Ghost story
Something to get you ready for Halloween…
Shrouded in darkness, the derelict mansion stood high atop a craggy hill. The cold crescent moon, which hung high in the sky, threw down light that illuminated the house in a ghostly half-light, exaggerating the cruel spikes set on the cast iron gates, which swung low on its hinges. If anyone dared go beyond the gates, a path full of the gnarled roots of trees soon followed, the twisted branches clawing at anything that disturbed the silence, for there was no birdsong to be heard anywhere within the boundries of the house, only the wailing wind sweeping through the trees. At the end of this house stood the crumbling yet commanding form of Mortimers Hall.
Cobwebs covered the front door, yet through all the dirt it was still noticeable that the carved wood that formed the arched frame was winding and elaborate. It was as though the house was dying as it was falling into decay and ruin. It was an empty shell, vacant of love, and devoid of light, except for one, which travelled, flickering, past the many windows.
Eleanor’s footsteps were the only sound in the sleeping house now, which echoed the soft tread of her shoes of the cold stone floor. Raising her lantern a little, her sharp blue eyes sought for open windows, lit candles, or any unnatural goings on. These nighttime wanderings had become habit now; every night, Eleanor light the candle in her lantern, and became a silent ghost, roaming the corridors, serching the derilict house. This had become a ritual since her sister, Sarah, had left the house she had grown up in, got married, and died. Three years ago.
Three years ago? It seemed less, for Eleanor had not slept properly since Sarah’s death. And why not? There was something, something lurking at the back of Eleanor’s mind that was only half ther, something that whispered to her in her sleep, but she could not recall it when she woke.
The light from Eleanor’s lantern cast shadows on the walls, and moving through the many rooms, it seemed as though there were figures dancing on the walls, creeping behind her, watching wherever she went.
Howling, the wind blew around the house and over the moors; folks called it “wuthering.” Some might have called it fanciful, but Eleanor felt that the wind was not just a part of the weather, but the souls of the dead, screaming out for deliverance as they flew over the moor. The wuthering wind threw the branches of the weeping willow tree against the gothic arch windows, creating an eerie tap-tapping noise that made the hairs on the back of Eleanor’s neck stand on end.
Crash! The wind whipped Eleanor’s hair around her face, and clawed at her thin shawl, as the window burst open. She ran to the window, cursing as she struggled to fasten it shut. Gasping for breath, she turned and leaned against the wall, eyes closed. She barely had time to breathe, for she screamed as soon as she opened her eyes once more.
For there, in the centre of the room, stood Sarah.