The Ghost of Twyford Lodge Part I

                       The Ghost of Twyford Lodge


  James McCormick shut off the ignition of his BMW 3 series and peered through the rain pelted windshield. The striking Victorian Gothic architecture of Twyford Lodge never failed to impress him; a solitary turret broke through the slate roof like a stone bean stalk, dominating the dusk skyline, while arched, stained-glass windows gave it the appearance of an eccentric church. A weather vane of a witch riding a broom-stick spun furiously atop the pointed turret roof.

  Clicking his neck into place, James reached behind him and grabbed a bulging sports bag from the back seat. A flash of lightening lit the sky and the gargoyle gutter spouts grinned menacingly before falling into shadow. “One, two, three...” He counted the seconds. Thunder exploded all around and he looked across to the line of poplars that battled against the rising gale, swaying like drunken giants.

  A sudden vibration distracted him. ‘Aunty Zahra,’ the luminous phone display glowed. He flipped open the phone, “Hello Aunty, how are you? ... Ok, ok, yeah I just pulled up actually, this minute, there’s a terrible storm blowing...yeah...ok, ok...ahh, I hope it won’t delay your flight Aunty...ok...yes note in the kitchen..ok, ok...thanks a lot Aunty, you and Uncle have a great trip now, no need to worry. Bring me back something Russian!... ok, you too, take care now.” He pocketed the phone into his swish leather jacket along with a packet of unopened George V cigars he retrieved from the glove compartment.

  A thud hit the passenger window and James leapt back in fright. “Jesus Christ,” he grabbed his chest in shock, before laughing at his reaction. “Bloody hell...” He opened the door as the Alsatian bounded over, gravel crunching under its great paws. Leaping up at the newcomer, James greeted the pet like an old friend, “Hello Billy! How are you,” he ruffled its soaking head with his free hand. “How are you boy? Ay? Ay? Been chasing rabbits have you? Ay? Come on. Come on.” James sprinted across to the sheltered porch as gel flavoured rain poured into his mouth. The friendly guard dog followed, tail wagging like a hairy windscreen wiper.

  Reaching into his jeans pocket he found the large key he sought and plunged it into the lock, turning it sharply. The iron-studded oak door creaked open and the dog padded in, dripping onto the faded orange tiles. Placing his bag down by the quaint side-table, upon which a glowing tasselled lampshade stood, he shut the door and bolted it secure. Kicking his shoes off, he slung his coat over the old radiator and walked through the spacious corridor towards the kitchen from where a dim light shone.

  Warmth radiated from the Aga against the bare stone walls and James rubbed his hands together in satisfaction when rumbling stomach pains reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He walked across the floor and opened the wood-panelled fridge with undisguised hope. “Yes, you diamond aunty,” he exclaimed. A range of microwavable treats, aimed to please young men, filled the shelves, along with a selection of specialist ales and bars of chocolate. “Now that’s some good study munch.” 

  As he crammed a sausage roll into his mouth, a sheet of paper on the granite breakfast bar caught his eye. It was written in his aunt’s sprawling hand: ‘Dearest nephew, we hope you enjoy your stay here at the lodge! Nothing has changed much since you last came. There isn’t too much to do; just feed and walk the dog twice a day. The gardener comes on a Wednesday and could you please put the rubbish out on the Friday, at the end of the drive. Oh, and if there is anything left in the fridge when we get back I’ll be very offended! Happy studying dearest nephew! From Russia with Love, Aunty Zahra & Uncle David!’

  “Here Billy! Come on boy,” James beckoned in a high pitched voice. The Alsatian padded in from the adjacent utility room with a curious expression on its face, tongue lolling lazily over its jaws. Kneeling down on the flagstone floor, he dried the beast with two warm hand-towels, talking affectionately all the while.

  Abruptly, its demeanour changed. James felt the muscles tense beneath its dark coat. Its ears pricked up and a low growl emanated from its throat. “Easy boy, easy, what is it, what is it?” The dog bolted into the hallway, paws slipping on the tiles as its bark bounced off the walls. “Shhhh Billy, shhhh!” James yelled, grabbing the dog by the collar as he cornered it behind the front door. There were no hallway windows to peek through, so he slid back the two iron bolts and cautiously pulled the creaking door open.

  An icy blast blustered in as Billy broke free of his grip. “Billy! Come here! Billy!” James yelled, stepping into the porch. Night had spread its dark wings and the dog disappeared into shadow, its bark fading on the freezing wind. “You bloody stupid mut. Billy! Billy!” He whistled in vain but the dog did not answer his call. This is why I hate dogs. Reluctantly, he shut the door. He’ll turn up when he’s hungry. There’s a kennel anyway.

  The house was eerily quiet. Only the drumming of heavy rain on the bay windows and the gentle tick-tocking of a Grandfather Clock could be heard above the howling wind. The painting beside him caught his attention, illuminated by the dim lampshade on the side-table. It was an oil-on-canvas woodland scene, the dawn’s rays banishing the mist. Then, he saw a detail he never before noticed in the very corner of the painting. A small girl stood alone in the forest, looking over her shoulder as if fleeing an unseen pursuer. Strange, I’ve never noticed that before? He lifted his finger up to touch the textured painting, but refrained from doing so at the last, his finger hovering above the image of the lonely girl. 

  Dismissing the thought, James headed up the carpeted steps to the first floor landing where an impressive arched window with a lead lattice overlooked the front garden. Pressing his broad nose against the pane, he looked into the darkness beyond. The red car alarm light blinked silently and there was no sign of the dog. Forked lightening streaked across the night sky and a shudder shot down his spine.

  James walked across the squeaky floorboards to the largest of the four spare bedrooms. The door was open and he flicked on the light switch. The cream room was simply furnished with a chest of drawers, wicker chair and a double bed with a flowery duvet. Photos of his extended family hung from the walls. Placing the sports bag on the bed he unzipped it, and pulled free a bottle of single malt scotch and a hefty book on tort law. He checked his omega watch, six twenty three, and headed back downstairs to the warmth of the kitchen.

  Three ice cubes tumbled into the crystal glass followed by a generous slosh of Scotland’s finest. Inhaling the sweet scent, James stopped short of sampling the liquor, his mouth watering at the prospect. I’ll have to earn this first. Book under arm, he made for the drawing room.

  The room was a peculiar hexagonal shape, owing to the bespoke nature of the house, with a high ceiling, large bay windows and restored oak floorboards. The furnishings were modern, bar the antique globe cocktail cabinet, which stood proudly beside the 44” Sony widescreen. An open fire had been readied for his arrival; the coal bucket was full and a plentiful supply of logs was piled in front of the large, stone chimney. He placed his drink and tattered book on the glass coffee table and drew the heavy purple curtains shut, the lead curtain weights rattling as he did so. A tall wooden lampshade with swinging tassels illuminated the room, the angles casting long finger-like shadows across the yellowed ceiling. Igniting the fire-lighters with the extra long cook’s matches he found on the pouffe, James sat down on the comfortable duck-egg blue sofa, put his legs up, and opened up his tort textbook.

  “Ahh,” he sighed, “negligence...great.” His face was set in a frown of concentration for several hours, interrupted fleetingly by the pleasurable sip of ice cold whiskey at the end of every chapter; savouring each malty swig like it was his last. The fire crackled delightfully at his feet as the storm raged ever fiercer. Ahhh, he thought, the smell of an open fire is hard to beat.

  He checked his watch again, nine twenty two, and closed the book for the evening. Yawning, he flicked on the TV and drained the last dregs of scotch, though it was more melted ice that liquor. A modelesque weather-lady was gesticulating wildly, “...severer weather warning for the south west tonight, with gales expected to reach up to eighty miles-per-hour with flooding in localised areas...”

  Howling wind rattled down the flue as James shovelled coal into the flames, the black dust crackling pleasingly. Peeping through the curtains into the garden, he saw nothing but the silhouetted poplars bowing to the might of the storm. “Damn mutt.” Walking into the corridor, he was suddenly struck by a bitter chill. He paused by the kitchen door and a curious expression came over face. What was that noise? He listened. Nothing. Just the clock and the storm and the fire. Thud. A definite sound caused his heart to leap. Bloody hell... He sprinted into the kitchen and wrenched the cutlery drawer open like a man possessed, grabbing a serrated blade in his right hand. He paused again. Silence.

  Creeping towards the stairs as stealthily as a hunting cat with his knife at the ready, James looked up towards where the noise had come from. Shit. “Hello! I’ve called the police,” he yelled, reassuring himself there was nothing to fear but his own stupidity, though the quaver in his voice did little to quash his fears. He stopped midway along the staircase and listened again. A violent gust blasted the window above him, howling like a banshee. Get a grip man. This is ridiculous. The lights flickered wildly and an electronic buzz cut through the air.

  Oh shit! You’ve got to be kidding me! Instinctively, he crouched low to the stairs, heart thudding as frantic eyes probed the darkness. A sudden knock on the window above startled him, but it was just the wind blown branches of the old oak tree. He gulped back his rising fear.

  Then, there it was – as loud as a hammer smashing a skull – the creaking of a floor board from the third floor. Oh-my-god. He held his breath, mind blank with fear. Another creak – long and slow. Unmistakable. A clap of thunder shook the sky.

  Oh my god, oh my god. Something moved in the corner of his eye and he looked up towards the landing, heart in mouth, eyes wide as plates. Lightening ripped through the darkness. Then, in the flash, he saw it. The ephemeral apparition of a young girl standing atop the stairs, flickering candle in hand.  Air rushed from his lungs as he gasped for breath, choking in disbelief. Thunder boomed. Dropping the knife, he scrambled down the stairs fast as his shaking legs would carry him and threw open the front door, smashing the lampshade to the floor. Sprinting across the gravel to his car he desperately searched his empty pockets. “Shit! They’re in my coat!” Panic gripped him like a vice.

  Shielding his gaze from the driving rain he looked back towards the lodge, shaking uncontrollably. His mouth fell slack in disbelief and his mind refused to accept the image his eyes relayed. The ghost-child stood in the doorway, her flowing nightgown shimmering against the pitch black surroundings. He stumbled back against the car, heart in mouth. “No...” he stammered, eyes fixated on the apparition, “No.. ”

  A bolt of lightening struck the roof but James held his gaze, utterly paralysed by fear. She moved towards him, floating silently over the gravel. He tried to move but his feet were as roots in the ground. Closer, the spectre advanced, its pallid form seemingly unaffected by the howling gale. His scream stuck in his throat like a twig and only a pitiful whimper rattled into the storm.

  Suddenly, a blinding light filled the darkness and James turned in astonishment. A car raced down the drive towards him, lights flickering through the rain. He looked back towards the house as the hallway lights flickered on. There was no sign of the girl as Billy padded in through the porch and the car skidded to a halt behind him. Lightening ripped through the night.

by SirWriteAlot