The Haunting of Pear Tree Cottage

I almost tripped over a dish on my doorstep as I left the house to go to work the next day, still jittery from last night and the information I’d read about Morgan and Seth Bloom and the history of Pear Tree Cottage. It had made for a long restless night. Bending down, I picked it up, and as I peeled back the foil keeping it warm, the unmistakable smell of pears drifted towards me. I inhaled it dreamily, almost tasting the sweet nuttiness of the fruit. And then, with a start, I wondered where on earth it had come from.

A movement caught my eye and I saw something, a tiny figure, scurrying up next door’s garden path. Was this the neighbor who stared at me through the window on the day I moved in? Now the bearer of gifts?

“Hello,” I shouted out. “Excuse me!” Clutching the dish, I ran over to the fence that divided our gardens and peered over, but the leafy branches of a spreading lilac bush obscured my view. So I stood on my tiptoes looking for her, craning my neck and turning my head from side to side.

“Excuse me?” I said again, and the figure stopped its scurrying and stood still at the front door, one hand on the doorknob as if to go inside. I could see her now, though, a tiny, skinny lady, bird like in appearance, with darting black eyes in her little face. So much like a robin, resplendent in her fluffy red jumper and smart black trousers.

“Thank you,” I said, holding up the dish, “For the pie. It smells delicious.”

“That’s quite all right, dear,” she said, turning to face me. “A welcome to your new home gift.” She moved nearer the fence and put her tiny claw like hand through the leafy branches, “Mabel Montgomery, dear, pleased to meet you.”

“Pleased to meet you too,” I said, shaking her hand, whilst juggling awkwardly with the dish. “I’m Chrissie Lewis. The pie is obviously pear—such a lovely smell. Do you have a pear tree?” I asked with a giggle. “Or are they shop bought?”

Looking quite scandalized, she said, “Oh no, dear, I would never use shop bought pears, not when I’ve got such a lovely big tree in my back yard and so much fruit for the taking. Even though, really, you’re the one that’s supposed to have it. From what I heard it never would grow again in your garden after the fire and everything.”

“You have a pear tree in your back yard?” I asked her.

She nodded. “Yes, it grew right up through the flags years ago. Come on in and I’ll show you.”

Checking my watch, I said, “I have to go to work now or I’ll be late. Another time?”

“Any time, dear. Only day I’m not in is a Tuesday. I always visit my sister in Scarborough on a Tuesday. Apart from that -“She gave a casual wave of her hand as she opened the door and made to go inside.

“I’m going to take the pie to work,” I shouted after her. “My new colleagues will appreciate it, I’m sure.”

“Oh,” she said, turning back, “Talking of colleague’s, dear, I know one of yours—Lily Makepeace. She’s just joined our over sixty club.” She gave a cheery wave and disappeared inside the gaping black hole of her doorway.

Now how does she know where I work? I thought as I hurried down the street, slipping and sliding a little on the frosty path that shimmered like silver in the weak sunlight, my mind reeling even more now at what Mabel Montgomery had told me about the pear tree. How weird that it was growing in her garden and not mine. And she also mentioned the fire, so she must know about Pear Tree Cottage’s history too. Clutching the still warm dish, the smell of pears following me, I made my way onto the High Street, the usual clamor of cawing seagulls swooping and diving overhead. Well, if they think they’re going to get a taste of my pie, they’re much mistaken.

Another worry flitted through my mind as I approached Wigglesworth & Horner. I hadn’t been able to get in touch with Mum last night, which was bothering me a little as she usually answered her phone straight away. I really needed to speak to her neighbor’s aunt too. Oh well, just another thing to add to my list of “something’s not quite right, but what?” list.

As I entered the building, Pat shouted out a cheerful “Buon giorno,” which I took to mean good morning in Italian. I stopped briefly and carefully peeled back the foil to show her the pie, at which she gesticulated wildly with her fingers to her lips, saying the words “bon appetite” over and over again. I said she was welcome to her share at coffee time before taking the stairs at a gallop.

I needn’t have hurried because the office was empty, with no sign of Milly pecking at her keyboard in a manic spate of typing, or Layla stalking about with piles of papers drooping from her arms, her lips glossy black and pouting. Even Norman’s chair was empty, although at an odd angle, and the papers on his desk in disarray as if a hurricane had swept through overnight.

Dumping my bag on my desk and taking the still warm sweet-smelling pie, I made my way through to the kitchen, noticing as I went past that the door to the little room called the “safe room” was open. This was where the massive cast iron safe was kept, along with packets of house deeds and wills stored on shelves in strict alphabetical order. There was also an old biscuit tin that was never locked away in the big safe—everybody is trustworthy, right?—containing petty cash and savings for very important things like Christmas do’s and staff nights out. The room was usually kept locked, but now it was open, and must have been like that all night, as it seemed I was the first one in the office.

There was a muffled cough, a sniff, which sounded very familiar to my ears, as I was sure it would to Milly’s too if she were here. Creeping from the kitchen, I peered around the “safe room” door, narrowing my eyes while they became accustomed to the dark shadows inside. Gradually the inside of the little room became clearer, and I could see the old wrinkled brown packages pushed tight together on the shelving and the great big safe with its intricate locking mechanism and huge silver handle on the door. There was an old, mildewy, musty smell.

I could just about make out a figure, its back to me, narrow shoulders hunched, and then I heard that sniffing again, along with the chink of coins and the rustle of papers as, to my shocked eyes, whoever it was—and maybe I could hazard a good guess—stuffed the notes and the coins into the voluminous pockets of their overcoat. What on earth was going on?

Frowning and peering further in, I said, “Norman?”

The figure visibly jumped and sprang around to face me. He looked startled, his eyes wide in his pock marked face.

“What are you doing?” I asked him.

“Nothing,” he said defensively, and then obviously thinking better of his reply, said, “Putting money in the tin.”

“Why don’t you put the light on?” I asked, as I pulled the cord so the overhead strip light sputtered to life, lighting up the room. Now I could clearly see, on the shelf that jutted over the safe, the open petty cash tin, its lid beside it, and a mess of coins and bank notes scattered all over the surface. Glancing at his bulging pockets, I said, “Norman, don’t you think you’d better put that money back in the tin?”

“What money?” he said nastily, and then patted his pockets. “This? This is my money.” He turned around and began to scoop the coins and notes that were still on the shelf into his hand, returning them to the tin and pressing the lid back on with a click.

“I saw—”

He butted in angrily, standing right there in front of me, his hands on his hips, and his cheeks and nose red from the acne and the perpetual cold. “What, Chrissie? What did you see? Prove it,” and barged past, knocking me out of the way in his haste to get away and back to the office.

I held back, not sure if Milly and Layla had turned up and would be in the office now, and what I would say if they were. They’d probably be able to tell just from looking at my face that something was wrong. I hadn’t been able to see that well into the darkened room, but I was pretty sure he’d put some money from the tin into his own pockets. He was right though, I would have difficulty proving it.

Maybe I should tell Richard “Texan” Curtis. After all, that’s what bosses were for. But something held me back. I didn’t want to be a snitch in my new job. I didn’t know what to do. Norman had me at a disadvantage here, and the awful thought, has he done this before? flitted through my mind. Whatever, I’d been right about one thing—there certainly was something about Norman. And it wasn’t good.

***

I arrived home that evening half downhearted and half pretty well happy and content—yeah, between a high and a low. Maybe this was what it was like to be Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? I was downhearted because of the episode with Norman and not knowing what to do about it. But on a high because of my new boss—the man from Arizona himself, Mr Richard Curtis. I knew I shouldn’t be—after all, I had sworn off men at the moment. But he was so kind and understanding when I spoke to him today about all the worries and woes that had accumulated since I’d moved into Pear Tree Cottage.

I hadn’t confided in him about Norman. I made no mention of that, although I very nearly did when I first went into the office on the pretense that I was “catching up with the filing,” I was that strung up about it. And then I had to deal with an angry Layla, which did nothing to improve my mood.

“Hey, that’s my job,” she said angrily, standing in front of me, hands on hips—just as Norman had earlier—when she saw me taking a pile of papers out of the tray clearly marked, “Filing for Mr. Wigglesworth.” (She hadn’t had time to change the sign as yet). But I told her I needed the papers for an important meeting and so, finally, she let me off with a stern reprimand that, “No way in the future are you allowed to touch the filing, Chrissie.”

He was sitting at his desk, busily talking on the phone to a new client, advising him on certain bequests he wanted to add to his will. “Yeah, Mr. Rogers. But which amount to your wife?” And then, after a short silence, “Oh right, the larger sum to your dog? Penelope?” Followed by a raising of the eyebrows and a wink in my direction. My head couldn’t quite cope with that one, I can tell you. But then again I was pretty sure that if I’d stayed with Stuart, he would have thought nothing of leaving all his worldly goods to the animals on his mum and dad’s farm rather than to me.

“Well, that was a funny one,” he said with a laugh after he’d finished his phone call with Mr. Rogers. “He’s leaving more in his will to his dog than his wife. Strange!”

“Dogs can be very loyal, affectionate companions,” I told him as I opened the filing cabinet and proceeded to search amongst the letter “N.” I had some papers for the Norris file.

“Hmm, yeah, and maybe the wife isn’t so loyal and affectionate, eh?” He grinned at this comment, but it set me thinking again as to why he was here. What had made him travel so far away from Arizona? After all, he couldn’t have gone much further—well, apart from Australia, I suppose. Was he running away from something? A woman perhaps? He hadn’t mentioned a woman when he’d told me about his cats being left with his brother.

We both carried on working quietly and steadily, the only sounds in the room the ticking of a large grandmother clock that Rick must have brought with him that now stood in a corner near his desk. The clock was a pretty thing, with long golden hands that moved relentlessly around its heart shaped face, and had beautiful flowers carved artfully all along the length of its shiny wooden body. There was the faint hum of traffic from the High Street, and of course the usual cawing and screeching of the gulls as they swooped past the window, occasionally tapping on the glass with their beaks and making us jump. I was sure they did it on purpose. Tom the office cat was still snoozing, curled up on the window seat.

Noises from the office were muted from here—Milly’s typing and the ringing of the phones, Norman’s occasional bray of laughter (although what he had to laugh about I had no idea) and the twittering of Lily Makepeace, similar in her bird like ways to my neighbor and her fellow over sixty club member, Mabel Montgomery, although more like a little brown wren than a red breasted robin. I caught a loud guffaw from Pete Horner, followed by a tirade of London slang like somebody shouting on a market stall in Shepherd’s Bush that made me shake my head in bewilderment. “Apples and pears,” “Cup a rosie lee,” “Give us a monkey, give us a pony.” What a strange one he was. Obviously thought he was some sort of comedian.

Rick’s deep voice finally interrupted my thoughts, “Hey, you okay there today, Chrissie? You’re very quiet.”

Busily looking through the “B’s” now, I turned to face him and said, “Yes, I’m fine, I….” But his expression was so caring and his voice so soothing that I said, “Well, actually, I’ve a few worries since moving into my new place. So don’t mind me if I’m quiet sometimes.”

“Hey, come and sit over here.” He nodded his blond head towards the chair in front of his desk. “Maybe it will help to talk.” He got up and perched himself on the edge of his desk where his thighs, encased tightly within his smart suit trousers, were very close to me. The scent of his musky aftershave hovered all around, making my temperature rise and my heartbeat increase at a rapid rate.

“Now, what’s the problem then, Chrissie?”

“Well, I don’t like to take up your time. I—”

“Hey, no worries. I’m your boss. If you’ve problems at work, then you can unburden to your boss.” He waved his hands expansively.

For just a split second I had an overwhelming desire to tell him about Norman, and what I was almost sure I’d seen that morning in the “safe room.” But instead said, “It’s not about work though, Richard…um, Rick. It’s my house. I think it’s haunted.”

“Hey, Chrissie, unload.”

And I went on to tell him everything, all about the information I’d found online about Morgan and Seth Bloom, about witchcraft and drownings and black cats and pear trees, as well as the strange hooded figure I’d seen in the mirror. The words came tumbling from my mouth one after another, just like the juicy fruit that fell from the branches of the pear tree and littered the stone flags in Mabel’s back yard.

I noticed that his sexy green eyes opened wider and wider as I carried on with my tale, and when I told him I thought I’d seen Morgan and Seth Bloom in my cellar, Morgan cradling a real live Moses the cat, he shook his head in disbelief.

“I know it’s hard to believe,” I said. “But—”

“No, I don’t find it hard to believe, Chrissie, God knows there’s strange goings on everywhere, and your house is old, real old.” He shifted a bit on the desk and pulled his trousers up slightly at the knee, and then leaned forward, closer to me, putting his forearm on his thigh. I couldn’t help but gaze into his green eyes that I noticed now were flecked with tiny specks of gold. “I’ve plenty of stories about Arizona. In fact, I’ll tell you some spooky tales right now.” He gave an impish grin and began talking. “There’s the Birdcage Theatre in a place called Tombstone in Arizona—”

“Tombstone?” I said in wonder. “Is there really such a place as Tombstone? What an eerie name.”

“Yeah, there sure is, oh yes siree. It was founded in 1879. What’s interesting is that one of the Boothill Cemeteries, so called because most of those buried there had ‘died with their boots on,’ so to speak, is in Tombstone. Three men killed in the OK Corral shootout are interred there.” He gave a short bark of laughter at the, no doubt, horrified expression on my face.

“Anyway, back to the Birdcage Theatre. Back in the day it would have been the prime entertainment spot in Tombstone, but now it’s just an old abandoned building in which there’s been ghostly sightings, disembodied voices, and ethereal music.” He rolled his eyes and I gave a great shudder, hunching my shoulders to my ears.

“And then,” he said in a low, scary voice, “There’s the Copper Queen Hotel. Now prepare yourself for this, Chrissie.” He raised his eyebrows and we grinned at each other. “There’s believed to be not one, but three ghosts in the Copper Queen Hotel. The first is an older gentleman who has long hair and a beard and is accompanied by the smell of cigar smoke. He makes an appearance on the fourth floor only, usually as just a shadow.”

“If he’s just a shadow,” I whispered, “How do they know he’s an old gentleman?” I’d noticed that his lips were really very red and juicy looking, like a ripe strawberry, and that his teeth were very white and even.

“Hmm, I’m not sure about that,” he whispered back. “Um, we’ll come to that, let’s move on.” He gave another impish grin and then said suddenly, “There’s a little ghost boy as well. People say they’ve heard giggling and the pattering of childish footsteps. Apparently he drowned in the San Pedro River, but is attached to the hotel because his parents used to work there.”

“Oh my God! How weird. Poor little boy. Who’s the third ghost?”

“Ah, well, the third and probably the most famous is the spirit of a one-time prostitute named Julia Lowell.”

“A prostitute?” I said. We were so close to each other now, our faces almost touching, that if we really wanted to, we could have kissed. His luscious strawberry lips were very close to mine.

“Uh huh. It’s believed that she used the hotel to visit with her clients, but she ended up falling in love with one of the men.”

“Oh no!”

“Uh huh. And when he told her he no longer wanted to see her, she took her own life in the bathtub in her hotel room.”

“Oh no. How sad! Poor Julia.”

The office had become very dark while we’d been talking, and rain pattered on the window. The sky looked dull and threatening, hung with heavy black clouds. My heart was beating very fast and my limbs felt limp and heavy. I really couldn’t imagine actually standing up and leaving the room.

Suddenly the phone rang, shattering the silence. It trilled and trilled like a bird in the dawn chorus. Rick reached for the receiver but it was too late, for the ringing stopped.

“Yeah. I, Chrissie—”

Whatever he was going to say was lost forever, because Pat’s irritated face suddenly poked around the door, and she said sternly, “Your eleven o’clock appointment is here, Mr. Curtis. I’ve put them in reception. Mr. and Mrs. Ross.”

We both jumped up straightaway, Rick fumbling for the light switch and humbly thanking Pat at the same time, while I ran to the filing cabinet and began to search for the Ross file, which I quickly put on his desk and asked if he would like coffee for himself and his clients. I also told him about the pie I’d brought in, and that I’d bring some with the coffee.

“Hey, that’ll be great. Thank you, Chrissie.”

“Thank you for the stories,” I said quietly. “You’ve cheered me up no end.”

“Gee, I hope so,” he replied, ducking his head in what seemed like embarrassment. I nodded and made to go out of the room, when he said, “Oh, Chrissie, I’ll fetch Mr and Mrs Ross from reception while you’re getting the coffee.”

These were the thoughts keeping me company that evening as I climbed the steep hill from Whitby town center, walked along the garden path, and let myself into Pear Tree Cottage. Except for the episode with Norman and maybe the bit with Layla, I was filled with a warmth and happiness I hadn’t felt for a long time—not since the early days with Stuart, really. Indoors all was quiet and still except for the frantic meowing of Moses, no doubt telling me he was hungry. I picked him up and hugged him close, but he struggled in my arms and, jumping down with a thud, ran into the kitchen as if to say, “I’m hungry hooman, feed me!”

Shrugging off my coat, I hung it on one of the little ornate pegs in the hallway and, after feeding Moses, who ate as if he’d been starving for a year, I went into the sitting room. Once ensconced comfortably on my big squashy sofa, I rang Mum again, but still no reply. I let it ring and ring and ring. Where was she? I had no other way of getting in touch. She’d gotten rid of her home phone ages ago because she didn’t use it anymore, and she’d never had a computer so, obviously, had no email address.

Restlessly I moved around the room touching my favorite ornaments and putting them back in place, idly glancing at the pictures that hung on the walls, all the time avoiding looking in the mirror—definitely going nowhere near the mirror. Maybe I should take it down and hide it away somewhere. I pulled the curtains against the blackness outside and, feeling chilly, tried to light the fire, but it wouldn’t catch and smoldered fitfully in the hearth, sending little red sparks and dense black smoke puffing up the chimney. Moses, sated now and sleepy, joined me on the settee. He sat down and began to wash himself thoroughly with his little pink tongue.

I sank down then, my head in my hands, my happy mood of earlier totally gone away. A sudden terrible feeling of loneliness overcome me, and a hot wave of panic that seemed to shoot through my body just like the fire that had engulfed this very house so many years before. I had nobody, nobody at all. Mum wasn’t answering her phone, and my boyfriend of more than six years had dumped me for another woman. I’d had friends in Leeming, but had lost contact since I’d moved to Whitby. Which, okay, I regretted now, but all I wanted at the time was to get away from there and have a fresh start. But now I was alone, totally alone.

I felt reassured somehow, though, by the thought of my new boss and his kindness today. For, after all, wouldn’t he be feeling lonely too? He was such a long way from any family or friends he might have left behind in Arizona. Thinking of him gave me the urge to gaze into his green eyes or press my palm against the stubble on his chin, or even run my fingers through the silky blondness of his hair, whilst listening to his deep Texan drawl as he told me spooky stories. Ah. Was it my loneliness making me feel that way?

I felt a dipping of my heart at the thought of Norman and what I’d seen him do today, but a faint reassurance because of Milly or perhaps Layla, who I felt I could be friends with in time. But for now, that incredible loneliness was coursing through my body and almost bringing me to tears.

Sniffing, I reached for Moses who, sleepy and soft, didn’t object when I picked him up and, sitting cross legged on the hearth rug hoping that the fire would catch, cuddled him close. Suddenly, with no warning, a chill swept quickly through the room, making me shiver, and a gauzy white mist appeared in front of me. It rose and hovered above my head, swaying and sweeping and undulating, until long smoky fingers reached down and plucked the sleeping cat from my grasp. It said, in a thin ethereal voice like wind chimes in a breeze, “Moses is my familiar…not yours!” To my astonished eyes, the mist took the trembling shape of a woman, a terrible smile on her face making her appear sinister and ugly. I was able to see a flash of red lips and the glint of green eyes, a cloud of dark hair floating tremulously in the air before she disappeared with a horrifying hiss into the spluttering fire. I knew who she was without a doubt.

“Morgan!” I screamed, “Don’t take Moses with you! Please!” But nobody listened and, before I could do anything about it, both were gone.