#he is so ghost of a haunted victorian child coded

[meteor-writes]

Death Threats For An Astronomer

A short story about two cousins venturing along country lanes to solve the mystery behind the death of a Victorian gentlemen a century earlier.

Rating: Teen Wordcount: 4446 Buzzwords: Exploration, Mystery, Cousins, Country Lanes, Abandoned Houses

Please enjoy!

In the countryside, roads ran into field as easily as concrete ran into carparks. Walking in tire tracks, you could be sure to land somewhere, but whether it be amongst yellowing bales of hay or meandering mooing cows was less obvious. All Zoe could see below the crystal blue sky was towering grass banks. For all she knew, this path she walked was a crop circle and her cousin Callum was actually an alien about to abduct her. It wasn’t like they looked that similar, her skin brown like the woods, his an olive tone, her hair falling in pencil-tight ringlets, his the windswept mess of a seasoned surfer. Could she really trust anything this boy declared?

Then again, her Auntie never failed to mention the curiosity in their cat’s eye at every single childhood scolding and she pinched their cheeks with equal success so there was evidence to suggest some sort of relation. Plus, a vague idea of a house could be observed if you focussed past the garden growing with neglect and remembered that by all logic ivy had to be attached to walls. Still, Zoe would have liked a road sign too, just to be safe. But then who would sign post an abandoned mansion nestled between even more abandoned fields?

If you were a foreigner to Buckfield you could be forgiven for assuming that this place was just another area left to go wild. A last outpost of human-nature solidarity. Unfortunately, this was not the case. Had there been a less gruesome tale attached to this house, Zoe was sure it would be in the hands of a plucky young couple with jobs in the city and heads in the clouds. But Zoe wouldn’t be visiting if that were the case.

“Zoe, horse shit.”

The squelch sounded before Zoe could react. Beneath her, a huge pile of dung splattered the grass like cannonballs, and Zoe realised with disgust, her boot was lopped centre of attention. She grimaced.

“Coulda told me sooner.” She muttered, easing her foot out and gagging as the smell released like a bomb.

Callum shrugged. “M’not your keeper.”

Then, instead of stopping to offer help, Callum continued lumbering up the path as if nothing had occurred, picking grass off the bank and casually scattering the seeds like a gremlin reaping mischief.

Zoe fought against a growl.

Callum wasn’t just irritating. He was insufferable. There was always an excuse. Always a way out. The perfect thing to say that would take responsibility cleanly off his shoulders and slam it down on Zoe’s. Because, no, he was not her keeper, and no, it was not his fault she stepped in horse excrement on the daily, and yes, he did say something, but by God couldn’t he have said it a little sooner!? Wasn’t there some sort of cousin code!? A common decency between relatives! Zoe was sure in all Callum’s laidback, child of the woods, we’ll get there when we get there attitudes, there was a little weasel waiting to get out, and it just so happened to make a break for freedom every time Zoe was about.

The rest of the trek was made in simmering silence. Zoe kept her eyes pinned to the earth, making sure to stamp around any dung piles present. It seemed this path, whilst barely being a path, was a frequent haunt for horses. Maybe even cows if the smell was anything to go by. Or perhaps that UFO from before hadn’t come down to probe humans and instead simply used Earth as its personal toilet. Zoe shuddered at the thought. At least the extra traffic meant the hedges were relatively kempt. Callum couldn’t flick her in the face with stray brambles.

“We’re here.” Callum announced.

Where the boy stopped was in no shape or form a house.

Zoe folded her arms, stepping up suspiciously to the roadside, where Callum stood, hands on hips, staring at a hedge. She toed at the brambles with her boot. There was some sort of rusted metal pole poking through the undergrowth. Zoe determined it to be hiding tetanus.

“Expand.” She said, pressing her weight into the pole and finding more than a little give.  

“We’re here.” Callum repeated. Zoe was not amused. But after a brief cold war of blank stares, the boy sighed. Pulling the sleeve of his waterproof over his hand, he crouched down and stuck his hand into the nettles, forcing a clump aside like a curtain. Zoe leaned closer. There seemed to be a large headstone sitting in the undergrowth. It was a little moss covered, but she could just about make out letters carved into the lump of grey.

“orho, ar?”

Zoe’s tongue knotted just trying to form the words.

“Manorhouse farm.” Callum said easily, dropping the weeds. And before Zoe could ask how he knew, there was a loud clang and the boy threw himself over the hedge.

“Wha- Cal! What are you doing!?”

A puff of brown hair popped over the greenery. “Going to the house?”

Zoe squeezed her nails into her palm. Don’t rise to it, she told herself breathing deeply through her nose, it’s just what he does.

“Just grab onto the gate and climb over.” He said, already heading off.

Zoe wanted to yell. Of all the cousins in the world, why did hers have to be Callum? Just once, she’d like to explore as a team. Instead she was left tearing ivy out a hedgerow, trying to find a hidden gate just so she can jump over it without getting dismembered. Obviously, Callum didn’t have to since the weasel was protecting him.

Zoe dropped onto the other side and a sharp pain shot up her shins. It seemed Callum had forgotten to mention the path this side was nestled into a ditch. How kind. She kicked the nearest fern.

“This really the way?” Zoe yelled, wrinkling her nose at the smell of earth mixed with cat pee.

“To the murder house?” Callum asked, swinging around with his hands in his pockets. His mouth twitched with mischief. “Yep!”

Murder house was not it’s given name. That was Manorhouse farm – not too far off really, but far enough for the last innocent dwellers never to have suspected a thing. Of course, the house itself was not murderous. Neither was the setting. Buckfield saw its fair share of petty theft, sure, and the strange incident of ’06 where a man claimed to receive death threats from Mars, but cases of serious crime were few and far between. Murder certainly was not to be expected. Especially not involving this particular family who resided in Manorhouse farm circa 1893.

The Winter family were a respectable family of three, one daughter, two parents and a domestic servant who was paid kindly. They visited the village every Saturday, sparing change for root vegetables and home-brewed mead. Their farm was kept by local hands, all of whom spoke fondly of the landowners. That was until the 23rd night of November 1893.

It had been an evening sitting just the wrong side of bonfire night for sparkle and fizz. A chill permeated the air and the maid pulled on her gloves as she set out to gather firewood from the garden. Cornelius Winter entered the orangery. A keen astronomer he simply could not resist peaking at the stars on a clear night. His daughter, Mary, held a disdain towards the hobby a “mere woman” could not understand. She remained in the drawing room, practicing her scales on the grand piano, as her mother listened on, wishing that for once in his life, her husband would listen too.

Then there was a crash.

The women came hurrying. But it was too late.

At eighteen minutes past nine on a normal Thursday evening, Cornelius Winter dropped dead.

Zoe hadn’t found her Uncle’s ghost story of much interest when she was twelve. The Coroner reported an impact to the head. The police suggested a faulty roof tile. The family left and never returned. In her eyes it was a case closed. Worse happened on a Friday night in the city. Fortunately, her Uncle held a grudge. And on Zoe’s thirteenth birthday gifted her the age-appropriate book: ‘murder, mystery and malice, what the history books won’t tell you about Buckfield’. Here the story became far more interesting.

Because the roof tile was never found.

And a quick flick through the Buckfield Press returned a less than picturesque story of the Winter family. Accounts of a father over-indulging in ale, a maid but skin and bone and a daughter screaming bloody murder whenever she was told to act like a “proper woman”. Bitterness. Strife. Resent. It was all brewing under the thin veil of class at Manorhouse farm. Eventually, it had to break.

But by who? And how?

Zoe had to know.

Which brought her to her own investigation numerous years later. And a begrudging partnership with Callum.

The two waded their way up the path, dodging overbearing ferns and nettles that grew high enough to sting Zoe through the rip in her jeans. She wondered whether this path really would lead them to the house. And whether it was visible from space. Between the large mounds of earth and megafauna sprouted on top, Zoe hadn’t even seen a chimney spire in the last half an hour. And when Callum disappeared around the corner, Zoe was convinced she had entered a labyrinth. But then, she followed.

Around the corner, the path immediately opened up. Gorse spread in sheets and brambles crept out from underneath, thin branches interlocking like barbed wire. And what it protected was the dilapidated mansion itself; Manorhouse farm. The building sat like a single brick thrown out a Giant’s castle, lumped onto the landscape with only its two tiny antennae keeping it the right way up. Any exposed brickwork was moth bitten and water stained, rust dripping down the walls like blood from a wound. Vampiric ivy clung to the masonry, winding around the arches of the porch before spilling across the front door where broken bay windows sat miserably either side. Through them, Zoe could just about make out the ceiling collapsing under hefty beams. She pressed closer, rising on her toes, but the spikes were unforgiving.

She fell back, clicking her tongue.

“How exactly are we supposed to get through that?”

Her cousin was nowhere to be seen.

“Callum?”

The house was far more overbearing when it stared at just one. Zoe edged back towards the path, the quiet disconcerting. She peaked back around the corner but there was only grass waving back at her. Tugging on the strings of her hoodie, Zoe began toeing at the gorse, the unhelpful image of a pair of rotting feet slowly manifesting in her mind.

“Here!”

Zoe had to catch her heart when it sprang out her chest. Callum’s face had popped out from nowhere, right in the thick of the brambles.

“What are you doing over there!?”

Callum disappeared again. Zoe could feel the wind on her neck like the breath of a stalker. Then, like a Jack in the box, Callum jumped out again right on the edge of the thicket. He nodded back towards it.

“Path.”

“Right.”

Zoe’s heart had trouble sitting still.

“Come on.”

Zoe frowned. Was this going to be another shin-splitting tetanus gate? Because seeing the house was enough really. Callum could go ahead, how important was evidence to a century old crime? Being amongst nature, that was the real treat. All the fresh air, the peace, the emptiness, the feeling of being watched when no eyes were visible except that of the ghosts trapped inside a murder scene. Zoe miraculously found her feet.

Hurrying up to the boy, Zoe discovered some sort of path, or more accurately, a semi-traversable gap between the gorse. It curved towards the rear of the house and was mined entirely with thistles and thorns. At least none reached past Zoe’s knees. It was not ideal. But equally, it far surpassed the other option of getting shredded to pieces hiking through spiky gorse. Or being left alone. Zoe shuddered. Zipping up her hoodie, she tucked her trouser cuffs firmly into her socks, and proceeded to stamp on any thickets that tried to get in her way.

As it turned out, the back of the house had fared no better against time than the front, ironic for all the dandelion clocks. Overgrown butterfly bushes sprawled higher than the first floor and knotweed was the only lifeform to launch counterattack, leaving behind countless twigging trees that appeared like zombies dragging themselves out the grave. Past the foliage, or lack thereof, Zoe’s eyes were drawn to the shiny shards sticking out the side of the house. Although the glass was cracking, and the wood rotting, Zoe gasped as if witnessing Venus herself. The orangery. The exact scene of the crime. It was there at the end of this golden path.

Zoe stumbled up to the white door. The paint peeled in thin lines and the metal handle was rusted red, but Zoe pulled the sleeve of her hoodie over her hand and attempted to turn it.

“It’s locked.” Said Callum helpfully. Zoe tried forcing it with her shoulder.

“You’ll have to come up here.” He added. Zoe glared at the door. She doubted Fort Knox had better security.

Stamping around the side of the conservatory, Zoe found the weasel in control once again. Callum was balancing on the very tips of his toes on the thin lip of brick that acted like a windowsill. He wasn’t standing still either. The boy eased his way along, poking at each waxy window until one gave with a mighty shriek.

“This one.” He said, sending Zoe a mightily pleased grin. “Just step up here and-”

The boy slipped inside with the ease of a slinky.

Zoe stared at the space he left. Those instructions were… less than par. But she had no choice but to follow them.

Shoving a foot onto the barely-there ledge, Zoe launched herself upwards, catching the open window and immediately losing her footing. Slipping towards the ground, panic struck her like a shot, and she kicked off the sill swinging wide. It was brief respite before she noticed the gleaming of the glass and let out a screech, squeezing her eyes shut just in time to crash through the window like a battering ram.

“Shit!” Callum yelped. Zoe winced at how loud and unblocked his voice was. “Guess that’s one way to do it.”

Zoe tentatively opened her eyes. The entire table was covered in tiny diamonds.

“You okay?”

“Uhh…”

Zoe looked back at the window smirking with its new bite. Those teeth. They were sharp. She curled her toes, rolling her ankles. No pain - luckily. She shuffled around onto her knees, pulling at the frayed fabric of her hoodie to check for cuts. Nothing more than hairline.

“Yes.” She said finally, sitting up straight.

Now, the heat hit Zoe. Like the blast of air expelled from a bag of crisps left out in the sun. It smelt the same too; stale and vaguely reminiscent of potatoes. Though, looking around, Zoe doubted any vegetables were ever grown here as underneath the doming windows and vines dropping through like a jungle canopy there was a telescope. Complete with tableside reading and a dusty velvet stool, it stood proud at the centre of the hexagonal room, painted with gold trim and delicate cursive font. Cornelius Winter’s true love. The cause of his undoing.

Taking Callum’s hand, Zoe picked her way across the bench, avoiding the insect carcasses and dead leaves that lay scattered like blossom of the underworld. Falling more than jumping onto the floor, she hissed out a thanks and let Callum go to poke around the old telescope. What must it have been like? Observing the sky. Cornelius alone, in his study, under the watch of the moon and the stars and the murderer waiting in the dark.

Zoe tugged her sleeves over her hands. In all the fuss getting here, she’d forgotten about the murder. Now, the splotch of blood on the concrete had her immediately wanting to forget. Maybe there was an argument for letting nature take over? Free this place of all its ghosts.

Sufficiently unnerved, Zoe went back to inspecting the room itself. There was something growing– aside from the mould – in the back corner, a fuschia bush, thriving under the abundance of light and water dribbling out a broken pipe. It was almost a comfort to Zoe. As if the incident all those years ago had a bright side. It returned the land back to nature. Set it free from human hands. That was, until Zoe noticed the mattress propped up against the far wall and the bleached magazines stuffed down the back of it.

“Oh nice!”

Zoe jumped. Having almost forgotten Callum was exploring with her, it was a surprise to find the boy, butt in the air, scraping for something on the floor next to the rusted door.

“What!? What’s nice? What’s going on?”

“This.” Callum flipped something shiny into the air and span around. “A coke bottle top. From the 90s.”

“The 90s!?”

Had people really been exploring Manorhouse Farm for that long? Nature didn’t stand a chance.

“Are you sure?”

Callum hummed in affirmation and Zoe moved closer. The red cap was severely rusted, but the swirly logo was unmissable. It was certainly cola, but not quite the same as usual. A bunch of ingredients were printed below and although the stamped-on production number was severely scratched, Zoe could see at least one of the characters being a nine. All the evidence, it pointed somewhere. Zoe took the cap and turned it between her fingers. Some teenager, some twenty years ago, had held this cap too. Had used this place as a hideaway. Or a hangout. Or an exciting adventure they could reminisce about on this future day. Zoe’s stomach went warm.

“Add it to the collection.” She said firmly, placing it back in his hand. Callum’s eyes sparked. He grinned widely, stuffing it into his pocket.

“I’m gonna look for more.”

With that, Callum hurried back to his corner. Zoe watched him a moment, bobbing about the greenhouse making little hisses and whoops as he picked at the seams. She thought of the collection, sitting on the wonky shelf in Callum’s bedroom. It was something to behold. Gnarly old beer tops, outdated sweet wrappers, questionable magazine ads, even an unsteady Homepride man kitted out in black bowler hat and suit found at the back of their gran’s shed. Every time Zoe visited, a little bit more space was taken up. And every time it felt a little less like Zoe’s. Granted, the shelf was in Callum’s room, in his house, but still… when was the last time she’d added to it?

Zoe turned around. There was no use in watching. Callum was far beyond her in terms of collecting. So, she had to find something worthy. Analysing the gaps between the weeds where the stone met the walls, Zoe felt like a hawk stalking it’s prey. A bottle top? But they already had plenty. A dead beetle? She didn’t fancy picking it up. An old crisp packet? It didn’t hold enough presence. She wanted something grabby. A show piece. Something with drama. Perhaps, a vintage murder weapon? The idea hit Zoe like the slap of a recoiling branch. The roof tile. It had to be here.

Zipping about the orangery, Zoe dived under the benches and rifled through vines. She whisked about the telescope and hauled aside the mattress. Nothing but mould and debris. Zoe threw it back with a huff. Then she made a beeline for the fuchsia bush. There was no way a roof tile could have fallen in at this angle, but, given the right throw, a weapon could almost certainly be hidden in the growth.

Zoe dived in.

Immediately she was met with the smell of soil, followed by a sudden hit of memory. It was of the afternoon she spent planting sunflowers with her cousin in her Auntie’s back garden. Dripping with sweat, Zoe had been desperate to finish and watch cartoons. The problem was Callum had been digging for hours. With a spoon. Finally, she’d had enough and waltzed over to yell. But she didn’t even finish the first word as, when she looked over the boys shoulder, Zoe found Callum holding an old Roman coin. Bastard. He had been one-upping her from the start. With renewed vigour, Zoe ploughed forward, snapping twigs and crushing leaves.

The greenery was surprisingly thick. Even squinting didn’t aid Zoe’s view as she buried herself deeper. So, shifting onto her side, Zoe tugged a miniature torch out her jeans pocket. Her uncle had gifted it her before they left with a very strict: ‘don’t come back without a ghost’ and a rather less strict: ruffle of the hair. With a click there was light, and Zoe grinned at the circle, crawling further in at a more leisurely pace. She took time to peek inside a pile of ripped tires, finding criss-crossing spider webs and unfortunate flies. She ran her light along the lines of pebbles. And the gravel that got stuck to her palms. None of it seemed particularly sinister. But, in the back corner, there was something bigger.

“D’you think they were looking at Mars?”

“What?” Zoe flipped around and winced as her hair tangled with the branches. Callum was sitting at the telescope, flicking through the little book on the table beside. He lifted it up to her, pointing to a page she assumed was describing Mars.

“I don’t know, look?” She suggested, leaning back to uncurl her hair from the bush’s spindly grip.

“Oh!” Callum’s face popped with idea before melding into a grin. Dropping the book, he swivelled around, lowering his eye to the lens. Zoe rolled hers, opting to break the branch rather than her hair.

Then, she resumed her investigation.

The ground grew muddier as she crept closer, and she did not enjoy the way the slime slithered between her fingers. But, in the yellow light, the mound was taking form. A tantalising lump of something. Zoe licked her lips.

“Mmm.” Callum’s hum was like an echo in Zoe’s head. “Yeah. That’s totally Mars. Has to be. No doubt. Zoe? You think it’s Mars?”

“I dunno!” Zoe called, dragging herself closer to the dirt pile. There seemed to be something hiding underneath. “Is it red? Wait.”

She stopped and grabbed a handful of leave, ripping her head around to face Callum.

“It’s daytime! There’s no way you can see Mars!”

“Oh shit yeah.” Callum laughed to himself. “Must have been a cloud.”

Zoe rolled her eyes. Stupid Callum, asking inane questions. She had important business to attend to. Namely, playing archaeologist as Zoe had just landed on top of the mud pile and there was definitely something hiding.

Zoe brushed away the dirt.

Underneath was a rock.

It was the colour of charcoal, but the consistency was smooth and undulating. Like someone had smelted it with their thumb. She brought her torch closer, missing how the magnet on its end swayed until it snapped suddenly, attaching itself to the rock. Zoe peeled the magnetic back, testing the field. It was magnetic. So not a rock at all. Zoe grabbed it now. It was cool to touch. Picking up another stone, she tested the weights. The magnetic one was far heavier. Like a lump of metal.

“Hey, Callum?” She called. The bushes rustled. Then a slash of light slapped Zoe in the eyes.

“Yeah?”

Zoe growled. “You trying to blind me?”

Callum had the decency to look sheepish. He offered Zoe a hand and she hauled herself up, fuchsia flowers spilling onto the floor around her.

“Look at this.”

Callum leaned in close enough for his lashes to brush the stone. “What is it, a rock?”

“I think…” Zoe said carefully, a warmth bubbling in her veins. “I think, it might be meteorite.”

Callum’s eyes blew wide. “Whoa!”

She hadn’t really believed it before, but after seeing Callum’s reaction, Zoe’s chest began to ripple with her racing heart. She turned the rock over in the light, observing how the nooks caught against her thumb. A stone from space. That was pretty cool - a decent substitute for a murder weapon. Callum seemed to agree too, if the way his knees were bouncing was anything to go by. Zoe was getting giddy. Deciding it was too much not to share, she went to hand over the rock when she stopped.

There was something stuck to it. Like the remnant of a label on the back of an ornament. Ignoring a crestfallen Callum, Zoe brought the meteorite closer to her face. Scratching at the strange overhanging, Zoe was relieved to find it was not stuck to the rock but rather more suspicious when she realised it was something buried inside. Taking the scrap between her nails she tugged. The remnant became a piece and it grew larger as she pulled, until she was able to catch it between her thumb and forefinger and pull it all the way out. Shifting the stone into the crook of her elbow, she unrolled the scroll, breath hitching as she realised a curling script had been drawn over the paper, all in a bright aqua.

It read: ‘Quit watching us, human.’

Zoe read it again. And again. And a third time as an unease crept into her stomach. She looked over to the corner where the meteorite was hiding. Followed the line back, past the telescope, up to the hole in the roof and beyond to the sky. Mars. That’s what Callum had said. And if this were a meteorite…

“Oh my god.” Zoe breathed, hearing every puzzle piece snap into place. “It was a murder.”

“What!?” Callum jumped back like the thing was a bomb about to go off.

“Manslaughter at the very least.” Zoe muttered, shoving the note and the meteorite into Callum’s un-awaiting hands.

“Cornelius Winter was looking at Mars,” she continued, walking over to the table and sliding the book towards herself. On the open page was a diagram of the planet, instructions for spotting it highlighted and indecipherable scrawl surrounding every line. What was the headline in ’06? Death threats for an astronomer? Zoe felt the eyes watching her again, the breath tickling the hairs on her neck. She didn’t dare look up as she finished her sentence.

“And Mars was looking back.”

[hitodama3]

Nightmare Daddies, Part 1