Old-Fashioned, or Another Story With Ghosts

Chapter 1. The manor's gate is opened for the guest, the owner, and the party

***

"Shite..."
The puffed sports bag landed on the parquet floor covered by the old carpet. Judging by the cloud of dust in the air the next second, the carpet was not old but ancient. The newly arrived visitor looked up at a spacious room staring from Woman In Black and rolled his eyes. "Ok. Maybe, just fuck."

His heavy Scottish accent seemed absolutely inappropriate at this kind of venue.

Actually, 'inappropriate' was the very first impression half an hour ago, when a taxi stopped near the gates in the highly Instagrammable fence and the driver informed they had reached the destination point. The passenger checked the app and had to admit that was true. Although he was sure he hadn't typed in the destination box "the middle of nowhere at the Baskerville Manor".

Under the driver's heavy gaze, he crawled out of the car, and dragged the huge professional cosmetic case from the boot. He wondered what made the old goat most mad - his luggage, bleached hair, or accent.

's darn tough to smile and wave to the leaving car instead of showing the middle finger. A village dumbass.

It was beautiful around there, though. Good enough for some photos and a short Instagram story with the added pumpkin gif and a funny ghost gif. Something was wrong with the placement tag, and after a couple of attempts, he just typed in "the haunted manor" and inhaled the country air.

Much better than London. Much colder, too. Good he's a smart one and took a hat.

Autumn moors were making an outstanding landscape under the soft sunlight. In fact, it was a living classical English painting from the ancient time when fine artists really were making fine art during long hours with an easel and paints. Here and now, you could get why somebody would choose to get married on All Saints Day in the distant manor with the tourist-guide-approved haunting history.
The world's full of weirdos, aye.

T's great some of them had money and wished to spend them for extravagant weddings. Gives job for poor normal souls.

The gate had a monogram in the middle of them, J and B decorated with the oak leaves. The lad chuckled and made an untalented selfie with the monogram on the background. His bright Peruvian hat with long knitted laces kicked down the poshness till the bearable degree. He dropped the smartphone in the pocket and started looking for the doorbell. Videophone. Anything to enter the freaking manor.

When nothing was found, he pulled the gate's enormous handle hoping for the best. Some fancy tech, for example, allowing the iron bulk open like a feather.

No way. The gate stood still, old-fashioned manor gates. Somewhat rusty.

Shite.

He tried to climb them. Then, he tried to climb the fence. Bramble branches prevented success.

He kicked the gate. Nothing.

He hissed some really bad words quietly and pulled the phone out again. It was tough to phone their wedding planner to tell he was not able even to enter the venue, but the wind started getting cold and someone howled in the distance. The wedding planner was his ma's college mate, and that was the nine out of ten reasons he got the job. Or so he was reminded.

No answer. The fucker was not answering the call. And the second, and the third one.
The Peruvian Hat growled and wanted to kick his case on the ground. Remembered about the equipment and instead kicked the gate one more time, just to hiss again jumping on one foot and promising himself to buy thick sneakers next time.
Something rustled behind his back.

The Peruvian Hat forgot about pain turning out to find the source of a rustle. A fox, or a mice. Or a Baskerville hound.
Nothing. Only the moors bathed in the sunshine.
The rustle repeated, this time right behind his shoulder.
The young man shook and jerked off hitting upon the gate with his back, right under the monogram.

The gate opened.
The Peruvian Hat's mouth opened. It took some time to close it again.
"Ye dafty. Try push next time." He glances at the wide gravy road running among the trees towards the manor. "And hope they don't have CCTV here."

The shabby cosmetic case's wheels were the only thing rustling upon the gravy when he dragged it behind the fence.

***

Lord James Blacke, the seventh duke of Iverness, was believed to be man of his word. Once given, his word was solemnly engraved into the matter of his world, until it was ought to kept. Who would know this highly respectable trait would play such an evil joke on his own destiny?

It was the word he has given, that kept him wondering the mists thoughtlessly now, trying to find a way out. Trying to find any way. He was sure it was near, something he was looking for, but he had had no image of what was that. Or the word he has given, or who the word was given to. It was the mist, it blurred the mind, probably. But the word must be kept if given, mustn't it? Mustn't it? It must be the mist. The fog.

The clock struck in the green study.

James Blacke, the eleventh Duke of Iverness, rubbed his temples tiredly, reading through the received... post. Attorneys still used it, didn't they? Lawson and Jenkins, who worked with Blacke family since Mary of Scots never mailed, only posted. It appeared his great grand uncle David had passed and he was now the only heir of the Iverness Manor. Grand uncle David Keith had gotten the place into his ownership after his father, and his father - after his father, and so on, right till a couple of centuries ago when the house had belonged to the main branch of Blacke family.

His mother was telling him stories about the moors, winds, and ghosts. The same stories she was told by her parents, and so on. She believed one day the manor would return to the family, because it was 'Lord Blacke's word, and he always kept his word'.

James, according to his grandmother, was very much like the long gone Lord Blacke. Being a romantic and an artist, she saw it as a prophesy. He missed him mother dearly.

He never could guess uncle David had no legitimate heirs aside from James.

Long time ago, he gave his mother a word he would not abandon the family house. And he was a Blacke, right? He could not fail to keep the word, even if he was six years old giving it.

What a fascinating thing a fate was.

He wrote to the lawyers back and informed he would come at the weekend to see the property. Then took the iPad and googled the venue.
He brows rose high while he was scrolling through adverts and prices for renting the "true haunted manor with ghosts for your special event, discounts during week days".

The old clock in his study stroke.

James opened the app and chose the railway ticket from King Cross for the morning. It was Thursday, so tickets were easily available.

They offered discounts for weekdays, didn't they?

***