‘Go for it.’
I delve intoThe Life of Charlotte Brontë.I’m half a chapter in when Klint’s head swivels. ‘Can you turn the light off now?’
‘I was hoping to keep it on.’
‘All night? No way, I need it dark.’
‘I won’t be able to sleep if it’s dark! We’re in room 6, remember?’
‘Honestly, Lizzy, you’re being ridiculous. Turn the light out please. I’m tired,’ he huffs.
Mutely, I put my book on the bedside table and flick off the light, plunging the room into pitch darkness.
There’s a rustle as Klint gets comfortable on his pillow. ‘Thank you. Now close your eyes and go to sleep. Nothing’s going to happen.’
Dutifully, I pull the covers up to my chin and shut my eyes. But a crinkling noise in the corner makes my heart leap in fright. ‘What was that?’ I switch on the light and sit bolt upright. ‘Oh, it was my make-up bag falling over,’ I say with a giggle, relieved. I turn the light out again, and Klint heaves a deep sigh.
‘Good night, Lizzy.’
It’s past midnight. I’m exhausted and desperately wanting to sleep, but my overactive imagination isn’t letting me. One minute, my eyes are shut; the next, they’re flinging open and peering into the black room because I’m convinced a white ghostly form is going to appear even if Klint said it wouldn’t. What does he know? He’s fast asleep!
When nothing does actually happen, I manage to calm myself down and drop off into a deep sleep. I dream I’m in the parsonage, in Mr Brontë’s bedroom.
Dain is standing at the window, looking out with his back to me. I know it’s him because he’s wearing his black long-tailed coat. Wondering what he’s staring at, I start to walk over, but the coat he’s wearing morphs into a black high-necked Victorian mourning dress with puffy sleeves. He turns, and I see it’s definitely Dain. But he’s got long dark hair, and it’s been fashioned into the style of the period—parted in the middle and looped back on either side.
A big brown dog materialises at his side with its muzzle lifted, and a watchful gleam in its eyes. It takes a step forward, growling, causing Dain to say sharply, ‘Stay, Keeper’ and I recognise it as Emily Brontë’s bull mastiff. I reach out my hand to pet him, and Dain (or is he now Emily?) shakes his head, ‘I wouldn’t if I were you.’
Keeper crouches and springs, flying through the air, snarling—his bared teeth dripping with saliva and aimed directly at my neck. I scream, instinctively flinging up an arm to protect myself, but his jaws snap shut around it. I scream again and kick out, my foot connecting with soft bulbous flesh. A howl of pain sounds in my ear, and struggling awake, I realise it’s not Keeper who’s biting my arm—it’s Klint. And I’ve just booted him in the balls.
Chapter 4
‘Ma’am,’ she would whisper to Mrs. Bretton,
‘perhaps your son would like a little cake?’
(Charlotte Brontë,Villette)
Heading down to breakfast the next morning, we’re the worse for wear. I’m hardly speaking to Klint and nursing a throbbing arm while he’s got a swollen crotch (not in a good way). We’re the only people in the room, which suits me fine.
We sit opposite each other at one of the tables as Gareth comes in with a couple of menus. I suppose he’s handsome in a rugged kind of way with his thickset build, tousled sandy hair, and stubble. His clothing—an olive-green fisherman’s jersey and jeans thrust into mud-flecked hiking boots—suggests a pastime of tramping over the moors.
‘Morning,’ he says cheerfully, handing over the menus. ‘How did you sleep?’
‘Like logs,’ replies Klint, avoiding my eyes. I get it. He doesn’t want Gareth to think we’re troublesome guests. I just pray no one will complain about me screaming blue murder at 4 a.m.
‘Did you get things sorted with that guy last night? Did the police arrive?’ Klint asks him. ‘We went up after dessert, so we didn’t see the outcome.’
‘Ah, thanks, yes, they did. He was arrested, facing another period of being barred. But he did ring up this morning to make sure his tab was settled and said that he’d see me in three months’ time.’ Gareth looks amused.
‘Help yourselves to cereal, fruit, and yoghurt from the sideboard. There’s coffee, tea, and OJ too. I’ll be back presently for your cooked orders.’
I’m not hugely hungry. Cereal and fruit will do for me, but I open the menu anyway to see what’s on offer.
The preface page has a few paragraphs about the hotel’s history, which I run my eye over. Near the bottom, there’s more information about the ghostly phenomena and who exactly these phantoms are purported to be. There’s a female pub owner who fed a bunch of cats and now clangs a bell accompanied by hungry invisible feline ghosts. Also a man with a bag over his shoulder who climbs the stairs, looks around, and vanishes. Not to mention disembodied children’s voices, random footsteps, mist, and mysterious handprints on mirrors.
‘Oh my god, have you read this? The place is full of spooks!’ I say to Klint, feeling unnerved even though it’s broad daylight. ‘There’s even been poltergeist activity: glasses shooting across the room, moving paintings, and curtains opening and closingof their own accord.’
Klint laughs. ‘Now that would be a sight to see.’
