W B Aodh Gothic Ghost Stories

Secrets Unfold

Henry James pulled into the village of Lake Basswood. His marriage was broken. Over, and there was nothing he could do to save it. Lydia had moved on. She could no longer cope with his nightmares or his depression. That was the reason for his visit to the village. A village he left when he was sixteen, as soon as he was old enough.

As he glanced around at his surroundings, he wondered if anyone would remember him. Did they know about the secrets that had driven him away or did they think of him as the hooligan he once had been. The boy who had no control. He had not wanted to turn out like his father, and in some ways, he had not. But was that down to the one decision he had made when he was a teenager? When he left Lake Basswood, Henry had promised he would never be a father. He never wanted to be another Tim James.

Another mark against him, Lydia had said. She wanted children, and over the years the fights had intensified. It had hurt, but he had to let her go. Just as he had to let the past go before it destroyed him and his heart.

As Henry drove through the village, he passed and halted near the village’s oldest building. As a child he avoided the church, the graveyard where his mother, who he had never visited was buried, and the rumours.

Taught to hate her by his father, he blamed her for leaving him. If she had stayed, would his life have been different? Would it have been better? With one last glance at the graveyard, he continued with his journey.

The house looked the same. A terrace house in the middle of similar terrace houses in a deserted street. The red door freshly painted. The black window frames gleamed in the afternoon sun. Tim James was a tidy man. As the local schoolteacher appearances meant everything to him.

It’s seventeen years since Henry last saw this house. His fingers clenched around the steering wheel. The old man was still alive. Still living in that house. Henry glanced at the bedroom window, his father’s bedroom. Then he wondered if his old bedroom still looked the same. Had the old man kept a shrine to him, or had he got rid of his belongings?

Henry shook his head. Without having to go inside the house, he knew the answer. There would be no trace of him, just as there was no trace of his mother. That was who his father was. A perfectionist, but a violent man. Henry rolled his shoulder, his arm still ached at times from when his father broke it because he had dropped a glass. Henry gave the house one last look then switched the car engine on. The only way Tim James would find out about his son’s visit, would be if someone told him.

The next house Henry drew up in front of made him smile. The garden may be plain, absent of flowers and colours, but he had happy memories here. When he was a child, Sandy had only good things to say about his mother. She was his mother’s best friend. The only person Henry stayed in contact with after he left.

Sandy had agreed to visit the graveyard with him. He may be a man three plus decades old, but he could not face what needed to be done on his own.

“Henry, you’re early,” Sandy said as she opened the door. He noticed the slight changes. She was slightly plumper than when he last saw her, but her hair was still as red as a good burgundy wine.

“The traffic was light,” he said, stepping into the house as Sandy stepped away from the door.

“It’s good to see you, Henry. I’ll just go make tea.” Sandy’s gaze dropped to the overnight bag. “Is that all you’ve brought with you?”

Henry made his way to the lounge. A strange warmth flooded him as he gazed into the room. The sofa, a silver-grey two-seater, with a matching armchair was new. The old green velvet three piece had been replaced. The television was a large flat screen, gone was the bulky television he used to watch when he stayed with Sandy, which had been less often as he grew older and wilder.

“What I have to do won’t take more than a day,” he said.

“Shame, I was looking forward to your company for a few days.” Sandy gave Henry a hard look as she passed him his mug of tea. “You look tired, Henry. Maybe, I can persuade you to stay longer.”

“I never thought I would be back, Sandy. And I feel strange being here now.”

“Don’t let your father win. That’s what he’s been doing since you left. You ran from him.”

“It was that or kill him.” Henry took a long sip of his tea. The sweet, strong brew slid down his throat, warming his stomach. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” he said.

Sandy sat on the sofa. She did not look much older than Henry although there was twenty-four years between them. “Henry you are not your father. How many times do you need telling,” she said.

“What if I’m more like my mother?”

“She was leaving him, Henry. She had the strength to take you and leave him. It wouldn’t have been easy.” Sandy rose from the sofa and turned to the walnut sideboard. From inside one of the drawers, she withdrew a letter and passed it to Henry. “If you hadn’t left, I would have given you this sooner.” Sandy shook her head as she returned to her seat. “I know I could have and should have posted it. But I wanted to give it to you in person.”

Henry looked at Sandy. Sandy had not left her house in over twenty-years. “Are you sure you want to come with me?” he asked.

Sandy nodded. “We both have terrors we have to battle.” Her smile deepened. “And, I believe together, we can do this.”

Henry nodded. “I’ll read this later,” he said, staring at the letter; not recognizing the handwriting.

“You do that. It needs to be read in private. It’s from your mother. She wrote it while she was pregnant. When I discovered it amongst her belongings, I took it before your father found it and destroyed it.” Sandy gazed out of the window. Her smile weary. “I think she knew.”

“Do you think she stepped in front of the car on purpose?" Henry asked. He had been told she had. That she meant to kill him as well as herself.

“We’ll know in the morning. That’s when the villagers say you see her.”

Herny nodded. He had grown up with the rumours that his mother haunted the graveyard. But he had put it down to idle gossip. Now, to put his past to rest, he was going to find out the truth, and his stomach clenched.

The weather for early October was not constructive for early morning surveillance Henry thought as he and Sandy entered the graveyard. The air was damp from the morning mist. The sky cast the graveyard in shadows and the moonlight was faint. He rubbed his hands together as he followed Sandy.

Sandy stopped, her hand stretched out and touched him. She was shaking. She had been since they opened the door to her home. Their progress to the graveyard slow while Sandy’s breathing grew erratic. Henry had thought she was going to collapse but she had fought her battle to come this far, and Henry knew he could do the same.

“Shush. Look. Look at the church,” Sandy said. Her hand trembling as she gripped his arm.

Henry looked to where Sandy pointed. He blinked. The shadow skulking along the wall could be anyone. Then they looked at Henry, and the figure froze. Henry’s chest tightened as he watched.

With pursed lips, Connie blew through her closed teeth as she rocked the baby. Her hand cupped the tiny head hidden in the old blanket whilst the other clutched at the baby’s bottom. As the child continued to whimper against her breast, Connie held her breath. The slightest creak of a twig snapping, or the crunch of gravel had her glancing over her shoulder. He said he would be here by six, it’s now five past. Connie searched the deserted path, her shoulders drooping when there was no sign of him.

A dog barked, and the hinge of a gate creaked as it opened. Connie stepped back into the shadows. It was John Sparrow, walking with his dog. If he saw her, he would stop for a chat. To evade him, she leant further against the wall. With a tail that wagged, the dog ran as he yapped.

Connie closed her eyes. Her breath caught in her throat. She opened her eyes. She was about to release the air from her lungs when the dog stopped. His ears picked up, and his head swivelled from right to left. He sniffed the air. Then he ran off again, not stopping until he reached the church doors. His nose pushed against Terrance Dobbs; the village drunk as he lay prone on the ground.

The crunch of gravel brought her gaze back to the path, and she watched John Sparrow hobble past. His gait slow as he used the walking stick. He stopped just in front of her. His head tilted as he listened to the wind. The baby stirred, and Connie pushed her deeper into her breast. The dog yapped again, and John Sparrow’s gaze followed the sound. To see why his dog fussed. When he saw nothing, with a shuffle and a grunt, he was on his way again.

When he was a little away from her, Connie turned the other way. With her body pressed up against the wall, she shuffled along the grass verge. A twig snapped and she waited to be noticed. John Sparrow, and the dog were too occupied with the drunk to notice.

Seeing they had no interest in her; Connie continued until she reached the edge of the church. Once more she glanced into the distance. The moon had broken through the clouds. No longer did she have the shadows of dawn to hide behind. Now she would have to use the trees until her ride arrived.

The dog yapped again; Connie turned to look. Her sigh heavy as John Sparrow, and his dog wandered further down the path. Terrance never moved. As Connie looked towards the gate at the far end of the path, a bird tweeted as it called out for a chat. From above her head, the blackbird lunged low, something on the ground caught its beady little eye. With one last cry, it swooped down. Its beak pecked, and prodded at the ground, pulling at a juicy worm.

Silence filled the air, and Connie strained her ears. In the distance, she heard the low throb of an engine echo through the air. As close to the gate as she was, she continued to use the trees to hide behind. The child was silent. She took a peep. Though she was warm, her eyes were closed, and Connie lowered her head. There it was the gentle breath. She was still alive. The car was close. It was red, she knew this car.

Her gaze flashed around the church yard. As the silence remained, she stepped forward, opened the gate, and waited as she checked the street. It was deserted, too early to be busy with the inhabitants of Lake Basswood. The car was closer. She did not wait for it to stop as she stepped in front of it.

Henry blinked. He had spent most of the night awake. After leaving Sandy, he had read the letter from his mother. She had loved him. She had made plans for a new future for them. A future denied them by the man that reached out to grab her. Startling her as she clutched the baby tighter. Protecting it in a ball as she fell to the ground. Her death and his sister’s had been an accident, but he could never forgive his father. His father had lied to him.

Henry turned to Sandy and smiled. “I’ll stay a few days longer. To put my past to rest, I need to face him, Sandy. I’ll not let him continue to think I’m scared of him.” His smile deepened. “I’m not my father. My marriage is over. This won’t fix that. But I can move forward.”

©W B Aodh 2024

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