The Haunting of Pear Tree Cottage

The sea was rough and grey, mirroring the sky, tipped with frothy white as it rolled up onto the shore. I didn’t know how Mum could get irritated with that sound, the shushing as it rushed up onto the sand, taking shells and seaweed back with it into the deep dark sea. I found it relaxing, soothing even, and making me so glad that I came here to Whitby to live by the sea. Shaking my head yet again, I went over the evening before and our night out in the Rose & Crown Pub. I remembered the loud thumping music and the hot black clad bodies and the creepy spiders and bats hanging from cobwebs on the walls and the ceiling. I had a vague recollection of Mum and Pete Horner’s loud braying laughter, Norman’s morose face giving me sidelong contemptuous glances, and Milly, Pat, Layla, and even Lily Makepeace’s infectious giggles.

I remembered the looks everybody gave us when Richard “Tex”—as Pete Horner called him—Curtis, came to sit beside me, his warm thigh pressed against mine, making my insides churn. He asked if there’d been any more ghostly happenings in my house, so of course I told him all about Morgan Bloom appearing as some sort of a misty apparition and taking Moses with her into the smoldering fire.

“Has your cat shown up since?” he asked me.

“No,” I said, shaking my head sadly. “I’ve no idea where he is.”

I’d left Mum in bed that morning and, from the way she had staggered home last night, leaning on Pete Horner until he left us, with a very slurred “Goodnight, Zandra, Chrissie,” at the gate of Pear Tree Cottage, I didn’t think I would see her any time soon. “Red wine is the nectar of the gods,” I remembered her saying as she swayed slowly up the stairs to her room.

Shivering with the cold, I left my seat perched on a rock in the little sandy inlet, having decided to walk back towards the town. I had a sudden urge to climb the one hundred and ninety-nine steps to the abbey. I hadn’t done that yet, and really wanted to see the beautiful view from the top, and also have a look around inside. But as I moved away, my booted feet making soft squelching noises on the smooth sand, my surroundings began to darken at an alarming rate and, glancing up at the sky, I saw that it was no longer grey, nor even daytime, but black and sparkling with tiny stars, the glowing white moon suspended like a great globe. The sea was quiet now, the roughness of earlier replaced by a placid calm, and tiny white frills of water reached like prying fingers up onto the streaky wet sand. Gulls cawed and wheeled like drowning sailors screaming for help.

A babble of hysterical shouting came to my ears and, squinting my eyes, I could just make out a great army of people walking onto the beach, roughly pushing a young woman in front of them. They’d tied her hands tightly behind her back so her shoulder blades stuck out like the budding wings of an angel. She was beautiful, tall and slender, silky black hair blowing around her face in the sea breeze, her lips a blood red line and her green eyes flashing with defiance and anger. As when I’d seen her before, she wore a long black dress with a white apron tied over the top, and because of her beauty, stood head and shoulders above the rest of the rabble, who wore rough ill-fitting dresses, tunics, or trousers, and who were rowdy, dirty, and totally deranged.

Why was this happening now? I wasn’t in Pear Tree Cottage where I’d seen Morgan Bloom before. Didn’t she and her brother, Seth, haunt that place and that place only? Panicked, I spun around where I stood, scanning behind me. People had been there earlier, ordinary people walking the sands, people chattering to one another, dogs bounding and children laughing. Now they were gone, and all that lay in front was a wide expanse of sea and sand, high rocks towering forbiddingly behind and gulls wheeling and screeching in the sky. The salty smell of the sea was all around, in the wind that pulled at my hair and slapped at my face, and in the very air I breathed.

“Witch, witch, witch,” they chanted. “Kill the witch, kill the witch.” Their voices echoed all around, just as eerie as the incessant crying of the gulls. With an awful sinking feeling right in the pit of my stomach, I realized this was the angry mob of villagers who had tried Morgan Bloom as a witch and, unless I ran away right now, which for some reason I was finding impossible to do, I would have to witness the drowning of an innocent woman by this unruly mob.

My heart pounding and my mouth dry as a bone, I ran towards them, shouting, “No, no! Leave her alone! No!” But nobody heard me, nobody even saw me as I ran even closer, arms flailing, my mouth opening and closing. “No, please stop, please stop! Morgan is not a witch!”

Before my astonished eyes four of the men hoisted her between them onto their shoulders, the way pallbearers would carry a coffin, one at each shoulder and one at each foot, and began to march into the sea. Deeper and deeper they went, the waves curling around their knees, their thighs, and their chests, the sea lapping at their bearded chins. Morgan’s long skirts dangled in the water as she twisted and turned within their grasp like a slippery fish, desperately trying to get away. Her screams echoed around the deserted beach.

“Unhand me, you fools!” she shouted. “Unhand me! I am no more a witch than any of you! Unhand me!” Her cries became weaker and weaker as the sea drew higher and higher, until eventually, with a shout of triumph, the four men let her go. She floated at first, and then, thrashing about, legs flailing, tried to sit up, which was even more difficult with her hands tied behind her back. I saw her face, a pale oval in the gloom, and made to run towards her, but it was too late, for she began to sink, her long dress belling out around her like a beautiful sea anemone, but pulling her down, as if chains were around her, further and further into the merciless black sea.

“Ha ha,” shouted one of the women, an old hag, showing the blackened stumps of her teeth as, laughing, she ran manically along the sands towards the sea. “She’s a witch, she’s a witch, she floats, she floats.” Others joined in taunting and jibing, running into the waves and thrashing at the water with their hands, laughing as they watched Morgan Bloom struggle in the water. The last thing I saw was her slender white hands, that somehow she’d managed to untie, grasping at the air over and over, until they sank too and, with barely a ripple, she was gone.

“She sank!” I shouted at them, tears streaming down my cheeks. “She’s innocent! She was never a witch—she sank!” But nobody heard me, nobody even saw me, and if they had, would they have cared? Being so bloodthirsty and hungry to kill, they would probably have drowned me too. And now Seth Bloom was there, a shocked look on his face as he gazed at the sea for a long time. But there was nothing there now, and the rabble had gone. Turning, he caught sight of me and, with a wave of his hand, began to run over.

“Surely he can’t see me.” I looked over my shoulder—there was nobody there, but he was obviously waving at me. He must be able to see me! What did that mean?

“Hey, Chrissie, are you okay?”

Turning my head, I came face to face with not Seth Bloom as I thought I would, but my boss, Richard Curtis, his sea green eyes looking intently at me. He wore a dark green waterproof coat and snug black trousers, and a black bandana warmly hugged his neck. The Stetson was perched on his head, hiding his silky blond hair. Reaching out his arms, he clasped both my shoulders as if he was going to shake me and asked again, “Chrissie, are you okay?”

I couldn’t believe he was there, right in front of me. I’d been thinking of him earlier, before I’d seen the murder of Morgan Bloom, and wondering when I’d see him again. The evening before had opened my eyes even wider to his considerable charms, which could be a dangerous thing. Boss and personal assistant is usually a no-go area for a relationship. I’d been desperate to know how he felt about me, but that was before—before Morgan’s murder. I suppose I could refer to it as BMM. I was too distraught at the moment. Our budding relationship would have to take a back seat for the time being.

Cupping my hands around my mouth, I gazed at him and said, “Didn’t you see it?”

Wordlessly he shook his head. “What? See what?”

Looking around, I saw that it was daytime again, the moon and the stars gone, replaced by a blue cloud speckled sky and a watery yellow sun, and people, ordinary people wearing ordinary clothes, were strolling on the sands, dogs were running about, and children squealed and screamed. I saw a man throwing a ball and his two dogs bounding happily after it, racing against each other to get to it first. There was no darkness and no unruly mob baying for Morgan Bloom’s blood.

“Hey, you’re shaking with cold. Come on, let me buy you a warm drink. There’s a café just over there by those rocks.”

With his arm firmly around my shoulders, we stumbled like drunks across the smooth sand to the café, which stood square as a box with a pointed red roof, a soft yellow light shining in the windows, looking as welcoming and comforting as an oasis in the desert. The door opened with a ping and people looked up and idly watched us as we took a seat at a small yellow Formica topped table. We ordered our drinks from a basic menu, coffee for Rick and hot chocolate for me. There was a man reading a newspaper sitting alone at the table next to us. The smell of fried bacon and toast hung in the air.

It was warm and steamy, the windows covered in streaky condensation. My fuddled mind almost expected to see a message, “Help me,” written with Morgan Bloom’s shaky finger on the glass. The coffee maker made a whooshing sound, and more steam escaped from the shiny silver machine, adding to the fug as we sat and waited, the events of earlier running through my mind. I could still see Morgan Bloom being manhandled by the unruly mob and her panicked efforts to save herself even as she was sinking like a stone to the bottom of the sea. My hands trembled as I took the mug of hot chocolate from the waitress and brought it to my lips. It was scalding hot, so hastily I pulled it away as Rick took a sip of coffee.

“Too hot?” he asked, a small smile curving his lips, lips that were red and juicy as ripe strawberries from the cold. I gave a thin smile and nodded as he told me to blow on it. “You need a warm drink,” he said to me. “You’re white as a sheet. What happened out there, Chrissie?” He’d taken off his Stetson, and his hair hung soft and silky on his forehead and dangled in his eyes. He pushed it away, a gesture I was getting to know so well.

I gazed at his hat that sat between us on the table and, taking a sip of the now warm hot chocolate, I whispered, my throat feeling rough and sore, “I don’t know.” Tears threatened, and frantically I blinked them away, but they wouldn’t go and clung stubbornly to my lashes. I was annoyed with myself at being so weak and useless.

“Hey, hey.” He patted my hand reassuringly. “Don’t get upset. You know, you don’t even have to tell me but…uh…. Well, maybe it would do you good to talk?”

Putting my mug down onto the table and taking a deep breath, I said quietly, “I think I just witnessed the drowning of Morgan Bloom as a witch. I know it’s hard to believe, but it was the same as when I saw her and her brother in my cellar. But this time, right there and then on the beach, there was a great mob of people baying for her blood. She had her hands tied behind her back, although she managed to get them free, but it was too late and she drowned. She struggled so much though.” I put my hands to my head and raked them through my hair.

I knew I was gabbling on and speaking far too fast, so I stopped for a breath, wondering what Rick could be thinking. It was all very well telling him about the weird things that had happened in my house, because, yeah, right, the house could be haunted. But to see all this outside the house, on the beach—was this too much for even him to believe?

The door pinged as a small group of people came in, and automatically we turned to look as they took off their coats and, chairs scraping against the floor, sat at a table as the waitress hurried over to take their order. Rick gazed at me long and hard, frown lines in the space between his eyes, the only thing to mar his good looks.

“Wow. Are you sure?” he asked incredulously.

I nodded and said, “Yes, I’m really sure. They murdered her. Oh my God, Rick, they murdered her.”

He took a sip of coffee, and I saw that his eyes widened and he looked away, down at the table, unable to meet my gaze, it seemed. A cold shiver passed through me and I said, “I know it’s hard to believe—”

He took a deep breath. “If you saw a murder, Chrissie,” he whispered, leaning towards me, his elbows on the table, “Don’t you think you should go to the police?”

“Exactly,” said a voice, and the man who had been sitting quietly reading his newspaper stood up and strolled over to us. “I wondered when somebody would say that.” He flashed an ID card at us. “Detective Inspector Charlie Lawson, Ryedale and Whitby Police. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. You should maybe lower your voice when you’re talking about witnessing a murder.”

He was very tall and thin, and so pale that his shock of thick dark hair looked all wrong for him, like he wore one of those curly wigs that men used to wear centuries ago. If I hadn’t been so worried and scared it would have made me laugh. His eyes, staring me down, were dark and penetrating, set deep into the sockets.

“No,” I shook my head. “You don’t understand. This isn’t something the police can deal with.” I noticed that Rick frowned at my words and gave a very slight shake of his head.

“Um, I’m sorry, miss,” said the detective inspector. “But murder is definitely something the police can deal with, and if you have information that could help us, you are bound by law to come along to the station to tell us what you know.”

People were beginning to turn around and stare. The detective inspector didn’t seem to care that his voice was loud and echoed all around the small café.

“Are you on duty?” I asked him.

He gave a curt nod and replied, “I’m always on duty, miss.”

Rick took my hand and, squeezing it reassuringly, said, “Come on, Chrissie, let’s go along with the detective inspector. Just tell him what you know. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about at all,” said the detective inspector as he held the café door open. It shut behind us with a hiss, trapping the fuggy air inside.

I noticed that he gave Rick a strange look as he placed the Stetson on his head. Outside it was cold now, the air fresh and breezy. Darkness was falling already, and the moon beginning to show its face, reminding me that winter was on its way. People still strolled on the sands in the gloom, their dogs bounding around them, and the sea roared, white tipped waves crashing onto the shore.

What have I done? I thought to myself. How would I be able to tell the detective inspector what had happened on the beach today without him thinking I was going slightly mad, as Freddie Mercury once sang. I felt awful that Rick had gotten mixed up in this, and I’d bet anyone a fiver that he was wishing he’d never gone for a walk on the beach today, had never seen me, let alone asked me if I was okay.

“I’ll go with you,” said Rick as we arrived at the detective inspector’s car after he’d offered to give us a lift to the station. “A bit of moral support.”

Grateful for his presence, I gave him a thankful smile as we both ducked into the back seat and the detective inspector, with a reassuring nod, started up the engine. The car purred to life, reminding me of Moses and the tiny rumbling sounds he used to make when I stroked his long silky fur. His absence was just another worry. Something else for me to be anxious about.

Rick fumbled for my hand on the seat between us and squeezed it reassuringly. Absentmindedly I squeezed it back, as my heart clattered like an express train and my breathing came short and sharp, as if I was gasping for air. This time not because of the close proximity of Rick, but because of nervousness and fear. A glimpse in the driver’s mirror showed my eyes tense and nervous as a cornered prey. Speeding along to the station, shops, pubs, and buildings all a blur through the window, my stomach in knots, I wondered what on earth I would tell the detective inspector when he questioned me.