The forgotten house, p.1
The Forgotten House, page 1
The Forgotten House
By Helen Goltz
The Forgotten House
First published in 2012, reprinted 2015 and 2022. Originally titled ‘Autumn Manor’.
Copyright © Helen Goltz
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with unless you purchased with a one share agreement. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. All respect intended when representing, people, places and events of national and historical significance.
Publisher: Atlas Productions.
Research assistance: journalist, Chris Adams.
Proofreaders: Sally Odgers, Michael Congreve, Merle Goltz.
Cover design: Main image by ShotPrime Studios, Shutterstock; house from SCX – Free Stock Photos; design by Atlas Productions.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Resources:
Acknowledgements:
You might also enjoy by this author…
About the Author:
For Albert Watson
Who served in the Air Force in WW2 as a marine navigator
and in the occupation forces in Japan.
My grandfather.
Chapter 1
Today ...
Frank Theroux hanged himself in the front room of the old house on the corner. Rachael Price, along with everyone else in the town, knew the story even though they didn’t know his name. But that was a long time ago and the tale had become nothing more than an urban myth by the time Rachael was born.
Rachael felt her grandmother’s slender hand upon her own wrist; weightless and bony.
‘This is it, dear,’ Carrie said pointing to the derelict mansion.
‘The ghost house!’ Rachael exclaimed. ‘You want me to stop at the ghost house! Why?’
‘I want to see something,’ Carrie said. ‘And I want to show you something.’
They were on their way to the Rose Café for lunch; it was a tradition. Every Sunday Rachael collected her eighty-nine-year-old grandmother from the aged persons’ home, inaptly named Hope Town, and dressed in their Sunday best, they enjoyed a light lunch of sandwiches, a shared scone with strawberry jam and cream and a cup of tea at the quaint café with its chintz curtains and Wedgwood tea cups. Rachael would miss it one day; miss her grandmother, but it was best not to think about that day yet.
She pulled the car over to the side of the road.
‘The ghost house,’ she muttered.
Carrie chuckled. They sat in silence for a few moments staring at what was now just the shell of a house. Rambling: that was the best word to describe the forgotten house as it slowly edged its way ever closer to the town or rather the town, as it developed, edged its way closer to the manor’s former boundaries.
Rachael leaned toward her grandmother and looked at the house through the passenger window. She shuddered; the place still gave her the creeps even though she hadn’t been near it for years. It was part of her developing neighbourhood as a child. The brand-new estate except for this large, locked up house on multiple blocks of land. It was imposing, scary, and fun to ride by really fast on a pushbike with her friends, while scaring each other with stories.
Rachael remembered crossing to the far side of the road to pass the house on her way to and from school, and all the dares from the neighbourhood kids to run up the front steps, look in the window and run back. Once, she ran as far as the huge oak tree in the front yard, tapped it and ran back to her waiting friends. That scored her a Curly Wurly chocolate bar and the respect of a lot of her peers; it was worth it. But Christopher Harris was the champion. Ten years old, sporty and cocky, he held the record for lasting longest at the window, until one winter’s day when he swore that he saw something; someone was looking back at him through the window and after that no amount of calling him ‘chicken’ would make him take to those steps again.
‘It must have been quite something in its day,’ Rachael said lowering the car windows. She turned off the ignition; a warm, spring breeze drifted in.
While her grandmother stared at the dilapidated old mansion, Rachael tried to read Carrie’s expression; whimsical, sad, melancholy?
Rachael returned to studying the house. It wasn’t quite as scary as it had been when she was a child. But even on reduced land, the house was enormous by today’s standards: the sweeping terrace framed by chipped masonry, specks of the original paint still noticeable in less weathered areas; the stone steps, cracked and in some places, missing altogether; glass window panes held together with newspaper and masking tape. Only the imposing entrance doors still had their stained glass panels fully intact. The property was now surrounded by a large wire fence, sparing the kids of today the challenge of the ‘chicken’ game.
‘Sad, really,’ Rachael said.
‘What’s that, dear?’ Carrie asked.
‘It’s sad that it’s abandoned. That nobody has restored it or taken pride in ownership of it.’
‘It is disappointing. How could anyone let such a grand dame just fall into ruin?’
‘I wonder who owns it,’ Rachael mused. ‘There must be a family member who refuses to sell it, otherwise it would have been snapped up by now.’
‘I understand that it belongs to a charity; some charity that obviously doesn’t see the value in maintaining it,’ Carrie sighed. She opened the car door.
‘Where are you going?’ Rachael asked, alarmed.
‘Just to the fence,’ Carrie said and began to get out of the car.
Rachael opened her door and ran around to help her grandmother out. They walked to the fence and Carrie laced her fingers through the wire.
‘There’s a lot less land …’
‘They must be selling it off piece-by-piece,’ Rachael suggested.
‘It was once so grand, the gardens and parks … acres and acres of it and inside …,’ Carrie waved her hand around.
‘You’ve been in the house?’ Rachael’s eyes widened. ‘You mean to tell me that this is the house you are always talking about when you tell me about going to the balls … this house, the ghost house?’
‘Oh yes. I spent a lot of time at this house,’ Carrie confirmed.
‘But you always talk about a grand house; you never said it was the ghost house.’
‘But it wasn’t the ghost house then. You probably only remember it being like this, well, in slightly better condition when you were a child than it is now, I imagine. But in my day, it was indeed grand. This road wasn’t here of course; you would drive for a mile to reach the house. It once seemed such a long way from the town, but now it is practically on its doorstep.’ She sighed. ‘We often saw deer wandering on the estate; the grounds were always so well kept. Where this road is now was a fish pond.’ Carrie laughed at the memory. ‘Not a fish pond like you see these days, but a lake that was stocked with trout if I remember correctly … well, some kind of fish.’
‘You mean like in the old days when they hunted on the country estates, but in this case they came to fish?’
‘Yes, like those old days.’ Carrie smiled at her granddaughter. ‘They came to fish and to shoot.’
‘Shoot for what?’
‘Pheasant.’
‘Pheasant? Sounds horrible, those poor pheasants.’ Rachael wrinkled her nose and then instinctively rubbed it—conscious of not contributing any new wrinkles to her face; she was turning twenty-nine this year, too close to thirty for her liking.
‘We always ate what was shot; it wasn’t just sport,’ Carrie continued, ‘but I guess these days it does sound frivolous. But the grounds, they were breathtaking. And inside, oh the inside Rachael my dear was grand indeed. Autumn had such good taste.’
‘Is that a name or a season?’ Rachael fidgeted and turned her back on the house.
‘Autumn was the former lady of the house; her real name was Audrey, I believe.’ Carrie looked skywards as she thought
. ‘Yes, Audrey. ‘But everyone called her Autumn. Of course, she was Mrs. Theroux to us. She was a lovely lady and knew how to keep a house. But she died when I was about thirteen or fourteen. In retrospect, she must have been quite young herself, but then, when I was young, everyone over thirty seemed old,’ Carrie shrugged. ‘I can remember her passing, it was quite a shock, she had been ill as I recall. The house was named in her honour.’
Carrie paused, and then continued, painting pictures in the air with her hands. ‘Oh and the house was grand. Inside, there was a polished timber staircase that seemed to rise forever and some of the most beautiful furnishings you have ever seen: ornate gilt mirrors, Georgian cabinets and Empire chaises with the most intricate carved detail. Not that we appreciated that at the time my dear, that’s all we ever knew. But now I am of an age where I can appreciate the beauty of those pieces.’
‘I get that,’ Rachael agreed. ‘I appreciate any furniture that doesn’t come in a box with instructions.’
Carrie laughed. She continued to stare at the house. ‘Oh, and the fireplaces …,’ she began again, ‘the fireplaces were so ornate. They were rumoured to have been brought in from France especially for the estate. They had little gilt cherubs on each side.’ Carrie smiled. ‘Funny I should remember that. Lexie and I had too many champagnes here on several occasions.’
‘Grandma, you were a wild child!’ Rachael teased.
Carrie laughed. ‘I don’t think so. We were fairly conservative really; it was a different time.’ Carrie looked at her granddaughter. ‘In those days, women did what their fathers or husbands told them to do; we were somewhat reliant on men, not like you independent young things today.’
Rachael scoffed. ‘There’s a price for independence … it’s called a mortgage and a car loan. As for being young, I barely remember it,’ she said, her hand instinctively touching her neck.
‘Twenty-eight is not old my dear, not when you are nearing ninety!’ Carrie touched Rachael’s face and then dropped her hand and returned her gaze to the abandoned house. ‘Your Aunty Lexie was an independent one though. She took on Father all the time and often got her way. Very brave really. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the war, Lexie would have been the lady of this manor—I wanted that as well, but it wasn’t to be. We both loved coming here.’
‘What? How?’ Rachael exclaimed, wheeling around to face the house again. ‘What was our family’s connection to it?’
‘Our connection to it was such a long time ago, heavens, all those years. A long story for another time perhaps,’ she said. ‘I wonder sometimes if I imagined it.’
Rachael smiled. ‘I can imagine it. I can picture it in its heyday.’ She twirled around, swishing an imaginary skirt. ‘Beautiful people lounging on the terrace balancing cocktail glasses, girls with fashionable hair, silk dresses and furs, men in black tie, dapper and charming. A bit like The Great Gatsby.’
‘Yes, yes, it was a little like that …’ Carrie smiled as she watched Rachael. ‘We’re not in a hurry today are we?’
‘We’ve got all day, Gran. What did you want to show me?’ Rachael turned to go back to the car.
‘No, it’s here, dear.’ Carrie’s voice betrayed her excitement. ‘What I want to show you is here.’ Carrie walked around the fence towards the side of the house. Rachael hurried to join her.
‘Gran, you’re not going in are you?’
Carrie turned. ‘Why yes. Are you coming?’
Rachael looked at her grandmother, the house, the car and back to her grandmother.
‘But, Gran, it’s … haunted!’
Carrie laughed. ‘Rachael, you don’t believe that do you?’
‘But, it’s fenced off. We’re not supposed to go in.’
‘I’m surprised an intrepid reporter like yourself hasn’t already been in.’ Carrie turned and continued to walk along the fence. ‘Come on, we can get through that opening there.’ Carrie pointed to a break between two fence structures. ‘I’m game if you are.’
‘It can’t be safe.’ Rachael continued doing her best to avoid going near the house.
‘So? A bit of danger is good for you. I survived the war, my dear, so I should be fine in this house.’ She squeezed through the opening in the fence and turned to look at Rachael. ‘Don’t make me call you chicken,’ she called back.
‘Gran, you’re wicked sometimes,’ Rachael chuckled.
‘If your mother was here, she would have beaten me to the front steps. She was such an adventurer. God bless her soul.’
Rachael went through the fence and followed her grandmother.
‘And I’m nothing like her?’ Rachael asked.
‘On the contrary. I see her in you all the time. Sometimes, it takes my breath away.’ Carrie waited for Rachael and took her hand. ‘Come on, I want to show you something.’
‘Inside the house?’ Rachael looked up at it in dread.
‘No. Behind it.’
*****
Rachael went ahead of her grandmother to knock back the weeds and hanging branches as they made their way towards the back of the house.
Her heart was beating fast. She shuddered and turned to see Carrie’s face was lit with excitement. Rachael shook her head.
‘What if we see a ghost hanging in the front window?’ Rachael asked.
‘Well we’ll get a fright, dear, I imagine.’
Rachael laughed and watched as her grandmother went past her, down the side of the house. As they neared the back, Carrie stopped and clapped her hands together.
‘What?’ Rachael came quickly to her side. She turned her eyes to see what her grandmother was staring at and saw them. Hundreds of bluebells; a bluebell carpet covering the remaining half-acre of the property behind the house.
‘The bluebells,’ Carrie whispered. ‘I remember them so well. Every spring, for just a few weeks. I can’t believe they are still here.’
‘Breathtaking,’ Rachael agreed. She followed her grandmother as she waded through them, her hands touching the delicate bells.
Carrie turned to Rachael. ‘Thank you, dear, I really wanted to see them again.’
‘I can understand why,’ Rachael said taking in the sea of blue and violet. As they walked around them and through them, touching the petals and admiring the carpet of blue flowers. Rachael turned back to look at the house. A large black crow was perched on the roof.
‘You have to tell me the real story of this house, Gran, and don’t say it’s just a place you went to for a few dances and parties. Now that you’ve let the cat out of the bag and told me that I could have been living here, that this might have been my inheritance.’
Carrie laughed. ‘True, but if Lexie had had children, then you would have been in a queue to own Autumn Manor.’
‘Autumn Manor?’
‘That’s what it was known as then,’ Carrie said, looking at the house as if she still saw it in its heyday.
‘It means more to you than you’re letting on, doesn’t it?’
Carrie shrugged. ‘When you are my age, you get sentimental about the past. There’s not much remaining of the property and I had been dreaming of the bluebells … wondering if they were still here.’
‘But who’s planting them? Why is the garden blooming and the house falling down?’ Rachael frowned.
‘You didn’t inherit a green thumb my dear, don’t worry, neither did I. They’re perennials. If they get water and the right conditions, they’ll just keep coming up year after year. They spread even if you don’t maintain them, which is what has happened here. But I can’t believe they are still so profuse. It’s truly magical, perhaps the charity group did maintain them for a while,’ she sighed.
Rachael looked around; despite the beauty of the bluebells, the lawns were long, weeds had overrun the path, and two of the windows on the top floor were broken.
‘It’s still creepy, Gran,’ Rachael shuddered. She held up her arm. ‘See, it gives me goose bumps.’ She tugged her sleeves down over her arms. “Well, we’re dressed for lunch, Gran, so I think we should go and you should tell me everything, and I mean everything, over a cup of tea. Shall we?’
‘Indeed, we shall.’ Carrie allowed Rachael to lead her back towards the side of the house and through the weeds and branches to the front.
Stopping for a moment to stare at the house, Rachael said, ‘You know the rumour is that the rope that the old man used to hang himself is still tied to the beam in the front room.’
