure was still just standing in front of the window, as if it was watching me and waiting for me to make a move. For a moment, I began to wonder whether Rachel had simply set up a mannequin, but a few seconds later the figure's head tilted slightly.

  I couldn't help sighing. Whenever Rachel and I had talked about ghosts before, she'd always claimed to respect my lack of belief, but I knew she was secretly waiting for me to see the light. Unfortunately for her, this little stunt wasn't going to be nearly enough 'proof'. I knew damn well that I could wait her out, and that eventually she'd have to make a move instead. The only sound, however, came from the legs of beetles behind the walls and ceiling. Finally, I figured I should try to speed things up a little.

  “Can we give this a rest?” I asked.

  No reply.

  I swallowed hard. She'd done a good job of disguising her silhouette, but I wasn't about to fall for her dumb games.

  “I'm tired,” I told her, as beetles continued to crawl behind the walls. “Rachel, do you -”

  Suddenly there was a loud bang directly above my head. I looked up, momentarily startled, before spotting an old metal pipe running along the ceiling. A few seconds later, I heard a clunking, groaning sound from elsewhere in the house, and I turned back to the silhouetted figure.

  “This house -”

  Stopping suddenly, I realized there was no sign of her. I paused, waiting for her to maybe leap out and try to scare me, but clearly she'd scurried away.

  “Rachel?” I called out.

  I waited, but there was still no sign of her. Making my way along the corridor, I reached the spot where she'd been standing next to the window. Looking around, I figured she must have slipped away into the darkness.

  “Very good,” I said in case she could still hear me. “Can we stop this now, Rachel? It's gonna be really tiring if you do it all weekend.”

  I waited, convinced that she'd jump out at any moment, but finally I realized that she seemed to have retreated into the silence of the house, leaving me standing alone. Every so often, I still heard a distant rumble, as if the house's pipes were getting used to the cold night air.

  “Here's the thing,” I added, mimicking her most over-used phrase, “I don't believe in ghosts and I never will. So let's just cut the games and try to have fun, okay?”

  Silence.

  “Okay,” I muttered under my breath, hoping that she'd got the message.


  I began to make my way over to the stairs, before glancing out the window and spotting a figure sitting cross-legged on the moonlit lawn, staring at the house.

  Chapter Eight

  “Hey,” I said a few minutes later, as I made my way barefoot across the damp lawn. “Are you having fun out here?”

  As soon as I reached her, however, I realized Rachel was quietly sobbing, with tears rolling down her cheeks. Sitting next to her, I put an arm around her shoulder and felt that she was trembling slightly, and a moment later she turned and hugged me tight.

  “It's okay,” I told her, briefly glancing at the dark house before kissing the top of her head. The silence all around was a welcome relief from the scuttling of beetles. Although I still felt annoyed by her attempts to spook me, I also felt sorry for her. “You're faster than you look, you know. How did you get out here so quickly?”

  I waited, but she was still sobbing.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked, starting to realize that this time she wasn't faking.

  She sniffed back tears, while gently placing a hand on my chest.

  “It's okay,” I said again, holding her tight. For a moment, I considered bringing up the figure I saw a few minutes ago, but I knew deep down that it was just Rachel trying to trick me, and the last thing I wanted was to indulge her by acknowledging her little game. “I'm sorry about... I'm sorry if I said the wrong things when we were trying to make dinner.”

  “It's not your fault,” she replied, pulling back slightly and staring at me, with her hand still resting on my chest. For a few seconds, she seemed to be studying me intensely, as if she was searching for something in my eyes. “Her name was Georgette.”

  I waited for her to continue. My first instinct was to change the subject, but I could tell this was important to her for some reason, so I figured I should let her get it out. The history of the house seemed to be weighing on her and driving her to act strangely, and I wanted to get the old, carefree Rachel back.

  “Whose name was Georgette?” I asked finally.

  She took a deep breath. “She was from the London side of the family,” she continued, her voice trembling slightly, “but she got herself in a bad way. She went to bed with a man, she wasn't married, and she ended up pregnant. I don't think she ever let on who the man was, but that didn't really matter. What mattered was that she was an unmarried, single, pregnant woman.” Another deep breath, as she watched the dark house. “This was in the eighteen-hundreds, the late eighteen-hundreds... Anyway, the scandal would have been too much, so her father arranged to have her sent here to stay with her cousin's family. That wasn't so uncommon back in the day. Girls who got pregnant out of wedlock were often shuffled out of the way to save the family name. Unfortunately, when she got here...”

  Her voice trailed off.

  “What happened when she got here?” I asked, figuring she needed to get it all out.

  “Her cousin and aunt had left,” she continued, “and only her uncle was still living in the house. I guess this uncle was my great, great, great uncle, something like that. I'm pretty sure I'm his direct descendant. His name was Edward Shapley, he's the man in the big portrait. By all accounts, he was a cruel, evil piece of shit who was just filled with hatred for the world. His wife had left him, which was almost unheard-of in those days, and Georgette arrived at the absolute worst moment, when his anger was at its worst. She had no way of leaving, no way of calling her family back in London, so she was stuck here. She and her uncle had never met before, and all he knew about her was that she'd managed to get herself knocked up. Can you imagine what it must have been like for her to arrive here and realize she'd been sent to live with a monster? She had no-one to turn to, nowhere to run.”

  Putting my arm around Rachel, I turned and looked toward the house. “No,” I replied, figuring I should at least say something. “I can't imagine that.”

  “There are a couple of different versions of what happened next,” she continued, her voice trembling a little more now. “Georgette almost certainly lived for another year, here at the house with only her uncle for company. Most versions of the story say that she lived long enough to have the baby, which I guess her uncle delivered himself. After that, it gets a little hard to work out what really happened, but finally her father and mother showed up to check on her, about two years after they'd packed her off. I guess they'd been receiving regular letters until that point.” She paused, with fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. “It's said that she...”

  I waited for her to continue.

  “They say she'd been driven completely insane,” she sobbed finally, sniffing back more and more tears. “They say her father found her naked and shivering, curled up in a ball in the corner of a locked room upstairs. They say she'd scratched at her own skin, and literally torn her hair out with pure madness. And the worst part is...”

  Again I waited, but she was weeping uncontrollably now. I have to admit, I was surprised that Rachel was so deeply affected by her ancestor's story, so I waited until finally she pulled herself together a little.

  “The worst part,” she continued, “is that her uncle wouldn't say what had happened to the baby. Her parents were broken-hearted when they realized they'd sent their daughter to stay with a madman. They begged Edward Shapley to reveal what he'd done with the child after its birth, but he refused. Eventually they simply took Georgette away and returned her to London, but by that point she'd lost her mind. A few years later, she escaped from a psychiatric institution and came back here to Shapley Hall.” She sniffed, wiping the tears from her cheeks as she continued to watch the house. “When Edward still refused to reveal the truth about the child, Georgette killed herself by drinking a vial of cleaning fluid. At least, that's what he told everyone. She left a note, saying that since her child was undoubtedly dead, she had to die in order to find him.”

  “And what happened to her uncle?” I asked.

  “What do you think?” she replied bitterly. “Absolutely nothing. He was a rich land-owner, probably well-connected with everyone in the area. He probably didn't even give a damn when he found her body. If that's really how things went down.”

  “I guess people were cold back then,” I muttered. “I'm sorry someone in your family had to go through such an awful time and -”

  “Did you see that?” she asked suddenly.

  “See what?”

  I waited for an answer, but she was staring intently at the house. Following her gaze, I saw scores of dark windows but no sign of movement, and finally I realized she was just getting caught up in the atmosphere of the place. My initial instinct was to tell her not to be so hysterical, but I figured that probably wouldn't go down so well.

  “What did you see?” I asked.

  Again I waited, but she seemed lost in thought.

  “You didn't see it?” she asked finally.

  I paused for a moment, not wanting to ask what she'd seen but knowing full well that I had no choice.

  “What did you see?” I managed after a few seconds.

  Although her lips moved slightly, I couldn't quite make out her response.

  “Damn it!” she hissed suddenly, pulling away and leaning back on the damp grass. “I'm being so stupid! I'm letting myself get so goddamn emotional about the whole thing! I swore I wouldn't get like this again!”

  I turned to her. “Again?”

  She paused, before glancing up at me. “Never mind. You wanted to know the history of the house, and I told you. You don't want to hear the rest.”

  “Let me guess,” I muttered, settling down next to her and looking up at the vast, starry sky above. “The ghost of Georgette Shapley is said to still be in the house, searching for her lost child.” I waited for her to reply. “I'm right, aren't I? That's the story?”

  She stared at me for a moment. “No,” she said finally. “No, that's not it at all.”

  “Then -”

  “It's too sad,” she added. “I don't want to talk
about it anymore.”

  “You're the one who -”

  “No more!” she said firmly, sitting up and putting a finger against my lips. “The more we talk about it, the more...” She paused, briefly glancing toward the house before turning back to me. “Maybe it's better if you don't believe. There's one thing we definitely agree on, though. The ghost of Georgette Shapley is definitely not in that house.”

  ***

  Later that night, as we lay in bed, Rachel curled into my nook and slept with her head resting on my shoulder. We'd tried making love, but somehow the mood hadn't been right. I stayed awake for an hour or so, just listening to the occasional bumps that could be heard from far off in other parts of the house, and to sporadic rustling sounds from behind the walls as the beetles got on with their work. I don't know when, exactly, I fell asleep, but somehow I eventually drifted off.

  If I'd known what the next day was going to bring, I would have packed our bags and driven us away without a moment's hesitation.

  Chapter Nine

  Bright morning sunlight streamed through the window as I made my way downstairs. I could already hear a loud banging sound coming from one of the nearby rooms, and when I reached the doorway I looked through and saw that Rachel was hard at work, dismantling the wooden panels in the study.

  “Um... morning,” I said cautiously, rubbing the back of my head.

  “Hey,” she replied breathlessly. “Sorry, I guess I woke you, huh? I didn't think.”

  “It's okay,” I continued, making my way over and seeing that she'd already pulled several of the panels away, revealing the brickwork beneath. “Are you... looking for something?”

  “My uncle's documents, remember?”

  “And you think he hid them in the walls?”

  “We can't leave any stone unturned,” she replied, before starting to hammer the side of another panel. Once she was done, she gripped the hammer in her mouth and started pulling on the panel. I hurried around and gave her a hand, and we managed to get it out of the way pretty quickly.