The Ghostly Past

Chapter 2

Running with a suitcase is hard. One would think they would just roll merrily along but they have minds of their own, gathering momentum and clipping the backs of heels. Clara's suitcase kept trying to go off at an angle every time she hit a crack in the pavement. With the backpack hampering her arms, she hadn't gotten very far by the time the man returned, despite being out of sight.

She heard him curse. "Damn, where's she run off to?" He sounded angry, and she was all the more grateful for having fled, just in case he was a psychopath.

She could almost sense him looking around for her, and ducked, crouching behind a craggy stone wall. Adrenaline was pumping in her veins, leaving her tingly and breathless. Was she afraid of him, or of whoever had been stalking her before?

Nevertheless, she stayed put until she heard the car engine restart and growl away.

It took a few minutes to orient herself in the dark, but she finally got the app up and running and headed back off on her walk, considerably more unsettled.

About fifteen minutes later, she was standing at the bottom of Hyacinth Lane, tired and sore and grumpy. It was a street that meandered uphill, curving around, flanked by fields and scattered trees. She could hear a dog barking somewhere, a light glowing in someone's back garden.

The street lights were odd in this village, she decided, bright but flickering constantly, as if some malevolent force was conspiring to put them out.

Clara made slow progress up the road, walking in the middle of it. There was nothing to fear from traffic here, apparently. She used her phone torch to find the house number: number seven. It was a ramshackle cottage of grey stone, set behind a neat garden of flowers. There was a blue car on the drive, and an oddly familiar silver one parked in front of it.

Clara groaned.

Why had she told him where she was going? And how did he know? It wasn't like she'd told him the actual address, just the name of her landlady. Apparently it was one of those villages, where everyone knew everyone.

Bracing herself, she dragged her case up the driveway. There was light behind the curtains in the front room and the window was slightly open, voices floating out to meet her.

"If she's not here in five minutes, I'm going back out to search." She heard the man from earlier. "It's not safe out there, not now that..."

"You would know better than I, Maximilian dear." A motherly voice said.

"How would I?" He retorted. "You've lived through it before."

"Yes." Her voice turned steely. "Several times. You should have dragged her out of the night if you had to."

"She was terrified of me! And she wouldn't have understood."

"They never do." There was regret in her voice. "I should have been there. I was sure that she was arriving tomorrow. And you know I always turn my phone off at night."

"I keep telling you Margaret, I can put it on silent for you."

"And what use is that?" She retorted. "I'll try calling her again."

Clara, whose phone was indeed on silent, registered that she'd had two missed calls while roaming around. I'd better knock, she thought and rapped on the door.

She heard someone shuffling along and then a bolt sliding open before the door creaked open. An old lady stood there, in a fluffy blue dressing gown fastened tight over her nightshirt and a pair of sturdy slippers. Her silver hair floated in a cloud around her head, and though lined and pitted with age, her face retained a youthful energy and humour. "And here she is." The lady said. "Safe and sound at last. I'm Margaret Barker, your landlady."

"Clara Fitzroy." She replied, "it's a pleasure."

"It sounds like you've had a rough journey." Mrs Barker continued. "Maximilian, come and help my lodger with her bags. What kind of gentleman are you?"

Clara heard a sigh as the man from earlier appeared at the door. "May I take your bags?" He said simply, though he looked relieved to see her.

"Thank you. They're not so heavy. I tried not to pack as much sheet music as I wanted. I figured the school would have a good library." Shut up! She told herself, stop babbling. His presence made her so nervous.

"They're fine." He lifted them with ease into the house, taking them through a door as Mrs Barker led her into the lounge.

It was bright and quaint, meeting expectations of a country home, the carpet was green with tiny white flowers, the walls pale, painting of flowers upon them and fresh flowers in scattered vases. The television was small and there was a record player with a stack of eclectic music beside it. The rug was thickly embroidered and the cushion covers appeared handmade.

"Have a seat dear, I'll make some tea. How do you take it?"

"Milk, no sugar please." Clara answered. The whole situation seemed surreal as the man reappeared, taking a seat in the armchair. He seemed too big for the tiny house.

"Can we start again please?" He asked her, his eyes roving over her face with a scrutiny that surprised her. At home, men didn't look at her like that. "I'm Max Henderson. I'm a perfectly ordinary guy, who just happened to be worried about a girl walking alone at night. I'm a chef, and not a serial killer." He smiled and it lit up his face.

"I'm Clara Fitzroy. Sorry for running away, it's just I'd already seen the weird guy in the robe and it really got to me. He just kept coming and..." she shuddered. "He must have run off when he saw your car."

"Yeah." Max said, after a pause. "I don't know who he could be, but it pays not to go out at night."

"Thank you." She said more softly, "For making sure I got here safely."

"Oh." He looked uncomfortable at the praise. "No problem."

"I'm a musician. I'm here to work at the Cantabile Academy. It's a junior role, but it's an amazing opportunity so I sort of dropped everything and moved. I'm not usually very spontaneous so this is a big deal for me."

"It's a great place." He answered, seeming to relax a little. "I go to some of the concerts on occasion. I know some of the staff. You'll find everyone knows everyone in Gloomsdale."

"Yeah about that...what's up with the name?"

Max shrugged. "Wait until it rains. Then you'll understand." There was a slightly teasing smile on his lips. He could only be a few years older than her.

Okay, she admitted to herself, he wasn't so bad after all.

"There we go." Mrs Barker breezed in with three mugs on a tray. Clara warmed her hands on the cup, sipping her tea. "I'm so sorry that I wasn't there to meet you."

"That alright." She replied politely. "No harm done."

"I'm glad that you're here. The other bedroom has been going to waste for too long and my children are long since grown and moved away. I've moved the piano in there for you. It's just an upright but I keep it tuned and you can use it as much as you like for practice. I don't play anymore." A sad look crossed her face as she looked down at hands ruined by arthritis. "Still, I'll be a pleasure to hear you."

"I'd better go." Max swallowed his tea in about three gulps.

"You be careful, Max." Mrs Barker raised an eyebrow. "Get home as soon as you can."

"I will." He promised her, and then smiled at Clara. "Sorry again for the misunderstanding. I'm sure I'll see you around the village."

She stared at the door he'd disappeared through.

"He's a handsome young man." Mrs Barker said, as if picking up on her thoughts, "And a sweet one. He has it hard."

"How so?" Clara asked, frowning, "he seems very intense."

"Yes he is." She paused. "Forget I said anything. It's none of my business anyway." She rose, "Right dear, I'm going back to my bed. I will see you in the morning."

"Goodnight." Clara said. How strange. Every other sentence in this village seemed to allude to cryptic secrets. It piqued her curiosity. What a strange conversation she had overheard on her arrival too. What was everyone so afraid of at night?