“Hi,” she said.
“Lovely day,” I said, watching her face to gauge her mood.
“Yeah, I guess,” Brittany replied churlishly.
“Is this a favorite spot?”
“It’s one of the few places I can be alone,” Brittany said, giving me a smile loaded with irony.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” I said. “I needed some air.”
“Don’t worry about it. I have to go back inside. Mum will have a list of chores as long as my arm,” she complained.
“Are you planning on applying to uni?” I asked.
“It’d be worth it just to get away from this place,” Brittany replied. “It’s so boring here.”
“Don’t you have any friends?”
She shrugged, but I could see the question had upset her, so I changed the topic.
“Brittany, you mentioned Alys yesterday,” I began.
Brittany looked annoyed, but didn’t stalk off, which was a hopeful sign.
“Can you tell me more about her? Have you experienced any sightings?”
Brittany gave me a derisive look, but there was a glimmer of fear in her eyes belying her bravado. “You actually believe all that crap? I was just taking the piss.”
“No, but I do like a good story. Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.”
“I’ve never seen anything myself, but kids at school said she haunts the house, has for centuries,” Brittany said, her voice shrill. “They said she wanders the house at night and sometimes looks into the windows in the early morning.”
“Why in the early morning?” I asked.
“Because that’s when she died, early morning. She was hanged from the tree just outside the breakfast room. Story goes that the lady of the house ate her breakfast while they hanged her, all the while looking through the window, watching her die,” Brittany added in a whisper.
Brittany looked terrified, and I suddenly realized that she was afraid. I might not believe in ghosts, but she seemed to, and whatever tenuous connection Lisa had made to Brittany’s own troubles had little to do with Brittany’s obvious fear. This was not a reaction to cyber bullying or embarrassment over something that had happened long ago, in another place. This was real, and it was rooted in the here and now, or more accurately, in the distant past.
“Do you not like living here?” I asked, feeling sorry for this lonely, sensitive girl.
Brittany shook her head. “I hate it here. I wish we could go back to Sheffield. This place frightens me, the house and that creepy church. I can’t stop looking at it. And I can feel Alys’s presence, her fear and her misery. It’s like she’s calling to me through the centuries, telling me to get away.”
“This place is certainly atmospheric,” I agreed. “Do your parents know how you feel?”
“’Course they do, but they won’t hear of leaving. My mum wouldn’t give this place up for the world. It’s a piece of her family history, she says. What history?” Brittany sniggered. “She’d never even come here before that uncle of hers got ill. Never been invited to the old family home. He could barely remember her,” she said bitterly.
“Your parents built something special here. It’s a fantastic place to write,” I said.
Brittany’s eyes narrowed, and her mouth stretched into a sly smile. “Yeah? So why aren’t you writing?”
“I will be. The writing comes last. First, I like to outline everything in my mind, see where the idea takes me.”
“And what’s your idea?” Brittany asked.
“I’m thinking of writing a ghost story,” I said. “That’s why I’m interested in Alys.”
“Well, good luck with that,” Brittany said, flicking her cigarette butt right at me. It landed at my feet. She turned on her heel and walked away without a backward glance.
I longed for a baby and often wondered what it would be like to be a mum, but at the moment, I thanked my lucky stars I didn’t have a tween or a teenager to deal with. I couldn’t begin to imagine the patience it must take to parent someone like Brittany or what sort of diplomatic skills one might need to navigate a situation the likes of which Lisa had described. From the outside, Brittany seemed like someone who could handle herself, but beneath the prickly exterior lived a frightened little girl who was spooked by a ghost story.
I walked for a half hour, then pulled out my phone. It was past nine. I thought I’d try my luck and rang the number provided by the website for St. Paul’s. When a woman answered the phone, I stated my business and asked if I might make an appointment to see Reverend Hargreaves.
“You can come by anytime, dear,” the woman said. “If you don’t find the vicar at the church, he’ll be at the rectory. Who should I tell him will be calling?”
I gave her my name and rang off, staring out over the reservoir as I pondered my course of action. I could return to the house and ask Kyle to drive me or I could call an Uber and not bother him. He was probably just being polite when he’d offered to drive me. After all, he was here to work, not to chauffer me around. Decision made, I called an Uber. The driver would collect me in twenty minutes, so I had time to fetch my bag and notepad.
Chapter 17
The Uber to Bamford Green would set me back about sixty quid, since it was a half hour drive in each direction, but I didn’t mind. I sat back and enjoyed the drive, looking out the window as the driver navigated the narrow country lanes. The scenery was spectacular, the picturesque countryside ablaze with the vivid colors of autumn beneath a cloudless blue sky. It wasn’t difficult to imagine
