The Riddle of Ramsey Halls, Page 2

CHAPTER 3

  The rooms of Ramsey Halls were always cold at night, not that I would have noticed. Somehow though, I rather missed the freezing temperatures, for even being uncomfortable meant that you were alive. It didn’t matter whether it was warm or not but rather more important to feel it.

  It was the endless and vast expanse of nothingness that was the most difficult to bear; to look at food and feel no hunger, to stay awake for ever but never grow tired or to hear a joke and not find it amusing. The only thing I felt was sadness, a deep melancholy that only motherhood could soothe.

  But my chances of that were now gone, obliterated on the day my life ended. It seemed so long ago now, but not long ago enough. The stairs made no noise as I descended them, but if you were to pass me by you would feel a cold breeze, like frigid breath tickling at the side of your face.

  I’d heard mutterings before, pieces of overheard conversation where people mentioned feeling my presence. They’d often run to one another as though I was attacking them. Their hands would be shaking, their skin pale as they spoke of the mysterious gust of air in the attic or the feeling of being watched. I was often an anecdote at dinner.

  “Oh, have you heard the spirit in the attic was knocking on the floor once again?”

  And they’d all laugh and shriek with goose bumps rising up their arms. Once or twice they even tried to communicate with me via some silly board. But I was angered by their frivolous entertainment and I flew the glass and board off the table, shattering it to pieces in the fireplace. Yet that only served to make me more of an interest to them.

  It infuriated me and so now I tried to keep as quiet as possible. I showed myself to no one but the little boy and only came at night. And so on this night I made my way down into the great hall and out into the darkness.

  The stars were shining bright with the clouds having departed long before. It would have been a clear and chilled night was I to feel it, but I gazed at the beauty of the sky nonetheless. It was a short walk to my destination, one I’d travelled many times.

  With my boots treading in the rocky mud I travelled fast, my eyes having adjusted to the dark. When my feet reached the end of the lane and my hands lay upon the stone wall, I reached up on tip toes to see further.

  “Are you there?” I whispered into the wind.

  “Why must you ask yet again?” the voice was gruff and old with a distinct grumpiness.

  I creaked open the gate, the noise travelling across the moor.

  “You’re late tonight,” the figure coughed and stepped out from behind the shadow of a mausoleum.

  “I had to care for the boy,” I explained.

  “Care? I surmise you were trying to kill him once again,” he spat.

  “I have my reasons you know,” I tried to protest my innocence.

  “Well…. I want no part in knowing anymore,” and the old man shuffled off.

  I watched him as his shape merged with the shadows of the gravestones, his cumbersome frame weighing heavy in the earth.

  As I did every night I walked the half a mile across the marsh to the local graveyard. The one where I lay or at least my body did. It is also where my grandfather rests, or rather climbs out the ground every night to meet me.

  He was now at the far end of the yard, his grey hair like icy tendrils in the wind.

  “Hurry up Mildred,” he gestured for me to walk faster to our usual place.

  Once I arrived I saw my seat was already made up. It was the upturned stone of Ephraim Wilkins, a long dead theatre director who had perished, like so many, under the influence of the coughing disease. I saw my dear grandpa had laid out the usual velvet cushion for me that I loved so much.

  “Why must you sit on that thing? You can’t even feel the cold of the stone?” he’d ask with bitterness in his voice.

  “It’s sentimental,” was all I’d say.

  And it was, for it belonged to my dear mother, a lady I had lost so long ago. I watched as my grandpa reached into his raggedy blazer and pulled out the pack of cards we’d been playing with since as long as I could remember. Who knew how old they were, but one thing for sure was that they were always rigged in his favour. Not that I cared, I just found his company to be a much appreciated experience no matter how much he grumbled.

  “I’ve been hearing things,”

  “Oh…. Just ignore the Jones’,” I pointed my thumb to the grand tomb of the Jones family that sat near to our graves.

  “No… it’s not the Jones’. I mean I’ve been hearing fragments of discussion, accusations floating on the breeze,”

  “You appear to be babbling once again,” I threw down the queen of hearts.

  “Babbling eh? Not at all, not ever. I’ve been hearing rumours and great supposition about the love life of that old boss of yours,”

  “Rumours about Sir Collins?” I watched as he thumbed down the jack of spades with a cheeky glint in his eye.

  “That’s right,” then he went silent as he thought over his next move, his cards fanned out before him.

  “Well? Aren’t you going to elaborate?”

  “Hmm?” he looked up with one wonky eye. “Oh, yes. I mean no, it’s all ghoulish tales, mere speculation and idle gossip I presume,” and he went quiet once more.

  I stared after him, waiting for him to explain but he never did. Of course he didn’t need to because everyone knew the stories. Looking up to the crescent moon I watched as the rain began to fall, the drops shimmering in the white light.

  “Just one game tonight if that’s ok,” I hoped he wouldn’t be angry at me for leaving him once again.

  He regarded my face with close scrutiny, looking for signs of my thoughts.

  “Yes I suppose that’s quite alright,” he squinted to see his cards better. “But don’t let that family suck your soul away. They’re energetic vampires I tell you, they leave everyone around them ashen and grey,”

  I’d heard his ramblings before and knew what he’d say next.

  “They have a great history, the Collins. Through the ages they’ve been known to be dark ones. It’s how they made their fortune,”

  “Yes, yes I know grandpa,”

  “But it’s true,” he protested with his arms going rigid by his sides, his great rubbery cheeks rippling in anger.

  “I know it’s true,” I placed down all my cards. “I know everything there is to know about Ramsey Halls. I died there didn’t I? I’m out by the way,”

  He looked at me with fire in his eyes. In all our years of playing together he had never lost a single game to me. But unbeknown to him I was hiding a few spare cards under my petticoat.

  “Well done darling,” he bowed his head. “It’s about time,”