Partners in Time
by Ron A. Sewell
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: None.
Description: A romantic tale joining the past with the present.
_____________________________________________________________________
Alison Adams, a dark-haired, slim, attractive, thirty-four year old, drove at speed whenever a straight section in the narrow country lanes allowed. Without taking her eyes off the road, she flipped open her notebook, raised it to eye level and glanced at the estate agent’s directions. Already ten minutes late, she detested being tardy. With a sigh, she spotted a signpost directing her to Squire’s Lane. The tyres squealed as she braked, leaving black marks on the road. Her Mini Cooper halted inches behind a silver Mercedes.
Alison noticed that the estate agent’s plump face displayed signs of agitation. However, he approached with a welcoming smile. “Ms Adams, glad you made it. I thought you might have changed your mind.”
“Got lost, sorry.”
She waited while he fumbled in his pockets.
Tom Brooks, the agent, extracted a solitary key from his inside pocket and placed it in her outstretched hand. “As I mentioned on the phone, it’s in a poor condition. The previous owner did nothing to the property, but with a lick of paint here and there, it’ll be as good as new.”
“Aren’t you coming in?” she asked.
“No. You have a good look round. Get the feel of the place.”
With a shrug, she left him, smoking a cigarette as she made her way along the moss-covered path. A profusion of weeds and brambles filled the garden area. She wondered if this, after having wasted her time on so many other viewings, would be the one. The cottage had red brick and flint walls. It was a lone house, set far away from any other. The sales blurb did not give its age. At a guess, she thought it was at least two hundred years, maybe more. To her surprise, the front door lock turned easily. On entering the small hallway, a musty, damp odour attacked her senses but there was also a welcoming ambience. It had a safe, cosy feel about it.
Moving from room to room, her sense of belonging grew. Sparse daylight failed to penetrate the filthy windows. She attempted to open one but it would not budge. The remains of a bed lay in a corner. The kitchen consisted of a butler sink, a warped table, a cobweb-coated cooker and several shelves. A thick layer of dust covered everything. On its stone walls, plaster hung ready to fall. A simple fireplace centred the farthest wall and the whole room smelt of mould.
Alison realised that the agent had not been entirely honest; it needed a lot of work. Bizarrely, not one room had a door; dry and wet rot were the property’s main features. Some of the flooring had completely disappeared. For a moment, the extent of the task that lay ahead dampened her excitement.
Leaving the cottage, Alison smiled as she approached Tom’s car. He opened the window and held out his hand. “I knew you wouldn’t like it.”
Alison smiled. “Oh, but I do. I love it. I’ll be able to escape from the world and immerse myself completely in my work. Is the price negotiable?”
Tom’s face remained deadpan, well aware that this dilapidated property had been more than difficult to sell. This woman was hooked; all he had to do was reel her in.
“I’ll offer one-hundred and fifty thousand.”
Tom acted surprised. “That’s a bit low, but I’m prepared to negotiate. Shall we go to my office and talk about this over a cup of coffee?”
Alison followed Tom back to the village. They struck a deal in under an hour.
Three months later Alison took possession. The removal men unloaded her belongings and then she was alone. The essentials were unpacked, the rest left in boxes. Her plan was for builders to renovate the kitchen, bathroom and master bedroom.
For the next two weeks, she slept on a mattress with chaos all around her.
Every night, as she snuggled down in her makeshift bed, she became aware of how cold the room felt. Throughout the night, she had the strangest of dreams of a young man sobbing.
One night she woke sensing someone was in the house, but as the first streaks of the new day shone through the window, that safe, cosy feeling returned. In the full light of day, she recalled the experience of the night before and dismissed it.
With their work finished, the builders, along with their skips full of rubbish, departed. The rot eradicated, doors fitted and three rooms were now in perfect condition. With her divorce settlement depleted, Alison told herself, “It’s time I earned some money and got back to writing.”
Throughout the first night in her new bedroom, odd noises woke her. Unable to sleep, she went and investigated. Maybe there’s a problem with the new central heating, she thought. The noises stopped as she entered the other bedroom. The silence added to her fear, shadows appeared, moved and faded. An intangible something scared her. The new heavily-lined curtains effectively killed any light, only the illumination from her bedroom filtered down the hall. Her thin white nightdress wafted about her, but there was no breeze.
Breathing heavily, she groped for the light switch, momentarily forgetting where it was, and turned it on. After a few moments, she convinced herself that it had been her imagination. Alison believed in the paranormal but this was different, or was it? she asked herself. On attempting to close the door it would not budge.
Agitated, she shouted into the room. “Whatever you are, if you want the door open, fine, but the light goes off. I’m going to bed.” In her subconscious, she heard, Thank you. Terrified, she dashed back to her bedroom, grabbed the duvet and rushed to her car. Scared, she attempted to settle down but sleep evaded her. Alison woke with a start, the bleak light of morning weak through swathes of dark cloud. Apprehensive, she crept back into her home and found nothing amiss. With reservations she decided to visit the local vicar. Following the footpath to the village she wondered how she could broach the subject of ghosts. Wafts of smoke came from the chimneys of the village houses. It all seemed so natural. The previous night’s experience was so unbelievable, so ridiculous, she convinced herself.
On reaching the vicarage she stared at the grey-coloured stonework, slate roof and leaded windows. For a moment she hesitated before walking up the path and pressed the bell push.
The door opened and Graham Parkinson, the vicar, welcomed and guided her into the parish office. The blue painted door, warped by the elements, squeaked as it closed. “I’ve been informed that you’re the new owner of the Gate Keeper’s Lodge,” he said in a soft voice.
The room was warm, cosy, but cramped. An overflowing bookshelf groaned under the weight of its contents.
“I am. It’s lovely, but I need your advice.” She half smiled, taking a seat before telling her tale.
He frowned and stared at her for a moment. “My dear Ms Adams.” He smiled and patted her right hand. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. Only, of course, the Holy Ghost. What you probably heard were simply the sounds of an old house.”
Reassured, she thanked him and left.
Determined to find the underlying cause of the problem, that night Alison went into the spare bedroom, closed the door, sat on a cushion and waited. Exhausted, she fell into a deep sleep but awoke with a start, freezing. She shivered non-stop and with her voice quaking, she shouted, “The door stays shut until you tell me what you are?”
With only the moonlight shining through the open curtains, she stared around the room. Suddenly, a pleading voice registered in her mind. Don’t lock me in. Please, please, open the door.
Shocked, she listened, her thoughts confused. Whatever it was, begged her to open the door.
Somehow, her fear subsided. “All right, I’ll open the door.” She laughed at her own silliness. What was she doing? Nevertheless, the thank you startled her.
Again, she asked, “What are you?”
There was no sound, but her mind perceived, I’m Joseph.
Alison realised no one would ever believe her even if she told them. Her hands were numb. Attempting to sound calm she said, “Well, Joseph, enough is enough. I’m tired, so I’ll say goodnight”.
She walked back to her bedroom, sensing a difference in the mood of the house. It was strangely tranquil.
The following day, she revisited the vicarage, determined to discover the truth. “Vicar, is there something you should have told me about the old cottage?”
He’d hoped she would never ask because he knew perfectly well all about her cottage. He looked straight into her eyes and there was an awkward pause. “This may take some time. Please sit down.”
Alison sat in the nearest chair.
Graham’s eyes narrowed. “I must confess there are stories but I’ve always discounted them as hearsay. Where do I start?”
“A good place to start is at the beginning.”
He looked a little uncertain. “Before I tell you, would you like a cup of tea, or coffee if you prefer?”
“A cup of coffee would be nice.”
“If you don’t mind I’ll go and make it, black or white?”
“Black, no sugar, thank you.”
Alison stared around the room. She disliked the busy floral wallpaper. A stone inglenook dominated the farthest wall. A dark stain marked the brick wall of the chimney from years of use.
Graham returned carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and a plate of tea biscuits. “Here we are. Help yourself.”
He sipped his drink, reached out his hand and covered hers. “Well, the Gatekeeper’s Lodge once belonged to the local estate. The squire, a nasty piece of work, treated his tenant farmers abysmally. This man regularly raped his tenants’ daughters; eviction being the penalty for complaining. Evidently, he coveted one small and delicate young woman more than any other. The story goes on to tell us that she was very pretty, with jet black hair. He gave her the lodge as a gift, providing she satisfied his carnal needs. The girl, however, was in love with a younger man. That’s all I know, Ms Adams.”
Alison thanked him. On her way home, she wondered where Joseph fitted into this.
It was time to find out. That night, wearing warm clothes, she went into the spare room and waited. Nothing happened until she closed the door. As before, a voice pleaded with her to open it.
For that and successive nights, Alison learnt to communicate and listen to Joseph. As her understanding grew he recapped his tale of the squire, his mistress and her lover. He described his love, Annabelle, as a bewitching dark-haired beauty but she wanted both Joseph and the lodge.
He continued, “One day the squire found Annabelle and I in a passionate embrace. In fear for her life, she ran away. The squire horsewhipped me to the point where death would have been a blessing. When it was over, he had me tossed into this room. To conceal his crime, his thugs bricked up every opening. Here, entombed in the dark, in pain and alone, I died.”
From the nearest town’s records, Alison discovered that the squire’s descendants sold everything. She realised that Joseph’s story had the hallmark of a best seller. Strangely, her chatting with a being that had no form became normal
Together, they compiled an historic novel titled, The Evil Squire. Joseph conveyed the story, whilst Alison wrote the words.
With the manuscript complete, Alison arranged an appointment with her agent. Her mini started first time. In a wonderful mood, she drove off the grass verge outside the lodge.
The blare of a horn, the screeching of tyres and the grinding of metal on metal took less than a moment. Alison’s screams were lost amid the noise of destruction.
The emergency services arrived and quickly extricated her from the wreck. The doctor examined her, shook his head and asked, “Why?”
On the ground, sheets of paper released from their binding, lifted and scattered on the wind.
Alison gazed at the sky, it was a fine day with a few high, white clouds. Suddenly, two strong arms picked her up, held her close and carried her away. A familiar voice told her everything was going to be all right. Her understanding of the accident became clear. She looked back at the police and paramedics around her lifeless body.
Joseph took her hand. “I’ve waited a long while for you to be with me, Annabelle. I’ve always loved you.”
Swearwords: None.
Description: A romantic tale joining the past with the present.
_____________________________________________________________________
Alison Adams, a dark-haired, slim, attractive, thirty-four year old, drove at speed whenever a straight section in the narrow country lanes allowed. Without taking her eyes off the road, she flipped open her notebook, raised it to eye level and glanced at the estate agent’s directions. Already ten minutes late, she detested being tardy. With a sigh, she spotted a signpost directing her to Squire’s Lane. The tyres squealed as she braked, leaving black marks on the road. Her Mini Cooper halted inches behind a silver Mercedes.
Alison noticed that the estate agent’s plump face displayed signs of agitation. However, he approached with a welcoming smile. “Ms Adams, glad you made it. I thought you might have changed your mind.”
“Got lost, sorry.”
She waited while he fumbled in his pockets.
Tom Brooks, the agent, extracted a solitary key from his inside pocket and placed it in her outstretched hand. “As I mentioned on the phone, it’s in a poor condition. The previous owner did nothing to the property, but with a lick of paint here and there, it’ll be as good as new.”
“Aren’t you coming in?” she asked.
“No. You have a good look round. Get the feel of the place.”
With a shrug, she left him, smoking a cigarette as she made her way along the moss-covered path. A profusion of weeds and brambles filled the garden area. She wondered if this, after having wasted her time on so many other viewings, would be the one. The cottage had red brick and flint walls. It was a lone house, set far away from any other. The sales blurb did not give its age. At a guess, she thought it was at least two hundred years, maybe more. To her surprise, the front door lock turned easily. On entering the small hallway, a musty, damp odour attacked her senses but there was also a welcoming ambience. It had a safe, cosy feel about it.
Moving from room to room, her sense of belonging grew. Sparse daylight failed to penetrate the filthy windows. She attempted to open one but it would not budge. The remains of a bed lay in a corner. The kitchen consisted of a butler sink, a warped table, a cobweb-coated cooker and several shelves. A thick layer of dust covered everything. On its stone walls, plaster hung ready to fall. A simple fireplace centred the farthest wall and the whole room smelt of mould.
Alison realised that the agent had not been entirely honest; it needed a lot of work. Bizarrely, not one room had a door; dry and wet rot were the property’s main features. Some of the flooring had completely disappeared. For a moment, the extent of the task that lay ahead dampened her excitement.
Leaving the cottage, Alison smiled as she approached Tom’s car. He opened the window and held out his hand. “I knew you wouldn’t like it.”
Alison smiled. “Oh, but I do. I love it. I’ll be able to escape from the world and immerse myself completely in my work. Is the price negotiable?”
Tom’s face remained deadpan, well aware that this dilapidated property had been more than difficult to sell. This woman was hooked; all he had to do was reel her in.
“I’ll offer one-hundred and fifty thousand.”
Tom acted surprised. “That’s a bit low, but I’m prepared to negotiate. Shall we go to my office and talk about this over a cup of coffee?”
Alison followed Tom back to the village. They struck a deal in under an hour.
Three months later Alison took possession. The removal men unloaded her belongings and then she was alone. The essentials were unpacked, the rest left in boxes. Her plan was for builders to renovate the kitchen, bathroom and master bedroom.
For the next two weeks, she slept on a mattress with chaos all around her.
Every night, as she snuggled down in her makeshift bed, she became aware of how cold the room felt. Throughout the night, she had the strangest of dreams of a young man sobbing.
One night she woke sensing someone was in the house, but as the first streaks of the new day shone through the window, that safe, cosy feeling returned. In the full light of day, she recalled the experience of the night before and dismissed it.
With their work finished, the builders, along with their skips full of rubbish, departed. The rot eradicated, doors fitted and three rooms were now in perfect condition. With her divorce settlement depleted, Alison told herself, “It’s time I earned some money and got back to writing.”
Throughout the first night in her new bedroom, odd noises woke her. Unable to sleep, she went and investigated. Maybe there’s a problem with the new central heating, she thought. The noises stopped as she entered the other bedroom. The silence added to her fear, shadows appeared, moved and faded. An intangible something scared her. The new heavily-lined curtains effectively killed any light, only the illumination from her bedroom filtered down the hall. Her thin white nightdress wafted about her, but there was no breeze.
Breathing heavily, she groped for the light switch, momentarily forgetting where it was, and turned it on. After a few moments, she convinced herself that it had been her imagination. Alison believed in the paranormal but this was different, or was it? she asked herself. On attempting to close the door it would not budge.
Agitated, she shouted into the room. “Whatever you are, if you want the door open, fine, but the light goes off. I’m going to bed.” In her subconscious, she heard, Thank you. Terrified, she dashed back to her bedroom, grabbed the duvet and rushed to her car. Scared, she attempted to settle down but sleep evaded her. Alison woke with a start, the bleak light of morning weak through swathes of dark cloud. Apprehensive, she crept back into her home and found nothing amiss. With reservations she decided to visit the local vicar. Following the footpath to the village she wondered how she could broach the subject of ghosts. Wafts of smoke came from the chimneys of the village houses. It all seemed so natural. The previous night’s experience was so unbelievable, so ridiculous, she convinced herself.
On reaching the vicarage she stared at the grey-coloured stonework, slate roof and leaded windows. For a moment she hesitated before walking up the path and pressed the bell push.
The door opened and Graham Parkinson, the vicar, welcomed and guided her into the parish office. The blue painted door, warped by the elements, squeaked as it closed. “I’ve been informed that you’re the new owner of the Gate Keeper’s Lodge,” he said in a soft voice.
The room was warm, cosy, but cramped. An overflowing bookshelf groaned under the weight of its contents.
“I am. It’s lovely, but I need your advice.” She half smiled, taking a seat before telling her tale.
He frowned and stared at her for a moment. “My dear Ms Adams.” He smiled and patted her right hand. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. Only, of course, the Holy Ghost. What you probably heard were simply the sounds of an old house.”
Reassured, she thanked him and left.
Determined to find the underlying cause of the problem, that night Alison went into the spare bedroom, closed the door, sat on a cushion and waited. Exhausted, she fell into a deep sleep but awoke with a start, freezing. She shivered non-stop and with her voice quaking, she shouted, “The door stays shut until you tell me what you are?”
With only the moonlight shining through the open curtains, she stared around the room. Suddenly, a pleading voice registered in her mind. Don’t lock me in. Please, please, open the door.
Shocked, she listened, her thoughts confused. Whatever it was, begged her to open the door.
Somehow, her fear subsided. “All right, I’ll open the door.” She laughed at her own silliness. What was she doing? Nevertheless, the thank you startled her.
Again, she asked, “What are you?”
There was no sound, but her mind perceived, I’m Joseph.
Alison realised no one would ever believe her even if she told them. Her hands were numb. Attempting to sound calm she said, “Well, Joseph, enough is enough. I’m tired, so I’ll say goodnight”.
She walked back to her bedroom, sensing a difference in the mood of the house. It was strangely tranquil.
The following day, she revisited the vicarage, determined to discover the truth. “Vicar, is there something you should have told me about the old cottage?”
He’d hoped she would never ask because he knew perfectly well all about her cottage. He looked straight into her eyes and there was an awkward pause. “This may take some time. Please sit down.”
Alison sat in the nearest chair.
Graham’s eyes narrowed. “I must confess there are stories but I’ve always discounted them as hearsay. Where do I start?”
“A good place to start is at the beginning.”
He looked a little uncertain. “Before I tell you, would you like a cup of tea, or coffee if you prefer?”
“A cup of coffee would be nice.”
“If you don’t mind I’ll go and make it, black or white?”
“Black, no sugar, thank you.”
Alison stared around the room. She disliked the busy floral wallpaper. A stone inglenook dominated the farthest wall. A dark stain marked the brick wall of the chimney from years of use.
Graham returned carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and a plate of tea biscuits. “Here we are. Help yourself.”
He sipped his drink, reached out his hand and covered hers. “Well, the Gatekeeper’s Lodge once belonged to the local estate. The squire, a nasty piece of work, treated his tenant farmers abysmally. This man regularly raped his tenants’ daughters; eviction being the penalty for complaining. Evidently, he coveted one small and delicate young woman more than any other. The story goes on to tell us that she was very pretty, with jet black hair. He gave her the lodge as a gift, providing she satisfied his carnal needs. The girl, however, was in love with a younger man. That’s all I know, Ms Adams.”
Alison thanked him. On her way home, she wondered where Joseph fitted into this.
It was time to find out. That night, wearing warm clothes, she went into the spare room and waited. Nothing happened until she closed the door. As before, a voice pleaded with her to open it.
For that and successive nights, Alison learnt to communicate and listen to Joseph. As her understanding grew he recapped his tale of the squire, his mistress and her lover. He described his love, Annabelle, as a bewitching dark-haired beauty but she wanted both Joseph and the lodge.
He continued, “One day the squire found Annabelle and I in a passionate embrace. In fear for her life, she ran away. The squire horsewhipped me to the point where death would have been a blessing. When it was over, he had me tossed into this room. To conceal his crime, his thugs bricked up every opening. Here, entombed in the dark, in pain and alone, I died.”
From the nearest town’s records, Alison discovered that the squire’s descendants sold everything. She realised that Joseph’s story had the hallmark of a best seller. Strangely, her chatting with a being that had no form became normal
Together, they compiled an historic novel titled, The Evil Squire. Joseph conveyed the story, whilst Alison wrote the words.
With the manuscript complete, Alison arranged an appointment with her agent. Her mini started first time. In a wonderful mood, she drove off the grass verge outside the lodge.
The blare of a horn, the screeching of tyres and the grinding of metal on metal took less than a moment. Alison’s screams were lost amid the noise of destruction.
The emergency services arrived and quickly extricated her from the wreck. The doctor examined her, shook his head and asked, “Why?”
On the ground, sheets of paper released from their binding, lifted and scattered on the wind.
Alison gazed at the sky, it was a fine day with a few high, white clouds. Suddenly, two strong arms picked her up, held her close and carried her away. A familiar voice told her everything was going to be all right. Her understanding of the accident became clear. She looked back at the police and paramedics around her lifeless body.
Joseph took her hand. “I’ve waited a long while for you to be with me, Annabelle. I’ve always loved you.”
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.