The Haunting of Pear Tree Cottage

“You’ll have to, Morgan. I don’t care what you say—go against my wishes all you like—but you will definitely have to dispose of that cat very soon.”

There was a deep throaty chuckle, and then, “Oh brother of mine, do you really think I take notice of your wishes? Moses is my heart, and will never leave my side.”

“You cause yourself deep trouble then, Morgan. The finger already points at you as a witch, and you flaunt your witch’s cat!”

“Seth, listen to yourself. I am no more a witch than—”

“The die is set. You are guilty already.”

There was silence then, apart from breathing—deep and heavy, angry breathing, coming from the two people that had somehow got into my cellar and were here now arguing bitterly (well, at least on the young man’s side) about witchcraft and cats. The cellar was larger, a lot larger than I’d thought, and in an L shape, so even on reaching the bottom of the steps, I still couldn’t see fully into all of it, into all its nooks and crannies. My heart beating hard, I pressed myself against the wall trying to melt into the shadows, far too wary and afraid to switch on the light. Moving slowly and carefully, I felt my way along the wall like a blind person, the stones rough beneath my palms.

Fumbling in the back pocket of my jeans, I felt for my phone, relieved when my fingers felt the cold hard shape of it. I felt safe knowing it was there and I could call for help quickly if needed. I regretted not bringing a weapon with me, something I could defend myself with. But, when I was merely taking a look in the cellar of my new home, I didn’t think for one minute that it would be necessary.

Keeping my body tight against the wall and deep into the shadows, I could see at last, with a terrible shock, two people, a man and a woman, standing closely together, both clad in dark clothes. Clothes from a long time ago. Medieval perhaps? What was going on? Was it the Whitby Goth weekend and I hadn’t realized?

The woman wore a long black gown with a white apron tied over the top, a fluted bonnet covering her head, beneath which cascaded her long hair, shiny and black as a raven’s wing, as they say. She had ruby red lips and flashing green eyes, and her skin was milky white and smooth. She was beautiful, and certainly not at all like any witch I’d ever seen before. Definitely nothing like the witch in The Wizard of Oz, an ugly old crone with a green face and a large wart on her pointed chin.

“I am innocent until proven guilty,” she said carelessly. “You know that, Seth.”

I closed my eyes and opened them again, but they were still there, and the cat too, hugged close to her breasts that rose from the low-cut bodice of her dress. A beautiful black fluffy cat, its orange eyes glowing bright in the dim. Why, it’s Moses, I thought. What on earth are they doing with my cat? They’d better not be trying to steal him.

I stepped towards them, putting out my arms, intending to take Moses away from this strange woman. He was definitely my cat now, and if they had a problem with that they could speak to Mum’s neighbor’s aunt for all I cared. Even though she’d denied all knowledge of him, I was sure she’d back me up and tell them what was what.

“Excuse me, but” My voice came out far too loud in the quiet, but my hands, flailing about now, grasped at nothing but air.

Shocked, I gazed around, my eyes skittering into every dark corner of the cellar—nothing. No medieval looking people, just a small squeaking meow from the floor and the cat looking up at me. I saw the glint of silver from his name tag as I picked him up and hugged him close, reassured now that it really was Moses, but he struggled tetchily and jumped down with a thud, his tail pointing into the air as he sprinted up the stone steps and out of sight.

Taking a deep breath, I stood motionless, too afraid to move, my eyes darting everywhere, looking for the two decidedly strange people who had so definitely been here, but had disappeared like smoke wreathing up a chimney. Totally spooked now and craving light and noise, I too turned tail and ran quickly up the steps, shutting the cellar door firmly behind me.

***

Thoughts of the evening before and the weird happenings in the cellar occupied my mind as I hurried to work the following morning. I couldn’t get the two people I’d seen out of my head—the beautiful girl called Morgan and her brother, Seth. And Moses too. How on earth could a figment of my imagination be holding a real live cat? It was too strange to comprehend. I was fully aware that Whitby was renowned for its spooky past. After all, there was Dracula and the Whitby Witches and the modern-day Goths. But why were these people in my house? Had something happened there in the past? Had they, God help us all, died there?

Hmm, I thought I’d have to do a bit of googling later to see what I could find out, or perhaps I should speak with Mum’s neighbor’s aunt to see if anything ghostly had happened in the house while she was living there. The more I thought about it though, the more outlandish it seemed. I mean, after all, how was it possible that two medieval people could be talking to each other in my cellar? I had suspected they were from the Whitby Goth weekend, but that was the next week. So, put all that with the weird black figure I thought I’d seen in the mirror, and none of it made any sense at all. Really, it was probably better that I mull it over later that night when the second day at my new job was well and truly in the past.

Whitby town center was already busy on that bright, frosty morning. People formed a long straggly queue into the Three Ovens bakers to buy their breakfast hot sandwiches and coffees, the odor of which hung in the air mixed tantalizingly with the smell of frying bacon and flaky croissants. A stiff breeze blew in from the sea and seagulls cawed overhead as people, looking like little black dots in the distance, walked on the sands, shoulders hunched against the cold, dogs bounding along beside them.

That beach will be crowded in the summer I thought idly to myself. And how different Whitby would be then, with sightseers and holiday makers all crowding in to visit the abbey and the 199 steps, to look around the quirky souvenir shops and to sample Whitby’s delicious fish and chips. I’d better make the most of it now, while it was a bit quieter and there was room to move around, and do some more sightseeing of my own. I still had such a lot to do.

My thoughts turned back to yesterday and the kindness of Mr. Wigglesworth as he introduced me to everybody in the offices of Wigglesworth & Horner. And of course, my temporary boss, Richard Curtis, (Hey Miss Chrissie, you can call me Rick you know, I really don’t mind) who fascinated and astounded me all at the same time. All I could say at the present time was that I thought working with him would be very…um, what was the word? Interesting, to say the least. Especially as we were working on the death and destruction side of the business—probate.

I loved the bright airy office I shared with the two other PA’s. Milly Robbins worked for Mr Horner, the sharp faced weasel of a man who was talking to Richard Curtis and Mr Wigglesworth when I arrived at the offices only yesterday. It seemed years ago now. Yes, Mr. Horner—now he was a turn up for the books. A brash Londoner, full of jokes and funny stories. Oh yes, quite the comedian was our Pete Horner, totally belying his looks. His expertise was in the conveyancing side of the practice.

Milly, I thought, was a little older than me, maybe early thirties. She had shoulder length auburn hair and wore bright red lipstick. While watching her type, the fastest I’d ever seen in my life, I saw the flash of a ring on the third finger of her left hand. I felt a sudden pang of envy at the fact she was married, maybe to the love of her life. Unlike me, who’d been dumped unceremoniously before even setting foot in a church. It was very unlikely at the moment that I’d ever make it to the altar.

Then there was Norman Ross, PA for the matrimonial solicitor, Lily Makepeace, who wore her thin iron-grey hair elaborately coiffed into a little cottage loaf bun and wore flat brogue shoes and tweed suits. Her overall look made me feel like a catwalk glamour puss—which could only be a good thing, right? I’d never in my life known anybody who made me feel that way.

Norman was young and skinny—“turn sideways and he disappears” as my old grandad used to say—but very willing and capable, chatty too. But unfortunately for him, he had such a bad case of acne that his face resembled the pock ridden surface of the moon. The moon, I thought with a shudder that sometimes peers like a cold face through my bedroom window scaring me half to death. But that’s another story. He also had a blindingly red nose and a perpetual sniff which, from the look on Milly’s face at times, drove her around the bend.

Pat Gianni was the receptionist, the face of Wigglesworth & Horner. She had an Italian husband, so always shouted “mamma mia” and threw her hands in the air when a problem arose. She tended to wear tight fitting soft woolly jumpers in shades of baby blue and pink teamed with smart midi length skirts, and always a thin gold or silver belt cinching her waist. Oh yes, and she ate margarita pizza with extra cheese every day for lunch.

And last but by no means least was our gofer, Layla Moss—a good name for a weed killer, perhaps?—a Whitby Goth by the look of her, black lipstick being slightly off putting during the day. But very efficient, excellent at the photocopying and filing, and even better if you fancied a pasty or sandwich from the baker’s next door but couldn’t be bothered to get up off your—

So there it is, the whole cast of Wigglesworth & Horner. People that at the moment appeared to be so friendly and kind. What my real role there would become I had no idea, especially with a boss like Mr Richard “Texan” Curtis. But I was sure it was going to be fun finding out, and as long as he didn’t gaze at me again with those mesmerizing glassy green eyes, then everything should be hunky dory. Not forgetting, of course, that I had zero interest in men at the moment, and that whatever the circumstances, Mr. Richard Curtis would get nowhere with me. So, the stage was set and the curtain rising albeit at a slightly lopsided angle. So let the show begin.

***

His office door was wide open, propped open, I noticed, with a cast iron figurine of a black cat, paws raised and green eyes glowing, a mischievous grin on its face. What was it with Whitby and black cats? And where had this one come from? Sunny Arizona? Or one of the many little gift shops on the High Street right here in Whitby? Peering in, I could see him, Richard Curtis, sitting at his desk—well, Mr. Wigglesworth’s desk really—gazing with fascination at the screen of a laptop. The office was tidy and, apart from the obvious desk and chair—and a spare one for me, I suppose, plus a tall chrome lamp in a corner—only a filing cabinet stood against one wall, a pile of buff and blue colored files laid on top of it. Oh, there was an old wooden coat stand too, where the Stetson hat and the loud checked overcoat hung in all their glory. Behind him the large arched windows showed a bright blue sky streaked with smoky tendrils of cloud.

The thought, I wonder why he’s here? came to mind. Had something happened in Arizona for him to want to leave his life, his family, whatever he had going on for six months? I gave a tentative knock and Richard Curtis, looking up straightaway, said, “Well, hello there, Miss Chrissie.” And then, standing up and moving towards me stealthy and sleek as a panther, he said, “Come in, come in. We don’t stand on ceremony here.” He reached out and once again enveloped my small hand within his two large warm ones. “It sure is good to see you again, Miss Chrissie. Please sit down.”

He indicated a chair opposite him, on the other side of the desk from where he now resumed his seat, where I sat willingly, my knees, for some strange reason, feeling quite weak and wobbly and bendy as Plasticine. I gazed at him, taking in the stubbly light beard that grew on his cheeks and his chin, as well as his mesmerizing green eyes and silky blond hair. All the things I’d almost forgotten from yesterday’s meeting. Or had I?

“I just want to say, Miss Chrissie; that I didn’t know until yesterday that you had no idea about Mr. Wigglesworth leaving the practice.”

“No, I didn’t,” I told him. “When I came for the interview, as far as I was aware Mr. Wigglesworth was going to be my boss.”

“Yeah, well, I hope I can live up to your expectations of what a good boss ought to be, Miss Chrissie.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be great, Rick. But please, you don’t need to call me Miss Chrissie. Just Chrissie is fine.”

“Just Chrissie? And not Miss Chrissie?”

I had to smile. “Chrissie. Nothing else, Chrissie.”

“Okay, ma’am.” He gave a blindingly white smile and, leaning forward, forearms on the desk, said, “I suppose where I come from in Arizona, most ladies are called Miss in front of their names. You have different rules here.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “I suppose we do. Unless we work in a school, where the children call the ladies Miss. But I’ve never been to Arizona. In fact, apart from a trip to New York a few years ago, I’ve not been anywhere in America.”

“Oh wow. New York is great, but crazy! Not anywhere else in America? Wow. Well, I’ll tell you a little secret, shall I? Until now, I’d never been anywhere in England. This is my first time, so to speak.” He gave another mega-watt smile, making my heart rate increase at an astounding rate.

“Do you like it?” I asked him.

“Oh yeah, it’s a pretty country. Friendly too.” He gave another smile. “Small though,” he added. He pushed a lock of blond hair back from his forehead, once again causing my heart to rev up a beat. “Do you come from here in Whitby, Chrissie?”

“No, I was born in a little village called Leeming in West Yorkshire. A couple of hours drive away from here.”

He frowned and said, “Is that near London?”

“No.” I smiled and shook my head. “London is in the south of England, Leeming is in the North. Have you heard of Haworth?”

“Haworth? Yeah, I love those books, Jane Eyre, and Wuthering Heights. Um, those girls, what are they called? Their name escapes me.” He put his fingertips to his temple and shook his head.

“The Bronte sisters?”

“Yeah, really cool. I love all that stuff. The history here in England is astounding, and oh my God, your queen! She’s one hell of a gal.”

I smiled and said, “Yes, she certainly is. You mentioned London before. Well, the queen lives there, but Leeming, where I was born, is near Haworth.”

Manic typing suddenly sounded from the main office—it had to be Milly, the fastest typist in the north—reminding me of why I’d come in to see Richard Curtis in the first place, which was to see if he had any work for me to do. Interested in carrying on the conversation but conscious that I was taking up too much of his time, I said, “I came in here to see if you had any work for me to do.”

“Yeah, sure I have. I’ve been doing some dictation. There’s a couple of clients wanting wills drafted out.” He fixed me with his beautiful glassy green eyes as he stood up. “There’s some really wild bequests, you know, Chrissie. Should make for some interesting work for you.” He indicated with a nod of his blond head. “The folders you’ll need are over there on top of the filing cabinet.”

I rose to my feet and collected the files, clutching them to my chest like a shield as I made to go out of the room. But catching sight once again of the cast iron cat, I asked him, “Is this yours? I didn’t notice it yesterday when Mr. Wigglesworth was here.”

“Yeah, I bought it just the other day in a cute little gift shop on the High Street just along here.” He indicated randomly towards the window with an outstretched hand whilst walking around his desk again and strolling over to me, his footsteps leaving soft imprints on the carpet and the scent of the musky cologne he wore becoming stronger as he came nearer.

“I assume you like cats, then?”

“Oh yeah, I do—got three back home, Theo, Milo, and Jasper, great boys all of them. Do you?”

I told him the tale of Moses the black cat suddenly appearing from nowhere at the house I’d just moved into and scaring me half to death. I didn’t tell him about the two medieval people I thought I’d seen in my cellar, though. I certainly didn’t want him to think his new personal assistant was some sort of raving lunatic.

He laughed out loud at the story. “Ha, a Whitby Witch cat, eh?”

“You said your cats were back home? Do you mean in Arizona or here in Whitby? Obviously you have a place here too.”

Oh my God, what was I saying? I felt my cheeks burning hot and red. I didn’t want him to think I was trying to find out where he lived.

But he didn’t seem to notice, and just said, “In Arizona. My brother, Chase, is taking care of them for me. He’s got a wife and two kids, two dogs, and two cats of his own, but he still offered to take my boys in. He’s a great guy.”

He gave me a smile so charming I felt as if I was floating as I returned to the office where I sat down in a daze, placing the buff files on my desk. The radiator next to me hummed softly, filling the room with warmth, and outside the window gulls wheeled in the sky like little white phantoms.

“Good meeting with the cowboy?” asked Milly with a knowing smile.

“You mean Mr. Curtis?” I replied nonchalantly. “Very good, thank you. I’ve plenty of work to do, at least.” I busied myself with the files, hoping my racing heart would calm just a little bit.

“Yeah, I bet you have,” she said with a friendly grin, which to my way of thinking didn’t quite go with the comment. A stab at a bit of innuendo I suspected, but in the course of time I would certainly let her know, as well as everybody else, that men were totally off limits to me at the moment, especially Mr. Richard Curtis.

Norman Ross, a cheeky grin almost splitting his ravaged face in two, stood up and shouted, “Ride ’em, cowboy, whoa, whoa!” whilst swinging an imaginary lasso in circles with an outstretched arm.

“Totally inappropriate, Norman,” said Milly, giving him the dead eye.

“Yeah, I totally agree, Milly,” was Layla’s response as she staggered through the door, just in time to hear Norman’s comment, a great pile of photocopying in her arms. “We must apologize, Chrissie, on Norman’s behalf.”

“What’s all this?” whined Norman, crossing his skinny arms across his equally skinny chest. “Naughty Norman always in the wrong, eh?” He gave a great loud offended sniff.

“You should think before you open your big mouth,” Layla shot back at him as she proceeded to stalk around the room distributing the photocopying, some of which she laid carefully on my desk, as well as on Norman’s and Milly’s. In her long black skirt she reminded me, with a stab of uneasiness, of the medieval people I thought I’d seen in my cellar.

“Oh please,” I said to them all. “I’m not insulted at all. I know that Norman was only joking.”

“Oh really,” he said slyly. “Is that what you think?”

“Yes,” I said, directing my gaze solely at Norman. “I think you were having a bit of a laugh, Norman, which is fine. I like office banter. But,” and looking at all three now, I said, “As I will be purely working for Mr. Curtis, nothing else, no double edged comments please. Thank you.” There! That should put them all in their place.

Both Milly and Layla nodded their heads as if to say, “Yeah, okay, we get it,” while Norman, a cowed expression on his face, plugged in his earphones and began to type really fast, almost as fast as Milly, although only two of his fingers stabbed rapidly at the keyboard. I knew then without a doubt that, however long it lasted, my working life at Wigglesworth & Horner was going to be quite all right—as long as I kept away from the cowboy! And watched out for Norman. I didn’t know what it was, but there was just something about Norman.

***

Here we go, I thought, let’s see what I can find out. I brought my laptop to life and, on finding google, quickly typed in the words The Whitby Witches. Three names popped up on the screen—Old Kattie, Anne Pierson, and Mad Maggie, but definitely no Morgan. I briefly read about each of the witches, thinking Oh my God, were there really people like that in Whitby? It also brought up a trilogy of books called, unusually, The Whitby Witches. The books looked really good, and I made a mental note to have a read of them at some point. I carried on googling, trying to find out something about Morgan and her brother, Seth, and why I’d imagined them in my cellar. There must be a reason, but what? I tried all different combinations of words—Witch Morgan, Morgan Witch, Black cats, Whitby Morgan, Morgan Whitby.

Stumped, I sat there for a minute or two simply staring at the screen of my laptop, disappointed and unsure what to do next. Maybe I should give up. After all, I must have imagined it. There was no way those two people could have been real. No way at all.

Moses jumped up and tried to squeeze his way onto my lap, purring loudly. I picked him up and hugged him close, reveling in the softness of his fur and his smell, clean and fresh, as if he’d been washed and sprayed with Febreeze. I put him on my lap where he promptly curled into a ball and closed his eyes. Putting the laptop next to me on the settee to make room for the cat, I found the google bar again and idly typed in Pear Tree Cottage. If I couldn’t find out anything about Morgan and her brother, Seth, I could at least acquaint myself with the history of the house I was living in.

Interesting information appeared on the screen indicating that the house was a grade two listed building, and there were a few pictures of the outside of the property showing a rutted track in front instead of the road that was there now. I noticed that the house and even the garden looked almost the same, with its small square of scrubby grass surrounded by bushes and what looked to be clumps of daffodils in the borders. Looking closely at the picture, the pear tree was now clearly visible, its branches bowed almost to the ground by the weight of the fruit hanging from them. I felt a pang of nostalgia for the tree and its yearly harvest of pears, no doubt used at that time for making pies and cakes and crumbles and sweet tasting heady wine.

Scrolling down the screen, there was a further article which gave a potted history of the previous occupants, listing them in name and the years in which they had lived there. I noticed an Earnshaw, a Carter, a Williams, and a Spink, but one of the first families to live there was called Bloom—Ingrid and Asa Bloom. And this was definitely where my heart rate started revving up—almost as much as it had when Richard Curtis looked at me long and hard with his sea green eyes—when I saw these words. “Along with their two children, Morgan and Seth Bloom.”

It couldn’t be true. I must have been imagining things again. But no, I read the same line over and over again just to make sure. “Along with their two children, Morgan and Seth Bloom.” Morgan and Seth, my two ghostly visitors to the cellar. A coincidence? Two names as unusual as that? My hands shaking. I scrolled further down.

Morgan Bloom, known as the only true Whitby beauty, was also a witch. Proven beyond doubt. Stunning, with long black hair and flashing green eyes, she had flawless white skin and an enigmatic smile, which she used to entice the males of the village into her arms. There were many poor unfortunates who fell under her spell, causing much jealousy from wives and sweethearts alike. Her brother, Seth, also had an unusual beauty for a man that attracted ladies like moths to a light, marred only by a large black mole that grew on the soft skin beneath his left eye. There were suspicions that he was a changeling or a werewolf because of his strange yellow eyes flecked with black, like pieces of charcoal on onyx.

Morgan Bloom was suspected of witchcraft as she carried her familiar Moses, a black cat, with her at all times tucked into the bodice of her dress or carried in a cloth bag worn tight around her body. She made strange brews suspected as love potions and spells, and gave it to many persons, mainly males, to drink—she said to ward off the evils of ill health. She was seen studying the lines on the palms of hands, including those of her brother, Seth Bloom, and her mother and father, Ingrid and Asa Bloom. It was suspected she told fortunes and happenings of the future, and conjured demons out of thin air.

After months of frantic hiding for her life, aided by her brother Seth, she was cruelly tracked down and murdered by an unruly mob of villagers on a perishing dark night in October c1700. After being tried as a witch, the mob waited and watched on the cold sandy shore until she could float no more in the restless Whitby Sea. The other three members of the family perished too by fire, only a handful of months later, trapped in their home, Pear Tree Cottage, and the house and garden were annihilated and burnt. Note, please, by all that is true that the bodies of the family were never found.

Part of the house, Pear Tree Cottage, was rebuilt, and the garden, although it withered and perished, grew back eventually, except for its beautiful namesake, the pear tree. Even though a stump of the great tree, blackened and burnt, still stood after the fire, it never again reached its previous glory, but died slowly into the earth never to flourish again, as did the flesh and the bones of the Bloom family. God rest their souls and those of the almighty angels.

Mystified, I simply stared at the screen of my laptop, conscious of Moses, Morgan’s familiar, curled in a tight pulsing ball on my lap. I was very conscious of my surroundings—the sitting room growing dark now as the light faded outside, emphasizing its creepy dark corners and the fire that crackled bright orange and red in the hearth, its tongues of flame disappearing mysteriously up the chimney; the ancient black beams that crisscrossed the ceiling; and the oval mirror that hung above the fireplace, where I’d caught a glimpse of the scary black shape only a few days before.

Vampires and fluttering bats and a black cloaked Dracula raced through my mind, until with a sudden movement that startled the cat, I jumped up and ran around the room, switching on all the lamps and pulling the curtains to shut out the blackness that loomed at the window. There was only one thing to do—I needed to speak to Mum. She’d contacted her neighbor’s aunt before when I’d asked her to enquire about Moses, but this time I wanted to speak to her directly. Surely she would have knowledge of the history of Pear Tree Cottage. Picking up my mobile, I pressed the buttons to make the call.