Ghostly Inheritance

Mary was grateful for the cold, white light of the full moon as the car lurched down the potholed driveway. Branches and briars from the overgrown hedges scraped the car like nails on a blackboard. The skeletal black shapes of bare trees swayed in the gusty wind, sending grotesque shadows dancing across her line of vision. She pulled up in front of the mansion, slumping in her seat with relief. Parking in front of an impressive set of stone steps which led up to the front door, she sat for a moment, eyes closed, taking deep breaths.

A knock on the driver’s window startled her. It was her friend Vickie. She eased herself out of the car, staggering backwards as Vickie hurtled towards her for an embrace.

“I am so glad to see you,” Vickie exclaimed, beaming.

 “Me too,” said Mary, laughing as she disentangled herself. “This is exciting. It’s not every day that my best friend inherits a mansion.”

Vickie grinned.

“Come on in.”

Grabbing her overnight bag, Mary followed Vickie up the moss-covered steps into a cold, echoing entrance hall. The heavy wooden front door slammed behind them.

“Sit down and I’ll get you a drink,” Vickie said, leading the way into a large gloomy sitting room and indicating an armchair near the marble fireplace. There were rickety stacks of books on almost every square inch of the floor and every surface was covered with a jumble of bric-a-brac. Mary cautiously threaded her way through the maze and plumped down in the armchair, sneezing as a cloud of dust puffed up around her. She shivered. A small fire was burning in the grate but doing little to dispel the chill. A moth-eaten stuffed fox glared at her from the corner of the room, its glass eyes glittering in the firelight.

“I hope sherry’s okay,” Vickie said, handing her a glass and sitting down. “It’s all that’s left of Aunt Phyllis’s stash. I haven't had a chance to restock.”

“Cheers,” said Mary, smiling appreciatively as she took a sip. “The line was so bad when you called that I could hardly make out what you were saying. I tried calling back, but I couldn’t get through.”

“Cell phone reception’s almost non-existent here. Thank goodness there’s still a landline but the phone is ancient.”

She pointed to a large black rotary dial phone with a thick braided cord on a side table.

“This whole place is like a museum or a time capsule,” said Mary, gazing around the room at the dingy oil paintings, solid Victorian furniture and threadbare brocade curtains.

“So, what’s the story?”

Vickie took a gulp of sherry.

“My great aunt Phyllis died a few weeks ago and left me this place.”

Mary whistled.

“Not bad. Were you expecting an inheritance from her?”

Vickie shook her head.

“No. She was my father’s aunt, but she had a falling out with my parents.”

She indicated the clutter.

“As you can see, she was a hoarder, and they tried to make her get rid of her stuff. She wasn’t having any of that.”

“This place would be special if it was renovated,” said Mary. “I can’t wait to see it by daylight.”

Vickie poured some more sherry into both their glasses and took a deep breath.

“Well, you may have guessed by now that I do have an ulterior motive for inviting you. I think the house would make a really great hotel, but I’m going to have to go through all this junk one item at a time before I can even plan what to do. Aunt Phyllis didn't trust banks and I’ve already found quite a bit of money stashed here and there, so there’s no way I can just toss the whole lot out. Since antiques are your business, I need your expertise to tell me what's worth keeping.”

Mary grinned.

“I love a challenge. Tell me about the house.”

“Grab your bag. I’ll show you to your room.”

They went back to the entrance hall and up the stairs which creaked and groaned at each step, carefully stepping over more teetering piles of books and dusty boxes. The landing opened on to a picture gallery of severe looking Victorian faces peering out of tarnished gilt frames.

“My ancestors,” Vickie said. “My great-great-great grandfather made his money in cotton mills and built this house a hundred odd years ago, but the local historical society people told me there have been buildings on the site for centuries, including a manor house during the English Civil War. There was a convent here before that until Henry VIII put an end to it. He tossed all the nuns out and confiscated the place.”

Vickie led the way down a narrow hallway and opened the door to Mary’s room. The moonlight poured through the window, showing a shabby but elegant room with a large four-poster bed. Vickie turned on the bedside light and pulled the curtains.

“I decluttered a couple of bedrooms and the bathroom and cleaned like a maniac.”

Mary gazed around.

“Are there any ghosts?”

Vickie shook her head.

“No one has said anything about the house being haunted and I haven't seen hide nor hair of one."

Mary pulled a face.

“What a shame. There are so many possibilities. A White Lady from the convent, a Cavalier from the Civil War, or perhaps a child from the cotton mill. Or a headless horseman coming out of the woods...”

Vickie laughed.

“For the last fifty years Aunt Phyllis lived like a hermit with no one except a housekeeper and the tradespeople from the village coming in. The gossip is that she was jilted at the altar and never recovered from it. Whether or not that’s true, she was a cranky old thing with a hair-trigger temper. Ghosts would probably have been afraid of her.”

“Not to mention bored silly if there was no company here to scare,” said Mary. “I’m exhausted. If you don’t mind, I’m going to head for bed so we can get started bright and early tomorrow.”

Vickie hugged her.

“Of course. I'll show you where the bathroom is.”

She led Mary further down the hallway and flung open a door, laughing.

"Speaking of museums..."

Mary blinked. The white tiled bathroom contained an immense claw-foot tub and a high porcelain commode with a mahogany seat.

"Good grief. I'm going to feel like Queen Victoria on the throne on that thing."

Vickie giggled.

"I know. No showers, of course. Plenty of hot water though, and some nice bath salts. Feel free to have a nice long bath. The plumbing makes some weird noises but everything works."

She hugged Mary.

"Thanks again for coming. It was very daunting to face all this by myself."

“That’s what friends are for,” Mary said. “Goodnight.”

Mary could not remember the last time she'd had a leisurely bath. She soaked until the water began to cool. As she dried off, she was startled by a groaning noise emanating from somewhere deep in the pipes. She glanced around, heart racing, before she remembered what Vickie had said about the plumbing.

"Stop it. Your imagination's running away with you," she muttered to herself as she scurried back to her room. The bedroom was cold and she wasted no time in jumping into bed. Stretching contentedly under the blankets, she soon drifted off to sleep.

Next morning, she found her way down to the kitchen. A modern coffee maker was burbling on the countertop, standing out like a sore thumb next to the ancient enamel kitchen stove and ceramic sink. Vickie greeted her cheerfully.

“Good coffee was a necessity,” she said with a smile. “There are fresh muffins over there.”

Mary filled her mug and sat down.

“How did you sleep?” Vickie said.

“Like a baby,” said Mary, sipping coffee. “It was so sweet of you to check on me last night.”

Vickie frowned.

“Check on you? What do you mean?”

“I was almost asleep when someone tucked the covers around me and whispered goodnight,” Mary said, faltering as she saw Vickie’s expression. “Wait, that wasn’t you?”

The ticking of the clock on the wall reverberated in the silence as they stared at each other.