The Echoes of Willow's Creek Hall

PART 1

As a devoted man of God, I’ve never believed in ghosts. On the contrary, I’ve always considered it my duty to cleanse my community of the ill belief that after death one might not be able to ascend to His paradise – or fall into the pits of hell, if so deserved.

Which is precisely why I didn’t much care about the stories my new housekeeper, Madame Augusta Downerthy, laid out to me upon my arrival at Willow’s Creek Hall.

„Oh dear,” she gasped, throwing her hands before her mouth. „Here I go rambling, while Dr. Downerthy strictly forbade me to talk about all this.”

I gave her a polite smile and walked past her into the spacious entry hall. She had greeted me at the front door and immediately started laying all the house’s secrets open to me. Which I could appreciate. At least she was an honest woman.

The hall was tastefully decorated, everything stood meticulously arranged around the enormous centre piece: A gigantic mahogany stairwell. Some of the furniture looked to be directly inherited from the former owners. The wear-off, despite being clearly visible, fortunately didn’t take away from their elegance.

I did however find, upon closer inspection, signs of hurried work in the reshaped parts of it. Of scratches in the corners of door frames where one wouldn’t normally look. Of wrinkles at the edges of the wallpaper. Of loose threads pulled from the rugs.

„When was the house refitted, did you say?” I asked of Madame Downerthy as I continued gazing over the furniture.

„Oh, it’s just been finished a month ago,” she reluctantly replied. Her eyes kept evading mine, her fingers awfully busy with plucking at her sleeves and straightening the wrinkles in her dress. Did my scrutinising look make her nervous?

„You know, that’s exactly what I meant earlier,” she continued. „The refit had… some obstacles. There were strange incidents happening all around and the workers were regularly quitting. Of course we’ve had someone come in to inspect the situation,” she hurried to add upon my questioning look.

„What exactly do you mean by incidents?” I enquired, for the first time stopping in my tracks and giving her my full attention.

„Well… I’m not supposed to tell you, you know, Dr. Downerthy-”

„It’s alright,” I interrupted her. „I am studying to be a priest. I know ghosts aren’t real, so rest assured, I shall not step back from our contract.”

„Right, of course. As a student of God’s ways, you wouldn’t be roused by such frivolity.” She chuckled, but it felt a little too loud and a little too insincere. „May I tell you the story over a good cup of tea?” she asked then. “You know, it might all be nonsense, but it’s giving me an uneasy feeling all the same.”

We walked up the stairwell to the first floor, where to the right my new flat lay. Madame Downerthy opened the door and then handed me a set of keys – two for the door up here, one for the main door downstairs, one for the bathroom.

I nodded through the quick tour she gave me of my rooms and left the two bags serving as my luggage in the bed chamber, before we headed to the kitchen and Madame Downerthy heated the kettle.

„It took over six years altogether,” she started her story when she put a fine china cup in front of me. Clinging to her own cup, she let herself sink onto the simple wooden chair the kitchen’s little seating arrangement came with. „We had initially hoped to get it done within three. My poor Dr. Downerthy was done with his nerves after four. You know, we are of course devoted Christians, but that never concerned the men we’ve hired, it seems.”

She took a sip of her tea and almost dropped it the same moment, the liquid still too hot for consumption.

I put a spoonful of sugar into mine and began stirring idly. „What had the workers so frightened? The house is obviously old, but it doesn’t seem any scarier to me than my late grandfather’s residence.”

„Right you are, Mr Lawrence. But the men told us horrid stories. Of rugs pulled beneath their feet, doors closed in front of their faces, down pillows ripped apart, the feathers sticking to the walls wet with wallpaper glue. They came up with most troublesome excuses to explain why they had to redo things several times.”

I raised an eyebrow. „And you believed this nonsense?”

„Of course not. But when Dr. Downerthy had a serious talk with the foreman, the first batch of the workers ended up protesting and didn’t come to work again. The company had them dismissed, obviously, and sent new workers.” She took a break, blowing at her tea and trying to take another sip. „It didn’t take long though until the new lot started talking of the same peculiar incidents. And despite the foreman promising they had never even seen the previous workers, they told the exact same stories.”

I considered her worried look for a moment. People were superstitious left and right, anything they couldn’t quite understand with their lack of education ended up being a ghost or demon or what have you. But people telling the same stories fully independently from each other did make me curious.

„There was once an incident where an old suit of armour apparently started walking through the halls. We would’ve considered it charlatanry, if not for that horrible accident. Dr. Downerthy – my poor Dr. Downerthy – was here for an inspection and discovered the man first. He’s been stabbed by that very armour, it was still towering over him when my husband found him. Poor bloke survived, fortunately. Stab had only gone through his shoulder. But after that we had to make contracts with a rather questionable company to even get the house finished. None of the respectable ones wanted to work here any more.”

Madame Downerthy sat still for a moment, pondering over her words, until her eyes jolted upwards. „Oh dear, I shouldn’t have told you.”

I followed her gaze towards the window, but she already got up from her chair and gave me a cut-off curtsy. „I must excuse myself, Mr Lawrence. I’m sure I’ve stolen enough of your time. You’ll want to settle in of course and here I am chattering away like an old crone in need of company. Please, don’t think too much of these stories. Willow’s Creek Hall will surely be a wonderful home to you. And should there be any concerns, please don’t hesitate to call me up.”

She hustled through the hallway and out of the door within mere seconds, leaving me entirely baffled with her sudden hurry.

“Have a wonderful evening, dear Mr Lawrence. I shall see you tomorrow morning,” she said. And gone she was.

I stared at the door she had closed behind her for a minute, wondering what had gotten into her, then shook it off like a fly buzzing around my head and went to properly settle into my new home.

PART 2

By the time I had given all my belongings their dedicated new place, the night had taken over. I had just put on my nightgown and refreshed my face in the bathroom, as I was walking to my chamber and considered heating up a bed warmer. For late September it was rather cold already.

An unfamiliar sensation crept over my skin, when a gust of wind toyed with the light of my candle. I made a mental note to tell Madame Downerthy that there had to be an ill-fitted window somewhere. I ignored the fact that it made my skin prickle with unease, made my mind spin because I knew I was all alone in this vast house with the other residents expected to arrive in a week only.

And then, with another gust of wind that sent a shiver down my spine, the house declared war.

The chamber door fell shut right before me, the tormented light of my candle flickering alarmingly. Not even my feeble attempts at protecting it with my clam hand could save it. It wavered right, wavered left and then it was out.

The full moon provided a dim light, turned all soft by the fogged-up windows. A sign from God, providing guidance through his celestial devices, I tried to reason with myself. But as much as the rational half of my mind wanted to convince me, my subconscious reminded me of all the tales of horror Madame Downerthy had told earlier. Of stories, I had heard as a much younger lad. Of dreadful nights filled with monsters dancing beneath the full moon.

I slowly sneaked towards the now-closed door. The house was deadly quiet, merely the faint wheezing of air pushing through a narrow slit somewhere unbeknownst to me reassured me I was still alive. The hallway seemed to stretch out before me with every step I took, the seconds melting into an infinite moment. By the time I reached the door my body was shaking, inspired by the chill in the air, surely. But also, by something more sinister I didn’t want to acknowledge. My mind must have been playing a trick on me: It mocked me with unwelcome images of a girl clad in an all-white nightgown waiting for me right behind the door.

“Don’t be irrational, Edmund,” I chastised myself and took a deep breath to find my centre again. Then, I pushed the door open.

A terrible, shrieking sound erupted from it, and I jumped back like I had touched pestilence itself. For a moment there, I was convinced someone had unearthed a mandrake from the stories of old. I dropped the unlit candle and hurriedly pushed my fingers into my ears, pleading for that to be enough to save me of the deadly cry.

But the worst was yet to come.

As the hellish sound had finally subsided, the door fully opened, I slowly unfurled from my curled-up position, ashamed of my own foolish reaction.

And there she was. The girl in the all-white nightgown.

She stood silently on the far side of my bed chamber, illuminated by the moonlight falling through the window behind her. Falling through her.

I must’ve stood there for a full minute, my feet glued to the floor, body frozen in place, kept alive only by an increasing trembling. The girl stared at me with giant eyes, glowing with an otherworldly light. And then she tilted her head. Only so slightly. But it was enough to frighten the last bit of sense out of me.

My body crashed back into the world of the living with a sudden heaviness, and it was all I could do to pick up my legs and run back into the bathroom, where I locked the door with the heavy copper key I had left there earlier.

Even through the racing beat of my heart pumping blood through my veins I heard something from beyond the door.

Clump.

Clump.

Clump.

Those were the steps of a heavy person, dragging themselves through the hallway.

Clump.

Clump.

I looked down at the doorhandle. The key was turned locked. As I slowly pushed down the handle as well, I confirmed it would not open. A relieved sigh escaped my lips.

Clump.

The steps stopped. Whoever was walking out there had-

CLUMPCLUMPCLUMPCLUMP

My body froze. The steps were charging down the hallway at full speed now.

And then something crashed against the door I was still leaning onto and caused me to topple over. The door did not give in, but as I looked up another sound emerged from the sudden silence. The key’s bow moved. It looked as though somebody was turning it around, despite nobody touching it.

My gaze glued to the door, my body useless like a sack of hay, confined to the cold floor tiles, I watched the handle being pushed down and the door swinging open. No shrieking sounds this time, only the unforgiving, relentless swing that ever so slowly revealed the hallway.

It was empty.

I swallowed. My heart was racing, my body trembling.

But I was alone.

Frightened almost to death I took another candle out of the stash in the hallway and made sure to protect it fiercely this time, as I walked back into my bed chamber.

I did not find any sleep that night, merely lay in my bed freezing and trying to come clean with the things I had witnessed. Praying for God’s forgiveness, because I was convinced now that He could not protect me from this unholy ghoul that had invaded my home. Deciding that I, Edmund Lawrence, priest apprentice of the St. Michael’s Order, would not let myself be bested by an unruly house. I would fight this.

PART 3

I left for the library at the break of dawn – partly because I was awake anyway and wanted to use every second I could get to prepare. Partly because I really didn’t care to meet Madame Downerthy after such an unpleasant night.

It was easy to find literature on exorcisms for demons in the library of the country’s largest monastery. There were dozens of books, ancient scrolls and even an exhibit of an old prayer carved into stone. But, to my detriment, not a single word on ghosts. Unfortunately, this did not come to me as a surprise. Supernatural phenomena were the creation of overly imaginative spirits, after all. Or so I had been taught.

Either way, I took The apprentice’s guide to exorcism with me. Despite – or because of – the almost comic title, it seemed fitting.

By lunchtime I arrived to Madame Downerthy’s nervous bustling, as she was fervently cleaning spots of the house that were decidedly not in need of cleaning.

“Oh, there you are!” she exclaimed, leaning over the first-floor railing as soon as I entered. “I had all but convinced myself you left at the first chance you got!”

I was quite unsure what to reply. Naturally, I couldn’t tell her what had happened to me last night. Not after so vehemently insisting ghosts were mere superstition. Instead, I excused myself with the wish to be left alone, as I wanted to prepare for my studies. She accepted that without comment, visibly relieved I had not decided to leave Willow’s Creek Hall all yet.

It took me most of the afternoon to read The apprentice’s guide to Exorcism. Madame Downerthy had been so incredibly nice to bring me some dinner, which I’m convinced was a wonderful dish, but I couldn’t tell you what exactly she’d made if I wanted to. I was, by then, deeply entranced by the lecture. Despite not covering ghosts per se, it still proved full of valuable insight. The most important: I needed holy water. Something you cannot simply buy packed up in canisters from the local shop. And, well, as a mere apprentice I was actually not yet eligible to consecrate water myself. My circumstances did call for drastic measures though (or, so I told myself), hence I decided to try it anyway. Certainly, God would understand my dire situation and lend me His power.

With an exquisite china vase, I had borrowed from the salon (I figured holy water should not be kept in a silly vessel such as a teacup or soup bowl), I set myself up in my bed chamber. Sitting on a shabby little stool from the bathroom, I felt ready to meet the ghost on more equal terms tonight.

And thus began the wait.

I had The apprentice’s guide sitting on the floor next to me, hoping I wouldn’t have to refer to it but keeping it close for good luck.

Sitting entirely still for the first time that day, I suddenly noticed how drained my body felt, how tightly my muscles had cramped up. Like instead of blood, I had electricity rushing through my veins. I was sure I would crash down immediately if the tension were to release, so I focused on my Rosario, reciting prayer after prayer.

Until, mercifully, the sun went down. The temperature seemed to drop in an instant, the windows fogged up, just like the day before. And when I closed my eyes, my mind unpromptedly conjured images of a girl in an all-white dress.

I flicked them open and there she stood. Moonlight falling right through her, illuminating her eyes. But this time, I was prepared. I didn’t flinch, didn’t shy away, even when she tilted her head. This time, I noticed she was not some bestiality, not the unholy phantom I had made her out to be. She was a young girl, maybe my age, maybe younger still. And she looked terrified.

I didn’t intend to let her fool me though: demon or not, she was not from this world. As if I needed even more convincing, an unearthly cold crept up my spine, certainly emitting from the very ghost before me.

With a quick dip of my fingers into the vase I stood up and positioned myself in front of her, splashing drops of the holy water right at her.

“Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio, contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium,” I began reciting from the book, clinging to the beads of my Rosario. The worn-out patterns in the wood calmed my fingers, which despite my confidence had started shaking.

“Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur: in infernum detrude satanam aliosque spiritus malignos.” The words felt powerful in my lungs, but no sooner than they escaped my mouth they seemed to evaporate into the cold air. I repeated them relentlessly, raising my voice against the tightness clenching my throat.

Until I noticed movement from the ghost. She tilted her head, yet again, and looked straight at me. Her brows furrowed and I mistook it for a sign I had finally made an impact.

But no. She started to laugh.

I interrupted my prayers, unsure what that meant.

“What are you doing?” the girl asked. Her voice was soft as cotton, wrapping me up, yet it echoed in my head like she was multiple people.

I stared back at her, confusion growing within me. Still, I raised my Rosario and pushed on. “I am calling upon the archangel Michael, patron saint to the fight against Satan and his devices, leader of the sacred-”

The girl giggled. “Is that supposed to be an exorcism? Because if so, I must inform you: It doesn’t have any effect on me.”

My hand, stretched out with righteous fervour, sank in defeat.

“What is it you want?” I asked hesitantly.

Her gaze dropped to the floor, and she took her time thinking about my question. “I want absolution,” she replied then.

I staggered. Could it be?

“I don’t want to dwell in this state of half being, half not any more,” she continued. “You are a priest. Please, help me. Please, bury my body.”

I looked at her, frowning. “Did nobody else bury you?”

The light in her eyes made her look like she was crying. “I was murdered. Nobody ever found my body.”

Gulping, I finally gave up my protective stance. She didn’t look like she wanted to hurt me any more. No, she had asked upon my duty as a priest and though my studies were not finished, I felt obliged to help her.

“Where will I find your body?”

She raised her hand and pointed straight at the entryway.

I followed her all the way down into the hall, where she showed me a door I had not noticed before. None of the keys Madame Downerthy had handed me fit into its lock and I really didn’t plan on damaging the beautifully carved wooden door.

“My parents must have the key,” the girl said, disheartened.

I beg you to leave what I will tell you now between you and me, because I’m certainly not proud of it. But it was an old, worn-out lock, so, I managed to pick the door open with the frame of my reading glasses.

The ghost and I followed a narrow staircase down into a large room, filled with mounds of old furniture and décor. They were all buried beneath heaps of dust and dirt. This part of the house had certainly not been refitted.

I used my candle to burn through some very persistent spider webs and followed the girl’s instructions to another door at the far back of the room. It too was locked, but this time I didn’t much care for leaving it intact. I placed my candle on an old desk and pushed up my sleeves. With some run-up I threw myself against the door and almost fell, surprised that I had opened it on first attempt.

I steadied myself and immediately had to raise the back of my hand to my nose. The room smelled revoltingly.

The girl walked into the room, half past me, half through me, it seemed. I couldn’t see her face then, but I thought I heard her weeping.

With careful steps I followed her in and discovered the source of her devastation: The body of a girl, half rotten away. She lay on her stomach. Her once white nightgown was drenched with the blood of seven stab wounds in her back.

I stood still for a moment, leaving the girl to her mourning.

In the other room I found a worn-down sheet of linen, which I used to wrap-up her body. My candle I placed in a lantern I picked up from a dresser, making it easier to bring with me.

As I carried the body up the stairwell, I started to wonder. “Who did this to you?”

The girl was behind me, so I couldn’t see her reaction. It took a while until she finally replied. “My father. He couldn’t accept I refused to marry the man he had picked for me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said simply, unsure what words could ever ease a pain such as this.

We quietly walked into the garden behind the house where I carefully bedded the body on the wet grass floor and positioned the lantern to light my way.

With a shovel I found in a dilapidated shed, I dug a hole, all the while reciting prayers and hoping the sweat from my hard labour would be enough to consecrate the earth.

The moon had risen high up, when I bedded the girl’s body in her grave and started filling it back in.

“What is your name?” I asked, as I finally dropped the shovel and let myself sink onto the ground before the grave.

“Gwendoline,” the ghost said. “Gwendoline Downerthy.”

I looked at her with sudden distress. It was at that moment I decided I would go to the police first thing in the morning and never return to Willow’s Creek Hall.

After catching my breath, I got back up and stood with my hands folded before Gwendoline’s grave.

“Heavenly father, make right what has been wrongfully done to Gwendoline Downerthy. Take her soul into your loving embrace and give her the rest she seeks and deserves.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the silence seep through me. As I opened them, Gwendoline stood before me.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice still cascading in my mind. She pressed a kiss on my cheek that felt like a warm summer breeze and sounded like birds singing in spring. Then, slowly, softly, her outlines faded and after a moment she was fully gone.

I touched my cheek and smiled.