Moorcroft - the Possession: Book One of the Moorcroft Trilogy (2 page)

The sky was grey and ominous as Reverend Peters approached Moorcroft. Once it had been a grand house full of life and laughter, now it sat dark, cold and sombre. It was with a heavy heart that he travelled the uneven drive, swaying from side to side to avoid the developing potholes. He parked and switched off the engine and looked up at the house. Most of the shutters were closed, Mrs Green, the old cook, had told him how Charlotte had systematically closed down the house and had become a recluse, taking no visitors and withdrawing further into herself.

She had not been to church since the funeral of her father and of late had refused to acknowledge his visits. He felt sorry for the young woman, after the death of her mother, Charlotte’s father had drifted into oblivion and had no energy to see to his daughter’s needs and put her into the hands of a governess. Charlotte hated her and her evil ways and she soon became mischievous and scheming, tormenting the household staff and the stable hands. Her father chose to ignore the warning signs or see any wrong in whatever Charlotte did and assumed that everything was happy at Moorcroft. As the years passed, the governess was dismissed and Charlotte grew into an attractive young lady and accompanied her father on many social occasions. She was much admired by the young gentlemen of the county and was soon engaged to be married to the son of a wealthy land owner. Her father was happy with the union and could see how much his daughter was in love. Everything was running smoothly once more, that was until Frederick was involved in an accident on his way to the church, the very morning of their wedding. His death not only left Charlotte deranged but her father, unable to cope with her worsening bad behaviour, found comfort in the warm amber fluid of the whisky bottle.

Reverend Peters closed his eyes and took in a deep breath and stepped onto the front porch and banged on the heavy door. There was no response. He banged again. As he walked around the side of the house to the rear door, he noticed how neglected the property had become. The barns were practically derelict and the stables, now empty, still smelt of horse manure and rotting hay, he passed the horse trough now turning green with lack of use. He banged on the back door and waited, nothing. He banged again and tried the door, it was unlocked, he entered shouting Charlotte’s name. The kitchen was empty and cold, no longer the usual roaring fire and the smell of cooking. Again he shouted. The house lay silent. He missed the cheery smile from Mrs Green, the cook, by this time the fires were usually lit and the lunch simmering on the range and a warming cup of tea and biscuit waiting for him. He went down the corridor and through the door that took him to the main entrance and the magnificent staircase that dominated the great hall. It too was in darkness, lit only by the skylight above the front door. He searched each room in turn; they were all the same, empty and dark. He remembered the last conversation with the cook how she had complained that she couldn't get Charlotte to eat and that the young woman was wasting away, becoming wilder, talking to herself and crying. It had been several weeks since the Reverend’s last visit, the cold weather had taken its toll on the old and weary and he had been kept busy. He approached the stairs and once more shouted her name. There was only one thing for it; he would have to go upstairs.

The gloom lay heavy on his shoulders as step by step he approached the landing. The house was cold, damp and neglected. His hand brushed the dust from the banister; it had been a long time since someone had polished this. On the landing he ventured towards the first door, knocked and entered, darkness rushed at him, nothing in this room but spiders and scurrying mice. Along the corridor he walked trying each door as he went, his footsteps echoing off the walls. He stopped and listened at the last remaining door. He knocked and turned the handle and entered the room. The shutters were open and from the little light that came through the dirty windows he could see Charlotte lying on top of the bedclothes.

He hesitated and moved nearer the bed. “Charlotte, are you alright, are you ill?”

He already knew the answer to his question. He moved closer to the bed and gagged. The smell was over powering. He took a hanky from his pocket and covered his nose and muttered to himself. “Poor, poor child, to die alone in this God forsaken house.” He moved nearer. She lay on top of the covers, fully clothed in what looked like her best gown. She had given up, poor child, and had died of a broken heart, of that he was sure. He looked upon the now decaying face and the bile threatened to surface. He ran to the door, he needed air. Down the stairs he ran, along the hallway and out into the morning light. Resting against the outside wall he emptied his stomach. He pulled the back door shut and staggered to his car. He sat with his head on the steering wheel and said a silent prayer for the woman he had once baptised. “Dear Lord, take this woman to your heart and release her from this torment.” Now he must inform the authorities. He put the car in gear and slowly left Moorcroft far behind him.

In the church there was a small scattering of villagers, they were there not for the love of Charlotte, but out of respect for her mother and father. Reverend Peters spoke of the teenager who had played pranks on the stable hands and kitchen staff. Of the beautiful young lady who had attracted much attention from the young men of the parish. He spoke of the tragedy that had started her on the downhill spiral, of her lost love that had tipped her over the edge and the death of her father, the final straw. Mostly, he spoke of the lovely child who had brought sunshine into the lives of everyone who knew her.

The congregation were restless and nodded and muttered to themselves remembering the spiteful child full of mischief and malice, they remembered the good and the bad times up at the big house and how everything changed after Mrs Worthington passed away. After the service the villagers soon dispersed, most went home, some to the local pub to reminisce about Moorcroft, the parties that had taken place there and the gentry that had visited the grand house and they wondered what would happen to the old place now.

It had started to drizzle as they carried the coffin to the grave, few tears were shed that morning, only the family Doctor, lawyer and faithful cook remained by the graveside.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Reverend Peters said the words automatically. Inside he asked for forgiveness for his lack of spiritual guidance, and hoped that Charlotte could now rest in peace.

Charlotte was the last of the Worthington’s and the Moorcroft Estate had been heavily mortgaged and so it wasn’t long before the bank took possession. An estate manager was put in place to see to the house and to collect the rents from the tenant farmers and Moorcroft was put on the market. The local estate agent took several families to view the house, but the coldness of the place and its history and local gossip soon put people off a purchase. It wasn’t long before the young boys of the village used the gardens as a playground and the windows for target practice. After a time, the live in caretaker left and the house was boarded up. Moorcroft stood in darkness but not alone, inside another world existed for a once beautiful young woman with hopes of marriage and children of her own.

Charlotte wandered the empty rooms waiting and calling out for Frederick to return to her, why hadn’t he come to her as she had hoped? She waited and waited remembering happier times in these rooms, in her world she saw the roaring fires, and she heard the music and laughter and watched the couples dancing around the great hall. She too swayed to the music and longed for her fiancé to return for her, to once more take her into his loving arms. Then they would be married and would live happily ever after as they did in her dreams. Her thoughts were shattered as she heard banging at the door and the moment was lost. Those young hooligans from the village were back, throwing stones and tramping on the gardens. She would show them, her only enjoyment was to chase those ruffians away.

“Witch” they would yell as she screamed and shouted from the front door, she would run after them and laugh as they ran for their lives down the drive.

Now Moorcroft stood empty of life, the wind whistled through the gaps in the windows and doors and the rooms smelt of damp and decay. Even the white dust sheets over the furniture had become grey and mouldy and the once elegant stuffed settee in the drawing room was now home to several mice. The doors upstairs creaked as the wind gently rocked them backwards and forwards. In the attic a puddle formed from a small crack in the roof tiles, soon the wood floor would rot and the water would find its way to the lower floors. Still Charlotte waited.

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Over the following years several couples visited her home, but no-one had ever stayed longer than a few minutes. Downstairs the windows were boarded up putting the house in darkness, so Charlotte remained in the upstairs rooms looking from the windows, watching those unruly boys tearing apart her mother’s precious rose garden. The years passed, five, ten, she lost count as she roamed the corridors of her home. Then one bright and sunny day a car came up the drive. The young woman watched from her bedroom window as the same scrawny man she had seen many times left his car and walked towards the door, a bunch of keys jingling in his hand. How many times had he visited now, she had lost count. She straightened her back and moved nearer to the window to get a better view, this time he had brought along a young couple with two children, a boy and a girl; this was to be her first sighting of the Gardener family. They were coming into her house, she could hear the key turning and the door creaking as it was pushed open. She watched from the landing as they walked inside and she scrutinised the visitors. They looked an agreeable family, the woman looked pleasant enough, pretty, dressed smartly, friendly, perhaps they could become acquainted one day should they decide to stay. The man looked a cheerful sort, well dressed and often smiled at the woman by his side; he was attractive in a way but not as handsome as her fiancé Frederick. The children ran from room to room laughing as children do; she smiled as she watched them running in circles round their parents, playing a game of tag. Up the stairs they came and as they approached the landing she could feel her excitement mounting and giggled to herself. The children stopped in their tracks and looked around and then at each other.

“Did you hear that?” The little girl whispered.

The boy laughed. “Oh Sarah, it’s probably the wind,” and changing his voice taunted her, “or perhaps it’s a ghost.”

The girl pushed him in the chest. “Don’t be silly, there are no such things as ghosts.”

Charlotte smiled and watched the boy as he straddled the banister and slid down towards the others.

His mother watching from the bottom gasped. “Richard, do be careful.” At the bottom she grabbed his arm before he could run away and brushed at his trousers. “Just look at your clothes now, covered in dust and cobwebs.”

Sarah ran down the stairs and her father caught her in his arms as she leapt from the fourth step, he spun her round and they all laughed. Charlotte took in a deep breath, how wonderful to hear laughter again. She followed them from room to room as they wandered around the house, the man taking notes, the woman smiling and nodding, but all too soon they were leaving, she watched with sadness as the front door was pulled shut, putting the house in darkness once more.

Charlotte remained alone at Moorcroft reliving the past; still hoping Frederick would come and release her from this earthly turmoil. Weeks turned to months before she saw the first of the vans coming up the drive. The main door was pushed open and several men carried many boxes into the downstairs rooms. A tall distinguished gentleman with greying hair seemed to be in charge and gave instructions to the others. She was filled with excitement and followed them around, often colliding with the men who stood still and shivered. The boards were removed from the dining room windows and once more the room was filled with light. The head man looked around and nodded. Soon he had a fire lit and her father’s desk was brought from the study and placed by the window. The man sat in her fathers chair and unfolded a large roll of drawings and placed them on top of the desk. She looked over his shoulder. Here was a plan of her house, what was happening? The man shivered and pulled up the collar of his coat and Charlotte pulled back. He looked behind him, and studied the windows and reached out his hand feeling for draughts, he shrugged and returned his attention to the drawings. Several men congregated around the desk as the man pointed to the plans and soon they were scurrying from room to room eager to get on with their work. The house was once more a hive of activity.

Months passed with men coming and going and Charlotte became more excited as she followed them around. She became quite giddy and on several occasions knocked things over in her rush to see everything, alarming the workers at their labours. The roof was checked for leaks and repaired, and the carpenters moved in to fix all the windows and ease all the doors so that they would shut properly once more, the chimneys were swept and fires were lit in every room and soon the house was alive again. The kitchen range was cleaned and repaired, new cupboards were fitted and a new table and chairs were set against the wall. She moved around her home and watched the workmen as they sat and ate their lunch in the kitchen, admiring the new furnishings and only half listening to their conversation.

One man looked over his shoulder and shivered. “I for one will be glad when this job is finished; this house gives me the creeps.” He took another bite of his sandwich and looked at the others. His fellow workmen nodded.

“I know what you mean Fred. The number of times I’ve had tools moved just out of reach and doors banged behind me. Makes my skin crawl it does.”

He looked around the room and the others nodded muttering to themselves in whispers and looking over their shoulders.