I awoke suddenly. The room was as cold as it had ever been. There was nothing strange in that, and at this time of the year it never seemed to get any warmer. I was lying in bed again and I shivered, pulling the cover a little further up my body. I turned to look at my clock. It was 3.23am and I sighed. I always seemed to be waking up during the early hours these days. I had so much on my mind.
Still, it was the middle of December, and I was stuck in a cottage deep into the Yorkshire moors in the middle of winter. All my own doing of course. I needed to get away from the hustle and bustle of home and escape the confines of the city. Just for a little bit. I wasn’t intending on staying here forever. Just long enough for me to get my thoughts in order. To sift through the shit and figure out what I wanted to do about my car crash of a life.
I sat up in bed and the sheets fell away from me. The air was like ice, and I shivered, quickly getting off the bed and reaching for my dressing gown from the armchair in the corner of the room. I tied the chord around the middle and walked from the bedroom into the hallway and then entered the living room.
It wasn’t any warmer in here either. The only light was coming from the roaring flames crackling away in the fireplace. I glanced at the fire curiously. There were two distinct questions on my mind. The fire was lit, so it should have at least warmed the place up a little. The cottage may have been old and as droughty as a pair of baggy Bermuda shorts, but the fire still should have done the trick.
But it was the second question that had me even more perplexed.
Who had lit the fire?
I had gone to bed…well, I couldn’t remember the time, I had consumed an excessive amount of whiskey, but I knew for certain that
I hadn’t lit the fire. And it must have been lit just recently as well because even if I had lit it before I had passed out on my bed it would have died down by now.
I shivered again and rubbed my arms to try and warm myself up, sliding into my slippers beside the armchair. I had left a clothes basket extremely close to the fire and shook my head. What a bloody idiot. I had to cut down on the alcohol. Then I shook my head. I hadn’t lit the fire so I couldn’t really be blamed for leaving clothes unattended beside a fire I’d never even been responsible for lighting. I went to move it to the side and was about to warm myself up beside the hearth when I heard a sound towards the kitchen.
I froze (quite literally this time) and then swiftly made my way across the plush, red carpet towards the kitchen door. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to see – maybe the person who had lit the fire. And then my thoughts went to who it could have been. There were only two people who knew I had come up here for the Christmas holidays. My brother, Roger, and my landlady, Vera. Since there was no love lost between myself and Roger, I doubted it would be him, and there was no reason why Vera would have followed me up here. I mean she maintained my flat well enough, but we weren’t close. She’d still be getting her rent even without me being there for the next week or two.
So, it couldn’t have been those two.
I had quit my job after a particularly difficult Tuesday. The boss had set me up too many deadlines and not enough time to do them in. Now I don’t particularly enjoy Christmas, but I was looking forward to having a couple of weeks off for some downtime. A chance to catch up on some reading, de-stress and to just generally reset myself for the new year. This year had been a horror show, especially with the economy in the dire situation it was in, and we all were ready for a break.
That was until Mr Phillips, my manager, had handed me my deadlines. When I had explained to him that there was no way I was going to get them done by the Christmas break he had informed me that the Christmas break (except for Christmas Day) would have to be cancelled if that was going to be my appallingly bad attitude to the company that had propped me up for the last few years of my life.
I couldn’t help myself. I broke. He had pushed me too far. The one light at the end of the year was getting out of that hell hole for a few weeks and now that light had been extinguished. So, I told him where to stick his job, got in my car, told Roger where I was going in case of an emergency, and just drove up here.
My father had owned this cottage when he was alive and when he had died, he had left it in his will to myself and my brother. I had never had any cause to use it until now. Roger had hosted numerous parties for his many female friends over the years, but not me. I was a city guy at heart. I lived and breathed the city life. A lonely cottage in the middle of the bleak and miserable moorlands wasn’t my idea of fun. And I wasn’t here for fun anyway. I was here to get away from Phillips and all the stress that that damned place had caused me.
There was the noise again. It sounded like someone opening a cupboard door. An intruder? Why would an intruder light a fire for me? Maybe it was a squatter, although there hadn’t been any sign of forced entry when I had come up here the previous night.
I grabbed the handle, stole my nerve, and flung the heavy, white door open. Standing there beside the kitchen cupboard was a young woman in a red skirt, black cardigan and long, cascading blonde hair. Her terrified blue eyes flashed up to me and she stepped back, hitting the old range cooker behind her. She brushed her fringe out of her eyes and swallowed.
“Can I help you?” I calmly asked. She was not what I was expecting. Come to think of it I didn’t know
what I had been expecting. Not a pretty blonde, that’s for certain.
“Who are you?” She had a Yorkshire accent and sounded absolutely petrified.
“I could ask you the same question.”
She didn’t reply. She just remained with her back to the cooker. I saw hands feel along behind her until they reached something. She brought the object up threateningly in front of her face – a wooden spoon.
“What are you going to do with that,” I asked her, incredulity in my voice, “stir me to death?”
“Just…don’t hurt me.”
I shook my head. “I’m not going to hurt you. And I could say the same to you. You’re the one standing there with a spoon in your hands.” I relaxed a little. “What are you doing in my cottage?”
She frowned, her eyes never leaving mine and her spoon-holding hand never lowering. “What are you talking about? This is
my cottage.”
I tilted my head to the side. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s my cottage,” the woman replied.
I shook my head. “No, love. This place was left to me and my brother. It was in my dad’s will.”
“A likely story.”
“Honestly. I’m telling the truth. I’ll give me brother a call if it’ll help convince you.” I went to turn but caught the flash of her hand. The wooden spoon flew through the air and hit me on my shoulder. “Ow.” It didn’t really hurt. I was more shocked at her reaction then anything.
“I’m sorry, but I did tell you to stay where you are.”
“It still doesn’t justify having a spoon flung at me.” I stepped back a little to show her I wasn’t a threat. “Look, why don’t you tell me your name?”
She didn’t answer, content to simply stare at me, her eyes never blinking.
Okay, so maybe it was better if I went first. “My name is Phil. I live in Manchester and work for a logistics company called GoToo. I’m 32, single and have one brother. My parents are both dead and I have an auntie living down in Somerset somewhere. Oh, I had a cat called Rickie up until a few years ago when he ran off with an ex-girlfriend.” I held my arms out and nodded to indicate it was her turn to spill the beans.
She narrowed her eyes. “Where did you come from?”
“I thought it was your turn to tell me a few things about yourself.”
“Where did you come from?” She said it a little more forcibly this time.
I sighed. “The bedroom.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Did you light the fire?”
“No.” She shook her head.
Before I could ask any more questions there was a sound from outside the window. I darted across to the windowpane and peered out onto the snowy landscape beyond. The cottage really was in a remote location. The garden in front wasn’t particularly large, but it didn’t need to be. All that you could see for miles and miles around were rolling hills of snow-covered moorland. In front of the house was an ancient oak tree and just beyond that a small, two-foot wooden fence.
The snow was coming down fast again now and, if it hadn’t been for the fact that I was stood in a lonely cottage with no lights and a strange, distraught woman, it would have made for quite a pretty Christmas card scene.
But it was as I was staring beyond the oak tree that I noticed the two figures standing in a gap along the fence where the old gate used to be. I couldn’t make out much as they remained in shadow. Consumed by the natural darkness. One was tall and the other was a little smaller. The taller figure was male, I felt sure, and I could make out the gentle curves of the other figure. A female.
“Do you know them?” the woman asked nervously. She made me jump. I hadn’t expected to see her by my side. Still, at least she wasn’t staring at me in terror now.
“No.” My voice was almost a whisper. “I can’t even make them out.”
The two figures angled their bodies towards the window. Had they seen us?
“Can you smell smoke?” I asked, sniffing. It was only faint, but it was there. A distant trace lingering in the air.
She shook her head. “I thought I smelt gas earlier on, which was why I was in the kitchen. I thought I’d left the cooker on.”
I turned to look at her, ignoring the shadowy figures for a moment. This wasn’t going to do at all. This was my cottage. “Exactly where did you come from? Are you squatting here?” I knew how stupid that sounded straight away. She definitely didn’t look like a squatter. She was too refined. She hadn’t been sleeping rough at all.
“I was asleep in bed when I woke up. I came into the living room, spotted the fire had been lit and then thought I smelt gas.”
“Which room were you asleep in?”
“The master bedroom. The room that overlooks the back garden.”
“That’s my room. The one I’ve just come from.”
She turned to look at me and shook her head. “Stop lying to me.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You say that, but everything you’ve told me so far is utter bullshit. For a start, your father never owned the cottage. It belongs to my family.”
I tilted my head to the side and scratched at my chin. I needed a shave. “My father bought this cottage years and years ago, love.”
“Don’t call me love.”
“Then what should I call you?”
“Peggy. You can call me Peggy, okay?”
“Good. Nice to finally put a name to the face.” And it was actually a very pretty face the more I looked at her. Very natural looking. She had a pale complexion, but her lips were full and red. She had dark rings around her eyes, but rather than make her look tired, they helped her eyes to shine brighter. There was a certain look about her. Something I couldn’t quite place my finger on. She had a classical look about her. The sort of person who always tried to look their best no matter what time of day.
She placed one hand on her hip and tilted her head back, her eyes narrowing in distrust. “It still doesn’t explain what you’re doing in my cottage.”
“
My cottage.”
Her eyes momentarily turned away and she grabbed my arm, her fingertips digging through the thick material of my dressing gown. She gasped and I followed her gaze. She was staring through the window, the panes partially obscured by a collection of snowflakes. The two figures were now looking in at us.
“Holy shit!” I breathed.
“Who are they?” Peggy gasped.
I shook my head. “I have no idea.”
If they could see us, they certainly weren’t reacting to us. The snow continued to fall around them, but their faces remained in shadow. The male figure pressed his ethereal face against the pane of glass to look in.
Peggy and I slowly backed away from the window.
“Switch the lights on,” I said.
Peggy darted across to the switch, but the lights failed to turn on. After multiple, futile attempts at the switch she finally gave up.
“Damn electricity bill. Roger probably hasn’t paid it for this quarter,” I growled under my breath.
“I have candles,” Peggy said, running to the cupboard under the window and pulling out two, thick, white candles and two ornate holders.
I grabbed one from her and we slowly exited the kitchen, making our way over to the fireplace. I knelt to light my candle, but the wick failed to catch alight. I tried with Peggy’s but, again, the candle failed to light.
“What the actual…?”
I was cut off by a loud knocking on the front door. It didn’t sound like a particularly heavy thump, but it was louder than normal, reverberating around the room, and bouncing off the wooden beams of the ceiling. The entire cottage was reacting to the knocking.
“It’s them,” Peggy gasped, backing up to me. I had no idea where she came from, but right now we were in this together. I could see her face, but I couldn’t see the faces of the two figures. I knew which one I’d rather be siding with.
I placed a hand on her shoulder and then handed her my candle. I walked between the two sofas and headed towards the door, picking up a log that had been left in a metal drum beside the entrance. I raised it so it was level with my face and then slowly opened the door.
The figures were standing there, silhouetted against the bright white of the snow outside.
And their features were still inexplicably cloaked in darkness. The only way I could describe it was as if you were looking at figures walking through night-time fog. They were merely silhouettes. Shapes in the gloom.
“Who are you?” I asked.
Neither of them responded, but there was something there. Some form of incoherent mumbling coming from them. They were talking, but it was obscured. Like when someone tries to talk underwater. Or when you’re wearing some heavy-duty ear protection, and everyone sounds muffled and distant.
“I asked you who you are.” I said it a little more fiercely this time.
The figures looked at each other and then stepped inside. I stepped out of the way. They seemed completely oblivious to me being there. They made their way towards the centre of the room and stood, turning around, taking in every detail of the cottage.
Peggy fled from the fireside to join me. “Who are they?”
“You heard as much as I did, love.”
“Will you stop calling me love?”
“Sorry, sweetheart.” I chuckled.
She rounded on me, staring at me in frustration. There was something about those eyes. Something captivating. She was intriguing, but it wasn’t like I fancied her or anything. That wasn’t it. I was fascinated by her.
“Will you stop staring?”
“Absolutely.” I held up the hand that didn’t have hold of a log and moved away from her. The figures were now standing beside the fireplace. The male crouched down and placed his hands on the burning logs. He didn’t react to the flames. It was like he wasn’t really there.
“Are they ghosts?” Peggy asked.
“I have no idea.” I had always been a realist. I didn’t believe in ghosts or the supernatural. Life was life and when you died you died. It may have been a slightly grim view to have on the afterlife, but there was nothing else after this world. You just went to sleep, and nothing ever happened again.
At least that’s what my dad taught me to believe. My mother, Mags, had died when we were little, and it had haunted him for the rest of his days. He never really found a way to live without her. And he had begged for her to show him a sign that there was something else there. That sign had never come, and I think that had affected his beliefs.
There was that smoke smell again.
“I can smell gas again,” Peggy said, sniffing.
I walked over to the two figures as they both sat down on the sofa, holding hands. I knelt in front of them and reached out
my hand. I touched the male on his shoulder, and he jerked suddenly. He had felt my touch. So, they were sort of there. But it had felt strange to touch him. It was like he was there, and I could feel him, but there were no sensations running through my fingertips. It was like he existed, but didn’t, all at the same time.
Peggy came to join me and peered more closely at the female. She made an ‘o’ with her mouth and blew a cool stream of air at the darkened face of the female.
The female figure jumped and got to her feet.
The male was now standing up. He placed a hand on her shoulder as if to calm her down.
“What the hell is going on here?” I asked, shaking my head.
“They must be ghosts.”
“Let’s try together.”
The both of us reached forward with both of our hands and grabbed the arms of our shadowy opposites. The two figures jerked backwards. There came a high-pitched sound from the female. Slowly the whistling mingled with a rush of wind and became a scream. The girl staggered backwards towards the stone fireplace and collapsed against it.
The male was at her side in an instant and I could understand more words now. He was becoming clearer.
I ran forward and knelt in front of them to try and hear what they were saying. I tilted my head to the side and listened.
“Rosie…Rosie it’s okay. It’s okay they can’t hurt us.”
The words were becoming sharper. Like when you come up out of a swimming pool and the water slowly runs away from your blocked-up ears.
“Tell
them that,” came the female voice.
“Can you hear them?” Peggy asked.
I nodded, straining my ears to hear more.
“This is no different to what we’ve faced before,” the male said. He had a Scottish accent. “This is just the same as anything else we’ve ever seen.”
I could hear them quite clearly now.
“We have to help them,” the female sobbed. “We have to. I can’t stand this, Albert.” Her voice wavered with emotion as both of her hands went to her head, tyring to ring out some sort of invisible pain.
Help them? Help who? There was nobody else here other than me and Peggy. So, who exactly did they need to help? It was then that I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece above them and realised the time. It was 3.23am. Nothing odd about that. Nothing odd about it being 3.23am at all.
Nothing odd about it in a million years.
Except that it was the same time that it had been when I had woken up. And I had been awake for longer than 0 seconds and 0 minutes.
I looked at the Peggy, standing beside me. She was staring intently at the two shadowy figures as they continued to talk about ways to save “them” and how they could help “them” to move on. And I could smell smoke again.
“Peggy, tell me what happened to you.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Please, just answer my questions this time. What happened to you?”
She shrugged. “I had another fight with my husband over the kids. I came up here to escape him. For five bloody minutes peace.”
“And?”
“I had a few cuppas and then went to bed.”
“What time did you wake up?”
“I don’t know. Not long after I had gone to bed. I needed the loo.”
“So roughly what time?”
She shook her head in frustration. “I don’t know. It couldn’t have been long after eleven.”
“At night?”
“Of course, at night,” she hissed back at me. Now she really
did look tired. Tired of me.
“And you were up for how long before I came into the kitchen?”
“Maybe…five minutes.”
I bit my lit and shook my head, trying to work it all out. “I woke up at 3.23am. My bedroom clock said 3.23am and the clock above the mantelpiece says 3.23am right now.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she scoffed, “it says 11.17pm.”
“What?” I looked back at the clock. The clock face blurred in and out of focus. I squinted my eyes, but I couldn’t focus. The hands were shifting from 3.23am to 11.17pm and back again. It was like I was seeing two different times on its face. I narrowed my eyes and stepped nearer to it.
“This house is horrible,” I heard the shadowy girl saying. “It’s cruel. To do this to them…”
“I know, I know, Rosie,” the man continued, “but you’ve got to try and block out the feelings. It’ll only overwhelm you. You’re new to all of this.”
“I wish I could. But they’re both still here. They’re both still trapped here.”
I turned to look at Peggy. She was standing frozen to the spot, her eyes staring at the two figures as they brightened more and more. Colour was flooding into them, and I could feel warmth coming from their bodies. A complete contrast to the cold of the cottage. They were real and they existed. There was mass and substance and life. Feelings and emotions. The people in front of us weren’t ghosts at all. They were alive.
And that damned smoke smell was there again.
“I want to go home,” Peggy sobbed. I turned to look back at her again. Tears were streaming down her face, her lips quivering. “I want to go home and say sorry to my boys.”
“Your boys?”
Peggy nodded. “Phillip and Roger. I need to say sorry for ruining their Christmas.”
My eyes widened. “Phillip and Roger? Your kids are called Phillip and Roger?”
She nodded. “It was such a stupid argument I had with my husband.”
“And your husband was called…?”
“Wilf. Why does it matter to you?” She turned to me, her tear-stained cheeks quivered, her dark eye makeup was running in steady streams from her eyes.
“Peggy, my name is Phil. My brother is Roger, and my father was Wilf. The Nicholson family.”
Her eyes flicked to mine. “But that’s my name. I’m Peggy Nicholson.”
“My mother was called Mags. Mags Nicholson.” It all started slotting into place. “And Mags is short for…Margaret,” I finished off. “And Peggy is a nickname for Margaret.”
She stared at me and stepped forward, her eyes refusing to break free from mine. It was then that I realised why I found her so fascinating. It was then that I realised why she intrigued me so much. That feeling I had felt. It wasn’t lust or attraction. It was love. Pure and simple love.
The woman standing in front of me right now was my mother.
“My father never told me exactly what happened to my mum.” My voice was a whisper. “But I know they had had an argument when we were small. It was one Christmas. She never came home.” I looked away, the memories of that horrible Christmas flooding back. “I used to sit at the top of the stairs listening to Dad praying for God to send him a sign that she was still alive. That
you were still alive.”
Peggy shook her head, her lips moving but producing no sound.
“Phillip? Phillip Nicholson?” came the Scottish voice.
I turned to look at the two figures. They were now fully formed. The girl was short with pretty eyes and long dark hair. She had an elvish look about her. She was sweet-looking but looked utterly exhausted. Her eyes were bloodshot and red. The man was taller, in his early forties with an unshaven jawline and short, dark hair. He was handsome in a rugged way, and I couldn’t stop noticing his eyes. He was wearing a long, dark coat and the girl was wearing a bobble hat and scarf.
“Who are you two?” I asked.
“We’re here to help
you move on.” The man stepped forward and smiled sadly at me.
“Move on? What do you mean?”
I glanced back at Peggy, but she was frozen on the spot, her eyes staring at the two figures. Her face was bathed in a bright, white light. I tried to see where the light was coming from, but I couldn’t see a source.
“My name is Albert, and this is Rosie. Rosie can…well, sense things.”
“Like a medium? A psychic?”
Rosie nodded. She smiled through the anguish on her face, but she didn’t look totally comfortable with what she was feeling. “It only happened just recently.”
“She’s my mother, isn’t she?” I nodded back towards Peggy. I didn’t know how, but I knew now. It was the only thing that made sense to me. She was the ghost of my dead mother.
The man called Albert nodded. “She is indeed.” He stepped forward and stood in front of her. “Mags. Margaret. Peggy. She came to this cottage when you and your brother were both young. All couples argue, I know that, and all she wanted was a break. But it ended in tragedy. There was a gas leak and she died in her sleep.”
“Gas…She kept telling me she smelt gas. Dad never told me.” I shook my head and sniffed away a tear. “He would never talk about it.”
“The bereaved don’t always discuss their heartache.”
I walked over to my mother. She looked so young and beautiful. I had only ever seen a handful of old, black and white photos of her. Photos of a distant and long-gone woman that I never really knew. Never something so real as this. I reached out a hand and touched her face. She blinked and turned to look at me, her eyes wet with tears. Now there was no mistaking it. It was her.
“Hello, Phillip.” She reached out and placed a cold hand on my cheek. There was a true understanding etched onto her face now. A realisation. “My beautiful boy. I’m so sorry. I should have stayed at home.”
“It’s okay, mum, it’s okay. These two, kind people are going to help you pass on.”
There came a sigh from Albert. I turned to look at him. The girl looked away from me. She too looked sad. Sadder than she had been a few moments ago.
“What?”
“We’re not just here to help your mother move on,” Albert replied.
“I don’t understand.”
“We’re here to help you move on as well.”
“What do you mean, help me move on? Move on where?”
“Move on from here.”
“But I’m okay. There’s nothing wrong with me.” I laughed nervously. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Phil, there’s no easy way to say this.” He rubbed his chin and shook his head. “You’re dead as well.”
His words hit me like a bullet to the heart. I felt my legs give away from underneath me and I stumbled to the floor. I couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. I knew what he was saying, but I couldn’t process it. It was impossible. There was no way that I was dead. I was standing there talking to them.
“It’s okay, Phil,” the girl said. She knelt in front of me, her eyes sad. “I can help you be with your mother again.”
“But…I’m not dead.”
“Phillip, you’ve been dead for years.”
I still couldn’t process it. My mind was swirling. It was impossible. I had quit my job, escaped to the cottage, lit a fire, had a drink, and passed out in bed. Passed out in bed…. smoke again.
“You died on December 17th 2008. An investigation was conducted into the cause of death. You had drunk so much that you couldn’t remember leaving your washing basket beside the lit fire. When you went to bed the washing caught on fire and spread through the cottage. You died sometime in the early hours.”
“3.23am,” was all I could say. “I died at 3.23am.”
“Very possibly,” Knox said.
There was a sudden rush of wind, and I was no longer standing in the cottage. I was standing in its cold, burnt out remains. My feet were buried in the snow and the once pure white walls and wooden beams were blackened and charred. This skeleton of a building was reality. I knew it now. I had been standing in an illusion all this time.
“The place couldn’t be saved.” Albert put his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”
“This can’t be happening. I only woke up twenty minutes ago.”
Rosie shook her head. “You’ve been repeating the same moments over and over again. You’ve been trapped in a loop, never realising it. For you, it’s always been the same day.”
“It’s always winter.” Albert closed his eyes and lowered his head. “The only reason we came here is because a group of campers had reported strange activity coming from the remains of the building. It wasn’t hard to dig out the facts and put two and two together.”
“My mother and I have been trapped here all this time?”
Albert nodded. “Your mother trapped at the time
she died all those years ago and you trapped at the moment
you died back in 2008.”
I closed my eyes. This could not be happening. It wasn’t real. Any minute now I was going to wake up in bed with the mother of all hangovers. I balled up my fists and thumped at the ground, willing the world around me to fade away.
“It’s okay, Phillip.” My mother’s hand was on my shoulder. She crouched down beside me and took my hand. “We didn’t know. We couldn’t accept it. But now we can move on.”
“I don’t want to move on, Mum. I’m 32 and want to live my life. I want to go out and drink and meet someone and…have a life.” I closed my eyes as the tears fell. I had never been scared of much in my life, but this terrified me. This complete and utter unknown. “I don’t want to be dead.”
“Nobody wants to be dead.” Rosie took my hand. She felt so warm against my cold skin. “But we all have to pass one day.”
I felt both Rosie and my mother’s hands around mine and I rose to my feet. There was a flash of light behind me, and we turned to look at it. A slither of bright, white light expanded until it became a larger fissure. The light flared and flickered and all I could feel from it was…warmth. Warmth and love. A pull and a tug in my heart. There was something calling to me. Something calling to
us.
Albert smiled at Rosie and then looked at me. “The one thing I can say to you, Phil, and you too, Peggy, is that death is not the end. What you will find beyond that light is something that I have always been…so intrigued by. Something that has always drawn me in and helped me to move forward in my life.”
Rosie let go of my hand. It was just me and Mum now. “You’re gonna be just fine. I promise.”
I turned to look at Mum and she smiled at me. In some ways this was a gift. I hadn’t ever really gotten to know her, but now I had that opportunity. Now there was a chance to get to know the real Margaret Nicholson. I gripped her hand tightly as we turned and walked towards the light.
As frightening as the unknown was, this clearly wasn’t the end.
“Oh, just one more thing, Phil,” Knox said, “because I don’t usually get a chance to actually talk to ghosts like this.”
I didn’t reply. I just looked at him.
“If you see a woman on the other side called Harriet, tell her that I haven’t given up on her yet. Tell her that I’ll find her one day.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but he looked sad. Heartbroken even. He looked the same as my father did after Mum had died. I nodded once at him, smiled, and then turned. As I approached the light the warmth built in my chest. I turned to look at Mum one more time and she smiled at me.
And then, hand in hand, we stepped into the light.
Albert Knox and Rosie Dangerfield remained in the ruins of the old cottage for a few more minutes after Phil and Peggy had disappeared into the light. When the air had settled, and all was silent, Rosie finally exhaled and then smiled, exhausted. She sniffed and wiped away the remaining tears from her face.
Albert turned to face her and half-smiled, placing his hands on her shoulders. “Are you okay? It was a little rough for you back there.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m just going to have to get used to these feelings.” She straightened herself up and looked at him. “Why did you ask Phil to give a message to Auntie Harriet?”
“Because I have to keep trying.”
“But she didn’t get taken to the light.” She wrinkled her nose.
There was a silent moment between them. Albert refused to look at her. His face turned stern, his eyes dark. Then he finally spoke. “We don’t know that for certain.”
Rosie was about to dig further but thought better of it. Albert was a livewire at the best of times but dealing with Harriet always brought out the most volatile emotions in him. She didn’t want to ignite that fuse again. Not after she had brought him back from the brink once before.
Albert glanced one more time at where the crack of light had appeared and then put his hands back in his pockets, trudging out of the ruins of the house and back into the snowy moorland.
Rosie breathed, took one more look around the house and then followed him.
The End
Copyright © 2022 by Jim Allenby
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