wooden floor
littered with debris, the once impressive high granite fireplace
vandalised, the broken windows boarded like bandaged eyes. The many
paintings and photographs adorning the walls were suddenly caked
with dust. The creeping darkness deepened still further, until it
was virtually impossible to see, prompting me to leave.
As I
passed through the hallway, furnishings degenerated in appearance.
Curtains grew tattered, and moth eaten. Cracks and scratches
appeared on the wooden furniture. Surfaces became faded and marked
from years of wear and tear. Dust and cobwebs formed like a
delicate cloak.
Night met
our departure from the big old house. The yard beyond was empty,
the barns and outhouses a victim of vandalism, and the passage of
time. The clothesline, which had earlier supported freshly
laundered clothes, was now broken, and trailed uselessly along the
cold muddy ground.
I woke
with a start to discover I hadn’t moved a muscle since falling
asleep.
Only that
wasn’t quite true, I quickly realised, for I was in a different
chair.
And I had
on my walking boots.
And they
were caked in fresh mud.
As were
Lennon’s paws.
The dog
and I exchanged a look.
Did he
know something I didn’t?
Was he
thinking the same thing?
I took
time to consider what might have happened.
I must
have sleep walked. Yeah, that was it. I’d suffered a somnambulistic
episode: nothing to get too concerned about.
There
were no ghosts.
I wasn’t
psychic; hell no, it was simply a case of my imagination working
over time.
Yeah,
that had to be it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The
morning was cold and wet, prompting me to cut short Lennon’s daily
walk. Returning to the cottage I found the back door ajar. Although
I didn’t recall locking it, I distinctly remembered shutting it,
because occasionally it had to be pulled forcibly, and today was
one of those days. I walked Lennon into the kitchen and came to a
sudden halt, as the sound of music reached my ears. Music I’d
composed since arriving at the cottage. It was coming from
upstairs. In my absence someone had calmly entered the place,
wandered up into the attic room, and decided to have some fun and
games at my expense.
I made my
way quietly into the front room that overlooked the driveway, and
through the window spied a car, a black Vauxhall. It was not a car
I recognized. One thing was for sure; my intruder wasn’t exactly
the shy retiring type. Keeping Lennon on the leash, I ventured to
the foot of the stairs where I paused, debating whether to call out
from a safe distance in order to discover who was there, or to
brave the situation, and physically confront them. In the end,
confident Lennon would come to my rescue should the need arise, I
decided on the latter course of action. With my heart beat
quickening, I mounted the stairs and started climbing. The music
continued in the form of a song I’d recently penned called “The
Blood of a Rose”, an up tempo pop number.
Arriving
on the landing I again paused, this time to take stock of the open
attic room door at the top of the second flight of stairs. By now
my heart was racing like crazy. Beside me Lennon growled and then
he barked, unintentionally announcing our presence. I decided there
was nothing else for it, but to call out and see what kind of
response I got.
Nothing
happened for a couple of seconds. Then quite suddenly a figure
appeared in the attic room doorway. It was a man. In one hand he
held a half smoked cigarette. In the other what looked like a
notebook. He was middle aged and balding, but otherwise
nondescript. He wore a grubby ill fitting anorak, the kind that can
be purchased from a discount store. He had a smug little grin on
his face, suggesting he thought he had the upper hand. I disliked
him immediately.
“Who are
you, what are you doing in here?” I demanded to know. Lennon
snarled and strained against the leash.
“Norris,
in answer to your first question,” said the stranger, “To
littered with debris, the once impressive high granite fireplace
vandalised, the broken windows boarded like bandaged eyes. The many
paintings and photographs adorning the walls were suddenly caked
with dust. The creeping darkness deepened still further, until it
was virtually impossible to see, prompting me to leave.
As I
passed through the hallway, furnishings degenerated in appearance.
Curtains grew tattered, and moth eaten. Cracks and scratches
appeared on the wooden furniture. Surfaces became faded and marked
from years of wear and tear. Dust and cobwebs formed like a
delicate cloak.
Night met
our departure from the big old house. The yard beyond was empty,
the barns and outhouses a victim of vandalism, and the passage of
time. The clothesline, which had earlier supported freshly
laundered clothes, was now broken, and trailed uselessly along the
cold muddy ground.
I woke
with a start to discover I hadn’t moved a muscle since falling
asleep.
Only that
wasn’t quite true, I quickly realised, for I was in a different
chair.
And I had
on my walking boots.
And they
were caked in fresh mud.
As were
Lennon’s paws.
The dog
and I exchanged a look.
Did he
know something I didn’t?
Was he
thinking the same thing?
I took
time to consider what might have happened.
I must
have sleep walked. Yeah, that was it. I’d suffered a somnambulistic
episode: nothing to get too concerned about.
There
were no ghosts.
I wasn’t
psychic; hell no, it was simply a case of my imagination working
over time.
Yeah,
that had to be it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The
morning was cold and wet, prompting me to cut short Lennon’s daily
walk. Returning to the cottage I found the back door ajar. Although
I didn’t recall locking it, I distinctly remembered shutting it,
because occasionally it had to be pulled forcibly, and today was
one of those days. I walked Lennon into the kitchen and came to a
sudden halt, as the sound of music reached my ears. Music I’d
composed since arriving at the cottage. It was coming from
upstairs. In my absence someone had calmly entered the place,
wandered up into the attic room, and decided to have some fun and
games at my expense.
I made my
way quietly into the front room that overlooked the driveway, and
through the window spied a car, a black Vauxhall. It was not a car
I recognized. One thing was for sure; my intruder wasn’t exactly
the shy retiring type. Keeping Lennon on the leash, I ventured to
the foot of the stairs where I paused, debating whether to call out
from a safe distance in order to discover who was there, or to
brave the situation, and physically confront them. In the end,
confident Lennon would come to my rescue should the need arise, I
decided on the latter course of action. With my heart beat
quickening, I mounted the stairs and started climbing. The music
continued in the form of a song I’d recently penned called “The
Blood of a Rose”, an up tempo pop number.
Arriving
on the landing I again paused, this time to take stock of the open
attic room door at the top of the second flight of stairs. By now
my heart was racing like crazy. Beside me Lennon growled and then
he barked, unintentionally announcing our presence. I decided there
was nothing else for it, but to call out and see what kind of
response I got.
Nothing
happened for a couple of seconds. Then quite suddenly a figure
appeared in the attic room doorway. It was a man. In one hand he
held a half smoked cigarette. In the other what looked like a
notebook. He was middle aged and balding, but otherwise
nondescript. He wore a grubby ill fitting anorak, the kind that can
be purchased from a discount store. He had a smug little grin on
his face, suggesting he thought he had the upper hand. I disliked
him immediately.
“Who are
you, what are you doing in here?” I demanded to know. Lennon
snarled and strained against the leash.
“Norris,
in answer to your first question,” said the stranger, “To
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