The Haunting at Hawke's Moor (22 page)

Anne had no disturbance the next
night. She went to sleep in the guest bedroom and woke up at dawn.
There had been no creaks, no falling objects and no icy fingers
around her throat. Perhaps she had made a truce with the ghost. If
he was convinced she was not his wife, maybe he'd lost interest in
her. She could only hope. It was worth giving up the master's
bedroom if peace would ensue in the house.

This might not only herald
a new age of peace, but it 
could
 also be the start of a
new era. This gave Anne the confidence and tentative peace of mind
to turn her attention to the future. She spent the day in the
library reading the agricultural books. The whole field was a
mystery to her and she had to educate herself if she was, in
essence, to become a farmer.

The portrait on the wall did distract
her. He'd been so young when it had been done. Handsome and strong,
the world at his feet. Looking at it, never would she assume he
would become so unhappy he would haunt a house for centuries. It
was sad that had become his fate. And he had made a marriage that
ended in betrayal and tragedy. How had things gone so wrong? Then
again, her own marriage had gone completely off the rails and she
had had no influence over it. One person could drive a marriage
into complete destruction. Or was he the cause of his wife's
betrayal? It seemed a harsh outcome, but it had happened. She still
had trouble reconciling this man in the painting with the one she
had met upstairs, the one constantly trying to kill her.

She read about different plows, then went
outside to the storage houses and searched through what she had.
What she had previously perceived as rusted junk was slowly turning
into treasure.

As she returned outside, she searched the
sky. Dark clouds were forming to the north, lightning flashing in
the distance. Perhaps they would have a difficult night. Hopefully,
only the weather would be stormy that night. But she had no power
over these things—he did. The ghost, Richard Hawke, was the one who
determined how they were, how they interacted, and if they had
peace.

Turning back to the house, Anne strode
to the kitchen door. "It looks like a storm is rolling in," she
said to Lisle, who was standing by the fire, a ladle in her hand.
Lisle didn't more, just stared like a statue. "Lisle?"

Again, she didn't move. "I said, there is a
storm moving in."

Lisle still didn't move. Anne walked
over and looked her straight in the eyes. The girl didn't see her,
was caught unawares, frozen in a moment. Dread crept up Anne's
spine. This was exactly how she had found Alfie a time or two,
stuck in a moment. No, this couldn't be happening.

"Lisle," Anne called sharply and Lisle
startled, finally looking at her. "Where were you?"

"Nowhere."

"No, you were doing something. This was
exactly how Alfie was before he'd died, stuck in his own head." No,
not again. If this progressed, Lisle might end up the same way
Alfie had. "Tell me what just happened."

"Nothing," Lisle said and walked away. "I am
just tired."

"That was not tired. The ghosts are doing
something to you."

"There are no ghosts." The annoyed
impatience wasn't in her voice now and Anne could tell that she was
lying.

"Are you interacting with them? Is that what
happens?" Is that what happened to her when she was drawn into his
realm. "Did you go somewhere?"

"You're being hysterical again."

She wasn't being swayed by those
arguments now. Too much had happened for her to be concerned about
her own madness. "This is dangerous. They killed Alfie."

"Alfie had a weak heart."

"Or that is what the doctor said to explain
his death. Perhaps it was spending time wherever you just went.
Maybe that weakens the heart. He looked less and less well as time
progress, and then one day, he did not return from their
realm."

Lisle walked out of the kitchen,
refusing to discuss this further. Listening was not Lisle's
greatest trait, was instead headstrong and uncompromising, intent
on her own way.

Whatever peace Anne had managed to find had
dissipated. Her worry was now for Lisle, who seemed enthralled the
way Alfie had been. Then again, Alfie had threatened to claim
her.

Breathing deeply, Anne tried to release the
panic she felt. Would Alfie be so selfish as to harm Lisle for his
own benefit? He had given every indication that he would.

It was hard for Anne to focus on
anything else the rest of the day; her worry for Lisle consumed her
thoughts. If there was some way she could make Lisle listen. The
question returned: was that what happened to her when she was drawn
into their world? Did she also stare into nothingness? It was the
ghost who drew her there. Was Alfie drawing Lisle into the ghostly
realm as well?

After supper, Lisle retreated
upstairs, refusing to discuss anything further. With worried,
crossed arms, Anne watched her go. Would she be drawn into the
ghostly realm again that night?

Anne rose and moved to the mirror. "Alfie,"
she called in a strong voice. Nothing happened, so she called
again. This time, he stepped into the mirror, walking behind her in
slow assured steps. He wasn't entirely solid like her. Anne's
insides tightened at the sight of him. He was unnaturally pale,
almost as if the moon was shining on him.

Shifting his head to the side, he
regarded her. His eyes were black against his pale skin. There was
no color in him. There had always been something hard about him,
even if she'd refused to recognize it when he was alive. It had
grown harder now. It was as if death had amplified those traits
that he’d tried to temper in life.

He stood so very close, regarding her
in the mirror. Unease unfurled in her stomach, the way it did when
she knew someone did not care about her wellbeing. Perhaps death
had made him unconcerned about preserving the lives of
others.

"You are harming Lisle," she said.

"I'm doing nothing to Lisle she doesn't
want," he said, and smiled with arrogance.

"If you care at all about her, you would
leave her alone."

"But I have always been what she
wants."

"You're using her."

His gaze shifted in the mirror as if
he was watching her directly and goose bumps traveled down Anne's
skin. "Who are you to say I do not need her. Believe me, I'm not
forcing her," he said, looking up at her through the mirror again.
"And I'm not spending my energies strangling her. Our time together
is much more… diverting."

With a smile, he faded.

"You must leave her alone," she called
in a rush, but he did not return. Without a doubt, he didn’t care
for Lisle's wellbeing. Anne knew he wasn't going to stop. There was
no appealing to him.

The suggestions he made bounced around her
mind, sending unwelcome and disturbing images. Was it even possible
that their relationship had been rekindled despite Alfie's death?
It had ended, but now that she thought about it, it had ended
because Alfie had been drawn into that world, and now he was taking
Lisle with him.

This could not be allowed. He was killing
her, and Anne couldn't stand back and watch. If Anne thought it
would do any good to tell Lisle to leave, she would do it, but
Lisle would accuse her of madness again and refuse. Another
disturbing thought entered her mind, that of Lisle mixing laudanum
into her food and drink. What would Lisle do for the man she
loved?

Surely Lisle understood what was happening,
but then she had been so very in love with Alfie. Would she choose
to continue this relationship with him? Would she choose to be with
him over living?

Anne had to do something. Alfie would not
listen, but from the sounds of it, there was a higher authority—the
one that kept him bound to this house.

Would she dare ask him to stop this? Did she
dare break the tentative truce by seeking him out? What choice did
she have? She couldn't in all conscience let Alfie continue with
this slow murder of Lisle. Again, she tried to think of another
option, some way of getting Lisle away from here, but nothing
presented itself. Lisle was in love—she would do anything to
stay.

Anne closed her eyes. There was no guarantee
this man would even respond to her if she called him. Or he might
just resume strangling her. It could mean breaking the truce, but
what choice did she have?

Grabbing the candle, she walked
upstairs. She couldn't believe she was doing this. The house was
utterly quiet, but the storm raged outside. The master's bedroom
was cold and exactly as she'd left it. There were no coals in the
grate and condensation was forming on the window panes. The wind
and rain pelted on the windows, raging as if they wanted to get
inside.

Taking a deep breath, she steeled her
resolve, tried to settle the nervousness that clenched her insides.
"Richard Hawke," she called, making her voice as clear and strong
as possible. There was no response, so she called again.

For a long time, there was nothing,
but then there was that indication that he was there. The scent of
a man and a tinge of smoke. The wind raged outside, but it was
quiet and still within the room. Anne's heart beat powerfully,
anticipating the rush at her throat, but it didn't come. Not that
her throat didn't feel impossibly tight all on its own. Her mouth
had gone dry and she felt as if her knees would give.

Why was she doing this? Because she
had to. "I need to speak to you," she said as clearly as she could,
ignoring the bone-deep shiver she felt.

Eventually, there was a creak in one
of the chairs.

"One of the spirits in this house is hurting
my maid."

Nothing happened. Anne looked over at
the chair where she thought the noise had come from. There was no
form. Unlike Alfie, Richard did not show himself. She knew he was
there though. She felt like in her gut. He was watching
her.

There was another creak and without meaning
to, Anne took a step back. She tried to swallow, but her throat was
too dry. The images before her eyes changed, crept around the room
and revealed a different world. She was in his realm now, and she
had shifted without his hand around her throat.

There was a fire in the grate and the
furniture was different. He was there now, sitting in the chair
where she had heard the noise.

A dark countenance considered her. He looked
exactly the same as the other times she'd seen him. The clothes
were the same, the hair was the same. Perhaps his appearance didn't
change. Who was to say how he existed here?