Crab Tree Hall (Part One)

‘Follow the road up the hill, take a left over the brow and look out for the old barn, then turn right down a narrow lane and you'll see the sign for Crab Tree. You can't miss it.’

I thanked the farmer and grinned at Hilary. ‘You can't miss it. They always say that.’

‘Now come on, John, you never know. This might just be the one we're looking for.’

This must have been our tenth viewing this month, and we were getting a little drained. The heavy rain had stopped and the wet road glistened in the brilliant autumn sunshine, steam rising in wispy clouds from its surface.

The wind-up and sale of our business had been traumatic, taking its toll. I'd just sold my audio streaming app to Google, which helped a bit. Now, with plenty of cash burning a hole, we'd thrown everything into our search for a new dream home. Well, not new exactly. According to the agent, this property was built around 1790 by a local yeoman farmer but had been empty since 1987. The asking price seemed very reasonable, so I fully expected it to be a bit of a ruin.

We found the old barn, but the lane turned out to be full of potholes and very muddy from the recent cloudburst. I navigated the potholes with care, the Mini Cooper was not meant for this kind of terrain. We nearly missed the sign, a faded rectangle of bleached wood nailed to an ancient oak tree. Another curve, another pothole, and then, half-concealed beyond a large yew tree, we saw it. Honey-coloured stone glowing in the soft afternoon sunshine, mullioned windows half-strangled by creeping ivy.

Hilary squealed with delight. ‘John, it's straight out of a Famous Five book!’

I'd hardly stopped the car when she was straight out. I watched her for a few minutes as she raced around like an excited child, peering through the windows. I began to wonder if this really delight,be an investment or just another bottomless drain on my resources. After she beckoned me a second time, I searched my pockets for the key and took a deep breath.

The garden, now choked with weeds and creepers, still betrayed signs of its earlier splendour. Terraced, with half-concealed stone steps, sloping gently down. There was no denying it had a certain magic. Just the silence of nature pressing on my ears, the lazy drone of insects, the plaintive song of a blackcap and a stream bubbling somewhere below.

Hilary was impatient, ‘Let's look inside before it gets too dark.’

‘Well, let's hope they've got this new fangled electric light then.’

I turned the key and pushed open the heavy oak door. We were greeted with a cool musty smell. The inside was surprisingly neat. I half expected to see damp walls, leaking roofs, pigeon droppings and dead mice, but everything was bone dry and tidy, as if the occupants had just recently closed up the house for the season.

‘John, you must see this – quick!’ She was already dashing from room to room.

Hilary was standing in one of the rear bedrooms. All the rooms were empty of furniture except this one, which had a child's rocking horse in the corner.

‘It's got to be a hundred years old, at least. I wonder why they left it like this.’ She ran her hand down the old wallpaper. Towards the bottom was a jumble of faded writing in crayon, a child's scribbles. ‘Look at this - My name is Annab… aged 7. How sweet! This must have been a child's nursery.’

I frowned ‘Hmm. It seems a bit cold for a nursery. That tiny window faces due north. It can't get any sun. It needs a double radiator under that window, and another along this wall.’

Hilary wasn't listening. She was already in another bedroom at the far end admiring the view over the garden. I grabbed my phone and proceeded to tour the house, recording video clips of each room. After about twenty minutes, I found myself back in the nursery bedroom. I stood in one corner and slowly panned around, taking in the child’s rocking horse.

I felt a dull thud and a slight movement by my side as Hilary brushed past me. ‘How's it going?’ I said, ‘Found anything else interesting?’ She didn't answer. She must be daydreaming again.

I thought I heard a child laughing somewhere, and there was something else, a vague sort of hissing, like fat frying. Then I noticed the rocking horse. It was - rocking. I looked around for Hilary.

‘Don't tell me you've been playing on the rocking horse?’ But she wasn't there. I found her later in the kitchen, poking around through the cupboards.

‘We'd need to do something with this kitchen John, it's a bit 1970s.’

‘Maybe it'll come back into fashion.’

‘I doubt it. What took you so long up there? I could hear you talking to yourself.’

‘It's odd. I could have sworn someone brushed past me while I was videoing. I thought it was you at first. Oh, and the rocking horse – it was rocking.’

‘Isn't that what they're meant to do? Ah, maybe it's haunted!’ She giggled.

‘Come on, we'd better lock up and head for home. It's almost dark and I don't want to knacker my suspension in one of those potholes.’

We grabbed a Chinese takeaway on the way home and helped it down with a bottle of Muscadet. We were both shattered. By half-past nine, Hilary took a shower and went to bed. I said I'd join her later. I decided to take a quick look at the video clips first. I made myself another coffee and sat at the kitchen table with my laptop. I linked it to my phone and copied the video files across.

Watching the video clips, I realised that the house was in pretty good repair. The main outlay would be on the central heating, maybe a couple of log burners, a new kitchen, bathroom and an en-suite. We could sand and polish the floorboards. A few rugs and some antique furniture, and it would soon start to look like home. We couldn't do much to the outside though, as it was a listed building.

The laptop speakers were not too brilliant, so I plugged in a pair of headphones. The only sound on the video as I moved from room to room, apart from my own footsteps, was the muted birdsong from outside, and the odd bang and scrape as Hilary explored downstairs. The nursery room was different, however.

I pressed the headphones to my ears and listened carefully. There was no mistake. First, a thump, followed by a child running and laughing. Then I saw a dark shadow, a figure, flit rapidly across the room – and then that sound, a sort of hissing – and the rocking horse, yes there it was, still rocking, all by itself. Then it occurred to me. That hissing could in fact be lots of individual voices whispering all at once – perhaps a hundred years of voices, crammed into one moment of time, vying for my attention, and beneath it all, one voice in particular. I played it again and again. What was it saying? I loaded the clip into my video editing software. I extracted the audio track and tried filtering out the higher frequencies. I realised then that the voice was running at the wrong speed, as if it was warped in time. I adjusted the speed up and down until finally I could make it out, though it was still distorted. It sounded like an urgent whisper.

‘Annabella. You must come now. It's time for your tea.’

I leaned back and massaged my temples. My head was throbbing. I played it again. It was not so clear this time. I tried applying some noise reduction. That only made it worse, so I pressed the undo button, but I couldn't get it back to how it was. Annoyed with myself, I reloaded the original file and repeated the process, but it was no good – it had gone. By now I was frantic. I can't have corrupted the file, I still had the original. But the voices had gone. In frustration, I slammed the lid of the laptop and went up to bed.

Hilary was fast asleep. Her skin was warm and soft and smelled of baby soap. I started to relax.

I dreamed I was in the garden at Crab Tree Hall, but it was full of flowers, roses and hollyhocks reaching high against the walls. I saw a little girl about nine years old. She wore old-fashioned clothes, Victorian or Edwardian. Her hair was in ringlets. She was picking some flowers and chasing butterflies. Then I saw the figure at the door. Her governess was standing there, in a long black dress with a high collar, her hair fastened back in a bun.

She called to the girl, ‘Annabella, you must come in now …’

I awoke with a jolt. My chest was pounding. I took slow, deep breaths to try to calm myself. The images were fading, but I was left with a deep feeling of desolation, of loneliness, stretching far into the future.

The next time I awoke, sunlight was streaming in through the window. Hilary was standing over me holding a cup of coffee.

‘Hey, sleepy-head, have you seen the time?’

I rubbed my eyes. ‘I was up late watching the video. I'd better get up.’

She sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Drink your coffee first. You'll never guess. I rang the agent first thing and put in our offer. They accepted it!’ Her eyes sparkled. I'd never seen her so happy.

‘That's great! We'd better organise a survey then.’

‘Listen, I asked the agent how much he knew about the history, you know previous owners and suchlike. He said all he knew was the last owner was a woman, a spinster who lived there alone. He said he'd drop off a copy of the deeds this morning.’

There was a thump in the hall. ‘That'll be it now.’

She ran into the hall and returned with a large brown envelope. She pulled out the copy and studied it for a moment.

‘Here we are. It's listed here. Listen to this.

The last resident died alone, aged ninety-three. A Miss Annabella Fitzwilliam.’