OUR TEAM MEMBER, AUTHOR JANE MURRAY, WRITING AS D.C. CUMMINGS, IS SHARING CHAPTER ONE OF HER WORK-IN-PROGRESS, 'THE HAUNTING OF RIVERBANK HOUSE' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat

The Haunting of Riverbank House

CHAPTER 1

Closing the door as quietly as he could, Gavin Winterton leant back against it for a moment and put his head in his hands. He didn’t often give in to it – the despair, but tonight had been particularly bad and he allowed himself to crumble for a few minutes before he had to go downstairs with his brave face and a story for the children. Poor kids, he thought, his face a dispirited hollow when he removed his hands from it. He stared for a moment at the reflection in the mirror which sat within a small recess opposite the bedroom door and a chalky white sepulchre looked back at him. What a dreadful holiday they were having, with all this going on and an angry, tense father and a neurotic mother! He moved away from the bedroom door and made his way across the wide landing to the stairs, the gloriously grand sweeping staircase, rebuilt at great cost in their present home after being salvaged from his ancestral home before it was demolished. He allowed himself a mental snort, yet another of her fallacies. Was there no getting away from them, from her? That was the answer, he thought suddenly, as he reached the door of the family room, where the three children were gathered in a huddle around the television, though none of them were watching it, he noticed, as he rushed in to deliver the news that they were going away for a few days with daddy, while mummy rested and got better.

Upstairs, Felicity, or Fliss as she was usually known, smiled to herself and mentally agreed with her husband that taking the brats away for a while would be perfect. She ran her fingers over the velvet cover of her Book of Shadows and then frowned as the all too familiar doubt set in. Had she really cast a spell to make Gavin and the children disappear? Or was it that she knew him so well after eleven years of marriage, she anticipated his every move? The frown deepened as she tried to assimilate events since she had known her husband, the things that had happened in their old cottage. They were real, she knew they were real and now, that woman was living there! She had a damn nerve, Amelia Harmer, thought Fliss, as she cast aside the bedclothes and slipped her feet into moccasin type slippers before treading softly across the wooden plank floor to the window which overlooked the river. And from where she could see the cottage.

At that precise moment, Amelia Harmer looked up from her embroidery and felt compelled to walk into the kitchen, to glance out of the window overlooking the river, which sluiced its way through the thick undergrowth of the riverbank. She did not look at the river, she looked upwards, towards the sharp escarpment which stretched out of the damp mosses and flora, ending in a blunt, neat row of arch panelled wooden fencing, encasing the large, imposing looking house residing in the most favourable spot on the small, select development built some five years ago.

As Amelia Harmer’s strange, violet eyes fell upon an upper floor window of the house, Fliss Keating-Winterton slid to the floor in a dead faint.

Despite its rather tawdry reputation, Gavin had taken the children to Blackpool whilst inwardly shuddering at the vulgarity of it all. Certainly, Fliss would not have allowed the family to holiday there but having not allowed his wife any input into where he was going to take Jasper, aged nine, and Bella and Harry, aged six and four respectively, he had clicked the ‘Book Now’ facility online whilst perusing Blackpool Tourist Information Centre’s website with an almost vengeful rebelliousness rather lacking in evidence now that he was actually there. Smiling genially at his children as they dragged him along the windswept and noisy promenade, he knew one of his main emotions right now was regret. He noticed another family walking in the opposite direction, away from South Shore and the Pleasure Beach. The parents were both wearing voluminous tee shirts bearing gawdy slogans and patterns; the father complimented his with khaki-coloured shorts that sagged beneath his large beer belly. On his head was perched a plastic hat with the invitation to, ‘Kiss me quick and squeeze me slowly’. Gavin shuddered and turned his attention to the family’s three children, who bore armfuls of plush, soft toys and cheap, tacky board games. The youngest child carefully transported a goldfish housed in a plastic bag half filled with water. All of them were fat; the mother was obviously looking to add a few extra pounds to her collection of spare tyres as she bit a large chunk off the slice of greasy, pepperoni pizza she was holding in both hands. They were people he and Fliss would refer to as ‘council house types’, but now, instead of despising them, Gavin noticed how happy they all looked in comparison to himself and his own three children who, despite their being animated and excited to be in this dreadful resort, still had an air of tension and fear attached to them. Before the fat family strolled away from the Pleasure Beach, Gavin looked down at his own attire, pale grey chino trousers, black loafer shoes, designer polo shirt with a chunky arran sweater tied over his shoulders. No-one could say Gavin Winterton didn’t look every inch the successful businessman, off duty, enjoying time with his young family, impeccably dressed. But happy? He glanced behind him to the fat father with his khaki-coloured shorts and beer belly and resolved to buy a pair of shorts while he was at the seaside.

Constance Mackenzie often surprised people with her café au lait skin and riotous corkscrew curls, which were the colour of gingernut biscuits. When she spoke, she caused further consternation by doing so with a rather plummy, high class English accent with just the hint of a Scottish burr around the edges. Today, however, it was Constance herself who was surprised by the shopkeeper in the tiny Lancashire village she’d found herself a resident of, calling her a mulatto.

‘You must be one of those mulattos,’ he’d said, looking her up and down, as he handed her the receipt for her purchases, which she was trying to fit into the one hessian shoulder bag she’d thought to bring with her from her car.

‘Actually,’ she’d retorted when she’d recovered from the shock of his words. ‘I’m a cappuccino!’

She was still angry at the shopkeeper’s lack of propriety when, a few minutes later, she found herself negotiating the extremely steep and meandering single track roadway which led, she had been assured by the managing agent, to the three bedroomed detached house she had rented due to her securing a job in Bury, of all places. In fairness to the said agent, Constance had to concede that the description of the road as ‘tricky’, was quite apt. Heaving a sigh of relief as she saw the agents’ distinctive ‘To Let’ sign fastened rather haphazardly to the gatepost of a pretty, stone-built villa, she jumped out of the car and stood inspecting the surroundings of what was to be her new home for the next twelve months at least.

The five houses were arranged in a circle within a leafy riverbank hideaway at the end of the one road in and out which Constance had just driven down. She could hear the river now, making a sort of babbling sound as it rushed by, some way below the high incline of the bank. Sunlight dappled through the boughs of the trees lining the enclave, enlivening the rather dour, grey stone bulk of the houses. The biggest of the houses faced the roadway and backed onto the riverbank. It was the only one with a full view of the river and the village opposite. All the other houses were angled so that they looked at one another and their rear gardens backed into the surrounding woodland. It made the house, next door to hers, look very grand and imposing. A very old quirkily painted mini sat outside on the tarmac driveway. As Constance studied the house, noting its stone portico entrance, the two steps leading up to the heavy looking wooden door, and the immaculate lawned garden, flanked by flowerbeds ablaze with a cacophony of colour, a woman appeared in the doorway and bolted towards the mini.

Her dark tumble of curls fell across the woman’s face, and as she straightened up, shaking her hair off her face, her almost raven eyes met Constance’s accusingly, as if challenging the newcomer for looking at her. Shocked at the hostility she felt emanate from the other woman’s gaze, Constance gave herself a mental shake, and turned towards the front door of her own house. It wasn’t until she had turned the key and stepped inside that she realised her heart was beating rather fast and her palms were sticky with sweat. It was the feeling of nervous anticipation Constance always experienced when faced with a new, and challenging patient and she wondered why on earth the woman next door made her feel that way. And afraid. She had to admit it, the woman had made Constance feel very afraid.

Enchantment Cottage was basking in the late summer sunshine. A new front door, modelled to look exactly like the old one with the exception that it was now a stable door, had the top section flung open wide and the daylight streamed into the rather dark little terrace’s sitting room. Amelia always smiled when she thought of her stable door, it had been fun outwitting Bury Council’s Conservation Officer who could not find any fault with the replica door and Amelia got her way, as she knew she would.

Now, leaning out over the bottom section of the door, and inhaling the bright, fresh air which bore the hint of a passing diesel train a few minutes ago, Amelia decided to brew some coffee to take outside where she could sit on the wooden bench which she had placed under the sitting room window on the tiny stone flagged terrace which ran in front of the ten cottages in the row. Pushing herself away from her door, she turned and walked into the kitchen, busying herself with selecting her favourite coffee beans, and grinding them in readiness for brewing. The noise of the grinder meant that she did not hear the door being banged against the stone wall of the cottage nor did she hear the footsteps of the person who had just angrily strode across the aged wooden floor. The cottage knew. The atmosphere shivered.

‘Why are you here?’ the anger in the woman’s voice was palpable.

Amelia turned around sharply, wiping her hands on a striped tea-towel. ‘I could ask you the same question, seeing as you have just burst into my cottage uninvited, but I suppose I’ve been expecting you.’

The other woman faltered, looked around uncertainly. The air was thick with tension, and it was making her uneasy. Memories filtered into her crowded mind; of Harry, hanging from the ceiling in the smallest bedroom; Isabella on the stairs holding her arms out beseechingly; Thomas, angry and tormented. She heard the gun explode, saw the flash of ammunition. The walls of the cottage seemed to be bearing down on her, a great weight making it difficult for her to breathe, to speak. The noises became unbearable. She clasped her hands over her ears in a futile attempt to block them out, but they seemed to attack her, growing louder and louder until she let out a shriek and ran from the kitchen, through the living room and back into the bright sunlight where she felt safe again.

Calmly putting down her tea-towel, Amelia followed the woman, who had sunk, sobbing and still clutching her head, onto the wooden bench under the window.

Amelia surveyed her, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. She tutted.

‘Oh, come now, Fliss. You’re going to have to do better than that.’

‘She’s fine, now, Mr Winterton,’ a tired looking A and E doctor pronounced. ‘She was incredibly lucky to have only sustained superficial injuries to her head, shoulder, neck and rib cage.’

Gavin put his head in his hands and rubbed his ashen face, then looked at the doctor whose complexion wasn’t unlike his own.

‘Thank you,’ Gavin stood up. ‘Is there likely to be any long-term damage?’

The doctor shook his head. ‘She’s unconscious now, but she has been awake. She’s in a bit of pain, so we’ve sedated her. She’s sleeping right now. She’ll be wearing a neck brace for a few weeks, as a precaution and of course, broken ribs, we leave to heal on their own. Physically, she will be fine,’ He paused. ‘She seemed overwrought, angry, even. The woman who reported the accident said your wife had entered her cottage without an invitation and was in an argumentative mood.’

‘I’m afraid my wife is a little fixated with our former home. It’s quite a strange little house.’

‘Fixated or not, sir, I think the police may want to talk to Mrs. Keating-Winterton when she wakes up.’

Gavin sighed and his shoulders drooped a little more. ‘Yes, I expect they will.’

He shook hands with the doctor and thanked him for his help, turning towards the door of Fliss’s private ward. He hesitated, then shook his head. What the hell was he going to do or say to her when she woke up, anyway? There was no point in sitting by her bedside feigning feelings he wasn’t sure he had anymore, and he had little sympathy over the events that had caused her to run in front of the bus she had collided with outside their former little cottage. He was grateful that the buses which operated in that area were only small, ten-seater ones and not any larger, otherwise, Fliss might have sustained more serious injuries. As it was, she would recover.

He sighed again and walked away from the door. He could smell the antiseptic which hung heavily in the air.

Making himself yet another cup of coffee, Father Colm Maguire realised that his hands were still shaking. He clattered the spoon into the large, earthenware mug and ran his hands through his now greying, and rather sparse, hair. Get a grip, Maguire, he told himself and then acknowledged that he’d been telling himself this rather too often of late. The kettle boiled and he sploshed hot water into the mug. He wasn’t surprised that the preparation of a cup of instant coffee immediately brought to her to mind. She didn’t drink instant coffee. He wondered why she was on his mind so often and then snorted to himself, as he took his mug to the armchair by the window, which overlooked Waterside Road playing fields. He didn’t think for a minute that his decision to remove to Winterton from Ramsbottom wasn’t anything to do with the dreams and the memories he had of her.

His smart little red brick terrace cottage was only a stone’s throw away from the other cottage. The one over the river. It took about three minutes to walk over the bridge and up the hill. He was drinking too much coffee, anyway, he decided and abandoned the freshly made brew in preference to throwing his arms into his habitual leather jacket, grabbing his house keys from the small wooden table by the door and heading off in the direction of Enchantment Cottage.

It had been sold, he knew, and the new occupant had moved in quite recently. He had heard rumours of a single woman; the cottage seemed to attract them, he thought, as he strode across the stone bridge which spanned the river and separated Higher Winterton from the other side of the village, where all the mill workers used to live in days gone by. The mill, now converted into a block of luxury flats but at least retaining some of its original features, had formerly belonged to the Winterton family. He wondered if the new owner had links with the mill, or the Winterton family, as the previous occupant had.

He could recall her so vividly. The dark hair, tumbling in wild, thick curls around her shoulders, her plump, red lips, inviting to be kissed. Her olive complexion lent an air of the exotic about her and of course, she understood. She was like him. She knew things, although Colm didn’t quite know why he was heading for the cottage now, and what he would do if the new owner was there and found a man of the cloth skulking outside. He wished he’d changed out of his ‘dog-collar’ shirt, but it was too late now, he was puffing his way up the steep, cobbled street.

Outside the cottage now, Colm was surprised to see two police officers standing on the doorstep talking to another dark-haired woman, who was clearly the new occupant. The police officers worried Colm and without warning, his mind filled again with images of Fliss, this time laid on the cobbles, broken and bleeding. He quickened his pace and drew level with the officers.

‘Can we help you, Father?’ One of the officers addressed him, but he did not hear, his attention was drawn to the owner of the cottage, a vaguely familiar, pale skinned woman with incredible violet eyes, slanted like a cat, and a full, sensuous mouth he suddenly longed to kiss.

‘It’s quite alright, Constable,’ the woman replied, ‘I was expecting him, wasn’t I, Father Maguire?’

Startled at her use of his name, Colm looked discomfited. Before he could respond, she continued.

‘At church, last Sunday?’ her voice had confirmation and a question in it all at once. ‘You arranged to come to see me to bless the house. Amelia Harmer.’ She moved forward away from the doorstep and held out her hand to the priest, who recoiled.

In a split second, Colm’s mind filled with memories, images of the last time he had entered Enchantment Cottage, meeting Fliss, researching the house, the cry for help she had given when she needed her home exorcised of the past which haunted it. Colm shook his head, as if to rid himself of the memory of the last time he had seen Amelia Harmer. She had not been in church last Sunday. He had seen her in a photograph within the pages of the parish records of Winterton, for the year she had married Philip Harmer. She had been Amelia Winterton then, and the year was 1856. Terror filled his soul. He turned and ran.

Amelia Harmer was not at all surprised at the priest’s sudden departure. She seemed faintly amused as she turned to one of the police officers and said, ‘It seems Father Maguire doesn’t have time to meet me after all!’

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PLEASE NOTE: 'THE HAUNTING OF RIVERBANK HOUSE' by D.C. CUMMINGS IS A WORK IN PROGRESS AND CURRENTLY UNAVAILABLE ON AMAZON!

COMING SOON: On Sunday, 10th August, we are pleased to introduce guest author, CR King. Charles is sharing two stories from his novel, 'Fraternity of Gunslingers'.