Haunted Fields by Dan Moore

grew up there.’
    Freddie whistled tunelessly as Greg knocked on the front door. He’d spotted a change in his boss. He seemed chirpier, more at ease, as if a great weight really had been lifted from his shoulders. So what should I do? Freddie thought. Keep on fighting on the family’s behalf? Should he really waste time and effort in persisting with his attempts to try and turn Ridge Farm around, when they’d already given up themselves?
    The door inched open.
    â€˜Greg, my old friend,’ bellowed a burly, bearded middle-aged man. ‘And this must be the young man you were telling me about on the phone.’
    Joe winked at him, extending a grimy hand. Great! thought Freddie. Just what he needed – an offering of bacteria! He accepted the gift, surprised once again at the strength brandished in a farmer’s handshake. Jeez, these people certainly know how to work! He knew it’d take him years, decades even, to build up such strength. Perhaps they were just born big and strong out here. If only Elizabeth and Greg possessed the strength to endure just a little bit more.
    â€˜Come on in, both of you. We’ve had quite a morning.’
    Although Joe seemed a friendly enough chap, Freddie still felt out of place amongst these country folk. He stuck to Greg’s heels as they stepped up into a cluttered hallway, from where they trudged through to the kitchen.
    â€˜Where shall I leave my boots?’ said Freddie.
    â€˜Keep them on, son,’ Joe called out over his shoulder.
    Boots on, inside? thought Freddie, amazed. Rhona would’ve ordered him from the building for such a heinous crime. And here, in her childhood home of all places, he could keep them on. He just had to smile. Perhaps he could identify with these country folk after all. The kitchen was spacious, housing an array of top-of-the-range appliances. Chestnut Farm certainly held secrets Ridge Farm would do well to discover.
    Seated at the breakfast bar was a girl he guessed to be around his own age. Her short brown hair looked as if it could do with a brush running through it. She turned and glared at him. Such a warm welcome! He felt his lips quirk up in a half-smile.
    â€˜Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m Freddie.’
    â€˜Hi,’ she snapped, lowering her gaze so that she glared into a bowl of porridge which sat untouched in front of her. Didn’t she have a name? Was she ill? She looked so pale, so drawn.
    â€˜Come on Amelia, you must eat,’ said Joe, placing a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. He turned to Greg, ‘Had a rough night. She reckons she saw the ghost of Noel Davidson.’
    What? Did this village only attract crackpots? Were they attracted to its steep, winding lanes, pretty cottages and remote farmhouses, like a fly to a light?
    Ouch! A sharp pain shot through his foot and up his ankle. Greg had stepped back onto his toes. What was it with this family and silent, painful signals? Why couldn’t they just give him the eyes like Rhona did? Or maybe mouth a warning? And why did everyone assume he was going to speak out of turn? He didn’t give off that impression, did he?
    Freddie looked on as Joe and Greg exchanged more grimaces, as Amelia stared absently into her bowl of porridge. He’d come to expect talk of ghosts from the adults of the community; it was the flavour of the month. But the craziness seemed to be filtering down to the younger generations now, the hysteria spreading. Freddie recoiled, desperate to avoid infection. It’s like the Great Plague all over again. He half-expected puss-filled boils to start sprouting under his arms. The village elders had no right to push their nonsensical beliefs onto the young! Ghosts belonged in stories. Yes, he’d seen the blonde-haired lad who so resembled Noel Davidson, with his own eyes. Yet he still didn’t believe. There has to be a rational explanation out there! But he knew that whatever this girl