The Haunting of Pear Tree Cottage

THE HAUNTING OF PEAR TREE COTTAGE

The house looked different from when I saw it for the first time just a few months before, its appearance now dark and empty, and its windows like creepy blind eyes. The scrubby grass in the pocket-sized garden was infested with weeds, mainly dandelions shining bright yellow. All the flowers had died back into the earth and, because of autumn, leaves of blazing orange, red, and crimson skittered and twisted into crispy piles on the ground. I hoisted the first of many suitcases from the boot of my car and, pushing open the gate with a foot, trundled it noisily up the garden path.

I noticed the name of the house, “Pear Tree Cottage,” the letters old now and faded, the sign coming loose from the wall. Glancing at the garden, I wondered where the pear tree was. There didn’t seem to be one now, but surely there would have been many years before. A face appeared fleetingly at next door’s window, making me jump, a pale oval that stared hard with narrowed eyes as, with a shaking hand, I fished the key from my pocket and unlocked the door.

Stepping into the hallway, a fetid musty smell hit me mingled with a sooty odor, totally at odds with the fresh salty breeze that blew outside from the tumbling Whitby Sea. Panic gripped me hard, like a hand around my throat as I realized how far away I was from Leeming in West Yorkshire, the village where I was born and where I’d lived until now, for the first twenty-eight years of my life.

The estate agent, Mr Bright, had gone over and above by lighting a fire in the sitting room’s beautiful cast iron fireplace, which was still smoldering bright red, yet the rest of the house felt cold. I found the boiler hidden in a cupboard in the long narrow galley kitchen, which sprung to life at the touch of a button, orange light glowing, a comforting hum keeping me company in the oppressive silence of the house. Peering from the window, I saw a small yard at the back surrounded by a high brick wall, empty but for the bins lined up in a row—green, brown, and blue.

Keeping my long leather coat wrapped firmly around me, I wandered from room to room, taking it all in, planning what I would put in each one. The bedroom was cozy and had built in wardrobes occupying one whole side, with cream painted doors and deep latches. The ceiling was low and crisscrossed with thick dark beams, and the walls were rough and misshapen as a bag of broken biscuits.

I stood at the window, the radiator warm now through my jeans, and looked down onto the front garden, the brown of the path zigzagging crazily through the green of the tufty grass. Looking straight ahead over the pitched roofs of neighboring houses, the thin brown line of the sea and the sand were clearly visible, and a tang of salt, inching in through the ill-fitting window, filled the room like a fog. The filmy white shapes of seagulls fluttered in the sky, their plaintive cries both sad and eerie, sending shivers running down my spine.

Downstairs I noticed a mirror hanging over the fireplace, a pretty one, oval shaped with a thin gold band etched around the edge. Obviously it must have belonged to the lady who lived here before. I gazed at myself, noticing that my face, almost devoid of makeup, just a slick of lipstick and smudged eyeliner, looked tired, and there were deep black pouches like shopping bags beneath my eyes. If only this was Snow White’s mirror and it could turn me into a beauty.

A sudden movement caught my eye, and I saw something black in the corner of the mirror, something that had a face, a blurry face I could barely see—something that was staring at me. My heart pounding away in my breast, tentatively I put out a finger to rub it away as if it was just a grubby mark, but I pulled back, scared of what I might touch. I looked over my shoulder but there was nothing there, yet the air felt cold and clammy, and a chill ran through me. My hand shaking, I flicked on the overhead light and did a tour of the room, checking carefully in the corners, looking for a black hooded figure, but there was definitely nothing there. I took another sneaky peek in the glass, my heart pounding hard, but there was nothing. It was gone.

I laughed to myself, thinking it must be my imagination, or stress, perhaps. I’d moved here today, to this lovely little terraced cottage in Whitby, which was old—well, ancient really—and brimming with history. Speaking of history, I’d come all the way from West Yorkshire, a little village called Leeming in Oxenhope, which had two historic claims to fame. The first being that it was close to Haworth, the home of the Bronte sisters and their books, Jane Eyre, and Wuthering Heights and many more. The other claim to fame? The pretty little train station at Oakworth, a stone’s throw from Haworth, the name of the station “Oakworth” spelt out in white stones on the grass—and the classic film, The Railway Children.

From the window of the rented house I’d shared with my boyfriend, Stuart, I’d been able to see the reservoir at Leeming. I loved to watch sparks of yellow sunshine glinting on its flat mirrored surface, and see the water as it froze and floated in clumps like tiny icebergs amongst the swans, ducks, and irritable honking geese. We used to climb the rutted stony paths to the Dog & Gun Inn or walk to Oxenhope Village, where we’d sit in the park and eat fish and chips laced with salt and vinegar and wrapped in rustling paper.

Stuart and I had had six more or less happy years before Anna came on the scene. Tall, willowy Anna, who beguiled him with her long black hair and eyes dark and glistening as sloes. She was so unlike me. Where she was so dark, I was short and curvy with blue eyes, and my hair was blonde and hung loose to my shoulders, curly as a cherub’s. Stuart’s hair was dark too, with dark eyes just like hers, and he had a natural year round tan from working outside on his mum and dad’s farm.

There was barely enough time for my side of the bed to cool before she moved in and took my place. I’d had to go back to my childhood home with my mum who, while generally quite supportive, allowed me to stay purely, I think, for the rent she knew I could afford from my job as a legal PA in a solicitor’s office in Keighley. I tried, I really did, to carry on living in Leeming, but it was so hard bumping into Stuart and Anna and watching them doing exactly the same things he and I used to do. Needless to say, men were now a thing of the past. It doesn’t matter who it might be. It could be, I don’t know—Lenny Kravitz! He could come and live next door and I wouldn’t bat an eyelid.

At a very low ebb and not knowing what to do, call it providence or fate, but one miserable weekend wasting time in the local library idly flicking through a national newspaper, I saw the job that was to become mine. It was a tiny advert, just a square in the corner of the page, an advert I almost missed. Wigglesworth & Horner, a firm of solicitors in Whitby, were looking for a legal PA.

Whitby brought back happy childhood memories of sunny seaside holidays, building sandcastles on the sandy beach, and swimming in the sea. I was sure I could settle there. And then, another quirk of fate—the house. The house that is now mine, situated in, would you believe it, Whitby. The house that was going cheap because it needed modernization and had been standing empty for such a long time. The house that was owned by our next door neighbor’s aunt, who had moved all the way up to Scotland. Everything fell into place, the job and the house, as if it was all meant to be.

And so here I was with a whole week before I started my new job. A whole week to set my new house in order and acquaint myself with Whitby. The kettle had been found and the coffee brewed, strong and thick and black, the odor wreathing around the rooms like smoke, transforming the house into a home—my home.

***

I awoke with a start, my heart chugging along like a steam train pulling in at Oakworth station. The duvet had slithered away and was lying on the floor, a ghostly white mound in the darkened bedroom. Grabbing hold of it, I hoisted it back up and wrapped it around my shivering body as, gradually, my eyes became accustomed to the dim. A sudden bright light fell through the un-curtained window, blinding as an eighty watt bulb, and the great globe of the moon swam into view, staring in at me with its cold blank face.

Tiny pattering footsteps sounded on the stone stairs, making the hairs rise on the back of my neck. I couldn’t move—I could barely breathe. I was paralyzed except for my heart beating fast as a pulse right up into my throat. Was this house haunted? My mind went back to the black shape I thought I’d seen in the mirror, the hooded apparition I was so sure had been there, and the chill in the sitting room even though the fire was blazing and the central heating on. Had it scared me more than I cared to admit and paved the way for this a ghostly experience?

The moon disappeared from the window, throwing the room into darkness as slowly, cautiously, clutching the duvet around me for protection, I got up from the bed and, going to the door, put my ear close and listened. All I could hear at first was my own panicked breathing. But then came a tiny scratching like mice or rats, a little cry like a mew, and a pattering like fingernails against the other side of the door. My hand shaking, I carefully lifted the latch and slowly drew the door open, not knowing what to expect, dreading what would come through the gaping dark hole of the doorway.

A black shape flew into the room hissing and spitting, and running in demented circles. It seemed to bounce around the walls as if it were flying, claws outstretched. I ducked, my arms over my head. Oh my God! Was it a bat? Was it Dracula? The moon showed its eerie blank face again, lighting up the room so I could see what this hideous creature was. And, it was a cat! A cat? I moved nearer to the black fluffy creature. It didn’t move, didn’t even back away, but just looked at me nonchalantly with eyes that shone bright as orange topaz. It leapt like a mini athlete onto the bed and began to wash itself casually with its tiny rough tongue.

“Who are you?” I asked, backing away slightly and pulling the duvet closer to my body. “How did you get in?”

“Meow,” it replied, and then carried on washing, its tongue very pink amongst the black fur, moving its head from side to side so I caught a glint of silver. Hanging from its red collar was a name tag. Moses it said on the little silver disc. That’s all. Just its name, Moses. Hadn’t Mum’s neighbor said that her aunt had a cat she was taking with her? Had Moses travelled all the way from Scotland to come back home?

I peered at the disc again but could see no phone number or address. Moses, finished now with his washing, curled up into a tight black ball and shut his eyes. Still wrapped in the duvet, I followed suit and laid wearily on the bed, my head aching from the shock of my otherworldly encounter. The moon had gone from the window and rode high in the sky, shrunken to the size of a pin hole, leaving the bedroom in darkness. So to the sound of the cat’s soothing purr, I promptly fell asleep, my last thoughts that I must get in touch with Mum so she could tell her neighbor’s aunt where I suspected her cat had gone.

***

The offices of Wigglesworth & Horner solicitors were situated on the busy High Street in the center of Whitby, surrounded on both sides by bustling shops. A baker’s, The Three Ovens, from which the tantalizing smell of hot pasties wafted on the breeze, was on one side, and a shoe repairer’s called Mend Your Sole on the other—what a name! Nervous yet dressed to the nines, if I may say so myself, I arrived for work on my first day.

I wore a smart black trouser suit teamed with a blouse, discreet jewelry, and a slick of red lipstick, not only to match the blouse but to brighten up my somewhat pale washed out face that, however hard I tried, I couldn’t do anything about at the moment. My coat, long and black, I shrugged off in the doorway and carried hooked over my arm like the drooping neck of a swan.

A huddle of men deep in conversation was standing in the lobby as I walked in, leaving a fresh and clear but bitingly cold frosty day behind me. If I remembered rightly the reception was on this floor, the ground floor, through a door to the left of where the men were standing. The practice occupied the whole building, the first and second floors, where all the offices were situated.

One of the men I recognized straight away as Mr Wigglesworth, the savior who had offered me the job. The other I had never seen before, but supposed to be Mr. Horner, a sharp faced skinny weasel of a man. And the other— Well, the other was quite surprising, absolutely nothing like a man you would expect to see in Whitby on a Monday morning in October. But rather like he should be riding a horse in Texas with a band of cowboys, or hobnobbing in the hot desert with Clint Eastwood and a giant cactus.

He was tall and broad chested, extraordinarily handsome, with high cheekbones and piercing green eyes. Yes I know, it’s just like a description of a hero in a romantic story, but it’s not an exaggeration—I swear! He wore a black suit with a white shirt, and a tie that hung slightly loose so that just a slice of chest was visible to my prying eye. His smart shiny black shoes had long pointed toes, and he carried a briefcase as well as—hmm, now this could be a big mistake—a rather loud grey and yellow checked overcoat draped over one arm.

Now this was where it got really weird. He wore a Stetson—a Stetson hat! A real cowboy Stetson hat, which he took off and held to his chest so I was able to see his blond Robert Redford hairstyle in all its glory as I approached them. At this action, Mr. Wigglesworth turned and, catching sight of me, inclined his head and said, “Ah, Miss Lewis, good morning. How are you? Had a good move, I hope?”

“Yes, very good, thank you.” I nodded and held out my hand, which he shook vigorously.

He gave the two other men a brief two finger salute at his temple and then turned to me. “Come, come,” he said, indicating with his head.

I followed his narrow figure up a broad sweeping staircase to the first floor, where he showed me straight into his office, the room, I recognized straight away, where I’d been interviewed. A ginger and white cat lay huddled in a ball on the window seat, bringing to mind my encounter the previous week with the fluffy black Moses, who now appeared to be my cat, as Mum’s neighbor’s aunt had denied all knowledge of him. So where my feline friend had come from I had no idea. Maybe he was some kind of ghost, a phantom, or merely a part of my otherworldly experience in the mirror.

“Tom, our office cat,” Mr. Wigglesworth informed me gravely, making a sweeping gesture with an open hand, and then took a seat behind his desk as I sat down opposite him. His desk was neat and tidy, with just an open laptop and a pile of papers marring the shiny black surface. The room was large and airy, with plenty of light coming through the two arched windows that looked out onto all the comings and goings of the busy High Street.

“Now then, Miss Lewis—”

“Please,” I said. “As we’re going to be working together, you can call me Chrissie.”

“Hmm, yes, that’s very kind of you. But—” He gazed up straight into my face. “There’s been a change of plan.”

“A change of plan?” I asked him, sitting forward in my seat and clutching my bag hard on my lap. I had an awful feeling he was going to say I didn’t have a job now. That after my interview, after the terrible mistake they’d made at offering me the job, they’d had second thoughts and decided not to take me on. What else could it be? I’d have to sell the house—go back to Leeming, to the gossip and the snide glances, to watching Stuart canoodling with Anna. I didn’t think I could face that, not after everything I’d been through.

“Yes,” He gazed at me apologetically. “Due to a change in my personal circumstances, I will be taking a six month’s leave of absence from Wigglesworth & Horner almost immediately.”

Just for a split second I thought Mr. Wigglesworth was going to confide in me and tell me the reason for his impending disappearance, but he didn’t say anything and the moment was lost. But nevertheless, my heart rose at those words. Mr. Wigglesworth was leaving, only for a while though, and not me!

“Leaving?” I asked. “Oh dear. So, what about me?”

“You, my dear Miss Lewis, will have a different boss, a temporary boss, I should say.” He gave me such a charming grin, his face looking so young and boyish, that I had serious misgivings about him leaving and being replaced by somebody else.

“Who?” I asked, a frown creasing my forehead.

“His name,” he said, rather importantly I thought, “Is Richard Curtis.”

The cat suddenly stood up and, arching its back, jumped onto Mr. Wigglesworth’s desk, laid itself out long and thin, and began to purr deep down inside its throat, as if it were a motor-controlled toy.

“Oh.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Excitedly he sat forward, his forearms resting on the desk right next to the cat, who didn’t move a whisker but carried on with his deep throbbing purr. “He’s just arrived from America. Arizona, in fact. He works as a probate lawyer in a firm called Mowlam & Murray in Tucson.”

“Oh,” I repeated. I didn’t like to say, “Oh, you mean the man who wears a Stetson hat?” After all, just because somebody wears a Stetson hat it doesn’t necessarily mean they come from Arizona, does it? Mr. Curtis could well be the other man, the sharp featured one who I suspected was Mr. Horner.

“I’m sure, dear Miss Lewis—”

“Chrissie,” I told him.

“Chrissie.” He nodded his head slightly in acquiescence. “That you and Mr. Curtis will work admirably together. He’s an excellent solicitor—well, lawyer, as they say in America—and knows so much about the probate side of things. And I am absolutely sure he will make a very good boss. What do they say? Kind but fair.”

I nodded again. I really was beginning to think I was morphing into one of those nodding Churchill dogs that people like to put in the back of their cars.

“Now then, I’ll call him in so you can introduce yourselves.” He made to rise from his chair, but was stopped by a sudden tap at the door. “Come in,” said Mr. Wigglesworth with a frown, glancing over his shoulder.

The door swung open and the man wearing the Stetson hat stood there, a looming dark shape, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. The Stetson was gone, no doubt hanging on a coat stand somewhere, along with his loud checked overcoat. But his hands cradled his hips as if he really was in the Wild West and wearing a holster from which he could spring a gun at any moment.

“Ah, Mr. Curtis, do come in. I was just about to fetch you to meet Miss Lewis, your brand new personal assistant.”

“Well hello there, Miss Lewis,” he said in a deep, reverberating drawl. “I’m mighty pleased to meet you.” A feeling of total warmth enveloped my body as he grabbed my hand with both of his and shook it hard.

Taking deep breaths to try to stop myself from shaking—I just hadn’t prepared myself for the sheer force and well, size of him and his personality—I rose unsteadily to my feet and said, “It’s good to meet you too, Mr. Curtis.”

“Richard,” he said with a smile, and I couldn’t help but notice the lovely little wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. “Or maybe Rick. I really don’t mind.”

“Chrissie,” I said with a tremor in my voice that surely he must notice. His eyes, grassy green flecked with pieces of flickering gold, stared into mine for what seemed like ages, aeons, until with a will of iron I pulled my gaze away.

“Well then,” said Mr. Wigglesworth, clapping his hands together with satisfaction. “That’s settled then.”

We all nodded around at each other and agreed that yes, it was.