The Ghost House

There’s not much that scares Annie Graham. Not even the horrors she has witnessed during her years on the police force.

When she agrees to look after her brother’s farmhouse, she finds herself drawn to the crumbling old mansion in the woods nearby. But an innocent exploration of the empty ruin and the discovery of the diary of former resident Alice leaves her more than a little spooked. She knows it holds the secrets to a dark past, and she has to find out more.

What was the terrible truth that Alice uncovered? And how could what happened to her over 100 years ago help solve the murders of young women in the town?

Annie needs to stop the serial killer before she becomes his next victim – but the past comes back to haunt her in ways she could never have expected.

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013

Copyright © Helen Phifer 2013

Helen Phifer asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2013 ISBN: 9781472018069

Version date: 2019-03-13

HELEN PHIFER has had a few jobs over the years: hairdresser, care assistant and cleaner. Not to mention a wife, mother of five and grandmother (although she still feels far too young to be the latter).

For the last six years she has worked full time for Cumbria Constabulary as a PCSO and loves her job – well, most of the time. She’ll let you into a little secret; she originally applied for her current job to help with her writing. She wanted to make it as realistic as she could and never imagined she would be accepted!

She has loved to read and write since she discovered Enid Blyton as a young child. In her teens she was hooked on Stephen King – she loves reading books which make the hair on the back of her neck stand on end and he never lets her down.

She started writing in her twenties. In her thirties she got an idea for a crime/ghost story that wouldn’t go away. The fact that she couldn’t find enough of the stories she loved persuaded her to get hers down on paper and she is so glad that she did. She started this book eight years ago and it has been a labour of love but one of which she is very proud.

You can contact follow Helen on her blog at http://helenphifer.wordpress.com, her website at www.helenphifer.co.uk and on Twitter, @helenphifer1.

This story is indeed a work of fiction and for anything I have got wrong regarding forensics or police it is entirely my doing and I have to admit I have used my creative license to sometimes bend the truth a little. I would also like to state for the record that this book was plotted and my first draft written before I even applied to work for Cumbria Constabulary and therefore any similarities between my characters and colleagues are entirely by coincidence. None of the characters are based on any of the police officers or staff that I work with. On the other hand, however, I’m open to suggestions for my next book!

I would like to say a huge thank you to the Romantic Novelists Association and their New Writers Scheme. To Jan Jones for setting up a meeting with my editor, the lovely Anna Baggaley. To Anna for taking a chance and believing in me. To the wonderful team at HQ Digital for everything. To the amazing Jayne Jakeman, who runs our local writing group and has spent so much time nurturing and showing me the error of my ways, and, of course, my amazing Roose Writers who are such a talented, supportive bunch: Joan, Cathy, Anne, Pip, Luke, Jaz and Eddie your turn next. And not forgetting Claire at Roose library for the support and supply of coffee. I would also like to thank my writing friend Bernadette O’Dwyer for all her wonderful support and, of course, my fellow blog members at TheWriteRomantics, you are all amazing.

A huge thank you goes to my friend John for allowing me to pick his brains concerning anything and everything. Caroline Kendall for being my very first reader and not telling me to find another hobby. My friends, colleagues and fellow PCSOs, especially Sam, Tracy, Tina and the late Cathy, who I miss so much, for their endless inspiration and laughter. Liz Gaskell for her graphic explanation of a post mortem. My brother Mark, his wife Christine and family for buying the most amazing house which inspired this book: I’m really sorry and I hope I haven’t put you off living there.

Last but not least my mam and dad for always being there, my husband Steve for his support and belief in me, and my children Jessica, Joshua, Jerusha, Jaimea and Jeorgia for putting up with the microwave meals and unwashed towels – your mum loves you – really xx

For my brother Chris and my best friend Cathy, two of the brightest stars in the sky.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Epilogue

Extract

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Annie Graham studied the selection of keys on the rusty hook behind the kitchen door, looking for the one to the crumbling, Victorian mansion. Recognising the white, plastic key ring she plucked it off the hook and pushed it into the bottom of her pocket. Earlier she had filled her rucksack with a torch, some rope, a bottle of water, a bag of Quavers and a bar of chocolate: all the things a girl couldn’t live without. She felt like Indiana Jones, about to go on an adventure.

Her training as a police officer made her less inclined to fear the things most of her friends would. Through work she had been in some really sticky situations. She just hoped the inside of the house wasn’t in as much of a state as her brother Ben had warned her about. Tess was whining to come but if she let her run loose and Tess got injured she’d be in big trouble or, in Jake’s words, ‘well and truly busted’.

She locked up then walked along the tiny overgrown path that skirted the outside of Ben’s farmhouse and led through the woods to the mansion, which was a couple of minutes away. Soon the tall chimneys were visible, peeking above the tops of the oak trees. She pushed through a small gap in the bushes, fighting with the brambles, to find herself standing in front of the mansion.

It was magnificent; the walls were built from the same deep red sandstone as the Abbey ruins just below the entrance to the woods. It was remarkable to think that someone could actually afford to build such a stunning home and then abandon it. It had lain empty with no one to care for it for decades. The current owner was an elderly woman who lived in New York. As far as Annie was aware the woman had never even been to look at the house, which had been left to her by the last owner, a distant relative. Maybe if she had she would have done something with it; the potential was endless. Then again, if it had been developed her brother wouldn’t have been able to afford to buy the farmhouse, which had a clause in the contract that whoever owned the farm had to be the caretaker of the big house. Ben was a builder so it was perfect for him. Annie loved the peace and tranquillity that being up here brought to her bruised mind.

All the downstairs windows were boarded up to stop the local teenagers from going inside and breaking their necks. The upstairs windows were, surprisingly, all intact. Hundreds of tiny panes of stained glass with the most intricate patterns of lead beading running through them. Annie didn’t envy whoever once had the job of keeping those clean; they were grimy now with over sixty years of dirt. The front door was an amazing work of art. Set into a Gothic arch the huge oak door had the biggest brass knocker she had seen. It was a scary goblin face with a mouth full of pointed teeth. Annie knew that if she had been a visitor to the house she would never have used that thing, it would probably clamp its teeth shut and swallow your hand whole.

Taking the key she pushed it into the lock and was relieved when it turned – at least Ben had sorted out one thing. Pushing the heavy door it let out a loud groan. Annie was apprehensive to go in alone. She heard Ben’s warning in the back of her mind but he was out of the country and she was housesitting so technically she was in charge. Her stomach was churning with nervous excitement at finally being able to explore the house. Stepping inside she shuddered; a mix of emotions overwhelmed her but the feeling that shocked her most was the warm surge of familiarity, which rushed through her veins. It was so strong that she wanted to shout, ‘I’m back, I’ve finally come home.’ But why? Why do I feel like this and who am I telling it to? The feeling of déjà vu confused her but she brushed it off as wishful thinking.

The house was amazing. The entrance hall was so large it alone could accommodate a party. The walls were covered in begrimed and dusty oak panelling, the air smelt damp and fusty, and Annie tried not to breathe through her nose because it was so overpowering. She tried to picture the house as it used to be and an image began to form in her mind of the house when it was a family home. Fearfully she pushed it away.

The house was dark and full of shadows so she decided to start at the top and work her way down. That way if the floors were as rotten as her brother believed and she fell through the ceiling she would have all day to try and contact someone to come and rescue her. As brave as she felt she didn’t want to be lying in a heap on the floor when what little light there was began to fade: that was far too scary.

Cautiously she walked across the floor to the staircase, which was a sweeping, grand statement; it didn’t seem too dangerous. Placing her hand on the ornately carved oak banister she tested the first step. It creaked loudly but held her weight. Placing both feet on it she bounced up and down to see if she would fall through: she didn’t. Taking one step at a time she reached the first floor and grinned because the stairs hadn’t collapsed on her. Why are the men in my life such drama queens? Treading carefully along the corridor she peered into the many rooms she passed; their doors were either wide open or missing. Each room was now an empty shell but she could picture exactly how they used to look with ornately carved beds covered in sumptuous, richly coloured throws. The wardrobes and drawers all matching, small bedside tables with heavy brass lamps and delicate pieces of cut glass on display along with pretty perfume bottles. The only thing left in them now was the beautiful marble mantelpieces and, in a couple of rooms, some discarded beer cans with faded logos – Annie didn’t think you could still buy those brands.

At the far end of the long hallway was the only closed door on the whole floor; Annie found herself drawn towards it. Standing outside she closed her eyes to try and picture what was on the other side but her mind was blank. Her fingers reached out, wrapping themselves around the dull brass knob. She pulled her hand back sharply. The metal was so freezing cold the tips of her fingers felt numb. Her mother’s voice spoke clearly in her mind, ‘Curiosity killed the cat. When will you ever learn?’ Annie, who had been at loggerheads with her mum since she could talk, whispered ‘never’ then gripped the knob and twisted it with all her strength until it gave a little and slowly turned. There was no sensible reason why she was so desperate to go in there but she knew she had to.

She was greeted by a schoolroom and gasped with pleasure to see two small, well-worn pine desks with matching chairs tucked neatly underneath them. A huge bookcase filled the back wall. It was laden with books and Annie, who loved to read, grinned with pleasure. The mantelpiece in this room was lined with a row of tin soldiers, all stood on guard ready for their next battle. Annie walked over and picked one up, murmuring with delight that they were real – it wasn’t her imagination. How had this room stayed intact when the rest of the house was an empty shell? Turning back to the desks she pulled out a chair and sat down, her fingers tracing the lines and grooves in the soft wood. Lifting the top to peer inside she smiled to see a dusty, old black leather book. Picking it up she blew away some of the dust.

From somewhere inside the house she became aware of the soft tinkling of a piano, the tune was vaguely familiar to her, comforting. She looked at the title of the book, which was written in elegant gold script: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. A man’s muffled voice called out; it was deep and sounded to Annie as if it was coming through a loudspeaker. A chill ran through her body. It sounded like someone she knew a long time ago but now couldn’t quite remember.

‘Alice, where are you? I want to come and play.’

Goosebumps broke out all over her arms; she knew she was the only person in the house.

‘Alice, I’m coming to find you ready or not.’

Whoever the voice belonged to wasn’t asking whomever Alice was to play the game, it was telling her she had no choice. Instinctively Annie looked around for somewhere to hide, her heart beating so hard she was afraid the steady thud of it would give her away. Then came footsteps climbing the stairs that were so loud they made the floor vibrate. Annie knew that it just wasn’t possible, but they kept on coming. Soon they would be on the landing and heading straight towards her. Standing quickly she whacked her thigh on the sharp corner of the desk and bit her tongue so as not to cry out, ‘I’m not ready, I don’t want to play with you, whoever you are.’ The footsteps got louder and she looked at the door, which had swung shut: there was nowhere to hide in this room.

The sudden silence was deafening. She knew that whomever had been calling out was now standing outside the door, listening. Annie backed away putting some distance between herself and the door, adrenalin making every sense in her body alert. She had been in the police force for five years and was a capable fighter. Her self-defence training and regular Saturday night brawls with drunks had turned her into a competent fighter, but what really scared her was the thought that whomever was standing on the other side of the door may not be the sort of person that she could grapple with. Do I believe in ghosts? Her body taut, feet automatically taking up a fighter’s stance she raised her fists, which were clenched so hard her knuckles had gone white.

There was no light seeping under the door, it was blocked out by the black shadow standing on the other side, and the little light that had been in the room had faded. Her stomach muscles tightened, she was as ready as she could be. A huge bang exploded directly above the house and she shrieked, her legs wobbled, threatening to give way. Annie whipped her head around the room: it was empty. No tin soldiers or books, no desks. She squeezed her eyes shut then opened them: the room was empty just like the others. The door was now open just as she had left it and thankfully there was no crazy man standing on the other side waiting for her. But still an uneasy feeling of being watched settled over her. Forcing her feet to move she stepped forward and kicked something, she looked down to see a book on the floor. Too scared to read the title, although she had a pretty good idea what it was, she shoved it into her rucksack. Another crash of thunder echoed around the house making her shriek again.

Not caring any more about how safe the floors were she ran out onto the landing, along the hall to the staircase and took the stairs two at a time. Her heart beating so fast she was positive she was about to have a heart attack right there in the big old house with only the ghost waiting and watching for her to come and join him.

Annie, never big on church or religion, began to hum the first hymn that came into her mind, ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, over and over again. In a matter of seconds she had crossed the great hall and the front door loomed in front of her. For a fleeting moment she envisioned it not opening but with one almighty tug she was outside on the steps.

The smell of ozone filled the air. It hadn’t started to rain but the sky was now a blanket of dirty yellow and grey. Slamming the heavy door shut behind her she fumbled to pull the key from her pocket. Gripping it tightly she rammed it into the lock. As she turned it she hoped that whatever or whomever was in that house was now locked on the other side.

The last of the daylight had been obscured by the thunderclouds. Annie ran towards the tiny path as the first heavy drops of rain began to fall. The trees shielded her from the worst of it but it was the last place anyone should be in a thunderstorm. As if to confirm this, another huge crack echoed around the woods. Turning she took one last look at the house as a flash of brilliant white lightning lit up the sky above it. Her eyes searched for the window of the room she had just been in. Locating it she took a sharp intake of breath. At the last window was a blurry white shape of a woman staring back at her.

Annie turned and ran back to the farmhouse as fast as her shaky legs could carry her. Reaching the clearing her shoulders relaxed a little at the sight of the gate. She scrambled over it and pushed her way into the kitchen, slamming the door shut behind her. She leant against it but her legs gave way and she slid, in one big, dripping heap, down to the floor. Tess growled from the safety of her dog basket then, realising it was Annie, quietened and watched her warily. Wow, Tess, what a guard dog you are. She began to take deep breaths to calm herself down then, when she felt able, she pulled herself up and went into the living room to watch the storm, which was still raging.

The lightning illuminating the woods was the most beautiful yet terrifying thing she had ever seen, and it was centred over the big house. Trudging up the stairs she went to the only bedroom that overlooked the mansion for a better view. It fascinated her that the lightning was striking directly over it.

Annie was scared; she didn’t want to be alone in the middle of the woods. What she would give to have her colleague and best friend Jake with her, his muscular arms wrapped around her. She couldn’t get a phone signal on a good day up here. In a storm she was totally cut off. Jake would laugh at her and tell her she had lost the plot big time and maybe he wouldn’t be that far wrong. He would be at work now, halfway through his shift, which is where she should be. At least then bad things happened to other people and not her.

Common sense told her the house wasn’t haunted; there was no such thing as ghosts. But the other explanation scared her even more: her head injury could be worse than the doctor had thought. Then she remembered the book and went back downstairs to check her bag. If it wasn’t there then she would go to the hospital tomorrow and tell them she was hallucinating.

Her bag was on the kitchen floor and for a moment Annie didn’t know whether she wanted to open it or not. Eventually she unzipped it and rummaged around inside her fingers caught the sharp corner of a leather bound book. Oh crap.

Chapter 2

By the time Will arrived at Jenna White’s house the normally quiet street was thriving with people. Earlier, the arrival of Jake in the patrol car, after the call had come in for a missing teenager, had set a few curtains twitching. But now neighbours were standing in front gardens chatting away to each other and several people had remembered that they had left something in the boot of their cars and were trying to look inconspicuous, but failing miserably, as they loitered at the rear of their vehicles.

A reporter from the local paper parked opposite Will, who growled under his breath at him: he was a right pain in the backside. His speciality was making every copper he interviewed look like an idiot. Will was well aware that some of his colleagues didn’t really need much help in that department, but most of them came to work to help others – protect and serve the public and all that malarkey – so the papers should have been on their side. Will was just biding his time until the reporter stepped over the line and gave him a reason to arrest him, show him the hospitality of the custody suite and see how he liked bed and breakfast listening to the regulars: drunks wailing and being sick or drug addicts coming down from their highs.

A handful of youths, dressed as if they had starring roles in the Rocky Horror Picture Show, were hanging around by the gate of 9 Walton Path. Jake appeared at the front door and lifted his hand to wave at Will, who was out of his car and ducking inside the front garden before the reporter got the lens cap off his camera.

‘Glad to see you mate, the word has spread like wildfire: bloody Facebook. And by the look of that lot over there they have her down as being abducted by a transvestite alien,’ said Jake.

Will closed the front door behind him and followed Jake through to the kitchen. The house was neat and tidy and the sweet smell of vanilla filled the air from a reed diffuser on the hall table: it reminded him of his Nan’s home. She had lived in the next street along and, as the queen of baking, her house had always smelt like this. Will felt his heartstrings tug at the sight of the crumpled woman staring at him expectantly.

‘Mrs White, I’m Detective Sergeant Will Ashworth. I work in CID. Jake has told me about Jenna. You say she has never done anything like this before?’