Stillwater

A modern ghost story.

Life was good for Beth, once. Now a car crash has left her confined to a wheelchair. To help her recuperate and rebuild her life, she's leased Stillwater, a house with a lake in the countryside. But her dreams of peace and quiet are thwarted when she realizes she's not alone. A girl who once lived at Stillwater—until she drowned in the lake—has never left, and she does not seem pleased by Beth's presence. Beth sets out to solve the mystery of Stillwater. But can she find a strength she doesn't know she possesses as she fights the fury of the dead girl, and tries to establish herself as the true mistress and keeper of the Stillwater house and lake?

Stillwater

A ghost story

Maynard Sims

Dedication

For ghost story lovers everywhere

Prologue

Fifteen months earlier

Milo Alvarini pushed his long slender fingers through his mane of black hair as if he were stroking an animal. There was a self-awareness about the movement of his hands, as though he were an actor in a play, and he had an audience watching what he did.

There was a frown on his tanned handsome features, but it didn't extend to his eyes. The frown was aimed at the man seated with him in the wood-paneled office, and was another affectation.

Milo had forgotten what it felt like to experience real emotion, if he had ever known. Since he was a young man he had been aware that other people, especially women, found him attractive. He had, in return, found several sufficiently, and mutually, attractive. In some early skirmishes, one or two with women quite older than himself, he had learned that spending time with them, and appearing to demonstrate some fondness for them, could be financially rewarding.

The other man was older, well dressed, and appeared worldly wise. His name was Clarkson, and this was his office, in Holborn, London, where he was a partner in a well regarded, and successful, legal practice. He had drawn up the terms of the divorce settlement between his client and the soon to be ex-Mrs. Alvarini. Milo was finding out for the first time that the benefits of a marriage were eminently more financially rewarding than his previous arrangements.

Clarkson had arranged matters to his client's advantage. If he felt any twinges of regret about aiding a man he privately considered to be little more than a gigolo then he managed to mask his distaste with a veneer of professional courtesy. And of course extract an inflated fee to soothe his conscience.

Clarkson leaned forward and adjusted the small pile of papers on the glass-topped desk, even though each sheet was already in perfect line with the others. He lined up his Montblanc fountain pen so that it was exactly a half inch from the edge of the paper. He glanced at his watch.

“She won't be long,” Alvarini said. “She is never late, not even on the wedding day.”

“I understand she is coming alone.”

Alvarini made a face that indicated he didn't see the point of the comment.

“She isn't being represented,” Clarkson said. “Legally, I mean. She isn't bringing her solicitor.”

There was a polite knock and a middle-aged woman opened the door sufficiently to allow her to poke her head and shoulders into the room. “A Mrs. Alvarini to see you, sir.”

“Thank you, Alice. Show her in would you?”

Clarkson stood and shook hands politely with the young woman who entered the room. He indicated where she should sit and watched as she walked across to the chair and sat. It fascinated him to watch couples at this stage of proceedings. Would they look at one another? Would they avoid eye contact? Would they even speak to each other?

Elizabeth Alvarini was a lovely-looking woman with close-cropped dark hair. She exuded confidence, and a warmth that immediately made Clarkson think that she was far too good for his client. His second thought was to wonder what such an impressive woman had seen in Alvarini to not only marry him but to cave in to the demands of the nisi with barely any resistance.

“Beth,” Alvarini purred. “You look…”

“Skip the bullshit, Milo. It hasn't worked on me for a very long time.”

Beth fixed Clarkson with a glare that would have reduced lesser men to uncertainty. “Where do I sign so that I can get this man out of my life? I've been confined to this marriage for far too long.”

Clarkson wasn't used to people offering themselves up quite so willingly but he pushed papers across to Beth and showed her where to sign. She took his pen from him when he offered it and signed quickly.

“Are you certain you want to do this without your solicitor being present?”

“My solicitor has been about as much use as Milo was as a husband. It's because of him that I'm giving so much away to a man who deserves much less.”

Alvarini snorted. “Has she signed them all?”

Beth and Clarkson exchanged a look that excluded Alvarini but was all about him.

“It's all yours,” Beth said.

“Darling, all you have to do is write another best seller and you'll soon replenish your wallet.”

“How can I possibly do that without…what was it you said? How was it phrased in the divorce papers? ‘Constant support and encouragement in my artistic endeavors'. You've never read a word I've written.”

“I read the decree nisi.”

Clarkson stood. “Thank you, Mrs. Alvarini…”

“I'm going to be using my married name—at least I'll keep something out of the marriage,” Beth said.

“Of course. I'll file the papers, and assuming they still act for you in this regard, I'll make sure a copy goes to your solicitor.”

Beth stood. She gave a final look to the man she had been married to. What had she seen in him? Friends had warned her against him; perhaps that was part of it, her stubborn streak making her dig her heels in when all sense and caution said stop.

She shook hands with Clarkson but ignored Alvarini.

She walked to the door, down the stairs, and out into the noisy London street where she had parked her car.

A new phase of her life just beginning. She didn't yet realize that divorce was just the start of it all.

Chapter One

A full moon hung so low that it seemed to float on the still water of the lake.

The surface was calm, strewn with weeds, occasional movement, perhaps from a fish or insect. The people gathered at the edge were apparently oblivious to the serenity of the scene.

The woman, young and quite beautiful, was wrapped up in herself, that was plain to see, but also immersed in the tableau that was playing out in front of her.

Young men, barely into their early twenties, maybe even still in their late teens, were intent on her pleasure. She lay back on the grass, damp from the night air. Her eyes closed as she heard something splash in the water. She thought that one of the men might have slipped into the coldness, was swimming and showing off.

She heard a crack as something wooden was snapped; a young tree possibly, or a stout branch. Laughter followed, and water was whipped into frenzy by the beating of the surface. Then a final splash, as the wood was discarded into the lake.

And then her hearing was lost, her eyes sealed shut, her mouth open merely to enjoy the moment, as she was joined on the grass by one, two, several young men. Between them they tried to raise color on the pale face of the moon. They tried to drown it as it bowed ever lower, until eventually dawn flicked at the moon, at all of them, and nudged it away.

Beth pulled herself from the car, and eased her way into the wheelchair. Once settled, she slammed the car door, and lifted her legs onto the footrests.

A man stood watching her, six feet two inches, immaculate in his Italian cut suit, fair hair cut and combed to perfection. “Can I give you a hand?”

She glanced round at him. “No thanks. I can manage. I won't take long.” Offers of help were still new and raw enough to irritate. It was hard enough to be confined to the wheelchair without everyone she met confining her boundaries with their sympathy.

“No rush,” the man said, with a smile. He was very good looking in a Nordic kind of way, but he didn't appeal to her. She preferred her men rough-hewn, denims and working boots. The suit was a turn-off.

She spun, showing off her dexterity, and wheeled herself up to him. Behind him was the house, Stillwater; her home for the next year. This, the first time she saw it, was a defining moment in her new life, her new beginning.

A long-term let to give her the space and freedom to write, to finish her latest novel, away from the hustle of London, and the apartment she shared with her cat in Boreham Mansions, a 1920s apartment block, with a view of Hyde Park.

Suffolk offered a very different environment. A slower pace, she hoped. A less frenetic daily routine, so that she could get used to her new world of constantly sitting down. If she could ever get used to it. At least here she could spend time alone, so she could adjust without being stared at.

Stillwater was much larger than she expected, a yellow brick-built house, with green-painted windows, and a gray slate roof, flecked with patches of lichen and moss. There was a veranda at the front that harbored a number of potted plants, dwarf conifers and box bushes, with a standard bay tree to give some height.

The man noticed the attention she was paying to the place. “First impressions?” he said.

“Favorable,” she said, smiling, though she had no reason to wish to impress or please him. “But I haven't seen the inside yet. So far, favorable. It looks good. Big.”

“It is quite large.” He hesitated. “It's for you? I mean there's no one else moving…”

“There's no one else.”

He fished in the pocket of his suit jacket, and produced a small bunch of keys. “Shall we go inside then?”

A newly constructed ramp had been built over one-half of the steps that led up to the front door. It was steep, but she'd had a few months' practice with the chair now. She was confident she could handle it. She rolled up to the edge of the ramp, and gripped the wheels of the chair tightly. Her arms were getting stronger all the time. They needed to be, the chair took some effort to maneuver.

“Are you sure you can do this?” he said.

Irritation flared in her eyes. “Of course.” She thrust forward with her arms. The chair rolled forward up the ramp, and continued onward. Halfway up her arms started to shake with the effort of supporting her own weight, combined with the weight of the wheelchair. Sweat started popping from the pores of her skin.

She was wearing small leather gloves to protect her hands, but the wheels were slipping. The chair rolled backward a few inches, the wheels sliding in her grasp. She clamped her hands tight, but too late; the chair was tipping. A split second later the center of gravity shifted, and the chair toppled back.

He called out something, but didn't move quickly enough to prevent her fall. She landed badly, cracking the back of her head on the plywood ramp. Tears sprang to her eyes, but pain had little to do with them. They were tears of humiliation and frustration. Would there ever be a time when she would get used to not being able to walk?

He was behind her now, lifting the chair upright. “You might want to practice a little more before you try that again. Or better still, use the ramp at the back of the house; it's got a much more forgiving gradient.”

“I'll remember that,” she said ruefully, rubbing the back of her head with a gloved hand. Pride before a fall and all that.

“Anything hurt?”

“Only my dignity…and my head, a little. I'm not quite as independent as I like to think I am.” The admission hurt more than the fall. She wasn't a weak person, not at all. To admit to having an Achilles' heel, and such an obvious one, was against all her instincts.

“I'm James, by the way,” he said. “James Bartlett.”

“Elizabeth Alvarini. Friends call me Beth.”

“My friends call me Jimmy,” he said

“It doesn't go with the suit and the hair.”

He glanced down at himself, and smiled. “Work attire. I don't think Falmer's would approve of my weekend wear.”

“Which is?”

“A lot more informal than this,” he said. “Come on. Take a look inside. I think you'll like it.” He pushed her safely up the ramp, and along the veranda to the front door.

“There,” he said, as he wheeled her inside. “What do you think?”

She sat just inside the door and looked around. She wanted him to let go of her chair but she didn't want to say so. “Give me a moment to take it all in,” she said.

“You'll be living on the ground floor,” he said, and took a step away from her.

Her eyes took in the details. It was a perfect linear living space, with polished oak flooring, and no steps to reach the different levels of the interior. Instead, more ramps had been installed over them. At the rear of the space were four oak doors.

“And what's on the other side of those doors?” she said.

“They lead to the two bedrooms, shower room, and office. We followed the layout submitted by your agent to the letter. Even to the point of lowering the height of the kitchen counters to make cooking less of a chore.”

“And the owner approved the alterations to his house?” Surprise echoed in her voice..

“Yes, willingly. He was only too happy to see it go for a long-term let. And after all, it wasn't as if he had to pay for the alterations. Your agent, and, indirectly I suppose, you, have paid for it. He's had his house refurbished for nothing, and a year's rent up front so, like I said, he's happy.”

“Who is the owner?” Beth said, wheeling herself into the kitchen area.

For the first time the smile slipped from Bartlett's face. “That's something I'm not at liberty to divulge…but don't worry, he spends most of the year abroad on business. He lets us take care of the rental. He rarely shows his face down here.”

“I wasn't worried,” Beth said. “Just curious. What's through here?”

“Ah, that's the shower room. Again I think you'll be impressed. It's a wet room, and we've fitted every conceivable state-of-the-art device to make your use of the space less of a struggle. God, don't I sound like an estate agent? Follow me. I'll show you.”