The house came alive whilst Georgie slept.
Downstairs, the lights flickered as the key in the French doors turned. Upstairs, a shadowy figure stepped from the wall by the window and whispered into her ear, "Follow me. I have something to show you."
Georgie threw back her duvet and slipped out of bed. She followed the shadow along the landing, down the stairs, through the kitchen, and into the garden. The shadow stood beside the pond and pointed to the shovel by the orangery. And he waited.
Georgie's feet sank into the wet grass as the freezing sleet soaked her white cotton nightdress. Picking up the shovel, she walked to the patch of dead grass by the pond and slammed the shovel into the ground, pressing down with her bare foot.
She felt no pain as her blood trickled from the soles of her feet and the deeper she dug, the deeper the cuts.
Georgie discarded the shovel and dropped to her knees, clawing at the soil as if possessed, breaking her nails and slicing the tips of her fingers. She didn't stop, she couldn't stop until a slip of faded blue material poked up from the soil. The shock of her discovery knocked Georgie back on her heels, the gashes in her feet staining her nightdress red.
She turned to face the shadow, her cheeks damp with tears. "What is this?" she asked.
"This house is all wrong," the shadow said.
"I don't understand."
"You will," the shadow replied. "You are not crazy."
Georgie rose to her feet and returned to the house just before the sleet became snow.
*
When Georgie awoke her panic was quickly replaced by her confusion. She followed the trail of blood and mud down the stairs and into the kitchen where the French doors swung back and forth in the wind. And even though cuts covered her hands and feet, Georgie had no memory of being outside.
I am not crazy. This house is all wrong.
Georgie closed the French doors, turned the key, and limped up the stairs to the bathroom. She ran a bath, peeled off her ruined night dress, and, gingerly climbed into the warm water. Georgie's feet and hands stung as she cleaned the dirt from her wounds. All around her, the house creaked and groaned. She listened to the faint, rhythmic tapping that seemed to echo from every wall and door.
Tap... Tap... Tap...
"Please," she said. "Please, just stop."
And as if the house could sense her despair, the tapping stopped.
YOU ARE READING
111 West End
ParanormalBen Goldman is a successful estate agent with a keen eye for refurbishments. But when he buys the derelict, 111 West End, no one mentions its dark history or the local tales of its ghostly inhabitants. After extensive renovations, Ben develops an un...
