Please feel free to contact me, or the office of my steward Mr. John Knowles, in the future should you have any other questions.
Sincerely,
Weymouth
Jane’s heart skittered. Weymouth. He hadn’t even bothered to sign his usual title “Earl of Weymouth.” Just Weymouth. It rolled off the tongue so nicely.
It had taken a half-dozen letters to his office and more than thirty emails to finally get his attention. His reply letter had been very British, polite and yet firm. It was obvious he didn’t want her to come, at least not in her capacity as a researcher, but only as a tourist. Ha! He had no idea what he was in for. She was going to get into those documents.
The drive to Stormclyffe was beyond breathtaking. Weymouth was a charming harbor town, dotted with multicolored buildings that faced the edge of the water inlets like merry greeters. The forest of sailboat masts rose and fell as the sea rippled beneath the boats, lifting and dropping them in an endless waltz that enchanted her as she drove past. It was a place she could see herself living in for the rest of her life. She loved the idea of the cozy little place nestled next to the vast acreage of the Weymouth estate. She looked forward to leaving Stormclyffe on little breaks to pop down to the city and eat at the local pubs or visit the little shops and historical sites.
She drove past Weymouth Beach. The jubilee clock at the edge of the parking lot separated the beach from the shops and businesses. Its blue-and-red painted tower held the clock aloft for the residents to see the time at a distance. It painted a beautiful image, the clock at the edge of the shore, facing both sea and village. It stood as a silent sentinel over the flock of tourists that frolicked on the sand and in the shallows.
The twenty-minute drive to the estate took her on a narrow road that paralleled the edge of the coast. Although it was October, the grass was still green on the hillsides, and storm clouds were only a vague outline on the horizon. The landscape gave way to a slowly rising hill and a mass of distant trees, gnarled and knotted together tight as thorns. Just beyond was a glimpse of the castle. It was a massive edifice that stood stark against the sky and trees, towering over the fields, and she couldn’t help but stare.
The countless photographs she’d collected over the years hadn’t prepared her for the raw beauty and power of the structure. The worn battlements were still fully intact, facing the sea like warriors, ever defiant in the face of nature’s force on the coast. The steep cliffs merely half a mile from the castle loomed, dark and threatening.
No fence lined the cliff edges. No warning signs guided visitors away except one that read Private Property. Heavy Fines for Trespassing. She repressed an achy shiver as a cloud stole across the sun’s path, dimming all light.
The gray stones of Stormclyffe stood stalwart and proud, challenging her to drive closer. The road turned to gravel and thinned even more, leaving only enough space for her car.
Sheer desolation seemed to pour off the structure as she pulled into the castle’s front drive. If not for the five work vehicles that obviously belonged to various handymen, she would have thought the castle was devoid of all life.
Strands of hair stung her face as the wind whipped it about. There was an unsettling silence on the grounds, like something unnatural muffled the sound of the sea. No crashing waves, only the violence of the wind against the castle’s stones.
The house seemed to be wrapped in an invisible layer of thick wool, where sight and smell were dulled. The wind’s icy fingers crawled along her shoulder blades and dug into her hair, making her tense. The castle walls were pitted with small chinks in the stones like fathomless obsidian eyes that stared at her, sized her up, and found her wanting.
The hairs rose on the back of her neck. The eerie sensation of eyes fixed on her back sent a cold wave of apprehension over her skin. She whipped around to look at the deserted landscape, suddenly fighting off a rush of panic at being alone out here.
Her heartbeat froze for a brief moment. A woman in a long white nightgown, hair loose down to her waist, stood hesitantly on the cliff’s edge, half turned toward the sea. She stared at Jane. Her skin was grayish, and her eyes were shadowed with black circles as though she hadn’t slept in years. Something wasn’t right about the way she looked, or the fact that the nightgown looked far too old in style for any modern woman to be wearing. Not to mention a woman in a nightgown in broad daylight wasn’t right either…
Sadness filled Jane’s chest, choking her. It was as if she were infused with the same lonely desperation evident on the woman’s face. Surprisingly, Jane felt no fear, merely the overwhelming grief that had come the moment she locked eyes with the woman. As though pulled by an unseen force, she took a step in the woman’s direction. The skies above darkened to a black, thunderous storm on the verge of breaking. Before she could get any closer, black roots burst forth from the rocks below the woman’s slippered feet, winding up her calves and digging into her skin like thorns.
Jane had no time to react—her breath caught in her throat as the woman’s eyes widened. Jane struggled to move, but her body wouldn’t obey. Every muscle was tensed and yet frozen like stone. The woman opened her mouth, a silent scream ricocheting off the insides of Jane’s skull. Then the thorny roots pulled her off the edge of the cliffs and into the sea.
“No!” A gasp escaped Jane’s lips, barely above a whisper. Her skin broke out in goose bumps, and she shook her head, trying to clear it of what she’d just seen. Her hand shot to clutch her necklace, a pendant gifted to her by her grandmother.
Before she could even run to the edge, a voice cut through her shock. “She isn’t real. Just a phantom.” The quiet voice intruded on her terror.
She glanced over her shoulder. A handsome man in his mid-thirties dressed as a gardener approached, carrying a pair of huge shears. The sight was so unexpected after what she’d just witnessed that she wasn’t quite sure how to react. Brown eyes studied her with a mixture of pity and concern.
“What did you say?”
The man sighed, set his shears down, leaning them against his knee while he rubbed his palms on his brown work pants. “What you saw there, was the lady in white. She’s haunted these cliffs since her death.”
Her death? The woman she’d just seen was a…ghost?
“You believe in ghosts?” Jane turned her face once more to the cliffs.
The gardener turned his head toward the sea, his eyes focusing on something from the past. “I believe that evil leaves its mark on a place. Burns itself in the stones so deep that only something truly pure and good can get it out. These old stones have so much evil buried in them, I doubt the castle will ever rest. It isn’t safe here, not for you.” The gardener bent to pick up his shears again. “You should go, return to wherever you’ve come from, and forget this place.”
She swallowed, a metallic taste still thick in her throat, focusing back on the gardener. “How often have you seen her? The lady in white?” Even as she spoke, the image of the woman’s face flashed across her mind, and a chill swept through her entire body. She rubbed her hands over her arms.
He shrugged, eyes facing the cliffs as he answered, “She appears there on the cliffs whenever her kin return home.”
She looked toward the hall, trying to bury the memory of sorrow and fear on the ghost’s face. Anyone else might have been panicking after having just seen what she’d seen. But the nightly visions plaguing her had slowly forced her to accept that there were things beyond her explanation. Like ghosts.