The Moors: Some secrets are better left buried (3 page)

‘Very much,’ Amanda assured her.

‘Good. I’m glad,’ said Margaret, her happiness clear.

It was almost impossible to spend time with Margaret without wanting to hug her.

If only all mothers were like this.
Amanda secretly contemplated.

‘I’m gonna let you get settled. You’ll probably want to get some rest,’ presumed Margaret.

‘Thank you, Margaret,’ said Amanda, from a much deeper place than the woman could have known.

‘Maggie. Please,’ she replied, letting the new recruit know she was already considered a friend.

Amanda nodded and looked at the woman, this vibrant woman whose love and affection was so clear, as it had been many years earlier. This was not the kind of person Amanda had expected to find and as Margaret quietly disappeared into the hallway, Amanda hoped the others would be just like her.

CHAPTER THREE
The Story Begins
Friday 11
th
February, 1972

Amanda wasted no time before examining the nooks and crannies of the room. Her movements were rather militant as she explored the wardrobe. She found a portable radio that had been placed out of the way on the top shelf. It was old and a thick layer of dust suggested it had been there for some time, probably forgotten about entirely. Other than that and a selection of clothes hangers, the wardrobe was completely bare. Amanda reasoned that Margaret had cleared it for their arrival and probably failed to detect the radio as it was stored right at the back. Even she needed to stand on a chair to find it and she had a considerable height advantage.

On the bed, Amanda opened her suitcase, removing a stack of neatly folded clothes to reveal a cluster of notebooks, pens and non-fiction books on Exmoor and various mental illnesses. She glided across the floor, climbed back on the chair and placed the items in her new secret hiding place. She walked back to her suitcase and from a special compartment hidden within its lining pulled out a small silver Dictaphone, perfect for recording short, sharp statements whilst they were still fresh in her mind. She considered the record button before looking ponderously towards the bedroom door. A quick glance into the first floor hallway revealed that nobody was in sight, but she was new to the house and therefore unsure of how far her voice might travel. Amanda took no chances and placed the radio on the dresser. She switched it on and adjusted the volume until satisfied it would distort her voice to any passers-by. Finally, she pressed record on her device and held it close to her mouth as she spoke under her breath.

‘Amanda Connors. Day one,’ she began.

Everything about her changed when she entered work mode. She was always thinking, obsessive about details. Her tone was serious, as was the look on her face. She was a completely different person to the Amanda that the home’s occupants would get to meet.

‘I’ve just arrived at the residence. Initial meetings have been held with carers Walter Ambrose, Margaret Prince and Christian Prince. I’ve met Margaret before but she doesn’t remember me. She cared for me at Saint Matthews when I was young. I’ve also met residents Reuben and Georgina. Not much else to report so far. They’ve all been kind. Margaret, in particular, seems to have a special bond with the children, who suffer from more severe conditions than I’d anticipated. More to follow when I meet the others.’

She clicked stop and closed her eyes, slowly rotating her head as she massaged the knots in her neck. Not until that moment had she absorbed the commentary on the radio, where a presenter interviewed a local farmer.

‘…a visit today from special guest, Wesley Grant, who needs no introduction to the listeners of Lantern FM. Hello Wesley, and thanks again for coming,’ greeted the presenter in the kind of exaggerated voice that everybody seemed to adopt on the radio.

I bet you don’t sound that happy at home.
Amanda thought.

‘No. Thanks for having me,’ came the reply in a strong accent that made Amanda envisage a short, dumpy man in a green vest-top and wellies.

‘Now, you’re a bit of a veteran when it comes to running campaigns, but some say your recent stories about the Exmoor beast are rather wild and fantastical,’ goaded the presenter.

‘They’re wild, alright… but there’s nothing fantastical about stepping out on your farm and finding half your livestock’s been ripped apart!’ quipped Wesley.

‘But surely as a farmer, road kill and attacks by foxes and other wild animals are all part and parcel of the job?’ reasoned the interviewer. 

‘Yeah, but what we’re talking about here is—’

‘What we’re talking about is, as one listener called it, sensationalist exaggerations of the truth that have frightened the life out of her two young children!’ interrupted the presenter, sternly.

There was a momentary silence as Wesley considered his response.

‘I apologise for that. I really do,’ said Wesley, with genuine regret. ‘But it’s better to be scared and locked inside than to be out there at night. I’ve been on a farm all my life and what I’m seeing now, on a weekly basis, ain’t no road kill. And it certainly ain’t no fox!’ he warned.

Amanda shook her head as she switched the radio off, letting out a tired snigger.

‘Only in Devon!’ she said, before pulling the curtains shut to block out the daylight.

Margaret was right. A little rest would do her good.

A pair of skeletal hands jostled through a large set of keys. They belonged to Karen Ambrose – the ghostly face that had loitered in the upstairs window upon Amanda’s arrival. She took large strides – a black shadow that floated through the corridors using one hand to light the candles that hung from the walls and the other to hold a metal timepiece attached to a long, thin chain that draped deep into one of her pockets. She headed around corners, bringing dim light to each hall, before eventually entering the dining room where a large, plush table had been expertly laid out by Walter. Although the room was pre-lit, she proceeded to burn further candles on the table as her husband offered her a loving smile. She did not smile back. She merely acknowledged him – an act that left him satisfied all the same. The way Karen’s eyebrows wore a constant frown and her lips remained tightly pursed, as though she were angry at something or someone, suggested she was not a woman of affection. She moved on to the kitchen, lighting candles around Margaret who cheerfully danced and sang as she prepared dinner. Karen shook her head at the woman’s behaviour.

The front door represented the end of Karen’s journey. She stepped outside and lit two large flames that burnt fiercely on the front porch, one either side of the door. She raised her timepiece as the second-hand whizzed around the clock face, taking the minute-hand as it passed and dropping it on the 12 to inform its owner it was now 7pm. This was indeed a finely rehearsed routine and as her watch struck seven, the entire house fell into darkness, but for the warm glow of candlelight. Karen looked out to the land around her, surveying the horizon with a territorial resistance, before stepping back inside and slamming the front door shut.

At dinner, Amanda quietly observed her new peers as they ate in silence. Amanda wondered if the atmosphere was always so stale or if it was a product of her presence. Margaret was smiling, at least, occasionally peering up from a small garment she was knitting for one of the children.

‘You like it, dear?’ asked Margaret in her custom motherly fashion. ‘Pea and ham soup. My late husband’s favourite, it was.’

‘It’s a shame he’s not here then, isn’t it?’ Karen retorted, in words that dripped with venom.

The rudeness of Karen’s jibe left Amanda open-mouthed, and she was shocked still further when nobody, including Margaret, batted an eyelid. Was this woman so vile that such behaviour had become normal?

‘It’s lovely, Margaret. Thank you,’ she replied, countering Karen’s bitterness with kindness.

‘What do you think of the place, Amanda?’ asked Walter.

‘Well I haven’t seen much, I’m afraid. I fell asleep in my room,’ she admitted.

‘Travelling does that to me, at times,’ said Walter.

‘Your age doesn’t help!’ swiped Karen.

‘It was the same when I was younger, dear,’ Walter pointed out, calmly, and with a dry smile upon his face.

Amanda observed the loving way Walter looked at his wife across the table, but her cold, stony eyes rarely found their way back to him. Amanda continued to study the group. She looked towards Christian, whose wedding ring was clearly visible.

‘I’d never done a telephone interview before, Christian. Thanks for the experience!’ said Amanda with a smile.

Christian shaped to speak.

‘Oh! He don’t let strangers into the house, dear,’ interrupted Margaret, in the way that mums often do.

Being the person Amanda knew least about, she quickly thought of another question to throw at Christian.

‘So when do I get to meet your wife?’ was the first thing that sprang to mind.

She inhaled another mouthful of soup, taking a few moments to realise that the room had been filled with an awkward silence. Her eyes darted around curiously, landing on Karen, who glared at her. Walter appeared nervous and Margaret, who had laid her knitting down on the table, looked towards her son with sympathy. Christian placed his spoon on the table, taking a deep breath in order to compose himself.

‘My wife…’ Christian began, before stumbling. ‘My wife is… no longer with us.’

Amanda looked around the room, desperately seeking guidance.

Why did nobody tell me?

‘Oh! Christian! I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t…’

‘It’s okay. Really,’ he insisted, trying to perk himself up.

However, his attempt was short-lived and didn’t fool anyone.

‘Please excuse me,’ he said, politely, before walking away from the table.

Amanda sought solace as she looked over to Margaret.

‘I feel so awful,’ she gasped, compassionately.

‘I’m sorry, love. I should’ve told you,’ Margaret consoled. ‘Never mind. He’ll be alright.’

‘Well I wouldn’t say that,’ added Karen. ‘We all know how deeply these things affect him.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’ asked Amanda, still reeling.

To this, Karen stood up and looked down at her. It was amazing how condescending she could be through looks alone.

‘I’m tempted to say you’ve done enough, but as you ask, yes. Clear the table,’ she instructed, before strutting out of the room with absolutely no regard for Amanda’s feelings whatsoever.

It was a ruthless act that left Amanda speechless.

*
 

Away from the gaze of the adults, in a minimally furnished bedroom where old tattered wallpaper peeled from the walls and the naked wood on the floors was rough and dusty, hushed whispers came from a large lump under Georgina’s duvet.

‘K-keepsies or lendsies?’ stuttered Reuben.

‘Keepsies,’ called Georgina.

‘‘kay,’ said Reuben in excitement as he shook his hand, through which the sound of clashing marbles could be heard.

‘H-how many birds in the b-b-bush?’ he asked.

‘Umm… four,’ she guessed.

Reuben slowly opened his hand to reveal four marbles lying in his palm.

‘No… f-f-five,’ he lied.

‘Ah! I was close.’

‘Yah!’

Reuben removed five marbles from her pile and smiled as he grouped them with his own.

Suddenly, the door burst open. The children froze and terror filled their faces. Their hearts beat loudly as footsteps rapidly neared the bed and as the cover was pulled back, Reuben looked utterly relieved to discover it was Margaret.

‘What are you two doing up?’ Margaret whispered. ‘If Karen caught you, you’d be in trouble!’

‘You won’t tell on us will you?’ Georgina asked, somewhat timidly.

‘When’ve I ever done that, then?’ questioned Margaret.

It was a fair point that put the children at ease.

‘Now come on, Rueb,’ she continued, holding out her hand. ‘It’s time for bed.’

He grabbed a hold of her hand and stepped onto the floor. She led him to the other side of the room, laid him down and pulled the duvet over his shoulders.

‘Night-night, Georgie. Night-night, Rueb,’ said Margaret, gently.

‘Night Maggie,’ the children responded in unison, and before they knew it, she was gone.

As the only children in the house who shared a room, they would often sneak into one another’s beds. It wasn’t that they were bad kids or that they had a tendency to misbehave. Far from it! They were simply afraid. It was a fear that anybody who had stayed in a large, isolated house could understand. The wind would gather and circulate around the home. At times it would howl, other times it would scream and occasionally it would whisper, waking the children from their light, anxious sleep. When this happened, it gave them the feeling they were not alone as a presence lingered in their room. Aside from this, the house would creak and screech and bang. Footsteps were a common sound throughout the house at night and the peculiar shapes and shadows that projected through the windows and onto the walls added an extra element of creepiness. On top of all this lay the fact that, just like Wesley Grant, the children knew the Exmoor beast was more than just a myth. It prowled around their home almost every night, and this was to be no exception.