Jane's Song
by Ron A. Sewell
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: None.
Description: A haunting tale with a happy ending.
_____________________________________________________________________
The auctioneer’s gavel struck the desk. “Sold to the gentleman at the back.”
The Lodge, twenty miles north of Edinburgh, was mine. The surveyor’s report stated that during the forties it was a children’s home but on closure, remained empty.
The following week, in the presence of an aged solicitor, I signed the obligatory documentation. He advised that the reconnection of all services was receiving attention.
In the afternoon, I booked in for two nights at a local hotel, my intention to carry out a detailed inspection of the lodge and return home. With sparse knowledge of the district, it took me an age to find the gated entrance. Negotiating a winding tree-lined drive revealed the building. My initial reaction to this Victorian relic was one of wonder. A cloak of silence from years of neglect shrouded it. I parked my car and noticed a graveyard in which there were a number of small headstones. On closer inspection I observed a carved animal and a name. Here, wild flowers grew profusely.
I walked around my property and jotted down the weathered streaks on walls and cracks in the paintwork but beyond its abandoned appearance and a few damaged windows, there seemed to be nothing structurally amiss. The wooden gate that allowed access to the walled garden buckled and collapsed when I opened it, revealing a haven for wild life.
I inserted the key into the main entrance lock, it turned without effort. Pushing it open, I peered into the gloom; cobwebs hung everywhere like silken drapes. My vision adjusted and penetrated the murk. I gasped at the sight of a beautiful pillared and mirrored hallway. It possessed the splendour of a great mansion. Looking forward, a wide staircase rose in a majestic sweep to the upper floor. I stood motionless admiring it. At that moment an icy wind rushed through the hall, swirled around me, tore at my clothes and vanished. The main door slammed shut.
Through damaged shutters, sunlight cast eerie, flickering shadows. With clipboard in hand, I began my examination. First, on my left, the main dining room, its bare plaster walls and boarded-up fireplace dirty and uncared for. The number of broken toys that lay strewn everywhere was quite bizarre. Whilst I made notes, a thumping sound from the hall disrupted my thoughts. Intrigued, I retraced my steps. On the stairs, a child’s multicoloured ball bounced down, one tread at a time. At the bottom, it rolled to a stop in the middle of the floor. What sounded like children’s laughter echoed throughout the house, followed by absolute silence. I looked around but apart from those discarded toys, the rooms were empty. “Old houses”, I said to myself, laughing nervously.
The ballroom was breathtaking with its high, ornate cupola. This when cleaned and restored would radiate light into every corner; even the marble fireplace was original. I imagined what it would be like with large logs blazing in the hearth. From behind, I heard a squeaking sound. Turning, I saw a tricycle moving across the floor. When I attempted to push it to one side, it would not move; rust held its wheels solid. Suddenly I noticed in the thick dust, side by side with my own footprints, those of another, these were barefoot and childlike. I swept them away hastily, not wanting to consider their existence.
Located in the eaves, were ten bedrooms, these would have once been the servants’ quarters. Mounting a narrow winding staircase I felt something, a sense of evil made my head whirl, my nerves tingle and hair rise. On reaching the top, I heard children laughing. Droplets of sweat covered my brow as I experienced the reverberation of a crash, followed by an agonised scream. This sounded like a cry of terror and a pleading for help, all rolled into one. I closed my eyes and shook my head, the sounds vanished. With reservation, I opened each door. These rooms were small; broken furniture littered the floors and cracked mirrors hung from rusty nails. My notes designated this area, ‘Useful for storage’.
Next I visited the library. On reaching the main hallway, once again the hairs on the back of my neck began to tingle. Someone said, ‘Hello’. I turned and looked up, at the top of the stairs stood a barefoot young girl. She could not have been more than twelve. I never saw a sight so pitiful; a tattered yellow dress covered her frail frame. Fear filled her face, but she ran away. I searched every room in vain.
Without warning, every light flashed on, off and back on again, followed by a hammering on the main door. I opened it cautiously and peered out. To my relief there stood two Scottish Power Engineers. “Sign here, guv – that’s you connected.”
I closed the door and the little girl, her hands clenched in front of her, materialised. Her lips were colourless and those pale eyes possessed such a frightened look, dark rings circled them from sleepless nights. Her fair, almost white hair, hung down over her shoulders, surrounding her face like a halo. The blood froze in my veins as a dark shapeless shadow covered her.
Later, the girl re-appeared, made no sound but in my mind I heard, ‘Help us.’ Again, she vanished. I had to admit her face obsessed me.
Finished for the day, I was about to get into my car when I saw the girl. She stood in the centre of the pets’ graveyard barely discernable in the fading light. I walked towards her - this time she did not disappear as she sang.
“Tommy is a Turtle, Molly is a Cat. My name is Jane and I’m just a Dirty Rat.”
She faded into the gloom, her words stuck in my mind.
Once back in my hotel room, I sat on the bed, bewildered by my experience. Maybe I’d been over-doing it; they say stress can bring on hallucinations. During dinner, I asked the young waitress about The Lodge but she knew nothing. Exhausted, I reasoned that a good night’s sleep was the answer.
I slept deeply, strange dreams filled my mind. I had no idea where I was but the air seemed laden with the scent of wild flowers. Shrieks of laughter erupted from children who played happily. From nowhere came a shadowy veil that covered everything. I woke with a start, weak with fear.
In the morning, I did not want to return to that house. Unfortunately for me I had mortgaged all of my other hotels to fund this purchase; to abandon it would destroy my dream. I picked at my breakfast, read the local paper from cover to cover, drank far too much coffee but I had to go back.
The sun shone and it took a conscious effort to convince myself that it had all been my over active imagination. With the shutters open, the sunlight would dispel my fear. At the main door, I listened. Silence enveloped the lodge. My inner-self told me to leave.
I strolled to the stables and started working. I reasoned that if I stayed out of the house for a while, the clearer my thoughts would become. I scribbled away, made sketches and formulated plans. The little coach house and cobbled yard were ideal for offices and parking. The stables, once converted, would make at least another ten bedrooms. I entered the small smithy at the rear of the coach house and my fear erupted. I tried to run but my feet would not move. In front of me stood that girl. I heard her clearly. “Help us, please. Bad people have been naughty and hurt us.”
With my mind in turmoil, I managed to ask, “How… how can I help?” There were the sounds of a struggle, a stifled scream.
Whether she heard me, I didn’t know; she had gone and I was free. I charged out and into the yard. Once in the open I sat down on an old millstone and breathed deeply. My breath laboured and I felt down and cold. Maybe I was going mad; after all, for the past year I had been working every hour possible. The cool, fresh air restored my reason. What did she mean by, ‘Help us?’ I wandered around looking for something, anything that made sense. The swing in the garden moved back and forth as if being pushed and again I heard,
“Tommy is a Turtle, Molly is a Cat. My name is Jane and I’m just a Dirty Rat.”
Abruptly, the swing stopped but her words lingered as the scent of wild flowers penetrated my nostrils. Then it fell into place. Determined to discover if my thinking had any significance, I rummaged around for anything that I could dig with. In a dilapidated garden shed, I found what I needed and with resolve, I ran to the pets’ cemetery. Everything was still; no birdsong, no breeze. It wasn’t cold but I shivered. Brushing the plant life aside, I searched for Jane the Rat. A fallen headstone marked the spot. I dug, hoping that only brown earth existed beneath my feet. Not used to labouring, I sweated profusely. Taking time out, I leaned against a tree to regain my breath. For the briefest of moments, my girl appeared and looked down into the hole. This time a beautiful smile radiated across her face. I felt like giving up after reaching a depth of three feet but something told me to keep digging. Five feet down, I found a small human skull.
There was only one thing to do, contact the police. How could I explain why I was digging such a large hole in a supposedly pets’ graveyard? It didn’t matter; I’d deal with that question if they asked.
Within an hour, the police cordoned off the area and six men were digging. At the police station, I gave a statement, which seemed to satisfy the officer-in-charge and returned to my hotel. That night I dreamt of children playing happily. When I woke, my sheets were wet with sweat.
At breakfast, a Detective Inspector Marshall arrived. Over three cups of coffee, he told me they had, so far, found the skeletons of six children and were in the process of opening up the remainder of the graves. He explained that I could continue with my survey but must keep well away from their excavations.
“Who are they?” I asked.
He looked at me. “During the war your property was a children’s home. From records that exist, I’ve discovered that quite a few youngsters ran away. It was wartime and what with the bombing and reduced manpower, searches for lost children didn’t receive a high priority, unless someone in authority shouted loudly. Unforgivably, sixty years have passed. The children’s parents, if they had any, may be dead and if the murderers are alive, we’d spend a lot of time and taxpayers’ money trying to prove the impossible. At least they’ll get a proper burial.” He paused. “Oh, by the way, one of my men found a tarnished silver bracelet on the wrist of the skeleton you unearthed. Engraved on it is the name, ‘Jane.’ He handed it over. “Shouldn’t really do this but thought you might like it.”
I returned to the lodge with an understanding that once in a while the world of the dead somehow merges with that of the living. Jane did become visible again but now the mistrust in her large blue eyes had gone. She shimmered in an aura of bright light. Not appearing to run or walk, she merely floated noiselessly across the floor, fading as she went. It seemed to me she wore an air of victory over her ‘bad people’.
Jane still plays in the lodge and sometimes when the gardens are quiet, the swing moves and I hear her song.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A haunting tale with a happy ending.
_____________________________________________________________________
The auctioneer’s gavel struck the desk. “Sold to the gentleman at the back.”
The Lodge, twenty miles north of Edinburgh, was mine. The surveyor’s report stated that during the forties it was a children’s home but on closure, remained empty.
The following week, in the presence of an aged solicitor, I signed the obligatory documentation. He advised that the reconnection of all services was receiving attention.
In the afternoon, I booked in for two nights at a local hotel, my intention to carry out a detailed inspection of the lodge and return home. With sparse knowledge of the district, it took me an age to find the gated entrance. Negotiating a winding tree-lined drive revealed the building. My initial reaction to this Victorian relic was one of wonder. A cloak of silence from years of neglect shrouded it. I parked my car and noticed a graveyard in which there were a number of small headstones. On closer inspection I observed a carved animal and a name. Here, wild flowers grew profusely.
I walked around my property and jotted down the weathered streaks on walls and cracks in the paintwork but beyond its abandoned appearance and a few damaged windows, there seemed to be nothing structurally amiss. The wooden gate that allowed access to the walled garden buckled and collapsed when I opened it, revealing a haven for wild life.
I inserted the key into the main entrance lock, it turned without effort. Pushing it open, I peered into the gloom; cobwebs hung everywhere like silken drapes. My vision adjusted and penetrated the murk. I gasped at the sight of a beautiful pillared and mirrored hallway. It possessed the splendour of a great mansion. Looking forward, a wide staircase rose in a majestic sweep to the upper floor. I stood motionless admiring it. At that moment an icy wind rushed through the hall, swirled around me, tore at my clothes and vanished. The main door slammed shut.
Through damaged shutters, sunlight cast eerie, flickering shadows. With clipboard in hand, I began my examination. First, on my left, the main dining room, its bare plaster walls and boarded-up fireplace dirty and uncared for. The number of broken toys that lay strewn everywhere was quite bizarre. Whilst I made notes, a thumping sound from the hall disrupted my thoughts. Intrigued, I retraced my steps. On the stairs, a child’s multicoloured ball bounced down, one tread at a time. At the bottom, it rolled to a stop in the middle of the floor. What sounded like children’s laughter echoed throughout the house, followed by absolute silence. I looked around but apart from those discarded toys, the rooms were empty. “Old houses”, I said to myself, laughing nervously.
The ballroom was breathtaking with its high, ornate cupola. This when cleaned and restored would radiate light into every corner; even the marble fireplace was original. I imagined what it would be like with large logs blazing in the hearth. From behind, I heard a squeaking sound. Turning, I saw a tricycle moving across the floor. When I attempted to push it to one side, it would not move; rust held its wheels solid. Suddenly I noticed in the thick dust, side by side with my own footprints, those of another, these were barefoot and childlike. I swept them away hastily, not wanting to consider their existence.
Located in the eaves, were ten bedrooms, these would have once been the servants’ quarters. Mounting a narrow winding staircase I felt something, a sense of evil made my head whirl, my nerves tingle and hair rise. On reaching the top, I heard children laughing. Droplets of sweat covered my brow as I experienced the reverberation of a crash, followed by an agonised scream. This sounded like a cry of terror and a pleading for help, all rolled into one. I closed my eyes and shook my head, the sounds vanished. With reservation, I opened each door. These rooms were small; broken furniture littered the floors and cracked mirrors hung from rusty nails. My notes designated this area, ‘Useful for storage’.
Next I visited the library. On reaching the main hallway, once again the hairs on the back of my neck began to tingle. Someone said, ‘Hello’. I turned and looked up, at the top of the stairs stood a barefoot young girl. She could not have been more than twelve. I never saw a sight so pitiful; a tattered yellow dress covered her frail frame. Fear filled her face, but she ran away. I searched every room in vain.
Without warning, every light flashed on, off and back on again, followed by a hammering on the main door. I opened it cautiously and peered out. To my relief there stood two Scottish Power Engineers. “Sign here, guv – that’s you connected.”
I closed the door and the little girl, her hands clenched in front of her, materialised. Her lips were colourless and those pale eyes possessed such a frightened look, dark rings circled them from sleepless nights. Her fair, almost white hair, hung down over her shoulders, surrounding her face like a halo. The blood froze in my veins as a dark shapeless shadow covered her.
Later, the girl re-appeared, made no sound but in my mind I heard, ‘Help us.’ Again, she vanished. I had to admit her face obsessed me.
Finished for the day, I was about to get into my car when I saw the girl. She stood in the centre of the pets’ graveyard barely discernable in the fading light. I walked towards her - this time she did not disappear as she sang.
“Tommy is a Turtle, Molly is a Cat. My name is Jane and I’m just a Dirty Rat.”
She faded into the gloom, her words stuck in my mind.
Once back in my hotel room, I sat on the bed, bewildered by my experience. Maybe I’d been over-doing it; they say stress can bring on hallucinations. During dinner, I asked the young waitress about The Lodge but she knew nothing. Exhausted, I reasoned that a good night’s sleep was the answer.
I slept deeply, strange dreams filled my mind. I had no idea where I was but the air seemed laden with the scent of wild flowers. Shrieks of laughter erupted from children who played happily. From nowhere came a shadowy veil that covered everything. I woke with a start, weak with fear.
In the morning, I did not want to return to that house. Unfortunately for me I had mortgaged all of my other hotels to fund this purchase; to abandon it would destroy my dream. I picked at my breakfast, read the local paper from cover to cover, drank far too much coffee but I had to go back.
The sun shone and it took a conscious effort to convince myself that it had all been my over active imagination. With the shutters open, the sunlight would dispel my fear. At the main door, I listened. Silence enveloped the lodge. My inner-self told me to leave.
I strolled to the stables and started working. I reasoned that if I stayed out of the house for a while, the clearer my thoughts would become. I scribbled away, made sketches and formulated plans. The little coach house and cobbled yard were ideal for offices and parking. The stables, once converted, would make at least another ten bedrooms. I entered the small smithy at the rear of the coach house and my fear erupted. I tried to run but my feet would not move. In front of me stood that girl. I heard her clearly. “Help us, please. Bad people have been naughty and hurt us.”
With my mind in turmoil, I managed to ask, “How… how can I help?” There were the sounds of a struggle, a stifled scream.
Whether she heard me, I didn’t know; she had gone and I was free. I charged out and into the yard. Once in the open I sat down on an old millstone and breathed deeply. My breath laboured and I felt down and cold. Maybe I was going mad; after all, for the past year I had been working every hour possible. The cool, fresh air restored my reason. What did she mean by, ‘Help us?’ I wandered around looking for something, anything that made sense. The swing in the garden moved back and forth as if being pushed and again I heard,
“Tommy is a Turtle, Molly is a Cat. My name is Jane and I’m just a Dirty Rat.”
Abruptly, the swing stopped but her words lingered as the scent of wild flowers penetrated my nostrils. Then it fell into place. Determined to discover if my thinking had any significance, I rummaged around for anything that I could dig with. In a dilapidated garden shed, I found what I needed and with resolve, I ran to the pets’ cemetery. Everything was still; no birdsong, no breeze. It wasn’t cold but I shivered. Brushing the plant life aside, I searched for Jane the Rat. A fallen headstone marked the spot. I dug, hoping that only brown earth existed beneath my feet. Not used to labouring, I sweated profusely. Taking time out, I leaned against a tree to regain my breath. For the briefest of moments, my girl appeared and looked down into the hole. This time a beautiful smile radiated across her face. I felt like giving up after reaching a depth of three feet but something told me to keep digging. Five feet down, I found a small human skull.
There was only one thing to do, contact the police. How could I explain why I was digging such a large hole in a supposedly pets’ graveyard? It didn’t matter; I’d deal with that question if they asked.
Within an hour, the police cordoned off the area and six men were digging. At the police station, I gave a statement, which seemed to satisfy the officer-in-charge and returned to my hotel. That night I dreamt of children playing happily. When I woke, my sheets were wet with sweat.
At breakfast, a Detective Inspector Marshall arrived. Over three cups of coffee, he told me they had, so far, found the skeletons of six children and were in the process of opening up the remainder of the graves. He explained that I could continue with my survey but must keep well away from their excavations.
“Who are they?” I asked.
He looked at me. “During the war your property was a children’s home. From records that exist, I’ve discovered that quite a few youngsters ran away. It was wartime and what with the bombing and reduced manpower, searches for lost children didn’t receive a high priority, unless someone in authority shouted loudly. Unforgivably, sixty years have passed. The children’s parents, if they had any, may be dead and if the murderers are alive, we’d spend a lot of time and taxpayers’ money trying to prove the impossible. At least they’ll get a proper burial.” He paused. “Oh, by the way, one of my men found a tarnished silver bracelet on the wrist of the skeleton you unearthed. Engraved on it is the name, ‘Jane.’ He handed it over. “Shouldn’t really do this but thought you might like it.”
I returned to the lodge with an understanding that once in a while the world of the dead somehow merges with that of the living. Jane did become visible again but now the mistrust in her large blue eyes had gone. She shimmered in an aura of bright light. Not appearing to run or walk, she merely floated noiselessly across the floor, fading as she went. It seemed to me she wore an air of victory over her ‘bad people’.
Jane still plays in the lodge and sometimes when the gardens are quiet, the swing moves and I hear her song.
About the Author
Ron A. Sewell was born in Leith, Edinburgh. At the age of fourteen, he ran away from home. Heading for the south of France, he found work as a deckhand on luxury yachts. On his return to the United Kingdom, he enlisted in the Royal Navy, eventually becoming a commissioned officer. During his career, he travelled the world, qualifying as an engineer, deck officer, boarding officer, a diver, and parachutist and for a time part of an Air Sea Rescue team. This has given him much experience and many ideas.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.