Ghosts of our Past

The Final Chapter

My job continued without incident for the next month. I was kept occupied and never mentioned my experiences to Mr Hartley. That was until Mr Hartley called me into his office on December 23rd. I went immediately, knowing not to get on the wrong side of my boss.

"Thomas," he started, "I think you'd best sit down." I was, naturally, put off by his direct and sincere manner, but sat down anyway. Mr Hartley didn't wait for any response before he continued, "You must remember your job in Crowling Ground, Thomas. You never gave me the notes you said you'd take. You will have noticed that I raised your pay anyway. But now I would like those notes. Strange things have been reported in the town.

"Whilst you were there, I recall, you delivered to a church." I nodded but Mr Hartley took no notice. "There is going to be a burial there and I want some details about the place.

"Yes, Sir," I responded but doubted my ability to provide him with those details.

"The burial is of a lady named Miss Rose Bailey. I believe she lived in the village and married in the church there. For some reason, her will was recently changed to show her maiden name instead of her married name, which I believe she shared with you." I stood up immediately in shock and protest.

"Mr Hartley, I'm afraid I must leave," and I ran from the room. I ran from the building, straight home, which was fortunately just down the road. Catherine, my beloved fiancee spotted me as I flew straight through the door and up the stairs. She didn't follow. Nor did she come the next day when I still hadn't surfaced. Only she could tell how much I needed the space.

Only on Christmas Day did she knock on the door and whisper, "Merry Christmas, Thomas." I unlocked the door and embraced her before beginning to cry.

"Look, Thomas, something's happened to you. I know it's hard but we must move on." Only she could persuade me to do such a thing. "Come downstairs and let us enjoy Christmas."

Catherine trod carefully with her words, but didn't question or pry. She simply led me down the stairs to a chair by the fire, handing me two letters which had lain previously untouched on the mat.

I slipped my finger under the envelope top and reluctantly pulled the letter out. I read it and read it again, uncomprehending. It was from Mr Hartley:

Mr Thomas Kennedy

I am sorry to report that we do not expect to see you at the publishing works again. Your behaviour in the past couple of days has been unacceptable.

Once again, my sincerest appologies,

Mr Hartley

I said nothing to Catherine, just handed her the letter. She didn't respond but let a hand fall to my shoulder.

I took the next letter from my lap, praying whole-heartedly for a nicer message, but fate was against me once again. I tore off the top of the envelope and read the dreadful news. The calligraphy print simply read that a service was to be held in the town of Crowling Ground for the life of my mother, Rose Bailey, with sincere condolences. Neither I nor Catherine spoke.

And that was the Christmas on 1794.