The First Ghost by H. R. Knight

H. R. Knight attended journalism school at the University of Missouri and film school at U.C.L.A. He has worked in educational television and radio, the insurance industry, and software marketing. Eventually, he gave up trying to convince the people around him that he was normal, and dropped out to write horror stories and mysteries. His first novel, What Rough Beast is published by Leisure Books.

"The caretaker will meet you at the door," Miss Eddington had told him yesterday. "If he's sober, that is," she'd added apologetically.

In the deepening twilight Trevor recalled her words. The tyres of his Vauxhall crunched along the gravel drive.

She'd been such a timid little woman-like a caged bird let free in the living room for the first time. The sort who wouldn't say boo to a ghost, Trevor thought. The turn of phrase amused him.

She really was hopeless. Her office had little crystals hanging all over and scented candles on every surface. It looked (and smelled) like an old curio shop. As for her clothes, well, they might have been fashionable fifty years ago. No, he decided, they wouldn't have-not even back then. Those sleeves, that front! Where did women find such outfits? Were there shops catering to the utterly outdated? More likely she had pulled it out of her grandmother's trunk, he decided. Griselda Eddington. Her name sounded vaguely familiar. Perhaps her family had once been well-known. Yes, that must be it, she belonged to a grand old family, fallen on hard times. Now in her old age, she was reduced to earning a living as an estate agent. And the poor dear wasn't very good at it, was she? She didn't even know enough to haggle.

"Oh," she'd gasped when he named his fee. But she hadn't the courage to suggest a lower sum. Trevor smiled at the memory. He'd have taken half what he asked. But that was her look out.

She was the town joke, he guessed. She got only the impossible properties-ones no other agencies would bother with. Like the haunted house she was saddled with now.

That was how he liked them-in over their heads, desperate for a sale at any price. Why, she'd even skipped lunch to meet him. People like her were how he made a living, bless their gullible little hearts.

He remembered her hesitant, almost fearful gesture as she'd handed the envelope over to him. "Here it is, sealed, just as you requested."

"As I required," he corrected her.

"Yes, of course," she mumbled.

He couldn't resist baiting her just a little more. "You're sure it's all here-a history of the hauntings, including anything known about the ghost and his death?" There was a challenge in his voice, but he wasn't really angry. It was all an act, to keep her too afraid to question his fee. This was the part he liked the best-getting the estate agents to do his research for him. And for free.

"Oh, yes," she assured him. The poor woman was so intimidated she could hardly look him in the face. Were those tears he saw glistening in her eyes? Why, she was trembling. How delicious, Trevor thought.

Miss Eddington said in a quiet, little voice, "Really, I think you should read it before you go over."

"I never read about the ghosts I investigate beforehand," he lectured her. "That way I can't be influenced by expectations."

"Yes, but-"

"Are you trying to tell me my business?"

"On, no. I'm sure you know best." She sounded doubtful.

Despite the long drive, Trevor was in a good mood. This was the last house he needed. Once he'd spent a night here, he could finish his book, The Repudiator, vol. III: Suffolk Hauntings Refuted.

The series sold steadily, but they were mere advertising for his real income, which came from estate agents, like the unfortunate Miss Eddington. People enjoyed reading about ghosts, but few had the patience to live with one.

After the first of his Repudiator series had come out, discreet calls began to trickle in from agents with a "haunted" property they couldn't unload. For a percentage of the purchase price Trevor would investigate and prescribe the cure. And Voila, he got another fee and a new chapter for his next book all in one go. In fact, he'd recently heard that he actually had some rivals. Some leeches had discovered his little niche and were trying to give him competition. Well, let them try. He had just about sewn up an ITV deal for a weekly series based on his books. And the beauty of it was, the contract his "clients" signed gave him all rights to their stories. He wouldn't have to pay them a bloody cent. He smiled to himself. Once he'd sold out to the telly, he could retire and not care what the other ghost hunters did.

"The caretaker is rather a cabbage, I'm afraid," Miss Eddington had said as he left. "I'd better call in the morning and remind him to meet you."

"Yes, do," Trevor had said blithely. "I shan't waste time waiting around for a drunk." The dismayed look on her face had been a pleasure to watch. Silly old cow.

At the house the caretaker was indeed waiting for him. However, Trevor couldn't answer for the man's sobriety. He opened the mouldering farm house's front door and staggered across the lawn as Trevor parked.

Introducing himself as "Old Rory," he rested his arms on the door frame of Trevor's maroon coupe. The car lurched downward on its springs as the man leaned his weight on it. He looked to be in his mid-sixties. With the setting sun behind him, Trevor couldn't make out many details of his appearance. But he got the impression of a stocky fellow with hairy, muscular forearms. Trevor was uncomfortably aware of his own slight build. He ran his fingers through his thinning blond hair and looked up uncertainly at the man.

Fortunately, despite his imposing bulk, Old Rory appeared harmless-all rumbles and foul smells, rather like a drain that needed attention.

Trevor shifted his weight-and more importantly his nose-away from the man. "I'm Trevor Grayson. Miss Eddington said I might spend the night."

Old Rory nodded and dropped the key into Trevor's hand. The metal felt cold on his palm.

"Come to see the ghost, have ye?" Old Rory asked.

Trevor's lip automatically lifted into a sneer. "You could say that."

"Well, there's some as seen 'un. But they didn't realize it at the time. No sir, not until later."

Trevor was not surprised. Most ghost hunters possessed only one talent-coming up with supernatural explanations for natural events. And of course the story grew as they had time to think about it. He shoved the key into his trouser pocket and dug out a pound coin for Rory as a tip.

The man took it. Still he rested there, leaning on Trevor's auto. It was a bit unnerving, that smile. At last Trevor realized what the man wanted. He wanted his time in the lime light.

Trevor wasn't in the mood to cater to the old fellow's vanity, but apparently the man wasn't leaving until he had a chance to talk. With some annoyance, Trevor obliged. "Have you seen the ghost?"

Old Rory's grin split even wider. The man's head rocked back on his neck and he let out with a great hacking laugh. Good God, was that his breath Trevor smelled? It was enough to gag a maggot.

"Only one of 'em." With that, he pushed away from the car. Relieved of his weight, the auto bounced back up on its springs. Old Rory trundled back around the side of the house. "Have I ever see the ghost?" He shook his head and chuckled to himself. At the corner of the old stone building he turned and called back, "Mind you, folks say it's the first one you see that's the most dangerous."

So now there were two ghosts? Rubbish! That was a perfect example of the way these stories grew. Trevor climbed out, opened up the car's boot, and began to unload his equipment. Despite Old Rory's intrusion, he was in a good mood.

He was finally going to finish the manuscript. Trevor was sick of the project. He was bored with writing about cold spots, gray ladies, and strange mists. He was tired of exposing the same old rational explanations behind all the phenomena.

Trevor looked down fondly at the digital level in his hand. How many creakings, groanings, and mysterious door-openings had this metre-long bit of metal and microchips solved? Dozens, at least. Usually the solution was nothing more than jacking up a corner of the house where the foundation had sunk and thrown one wing out of plumb. He slipped the red Kestrel 3000 Weather Meter into his shirt pocket. Perfect for measuring the humidity and temperature of cold spots. It also helped him track the direction and velocity of air currents. He gathered up the dark gray cylinder of his Geophone GS 14 intrusion detector (an instrument for measuring seismic activity which he'd adapted,) his tape recorder, and digital video camera. Trevor heaved the load up to the front door Old Rory had left open.

It was made of broad oak planks, stained dark brown from the centuries it had hung there. Trevor set down his burdens and looked around. He stood on the porch of a typical eighteenth century farmhouse. The stone walls looked charcoal gray in the dusk. They smelled dank. It would be a long, uncomfortable night. He hefted his instruments inside, closed the door, and locked it. Once inside the Edwardian parlor with its white mantle and high-backed chairs, he set up his equipment. Then he left to pace out the two stories of the house so he could sketch them on his graph paper.

By half past nine Trevor sat in one of the mauve arm chairs of the parlor and felt thoroughly bored. There had been no cold spots, no things going bump in the night, no silver mists, no groaning or clanking. He crossed his slender legs and shivered. Despite his maroon sweater and gray wool slacks, he was starting to feel the cold. Soon it would be as dank as the stones in the outside walls. The electricity was on, so he had all the lamps lit. But he hadn't found so much as a scrap of wood for the fireplace-much less an electric heater.

He thought longingly of a pint of bitter and a roaring fire in the pub down the road. Tomorrow night, he promised himself, you'll have a fabulous drunk to celebrate finishing the damned book-and the fee from Miss Eddington once the house sold. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes to his next set of rounds. Every hour on the hour Trevor searched each room.

He felt the envelope Miss Eddington had given him in his hip pocket. He was so bored. Nothing had happened and nothing was going to happen. He pulled the envelope out and tore it open.

The first sentence in Miss Eddington's spidery hand, gave him quite a start.

The ghost is called Old Rory

Was this some kind of joke? Trevor read on.

He was a caretaker for the house about a hundred years ago. He was a lazy, uselss lout who never had two pennies to rub together. Always down at the pub complaining about 'them rich bastards.' Then one night he drained a whiskey bottle and went looking for an axe. He hacked the poor woman he worked for completely to pieces.

Afterwards he staggered out to the pub, like nothing had happened. He was so drunk he didn't realize he was covered with her blood. When somebody fetched the police, he kept screaming over and over, "how did you know?"

The police didn't search him well enough before they jailed him. Next morning they found him in his cell with his throat slit and a pocket knife in his hand. The room had no mirror, so he died without ever understanding why he'd been caught. And, of course, the local legend is that ghosts cast no reflection. So he'll never know.

Trevor folded the paper and put it back in his pocket. Rory's words came back to him

"Folks say it's the first one you see that's the most dangerous."

Then there was that awful laugh when Trevor had asked him if he'd seen the ghost. Perhaps, Trevor thought, he had enough for his book right now. Maybe he should just head over to that pub for a nice big-

A great rattle shattered the quiet. Trevor leaped to his feet. The motion detector beeped as a blast of cold air hit his face. Something slammed in the great hall to his left and the cold air dispersed as quickly as it had come. Someone had opened and closed the front door. Trevor's heart sank as Old Rory weaved into the room. From the way he staggered, he'd been drinking steadily. He stood in the center of the room and looked up at Trevor. The man's chunky right arm dangled at his thigh.

The hand held a meat ax. From the dark, wet stains on Old Rory's face and clothing, he'd been doing some butchering.

Oh God, Trevor thought, get me out of this.

"Ye're one 'o them rich bastards, aren't ye?"

"No, I'm not," Trevor said truthfully. "If I were wealthy, I wouldn't have to prowl around draughty old houses for a living."

Old Rory's eyes never left Trevor. When he spoke, his speech was slurred. "So tell me, ghost hunter, " he growled, "what d'ye know about our haunts, eh?" He took a step forward. The hand with the ax swung loosely at his side.

Trevor shrank back a pace. What do you say to a drunk, angry ghost? He looked like anything could set him off. "Nothing," Trevor said. He prayed Old Rory couldn't read his mind. "I don't know a thing."

"Ye don't?" The man thrust his head forward on his neck. "Ye swear?" He clenched his fingers round the ax.

"I swear."

Trevor felt a prickle at the back of his neck, like someone was watching him. He remembered what Old Rory had said about the second ghost. But Trevor was afraid to look away from the ax. "I never listen to the stories beforehand. That way I see only what's there, not what I expect to see."

Old Rory appeared to think this answer over a moment. At last, he nodded blearily. "Tha's good."

Trevor let his breath out with a sigh. But his relief didn't last long. Without warning, Old Rory lifted the ax and took a step forward. His face was flushed. "Have ye got eyes in your head?" he bellowed.

For some reason he was angry again. Trevor retreated another step, half afraid he'd back into waiting ghostly arms.

"Well, have ye?" Rory demanded. The edge of the ax shone like a razor in the lamp light.

"Y-yes."

Old Rory leaned forward. "Ye're lookin' at me, aren't ye?"

Trevor couldn't take his eyes off the blade. The man held it level with his head. His grimy fingers tightened around the rough handle.

"Yes," Trevor whispered. The ghost appeared to be looking at the exact spot where Trevor's pulse pounded in his throat.

"Aye, that ye are." Old Rory nodded, satisfied. He took a deep breath. "Then tell me what ye see."

"Tell you… ?" Oh, no. This couldn't be happening to him.

"Are ye deef, man?" the old fellow roared. "Describe me!"

Trevor felt a warm wetness spread across the front of his trousers. His bladder had just emptied itself.

Rory didn't seem to notice. He was waiting for answer. "Well," Trevor stalled for time. "You're about five feet eight inches tall, maybe in your mid-fifties." Trevor had just taken at least ten years off the man's age. "You have curly hair and dark brown eyes. You appear to be quite strong. Your clothes-"

"Never mind tha'," the man growled. "Is there anything unusual about me?"

"Unusual?" Trevor resolutely ignored the bloodstains on the man's face, hands, and shirt. Please, God, he begged, what's the right answer? "No, I wouldn't say so."

"No?" the man shouted at him. "Then how did they know, eh? Answer me tha'!"

The silence in the house was absolute as Old Rory waited. Trevor heard his own voice crack as he answered. "I really couldn't say."

"Ye couldn't say." The anger drained out of Old Rory's face. He looked weary and confused as he lowered the ax. "Neither could I, lad. Neither could I."

Without another word he turned and staggered towards the door. Trevor heard something that might have been faint laughter behind him. He had the keys to his Vauxhall out of his pocket before Old Rory left the room.

The pale, tired-looking man lurched into the estate agent's office. Mr. Cooper thought the man looked a bit unsteady on his feet and didn't like the way his eyes bulged in his head.

He staggered towards the desk. Mr. Cooper pushed his chair away from his computer, stood, and backed up a step at the intensity of the young man's gaze.

"I'm sorry." The slim man ran his fingers through his thinning blond hair, "But I was here yesterday. There was this woman-"

Ah, that was it then. Poor fellow. "Here," Mr. Cooper said, pulling a chair from its little alcove, "have a seat."

"No, I don't think…"

"Seen Miss Eddington, have you?" Mr. Cooper inquired. He watched as the young man sank into the chair.

"Well, she's been very naughty, I'm sure," Mr. Cooper sympathized.

"Naughty? I'm afraid I don't understand…"

"No, you wouldn't, would you?" Mr. Cooper eased himself onto the edge of his desk. His bunions troubled him and he had hoped to leave early today. But the young man deserved an explanation.

"Miss Eddington was born here. She was the only daughter of the wealthiest family hereabouts. Outlived them all, too. Some died in the war; some just died. She never married. Couldn't find anyone she thought was good enough for her, I suppose. In the end, there was no one left in the old house except for her and her manservant Rory."

The young man gave a start. Mr. Cooper continued, as if he hadn't seen it. "She treated him terribly, so the neighbors all said. She looked like a sweet old lady but they tell me they used to hear her shrieking at him. And all over trifles, really." He sighed. "It's no wonder Old Rory eventually snapped. Of course, he didn't live long enough to hang for what he did to her. Quite a famous case, you know. Been on the telley, and all."

Mr. Cooper leaned forward. "In any case, I'm very sorry that she erm-inconvenienced you so."

"She-she was the one who wrote to me? Who met me in this office?"

"I'm afraid so. It's not the first time, you know. But I thought I'd driven her right off." Mr. Cooper waved his hand around at the crystals and candles. "That Feng Shui person even induced me to rearrange the furniture. What a load of bother! And apparently it was all for nothing. The old puss just waited for my lunch time and popped in. So to speak."

Mr. Cooper leaned forward. "You know, I think she must be getting stronger somehow," he confided. "Why, up til five years ago you never saw her off her property."

The young man slumped down in the chair. His color wasn't getting any better. "But why? "

"Well, it is unfortunate, but understandable, I think. Put yourself in her shoes."

The young man shuddered.

"I mean, it can't have been very pleasant, cooped up in that old house with no one but Old Rory for all eternity. And it must have become dreadfully tedious, his acting out the murder every night. I expect she just wanted a bit of fresh company."

"You mean she deliberately sent me out there for him to-"

Mr. Cooper nodded. "She probably hoped he'd focus on his latest victim, once you had joined them. Give her a bit of a respite, you see. Miss Eddington never did think of anyone but herself."

© 2009 by H. R. Knight