Footsteps

By Ellen Ashe

The old farm house where I grew up is haunted.

Before I go on allow me to explain that there are those, including myself, who take great pains in rationalizing the odd goings-on. The midnight voice in the kitchen could be a radio inadvertently left on, the squeaking rocking chair, where there was no rocking chair, could be floorboards complaining about the wind, a long deceased pet cat sitting in the window could be a trick of the sunlight, and the few notes played on the piano when there was no one there, well…

Despite any and all explanation, my youth was spent terrified of the dark. I refused to spend a night alone there, in fear that the former residents we affectionately nicknamed ‘the old maids’, would suddenly decide to sweep down the attic steps, rattle the latch on the door, and call out for a cup of tea. But it’s not just the Grey Sisters who seem to take up a ghostly residence; over the years a death has often been followed by the throwing open a cupboard door, a muffled incomprehensible sentence, or a broken clock that suddenly chimes. True, it is an old house, built around 1848, as confirmed by the old maps of the county, and my family has been there since 1953. But try as I might I cannot blame every squeak, groan, whisper, or chime on the wind.

One of the most startling incidents occurred with my soon-to-be husband as the witness. Stuart and I had come home from England where we were both working, to marry in Nova Scotia during the summer of 1989. Two bedrooms share the upstairs. I happily reoccupied my former room, even though for only three weeks, the length of our happy vacation. About two in the morning I was certain I heard mother climbing the stairs, and I assumed, in my fuzzy half-sleeping brain, she was returning to bed after a visit to the washroom. Stuart shook me. “Wake up! There’s someone in the room!”

I immediately sensed the presence as well. The floorboards creaked with a shifting weight and at first I thought something was wrong with mother and she had stepped inside to speak to me. But loud snores from the other bedroom across the landing soon denoted this wasn’t a good theory at all. “Turn on the light,” I suggested as calmly as possible, and he did. In the split second it took for the light to brighten the surroundings it was evident someone was standing in the doorway, looking at us, saying nothing. Together we peered at the door but once the light was on, the willowy image vanished.

“Did you see that?” he asked. “Someone came right up the stairs, stood there,” he pointed to the landing, “and then sat on the edge of this bed!”

Somehow I had missed that last part, but I did remember hearing the steady footsteps and sensed that I was being firmly stared upon. Yet, not once had I become frightened. Perhaps years of eerie happenings had finally forced me to be somewhat blasé. And, whoever had visited us certainly hadn’t done so in malice. My future husband however, was shaken. I went right back to sleep; he didn’t. Funny though, because the next morning he refused to talk about our late night visitor. “I don’t believe in ghosts,” he said decisively, and the topic was closed.

Those who know the old farmhouse, however, were far from surprised at my retelling of our late-night ‘incident’. It was one of many, many tales of odd goings-on. How exactly my husband rationalized what had happened, he’s never said. Me, I think it was his presence in the house that was the object of curiosity, especially since he, an unknown person, was sharing my bed!

Stuart’s never been troubled with ghostly stares since the wedding twenty years ago. Having said that, he’s never again slept in the old farm house!

Ellen Ashe

http://ellenashe.blogspot.com/



Love Not Forgotten

Kirkland Hall is haunted. Kate Daniels, part inheritor to the Scottish estate, knows nothing of its history- that a bloody scene four hundred years ago between rival clans saw two lovers separated by murder- and that these tortured spirits have spent the centuries searching for each other. Nor does she know anything about the dark and moody ‘caretaker’, Alex MacTavish.

No sooner does Kate arrive when she feels the house whispering its welcome and pleading for her help. And as her relationship with Alex begins to deepen, Kate discovers the name Daniels is interlinked with the home's violent history of betrayal and murder. So too, is the name MacTavish. Together the haunted lovers must reach beyond an evil that lurks in the estate’s underground crypt, destroy its malicious hold on not only the Clansman’s past but their own future.

Purchase or read an excerpt here