Haunted Ground (6 page)

“How’re you fixed for dinner tonight?” Aidan asked once we were done with the formalities.  He’d called after lunch to ask for my email address so that he could send me a detailed estimate which itemized everything that would need to be done, complete with the cost of labor and supplies.  Of course, there would be many unpredictable expenses, ones he couldn’t figure into the total until the men actually went to work and began to discover dry rot, termites, leaky pipes, and all the other surprises that could lead to a minefield of expenditure.  I was prepared for that.  “Let me take you out tonight and we can talk further about your plans.  I actually have some photos I’d like to show you.  I’ve been doing research to get some ideas.  What do you say?”

What I had to say was that I was delighted.  After spending a few days alone in the rambling old house I felt more than ready to spend a few hours in someone’s company.  The deafening silence was weighing on me and I felt lonelier than I’d ever been in my life.  I’d lived alone in New York, but I was surrounded by family and friends whom I could always call if I felt like a bit of company.  Here, I was completely alone; new to the village and this way of life.  Of course, it would take time to meet people and make new friends, but I hadn’t realized how quickly I would start to feel isolated and paranoid.  I wasn’t familiar with the sounds of the house, and there were several times when I’d actually crept downstairs armed with a stout stick, my heart pounding with the certain knowledge that someone was in the house.  Thankfully, it was just the house sighing and creaking around me, but my sleep had become disrupted, and I kept wandering over to the window and staring at the ruins, half expecting someone to materialize out of the darkness. 

I’d expected Aidan to pick me up in his truck, but he came driving up the lane in a slick red two-seater with the top down.  It was the perfect night for it, and I suddenly felt young and carefree as we whizzed down the twilit road toward the village.  I hadn’t been into the village since signing the contract at Paula’s office, so I looked around like a tourist, my head swiveling from side to side as we drove up the winding main street flanked by shops and restaurants.  I had to admit that I was thrilled by the picturesque charm of my new home.  I couldn’t wait to explore further on my own, especially since I was running dangerously low on supplies and needed to visit the grocery store. 

Aidan pulled up in front of an ancient-looking pub and switched off the engine.  The ground floor was constructed of solid gray stone, crowned by a half-timbered upper story of white plaster intersected by dark wooden beams, proclaiming the pub to either be a Tudor original or a clever replica.  The diamond-paned windows glowed with warm light, and the heavy wooden door swung open periodically to either admit or disgorge patrons who all seemed to be in very good spirits.  The brightly painted sign swayed gently in the evening breeze and pronounced this fine establishment to be
The Queen’s Head
.  The sign depicted the crowned head of a rather unattractive woman with an axe buried in her blood-spurting neck.  I made a face and turned to Aidan.  “What a charming image.  Would this be any particular queen, or just a demonstration of the local attitude toward the Monarchy?”

“That would be Anne Boleyn,” he explained.  “The people in these parts were staunch supporters of Katherine of Aragon, so when Anne Boleyn lost her head, it was cause for celebration, and as the sign attests, commemoration of the happy event.  The Brits love their monarchs,” he added in an undertone which made it clear that he didn’t necessarily share the sentiment being a Scot.

“I see,” I murmured as Aidan took me by the elbow and steered me through the low doorway into the dimly lit dining room of the tavern.  It was exactly as I expected it to be.  The dark beams crisscrossed the low ceiling which made the interior close and intimate.  There was a bar area and a dining room with tables that were awfully close to each other.  I couldn’t help noticing that most patrons seemed to know each other, and people at neighboring tables participated in each other’s conversations as if it were the most natural thing in the world.  The pub was buzzing, people drinking at the bar and waiters weaving between tables with food-laden trays.  A few people gaped at us as we came in, but I assumed it was because they saw a new face in a place filled mostly with locals.  Well, I’d be a local soon enough, so I might as well try to fit in. 

Aidan returned a few greetings and claps on the shoulder before steering me toward an unoccupied table in the corner and holding out a chair for me before taking a seat himself.  An older man passed by the table and stopped for a chat, eyeing me with undisguised curiosity.

“Abe, this is Alexandra Maxwell, the new owner of the Hughes house,” Aidan said by way of introduction.  “Abe’s the owner of the pub.”

“And a pleasure it is to meet you, Alexandra,” Abe said, his face split by a wide smile as he shook my hand.  “About time that place came back to life.  Welcome to the village.” 

“Please, call me Lexi,” I asked, returning Abe’s smile.  “You too, Aidan.  Alexandra is so formal.”

“I hope to see you here often, Lexi,” Abe said as he winked at me, “perhaps even with our Aidan.” 

“Stop playing matchmaker, Abe.  It doesn’t suit you,” Aidan replied with a grin, suggesting this wasn’t the first time. 

“Oh, you’d be surprised at how many people I’ve gotten together,” Abe said.  “I’m a regular Fairy Godmother of Upper Whitford.”

“What you are is a meddlesome old woman,” Aidan replied with a chuckle.   I could see that they both enjoyed this friendly banter and this was probably a running joke between them. 

With that, he wished us a pleasant evening and headed for the bar.  I suddenly wondered if he thought we were on a date, but dismissed the thought as I spotted Paula having a glass of wine with a group of people.  She waved as if she’d just seen her best friends in the world and left her group to come and say hello. 

“So, I see you’ve met.  I’m so glad.  I knew Aidan was your man as soon as you described what you had in mind.  He has that flair,” she said and made a gesture with her hand like the queen acknowledging her subjects on a royal parade.  Paula had clearly had a few before we got there, and her business persona of a few days ago had been replaced by a good-time girl who’d be dancing on the bar in about an hour if someone didn’t cut her off. 

“I look forward to seeing you around,” she said, slurring her words slightly.  “Just stop into the office anytime you’re in the village.  I love a chat, especially on slow days.  Well, I’ll be off now.  Cheers.”  She nearly lost her balance, but regained her foothold with a graceful pirouette and headed back toward the bar where someone must have told a joke since the crowd erupted in good-natured laughter.

“Good friends, are you?” I asked, my eyes still on Paula as she slumped against a tall man who gently took the glass out of her hand and pulled up a bar stool for her to sit on despite her protests.

“She’s a good sort.  Throws some work my way from time to time.  I met her through my fiancee.”  Aidan suddenly stiffened and buried his face in the menu as if the meaning of life were printed on the laminated page.  I shrugged and picked up my menu.  Aidan’s domestic situation was none of my business, I told myself, but a tiny worm of disappointment began to gnaw at my gut.  Just like at home, the good ones were always taken.

I forgot all about Aidan’s fiancee as he spread the numerous prints on the table in front of me while we waited for our food.  I never thought that wainscoting or crown moldings would be so fascinating, but I was reluctant to put the pictures away as the food arrived.  It smelled divine, and I suddenly realized that I hadn’t had a proper meal since I left my B&B in Lincoln.  I’d been living on tuna fish sandwiches and canned soup since I took up residence at the
Maxwell Arms,
as I began to refer to my future establishment. 

I took a last sip of my wine and pushed away the empty plate.  I was feeling mellow, pleasantly full, and bursting with anticipation.  The work was about to begin, and I would truly be on my way.  Luckily, Aidan had been in between jobs, so his crew would be at my house by Monday morning ready to tear the old place apart.

“So, where do we start?” I asked, eager to make some definite plans. 

“We start with a Midsummer bonfire.”

“Seriously?  Do you do that with all your clients?”  I blushed as I realized how it came out.  I didn’t mean to be flirtatious, but I’d had two glasses of wine and the effects were beginning to show.  Next I’d be asking him what his astrological sign was.  I was normally shy around men, but for some reason, tonight I felt almost giddy, and strangely comfortable in the company of this man I just met.  There was something easy and unassuming about him, which made me feel as if I could be myself.  Besides, this wasn’t a date, so I didn’t have to impress him or worry about how he would take my remarks or whether I was sending the wrong signals.  We were two people discussing business.  Thankfully, Aidan didn’t seem to notice my playful mood and answered seriously. 

“Absolutely.  Normally, the village council might take issue with us burning rubbish out in the open, but on Midsummer, no one will give it a second thought.”  He pulled out a roll of red-dot stickers from his backpack and handed it to me.  “Your first assignment.  Go through the house and put a red sticker on everything you’re getting rid of.  I expect that will be almost everything.  I’ll have my lads take it out and stack on the hill behind the ruin.  All that rubbish will make a fire big enough to be seen from outer space,” he chuckled.  “Should burn all night.  Would you like to come and watch? It will be your first Midsummer celebration.”

“Sure,” I replied happily.  It sounded like fun. 

“Great.  I’ll bring the beer and you supply some nibbles,” Aidan suggested.  “We’ll make a night of it.”  I was about to blurt out something about his fiancee joining us and making it a threesome, but bit my tongue just in time and resolved never to drink around Aidan again.  He had a strange effect on me.  I honestly couldn’t remember the last time such suggestive comments formed in my brain, much less tumbled unbidden from my lips.

It took me a moment to figure out what woke me up.  The house was peaceful and silent all around me, the rumbling of thunder clearly audible over the gentle pitter-patter of rain and the rushing of the stream outside.  Normally, I found these sounds soothing, but for some reason my heart was pounding as my ears strained for sounds of an intruder.  I finally burrowed deeper into the covers, berating myself for being such a scaredy cat, and willing myself to go back to sleep.  The room was cool, the curtains billowing like sails of a ship, and the air fragrant with the smell of rain and damp earth.  I tried breathing exercises, counting sheep, and focusing on a pleasant memory, but nothing helped.  I was wide awake.  I peered at my watch, hoping that it was close to dawn and I could just get up and start working on Aidan’s project.  The roll of stickers was downstairs in the kitchen, ready to be put to good use.  It would take the whole day to go through every room and mark every item.  But, the clock showed 1:15, making me turn over in frustration and resort to taking a roll call of yet another herd of sheep. 

By 2:00 a.m. I gave up on the sheep and rose from bed, pulling on a warm robe.  In New York, I would be sweltering without air conditioning in the middle of June, but here I actually shivered with cold as my feet hit the chilly floor.  I’d just go downstairs and make myself a cup of tea, and then call my mother.  It’d be around 9:00 p.m. in New York, the perfect time to catch her at home.  I just turned to leave the room when something caught my eye.  I pulled the robe tighter around myself and walked over to the window, pulling aside the curtain to get a better look at the sodden meadow. 

The landscape outside my window was completely dark, the half-moon obscured by thick clouds, and the outline of the hills just slightly darker and more solid than the murky hue of the stormy sky.  But there was one pinprick of light.  It flickered and nearly gutted out in the wind, but the flame came back, small and bright, dancing merrily in the inky darkness of the night.  It seemed to be coming from the ruins, but I could barely see through the gathering mist.  Perhaps it was my imagination playing tricks on me.  I’d seen a pair of binoculars in the mud room, sitting on a shelf above the rows of Wellingtons that had belonged to the Hughes family.  Maybe someone had been a birdwatcher and took the binoculars out into the woods, spending hours in wait for a rare bird, but I would use them for a vastly different purpose.  I needed to either put my mind to rest, or prove to myself beyond a shadow of a doubt that someone was indeed camping out in the old ruin.  I raced to the first floor and came back, bringing the binoculars up to my face. 

The hair on the back of my neck seemed to stand on end as a shiver of fear ran down my spine, my hands quaking as they held the heavy binoculars.  The light was coming from a second-floor window of the old ruin, the room glowing warm from what appeared to be a single candle atop a low three-legged stool.  The man I’d seen earlier was sitting on a narrow cot, his back against the wall as he held a book close to his face, straining to read by the feeble light of the candle.  He wasn’t wearing his coat, just an old-fashioned white shirt and dark pants, his feet bare.  I could just make out his boots, carelessly tossed under the bed, and a plate and cup on the small chest beneath the window. I tried to focus on his face, but his dark hair obscured his profile as he bent his head over the book, making it impossible to make out his features.

I lowered the binoculars to the windowsill, my breath coming fast and hard as I tried to understand what I had just seen.  I hadn’t explored the ruin, but it looked uninhabitable; what used to be the living space open to the elements and the windows just empty holes devoid of any glass or shutters.  What was the man doing there, and how did he manage to stay dry?  Maybe there was a piece of the roof left intact and this man, who was obviously homeless, took shelter there and made it his home. 

Was he a tramp?  He didn’t look dirty or disheveled, and from what I could make out, he looked able-bodied and healthy.  Why didn’t he have a job and a home of his own?  What was his attachment to the ruin and why did he pray beneath the tree?  I wasn’t sure why, but I was terribly scared, alone in the middle of nowhere with just some strange man less than a hundred feet away.  What if he was deranged, or violent?  I suppose I would have been less intimidated had I spotted some teenagers drinking beers and telling ghost stories, but seeing a grown man calmly reading in the ruin by candlelight left me trembling with fright.  I sprang into action, checking all the locks and windows to make sure he couldn’t get in if he tried.  I’d report him tomorrow and see what the local constable had to say. 

I found that I no longer wanted tea.  I climbed back into bed with my robe still on and pulled the blanket over my head, cocooning myself inside my hiding place.  My heart was beating wildly as I curled into a fetal position, trying to calm myself.  The man didn’t look as if he were dangerous, I told myself.  He was simply reading a book in the middle of the night, sitting in a tumbledown ruin, and wearing what looked like period clothes.  I hadn’t seen any weapons, not even a knife and fork next to the dirty dish, so maybe he wasn’t armed.  God, he better not be armed, I thought, squeezing my eyes shut and drawing up my knees closer to my chest.