The man who knocks

The man who knocks

With a heartfelt big thump I close my laptop as another long week comes to an end. I quickly check the weather forecast on my phone and see that the weekend is going to be glorious spring weather. Great, as I have plans for tomorrow. I need to see some big skies and get lots of fresh air, so a walk in the Pennines is definitely on. Being hunched over my laptop all day to do technical translations is an interesting job, but I don’t like being indoors all day. Plus, my body feels all stiff and is in need of some stretching.

When I come home, I pour myself a large glass of Italian white wine and grab some peanuts which I proceed to crack open as I settle myself on the settee. Immediately Coco jumps on my lap and starts to headbutt me, to replenish the scent I washed off this morning.

The next day I drive via Barnard Castle to Romaldkirk and I see it’s a fete day. Most of the short cut grass on the green is covered with market stalls. I decide to go into the white-washed village hall as the smell of freshly baked cakes and biscuits draws me in. The tables are covered with colourful, wipeable tablecloths with pictures of cows, horses or sheep. I decide to have a massive scone with strawberry jam and clotted cream. Before I bite into it, I already know how it will taste; buttery and sweet, creamy and slightly sour, it is indeed a delight. I wash the sticky sweetness away with a cup of tea and make my way back into the sunshine.

There is a carnivalesque atmosphere in the village, where everybody is involved from small children doing games to grannies selling raffle tickets. I buy a couple of raffle tickets as the main prize is an overflowing picnic basket. I wander along the stalls and take the colours in: ceramics, woodturning and stained glass all attract my attention. My sister has her birthday soon, what shall I get her? There are several charities trying to sign me up, but I am distracted by the beautiful flower filled gardens of the traditional stone houses around the green. Bees and butterflies are collecting pollen from flowers, oblivious to the noise around them. Sweet peas, fuchsia’s and roses vie for their attention. I could certainly live among all this loveliness.

Then I notice there is a house for sale, a bit further down the green. I have just enough juice left in my phone to do a quick check. My heart beats a little faster when I see the asking price of the house. That can’t be right, only £100,000.-? It must be a typo. It’s a two-bedroom detached house with two reception rooms and a decent size garden. Wow, if only that is right! I start to dream. The sounds of the fete seem far away now when I have a closer look at the empty house. I have always loved this village in Teesdale so much, but just thought it was way out of my league. I decide to call the estate agent.

“Hello, I’d like to enquire about this house for sale in Romaldkirk”.

“Oh yes”, a friendly woman says, “how can I help?”

“First of all, it says the asking price is a 100.000 pound, is that correct?”

“Yes, that is correct, but I am sure the owners would accept a reasonable offer.”

“Tell me what is wrong with it?”

There is a pause.

“If you are interested, I can arrange for a viewing, you can see for yourself,” the woman finally says.

“Yes, I would like that. I am free on Monday.”

A little bemused I finish the call and decide to have a look around the back of the house. The gate to the right is unlocked and I walk into a sea of smells from flowers everywhere. I instantly fall in love with the place and don’t really care what it looks like inside any more. The garden is just what I enjoy: a small, private terrace and large borders filled to the brim with flowers, shrubs and a couple of fruit trees. The view towards the rolling hills of the Pennines is uninterrupted. Such a difference from my cramped one-bedroom apartment in Darlington. I cannot believe my luck, I have saved up for a deposit on a house over the last 10 years and have £12,000,- in my saving account. I notice a few bricks lying around and I stack them up against the wall so that I can see into the high windows. I marvel at a rather large kitchen with a lot of work surfaces in something black resembling marble. There is a modern hob and plenty of space for my table and chairs. Wow, the finish of this room is so magnificent, if the rest of the house is only half of this, it is still great. I see some cobwebs and quite a lot of dust in it though, as if it hasn’t been lived in for a while.

I sit down on a weather worn chair and try and take it all in. I have enough money for a deposit on a house of 100,000 pound, it is big enough for me, occasional guests and Coco. The garden is absolutely gorgeous, I love the village and it is commutable to Darlington. I can even work from home a couple of days a week, something I haven’t done before because I prefer to escape from my tiny apartment. It is just too good to be true. I pinch myself in case I have fallen asleep on the village green. No, I am still very much awake.

Three weeks later I have the keys in my hand and excitedly open the front door. I have the next two weeks off, so will have ample time to do a little decorating, lots of cleaning and moving in. Armed with paint, wall paper and cleaning stuff I step across the threshold of my new life. It feels like a significant milestone: my very first house.

I spend the Friday cleaning the kitchen and the bathroom and throwing out some stuff the previous owners have left. There are some strange things, like one cupboard full of food in tins and packs. Canned tuna, lentils, pasta, rice and mash potato are a plenty and then there are tins of smoked mackerel, anchovies, peas and beans. I could easily live a month of it all. As I look at the expiry dates on some of the tins, I notice that they are just about to expire or recently expired. How odd, it is as if nobody has lived here for several years. There is an awful lot of dust in corners too, all though someone seems to have had a clean-up recently as the cobwebs have gone. Then I discover a stack of gorgeous, purple and deep blue towels in the airing cupboard. Wow I love those, they look brand new.

Later that evening I drive home and ponder about the house. I never heard anything from the previous owners and the estate agent was unwilling to tell me about them. Did someone die in this house? Is there a subsidence issue the surveyor hasn’t detected? Are the neighbours super obnoxious? I can’t figure it out.

The night I move in I sleep very well …… until at 5am when the knocking starts. At first, I don’t know where I am and think something is knocking in my head. Then I know and realise the knocking is not only getting louder and louder, but also faster. And then it abruptly stops before I have summoned enough courage to go and take a look. I decide I will ask someone to come and have a look at the boiler tomorrow and fall asleep again.

The next morning, I finally see my neighbour on the right side as she is doing some weeding in the front garden when go out to do some shopping.

‘Hello, lovely morning’, I say.

‘Oh, hello, yes indeed. Have you moved in?’

‘’Yes, I love the house. My name is Louisa, nice to finally meet you’.

‘So, you are staying?’

‘Yes, why wouldn’t I?’

‘Uhm, well most people don’t stay long. Hasn’t he been to visit?’

‘Who?’

‘The Man Who Knocks.’

‘What! I thought it was the boiler’.

‘Oh, I better go and make coffee for my husband Frank. Good luck.’

“Oh, how frustrating is this”, I think while I get in my car to drive to Barnard Castle for shopping. There, I decide to first pay the library a visit and I ask the woman sitting at the desk: ‘Do you have any records of local ghost stories?’

‘Yes, we do, let me show you’.

She takes me to the furthest corner and has a look on the shelves with very old books.

‘This is the one’, she says after a few minutes, ‘written by a local historian in the 70s. Are you looking for something specific?’

‘Yes, I just moved into this house in Romaldkirk and….’

‘Oh, The House in Romaldkirk! How brave of you! You can find the true story in here, look it’s in Chapter two.

‘The Man Who Knocks’, I read. ‘Thanks, can I borrow this?’

The woman swiftly registers me for the library and hands me the book.

I am so excited that I nearly forget to do my shopping. I race around Morrisons and drop my bags in my car and then I walk to the market square, where I go to Penny’s Tearoom, which looks very inviting. I just can’t wait to read this book, so I am going to read it here.

A waitress comes over and asks: ‘What can I get you/’

‘Uhm, oh can I have the quiche please and a Fentimans’ Lemonade, do you have Mandarin and Orange?’

‘Yes, we do. I will bring that over soon’.

I read Chapter 2, only disturbed by the waitress with my drink and quiche. I eat without really tasting it and put the book down half an hour later. I sigh and gulp down the remainder of my lemonade. “Wow”, I think, “what a story, I wonder whether I can help?”

The waitress returns to clear my plate away and she asks:

‘Was everything all right?’

‘Yes’, I lie “what flavour was that quiche?” ‘Do you live locally?’

‘Aye, in Stainton, why?’

‘I am looking for a medium.’

‘There are several lovely boutiques in Barnard Castle….’

‘No’, I laugh, ‘I mean a medium who can contact death people.’

She has a good look at me and says: ‘Did you buy the Knocking House in Romaldkirk?’

‘Yes, how did you know?’

‘News travels fast in these parts. So, you want to try and do something? Good for you, most people just pack and run’.

‘Well, I would like to try.’ I point at the book: ‘I just read the gruesome story’.

‘Ah, well if you are sure, talk to the local vicar, he might be able to help.’

‘The vicar?’ I say surprised. ‘Really?’

‘Aye him, good luck!’

With a wave I go outside into the sunshine and weave through the busy Saturday traffic back to my car.

After the scenic drive home via Eggleston, I make my way to the Parish Church. Ah, there is a service at 10.30am tomorrow. “Now, would it be better to approach the vicar before or after the service?”, I ponder. At that moment a small door in the church wall opens and an enigmatic gentleman steps out.

‘Can I help you at all?’, he asks.

‘Hello, I was just wondering what would be the best time to get in touch with the vicar?’

‘Ah’, he says, ‘that would be now! Would you like a cuppa?’

One hour later, I step out of the vicarage with a plan of action. That night I go to bed early, so I can wake up before the knocking starts. As the dreadful event took place at 5am, I get up at quarter to and sit in my rocking chair and sing. My soothing voice should relax the ghost. ‘Everything is going to be alright’, I repeat over and over. The knocking starts prompt at 5am and I feel a freezing breeze coming from nowhere. As I cannot sing over the knocking that gets louder and louder, I just send positive vibes out, as instructed by the vicar.

The next evening at 8pm a varied group of people assembles around my kitchen table. All experienced in the art of séance the vicar assures me. We hold hands in a circle and after a long silence, a large guy with a red beard asks:

‘Please give us permission to speak with the deceased’.

Silence.

I feel a rush of cold air like this morning.

‘Knock once for yes and twice for no.’

Knock.

I notice I am holding my breath and let it go slowly.

‘Does anyone wish to speak with us?’

Knock,

‘Is the Man Who Knocks there?’

Knock – knock.

Disappointment floods through me.

‘Are you related to him?’

Knock.

‘Do you know what happened in this house in 1827?’

Knock.

‘Were you there?’

Silence.

Silence.

Knock.

Oh my, I can hardly sit still, but I was instructed to stay as still as possible.

‘Did He not pass over after what happened?’

Knock.

‘Can we help make Him to the other side?’

Knock.

‘Tell us how please?’

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Then suddenly everybody stands up, the lights go on and people talk excitedly to each other.

‘Marvellous’.

‘Very powerful.’

‘Amazing.’

I sit and look around me at all these strangers who seem to have forgotten about me.

The man with the red beard raises his hand and all go quiet.

‘We had great success tonight. The Man Who Knocks will visit you no more.’

‘But, how, what uh are you sure?’

‘We will leave you in peace now, but rest assured He will not return. Oh and he said he enjoyed your singing.’

Totally confused I stay seated long after they have gone. I get up and make myself a cup of chamomile tea and I notice it is 10 o’clock already. How did that happen? I decide to go to bed with my tea.

The next morning I wake up when the alarm goes off at 8am. I realise there was no knocking this morning, so after breakfast I get to work on my next translation.

Me and Coco live happily in the house that nobody wanted until I meet him.