Ghost Story

My stomach churns as I flick the indicator and turn the car into the familiar private residential drive, the wheels crunching over pink-hued pebbles. I taxi slowly down the centre of the road until I reach the house at Number 12. It’s been many years since I have been here yet every detail is the same as I remember, right down to the pattern of the ivy twisting around the window frames. All the curtains in the windows are fastened open and the grass on the front lawn has recently been cut short. I turn my car into the driveway and shut off the engine, drop my head down and take in some deep breaths. The house is built in mock Tudor style, in keeping with the other homes along this tree-lined drive that ends in open playing fields. They belong to a private school and in the term time months I remember hearing the laughter and shouts of the children drifting across the treetops during breaktime. Today there are no voices and the air is silent and still.
I rummage through my handbag until I find the bunch of keys that had arrived by post a few days ago. As I stand on the stone step and fiddle with the key in the Yale lock a gust of icy wind whips down the tunnel of the drive sending fallen leaves and a muddy white plastic bag swirling through the air before coming to rest at the garage door. There is no rain but the air feels damp and cold so I pull my wool coat tighter around my shoulders. The lock clicks open but the door must be swollen shut from moisture so I lean against it with one shoulder and push. The wood frame gives slightly and the door swings open into the kitchen. I head straight to the corner by the window and pick up the kettle. My throat is dry and a little sore after the long drive and I need some hot, sweet tea before I can even think about unloading the car. I turn the cold tap on fast; the water jets out in a murky stream for a few seconds before coming through clear and ice cold. I fill the kettle up full and click the button. It lights up with a blue glow and begins to crackle to life.
Tucked into a nook on the opposite side of the wall is the fridge freezer. It is unplugged and the door has been left slightly ajar. The front of it is completely covered with photos, pictures and handwritten notes. Some are old and curled at the edges, partially obscured by the fresher ones that have been stuck on top with fridge magnets. I move closer and look at them. A torn piece of lined paper with a phone number looks nearly new; the paper is fresh and not yet discoloured like the rest. The area code is local, written in a hurried scrawl. I wonder whom it belongs to. There is a yellowing newspaper cutting just visible beneath. It has a passport-sized photo of a girl smiling in black and white. I remember her face; it was in the news a few years ago. She was the local girl that went missing in broad daylight; her disappearance still unsolved. I wonder why Alan would have kept such a thing for so long; but then lots of things Alan did were inexplicable. I pin it back to the fridge and shiver. The air in the house is cold, my fingertips are pink and numb. Shoving my hands deep in my coat pockets I move through into the hallway, looking at the pictures hung on the walls and arranged on the tables in gold frames. I barely recognise any of the faces. When Granny was alive the frames were full of pictures of family- mainly of me; the beloved only grandchild, and the smiling faces of mum and dad and my uncles. Now the frames are filled with strangers- men and women, Alan’s friends; snapshots of his life I’d never known.
I remember the kettle and head towards the kitchen. I push open the door into steam and noise. The air is so thick and wet I can barely see as I make my way over to the kettle. It is thundering and boiling, a jet of steam and spitting water pouring out into the room. The switch must be stuck, but the metal is too hot to touch so I switch it off at the socket and pull the plug from the wall. It is nearly empty and I can smell burning where all the water has boiled away from the element. I look up and feel my breath catch in my throat and my heart pound. The window is opaque with steam, and, in clear letters as if a finger had just been dragged through the condensation, is a word written in spider crawl. A name- ‘Lottie’. I stare at the image, trying to make sense of it, when I feel the hairs raise on the back of my neck. I can feel someone else behind me and I spin around; blood crashing in my head. There is no-one there. I stay there for a few minutes while my breathing returns to normal and my eyes flick to something on the ground. The newspaper cutting of the girl has fallen down. I’m about to pin it back but instead I let it fall into the waste-bin. There’s something about the girl’s eyes; I feel uncomfortable under her piercing stare.
Cupping my hot mug of tea I slide open the French doors that lead from the conservatory straight out into the garden patio. I pull out a lighter and let the orange flame ignite my cigarette. After a few pulls I begin to feel calmer and my eyes wander about the garden, and I think of Alan. Left alone to his dark thoughts after Granny’s death ten years ago his flesh and skin had wrinkled and dried out, his body became as thin and shrunken as a skeleton. His eyes were bitter and full of hate, sunken deep in his head beneath hooded lids. His skin had stained deep brown from the sun, from the years spent pottering about in the garden; to and from his work-shed and tending to the tomato plants that filled the greenhouse. I remember his calloused fingers and knarled knuckles with rough fingertips as he used to pull me into a close embrace, and I shudder at the memory. We’d been estranged for so many years that the news his house had been left to me came as such a shock. Initially I’d been pleased at the welcome influx of money to my stretched bank account, but now, stood here in the still garden with twisted oak trees hanging down over the grass, I feel a shiver run down my spine and wish I’d not come here alone. I hear a distant boom of thunder rolling on the horizon; the sky beyond the row of treetops at the garden’s end has darkened to a deep smudgy grey and the heavy branches are thrashing wildly above the garden shed. I can hear a banging thud with each new gust of wind; coming from the direction of Alan’s work-shop. I stub out the cigarette and hurry down the paved path that weaves out of sight behind a weeping willow tree. I follow its curve until I am standing at a dusty door. The windows are tightly shut and dark, with wisps of cobweb caught at each corner. The wooden door is cracked and dirty; swinging open on its hinges, banging into the stone frame. I’ve never been in this room, as a child it was a forbidden space- always padlocked and shut tight. Now the overhanging branches are scratching along the spelt roof and knocking at the windowpanes as I stretch out a shaking hand to reach the door. My hands are clammy as I grab the cold metal handle and pull it slowly open. I step up into the room and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust in the murky light. The room is edged all round by wooden worktops, their surfaces full of metal tools and sharp cutting instruments. The back wall has floor to ceiling bookshelves, but devoid of books, instead filled with objects that take me by surprise.