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Haunted

By: diabolique



I awoke with a scream, yet another nightmare ripping me from much needed sleep. They were becoming too much of a habit, but I'd found my own way for dealing with them - to walk it off. I slipped out of the warm comfort of my bed and into the crisp coolness of my fitted black t-shirt and baggy gray cargo pants - my favorite clothes, they sat right at my hips, accentuating the curves without screaming for attention, and they were comfortable. I dragged on a jacket and my lugs before heading out the door and down the road, leading away from sleep, and away from the things that haunted my dreams.

The moon loomed large over the tree tops as my footfalls echoed quietly on the dirt road. My breath hung before me, frosty in the late autumn air, and the few leaves that drifted in the road crunched under the weight of my boots. Before reaching the bridge, I turned off, to the left, onto a path leading through the woods. The river ran to the right of the path, and the path itself was darkened by the overhanging trees, only slivers of moonlight shivered in the spaces between. The night was full of sounds not quite heard, and the slightly musky aroma of decaying leaves mingled with fireplaces and woodstoves.

I slid my hands into the pockets of my jacket and started down the trail, my feet knowing each step, taken countless times before. The turn to the right, along the bend in the river, then the gentle sweep back to the left, up the ridge and down the other side. Twisting back toward the river I noticed something strange, a fog rolling in off the banks. Fog isn't unusual near water, but on a crisp, cool night, it was disconcerting. Walking a little more quickly, I turned to look behind me, an imagined noise breaking the almost silence. My feet faltered a little causing me to trip. I caught myself but threads of ruby hair covered my eyes, hiding the path before me. While I stopped to rake the hair out of my face, I could hear the echo of my breathing, but there was something else. Faintly, I could hear breathing, slow, rhythmic, animal breathing. I could feel the familiar tingle of fear, known so well in my dreams. I backed up a few paces and heard the oh-so-gentle step, paws crushing leaves. I didn't want to run, I thought I knew better, but panic overwhelmed me and I turned my back, running along the path, trying to get home.

Was it the fog, the fear, or that one wrong twist in the trail? I ended up turning around, then again, my head spinning. I was lost, in the dark, with something shadowing my every step. My heart raced, and I knew he could smell my fear. When I turned around again, there he was, standing in the middle of the path, staring me down. His icy blue eyes glinting in the half light, his black fur bristled around his neck. I knew I could never race a wolf home, in fact, I knew this would probably be one of my last breaths. The instinct to survive was too strong, I backed up, left foot behind the right, shifting my weight, then right foot behind the left. For every step I took, he took 3, slowly, advancing on me with a predatory growl.

Before I knew it, I went tumbling to the ground. My foot caught on some tree root stretching across the path, unseen by my backward steps. Quickly trying to recover, I scrambled back on my hands, until my back was against the bottom of that very tree whose root betrayed me.. I stared at him, his warm breath so close that it left my skin dewy.

I lay there, on the cold ground, my head and the backs of my shoulders against the tree, my feet now straddled by his as he took another step forward. His lips curled back as he growled, striking dread fear into my already racing heart, and I closed my eyes, not wanting to witness my own demise. His breath washed over my face, I could feel him standing above me, his feet to either side of my heaving chest. Nothing happened, there was silence. I slowly peeled open an eye, terrified of what I would see, and sure enough he was still there, but different. His eyes were more angular, betraying his intelligence, and his mouth, which looked lethal before, curved into something almost human.

His lips still curled back, there was a long exhalation of breath, then I heard it...

"Don't move, or I'll tear your throat out. A sweet morsel like you would make a fine feast". He spoke, I knew I heard it and yet my mind twisted in disbelief. I squirmed back against the tree a little and the growl came louder, "Didn't you hear me? Don't move." His voice was louder, but just as calm, eerily steady. I shook with terror, but decided it was best to be still, I just nodded my head and swallowed, hard.

His head slowly lowered until he was so close I could see my own fear reflected in his eyes. His breath kissed my skin, but the heat seared into my flesh, burning me against the cold night air. His paws, now almost more like hands, began to tear at my clothing, shredding the fabric of first my jacket, then my shirt, I shuddered to think what would happen if they met with more vital things.

Unable to watch the desecration of my own flesh, I closed my eyes once more. I could feel his jaws closing around the waist of my pants then jerking and tearing them open. I lay before him now, exposed, my pale skin seemingly luminous in the moonlight. His face was near mine again, each breath hot and threatening. I tried to cover myself out of modesty but that released a snarl like none I'd heard yet. He snapped quickly at my throat and his teeth sunk into the tender spot, where the neck meets the shoulder. As I felt the steaming fluid trickle down, I needed to open my eyes, I needed to know what was coming.

I was pierced by his teeth, but his claws were ripping searing wet brands into my shoulders and down over my chest as he explored his conquest. My breathing was shallow, strangled, pained. I couldn't have cried out if I tried. I thought of pushing him away, but as I lifted my hands in protest, his paws left their wandering and slammed down on my arms, pinning me hard. His feet were between my knees and I could feel him pushing them apart. I resisted, but he was stronger and I ended up splayed out, pinned, and bleeding from my wounds.

Penetration was sudden. I was stunned and managed only a sharp gasp, which was answered by a snarl as his grip on my throat tightened. He slid inside me easily, filling me completely. I didn't know until that moment how truly aroused I was. I wanted to arch into him. I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck and pull his weight closer, but I couldn't. I was trapped and forced into submission. Thrust after thrust threatened to shatter both the walls of my mind, and those within. I cried out, barely, but he heard it and jerked his head, shredding what was left of his purchase. The flat of his tongue slithered over the wounds and made it's way down the trail of blood, stopping to stroke my pert nipples. As I moaned with pleasure, he growled low. He thrust harder, pushing me backward into the tree. My hands twisted under his pressure, digging and raking in the dirt beneath them. His eyes locked onto mine as I rocked with an unexpected orgasm. Everything in me trembled, quaked, shivered, and then stilled. My breathing was ragged and I was barely conscious but I had enough left in me to watch the fire in his eyes die down to embers with his release.

I awoke slowly, like crawling out of deep water. My senses were muted and everything felt strange. It was the same wolf from all the other dreams, but it was different this time. He didn't kill me, he ravaged me. I lay in bed contemplating the dream, it's myriad meanings, and how it made me feel. Hearing the alarm go off again, I groaned and slipped out of the warm comfort of my bed. I crossed the floor to retrieve an oversized sweatshirt from it's home on my bedpost and caught a glimpse of my body in the mirror. There were bruises on my arms and long shallow scratches reaching from the curve of my shoulders down to the swell of my hips. Tilting my head to the side, I noticed the small scrapes at my neckline, as though I'd been mauled but not recently. They were all mirrored wounds from the dream, and yet there was so much less damage. Had I manifested my dream while I slept? Did I cause those wounds? I stood there, naked, questioning my own sanity when in the distance I heard the long deep howl of a wolf. A cold chill ran over my body, then a warmth spread involuntarily, and I knew this wasn't just another dream.

Haunted by Love



Welcome dear readers to this, my erotic lesbian romantic ghost story and entry for the "HALLOWEEN STORY CONTEST 2015".

I hope you will enjoy reading it but I feel I should warn t you that it is a lengthy story -- for those who have read some of my other work I hope this means you'll think "Oh goody!" and not "Oh no, not again!"

My thanks, as ever, to my wonderful editor Winterreisser, especially for his speedy efforts that allowed me to still meet the deadline after taking far longer writing this than I expected. Thanks also to Kat for her kind words and encouragement.

As this it a competition entry, do please take a moment to cast your vote at the end; comments and feedback are also always very welcome.

This is now a slightly updated version with an extended Chapter 11 and a few corrections.

Happy reading and Happy Samhain!

Sue

Copyright © ScattySue 2015

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Chapter 1: Creative Meeting

I push my hair back and gather my things -- pen, paper and notes -- push back from my desk and stand. Then I notice that, as usual, I've forgotten to lock my PC just as the reminder for the meeting pops up: 





Haunted by Love



Saturday came and I duly, if very apprehensively, presented myself at the very nice restaurant. Rick had offered to pick me up but I declined, partly because my flat isn't exactly the height of style and opulence, partly because I didn't want Lucy, my annoyingly nosey neighbour, meeting Rick but mostly because I thought it would be easier to decline any "let me take you home" offers and the possible subsequent, "May I come in for a coffee/a pee/a fuck?" type requests.

As it turned out, it wasn't Rick who was the problem, I was. Rick was courteous and charming, friendly and very open as we talked. I, on the other hand, was a bundle of nerves, worried about where this would end up and, basically, if this evening would make or break my career. And so I did what many people do in such a situation: I drank rather too much. Oh, I wasn't falling down drunk by any means but I had got to that state where sound judgement was for other people and tomorrow didn't matter. This was not a good state for a single girl whose only sex in the last few months had been self-administered and who was now in the company of a satisfactorily handsome, rather charming and attentive man!

I'm sure you can guess what happened... yes, I slept with him.

The following morning, waking up alone in Rick's bed, I felt like a complete slut who'd whored herself out for the sake of her career. I expected Rick to want me out as soon as possible, having got what he wanted and leaving me to wonder, as I did, whether it had been worth it. However, I was alone only briefly because he came in carrying a tray with fresh-brewed coffee. "I thought you might need a pick-me-up after last night's er, drinking," he said with a slight smile.

I sat up, pulling the duvet close around my otherwise naked body, and thanked him as he poured the coffee, trying to piece together exactly what had happened last night. The recalled image of him on top of me pretty well confirmed we'd had sex and I was fairly sure that, the shame and awkwardness I felt now notwithstanding, I had enjoyed it at the time. The memory of an orgasm surfaced.

"I guess you'll want to be getting home," he said, his voice neutral. I couldn't tell if this was said in concern for my happiness or if he was dismissing me, which I have to admit I was half expecting. Whatever his meaning, I went with just a brief and rather awkward thank you. 

The evening after the creative meeting we did the usual hour or two in the pub. I was in a good mood and so stayed later than I normally did. Rick was there and so was Terri. Indeed, she seemed to be determined to be the centre of things, always directing the conversation. Nevertheless, I had quite a good evening and went home still buzzing with the happiness of my new opportunity.

Work returned to normal, well, normal-ish. I had quite a lot of work to sort out and hand over to Gavin before I could swan off to Cornwall, so the 'go down there next week' deadline passed. I still felt rather awkward about having slept with Rick. However, despite what he said at the meeting, he didn't ask me out again. I felt both relieved and disappointed: relieved that perhaps this meant that the chance I'd been given wasn't because I'd let him fuck me but disappointed because, however plain and ordinary I generally thought myself to be, I didn't want him not to fancy me!

It was rather a surprise, therefore, when a week and a half after the creative meeting, he invited me out on a second date. 

This time we went to see some half-baked rom-com and then to a little Italian restaurant, where I insisted on paying the bill. However, I moderated my drinking this time and we got along quite well. As we left the restaurant his arm slipped around my waist and he said, "You know, I was furious when Marcus told me what he said to you, about being friendlier. I bet you thought I put him up to it when I asked you out?" he said and I nodded. "I just 'appened to mention to 'im in passing a couple of months ago that I thought that you was attractive but that I didn't think you'd be, you know, interested..."

"Um, actually, if he hadn't said anything I probably wouldn't have said yes," I confessed.

"Is that a fact? Well, looks like I'll 'ave to forgive the meddling gay bastard!" he chuckled and looked down as his hand took mine. "Do you want...to er..." he began and I knew what was coming. What should I do I wondered? I did quite like him, he'd been charming and good company this evening and it didn't seem like he was trying to pressurise me now so I could just decline... However, he had given me the chance to speak at the meeting and he could really help to get my career moving... I wasn't being mercenary, I told myself, which was fairly true: I did like him, much more than I thought I would.

"We could spend the night together again; I mean, if you'd like that." I remember grinning at the happy look on his face.

I return from my reminiscences as ahead I see the sign for my junction and pull into the left-hand lane. Then, a little further on, the sign on the gantry spanning the road confirming that this lane is for the A303 to 'The South-West, Salisbury and Andover'. As I leave the M3 another sign in the failing twilight tells me that it's 117 miles to Exeter as I turn Gumdrop's headlights on.

Despite it being my second visit to Rick's house, I was probably more nervous as this time it was without the anaesthetic of excessive alcohol. However, Rick led me indoors and upstairs. "I'd like to undress you," he said and my nervousness spiked: I've always been rather awkward about being naked, my figure being what it is. I know how to dress to emphasize the good bits and flatter the rest but nudity does not allow such trickery. Even though we had slept together already and despite the relaxation afforded by the couple of glasses of wine with the meal, there was no way I could just stand and let him peel away my camouflage.

"We can undress each another in bed," I replied, thinking that I'd make sure the light was off. Upstairs he didn't object to climbing into bed with just the streetlight from the window and the light spilling around the bedroom door that stood ajar. With much fumbling we stripped one another until, naked at last, we slipped into each other's arms. His body was not particularly muscled but he was thin and wiry, dark hair on his arms and chest. I raised my lips to his and we kissed deeply.

I could feel my nipples hardening as they pressed his chest. His hands caressed my back and my bum but gradually worked round until his thumbs settled on my nipples, rubbing them gently. It felt so good. 

I reached down and felt the hard length of his cock that gave a twitch as my fingers made contact and wrapped around it. I pushed gently, sliding the foreskin back; the emerging head, wet with pre-cum, brushed the inside of my wrist. Rick moved and rolled me onto my back as he knelt between my legs and I thought he was impatient to slip his cock inside me, as is usually the case in my experience. However, before I could say anything he moved down. Moments later I felt his mouth on my pussy.

I've had a few guys go down on me in my time, some have been good, while others... well, I suspect they didn't enjoy it any more than I did. Rick was definitely one of the better ones, his tongue exploring and delving, parting my ever-moistening folds and depths. I found myself wishing I had been less out of it the first time we made love. His tongue slithered up, seeking the tingling nub of my clitoris. Once he'd found it I was never going to last long and my orgasm when it struck was wonderfully intense.

He climbed up beside me and moved to kiss me but hesitated. I could smell my sex on his lips and lifted my head to kiss him; I've always found tasting myself on a lover a wonderfully erotic experience. When he feels my enthusiasm he responds just as excitedly. 

I laid back, raising my knees and spreading them wide, opening to him. He edged forward and I felt his cock pressing against my very wet and very willing lower lips. With a slight groan of pleasure he slipped inside me, gently plumbing my depths. He pulled back and thrust again, quicker and more firmly this time. He built a rhythm and I began rocking my hips in counterpoint, making his member rub my g-spot inside.

Time seemed to float away; there was just his weight between my thighs, the rolling of my hips and the feel of him inside me. There was a hesitation and his thrusts became slower and harder as he threw his head back, gasping. He came, his hot cream jetting into me. "I'm so close," I gasped, not wanting Rick to stop as his orgasm made his movements erratic. He reached down between our sweat-glazed bodies and his thumb traced its way through my pubes.

"Oh yes!" I gasped as the questing digit found my nub and made my hips buck. I hadn't lasted long after that; I was so close anyway. As usual, my second orgasm was less intense than the first but good nonetheless. With a final gasp he rolled off me and we dozed, cuddled together.

Reality reasserts itself and I become aware of several things: the first is a signpost to Andover and Salisbury while the second is that the traffic has slowed somewhat and, finally, a distinctly gooey feeling between my legs. Perhaps daydreaming about my night with Rick wasn't such a good idea whilst driving as I cannot do anything about the consequences! I just hope I haven't made too much of a mess of my knickers.

As I take the second exit on the roundabout the traffic slows further, becoming a crawl as the two lanes of the dual carriageway converge to a single lane. I think this must be the section past Stonehenge but, as I look out I'm disappointed when I realize that I'm not going to be able to see the stones in the darkness. The traffic crawls on. 

There are vague shapes out across the field to the right; so much for seeing Stonehenge. For some reason this disappointment makes the crawling traffic even more frustrating. All I want now is to reach Cornwall.

Eventually, the road becomes dual carriageway once more and the traffic speeds up until I'm cruising along at seventy-five miles an hour and I feel I'm making up for lost time, a little anyway. However, the sat-nav on my phone has moved my ETA back from 21:33 to 21:59. When it changes to 21:58 I give a little cheer, "Come on Gumdrop!"

Despite running late I have to stop: I need the loo, to stretch my legs and I'm desperate for a coffee. In the Ladies I take the opportunity to check my knickers: well, it could have been worse but there's a noticeable damp area and a definite scent of wet pussy. I'm briefly tempted to bring myself off but when I hear someone else entering the toilets I know I cannot. I wonder what I'd think if I heard the soft noises of a woman fingering herself in the adjacent cubicle? I'd probably admire her courage. I could join in alongside her and then, as we both left, the secret shy smiles, both knowing what we'd each been doing... Stop it! God, what's got into me? I'm not normally this randy so I guess that it's Rick's fault.

As I head back to the car, my phone beeps to signal a text message. I don't recognise the number and open the message expecting some on-line dating or 'have you had and accident' lawyer's spam. What I see is a shock:





Haunted by Love



The ground changes underfoot. It becomes soft, a layer of water over soft, cloying mud. Thinking it is a puddle I manage a half step, half jump forward but as my right foot lands there is more mud... just soft, bitterly cold, liquid mud into which my leg plunges. I scream in panic and fear, desperately throwing my weight to the left, terrified of disappearing into the bog that is swallowing my leg. I land heavily with a splash but, mercifully, do not sink, not instantly anyway, but the ground is oozing beneath me, flowing sickeningly into my clothes.

I reach out, grasping and pulling at whatever I can touch, anything to stop my sinking, to help me escape. I catch hold of something, reeds I think, and haul. I realise that I've lost my phone, dropped into the mire, but I don't care just as long as I can survive. I think it's working but the reeds start to pull out. I flail out and snag something thorny and sharp. I force myself not to let go but pull harder, despite the pain as the palm of my hand is lacerated.

There are agonising eternal moments as the pull of the mud is balanced by the strength of my arm. I recall the... the thing, the shadow and the fear of it fires my muscles. Slowly at first and then suddenly, my legs slither free. I drag myself and then crawl as the ground becomes firmer. Still panting I manage to get back on my feet. I have no idea where my car is. It is irrelevant because all that matters is the fear. Stumbling and shivering with panic and cold I blunder on. I hear whimpering, moaning sounds and it takes a few moments before I understand that the sounds are mine.

I am lost; where I am and what I am an impossible mystery. Who am I? What am I? All that I have is the fear of what I'm fleeing and an aching sense of loss for something I cannot recall. My body is numb but at least the shivers have stopped.

Something... there... some glimmer lies ahead, through the swaying, stunted trees. It might be a figure, faintly glowing as if carrying a light, a lantern or torch perhaps, moving. I have no idea who it might be out on a night like this; all that matters is that it is no terrifying shadow. I try to call out but my voice is a feeble noise in the wind and rain lashed dark. I struggle on, desperate not to lose this person.

I stumble, putting my arms out as I pitch forwards, in mortal fear that another muddy sinkhole is lurking ready to swallow me. Thankfully, the ground is solid and I hurriedly scramble to my feet once more. However, the flitting illuminated figure is gone and I give a cry of despair. I try to hurry to where I think the figure last was but exhaustion and cold sap my strength as I push through clawing, tearing branches and then stumble on.

I look up and there, a little way ahead is a faint, rectangular glow that cries out to me as shelter, as sanctuary. There is a gate... what's a gate for? It's in the way. I stumble forwards and half climb, half fall over the wide farm gate. Lurching to my unsteady feet once more I reel drunkenly forward. I can see a soft, flickering glow through the windows of the building before me.

I almost fall against the door and bang feebly. "Please, open," I croak, "Help me..." I'm so tired... I try to bang on the door again, my strength almost entirely gone. 

Suddenly the door opens a crack and I look up into a pretty face, lit by the faint glow from inside as she tucks her dark hair behind her ear. Shock crosses her face as she sees me.

"I'm here..." I sigh.

Chapter 3: Mysterious Morning

Warmth: it's nice to feel warm and dry. And safe too, especially after that weird dream of cold, wet, terror. I drift, floating between sleep and wakefulness, the occasional soft sound of rain against the window no doubt the trigger for my dreams.

The mattress below me is firm but comfortable, the covers are soft and the person, Rick obviously, snuggled against my back wonderfully warm. Something nudges my drowsing brain, a sort of 'What's wrong with this picture?' puzzled thought. My eyes open slowly and focus. I sit bolt upright, stiff muscles complaining, my right hand bandaged and sore. "Where am I?" I exclaim as I take in my surroundings. It is a large kitchen that simply has to be called a 'farmhouse kitchen'. However, it is a kitchen being worked on as I notice wires protruding from holes in the walls and ceiling and patches and lines of fresh plaster. There is also a row of modern, albeit suitably styled, kitchen cupboards being fitted along the wall under the window, with a large Belfast sink in the middle.

In front of me is an old but solid looking table with three chairs while to my left is a large, black cooking range with a pile of smouldering ash in the grate. The room is tidy and swept clean but the paintwork and walls are patchy and peeling in places. The mattress is just that: simply a mattress laid directly on the stone-flagged kitchen floor. This is nowhere I recognise.

I turn apprehensively and beside me it isn't Rick but an attractive, dark-haired woman, opening her eyes to look at me, a nervous half smile on her face. "You're... you were in my dream!" I gasp. If she's here and real then it wasn't a dream. She half sits, propping herself with her elbows behind her, making the covers slip from her and revealing enough to shown she is topless. Now I'm really worried.

"Please, don't be afraid; you're quite safe," she tries to reassure me, my fear obviously showing. Her voice is gentle, calming and with a very slight West Country accent. "You turned up on my doorstep in the middle of the night. Proper frozen you were and wetter than a fish. All you said to me was 'I'm here,' and then you fainted." She looks a little awkward. "I, er, I had to warm you up so I took your wet things off and put you into bed. I got in with you to help heat you up a bit: You were so cold you weren't even shivering and I know enough first aid to recognise hypothermia and, besides, I haven't anywhere else to sleep."

"Thank you." I can't think of what else to say, sat here in just my bra and knickers, even if it sounds like this woman may have saved my life. I can see my left hand is dirty, although my right has been washed beneath the bandage, and my hair feels matted... so my memories weren't a dream, even if I can't be sure how much was real and how much was panic-induced imagination.

"So, what were you doing out on the Moor at night? You didn't much look like you were dressed for walking."

"No, I wasn't walking... well, I was but only because my car broke down and I couldn't get a signal on my phone so I tried walking up a hill, to see if that helped."

"I bet it didn't; can't use a mobile phone around here more'n ten percent of the time. I have one but it's more use as a clock than anything, when I can charge it. So, what happened?"

"There was something..." No, I can't tell her I was chased by some evil shadow; she'll think I'm on drugs or some kind of escaped lunatic. "It was the dark and I... I guess I panicked. I fell into a bog and nearly sank. I was so scared..." My voice cracks as the terror of last night comes flooding back and I'm sobbing. I feel the woman's arms around me, warm, safe and comforting, and it helps as I strive to control my crying. 

I look over her shoulder at the door to the outside, nervous as if at any moment it might fly open and the darkness from the Moor flood into the room. The door remains reassuringly solidly closed and, the fear passes as do my tears. "I'm sorry," I tell her, "I'm not normally like this and certainly not with someone I don't even know the name of." Her arms carefully release, as if she expects me to dissolve into tears again at any moment. I don't and, after her hands give my shoulders a final, reassuring squeeze, she lets me go. "I'm Bethany, by the way, Bethany Cooper."

She straightens up, raising her chin. "Good morning to you, Bethany Cooper, Programme Assistant at the BBC," she says very formally, despite the fact that the covers have fallen away and she's sitting there topless. A silver pendant glints where it hangs between the top of her breasts. "I'm Ruth Penrose and welcome to Trehalow Farm. Would you like some tea?" she adds before smiling.

"I'd love some," I reply earnestly, "but how did you know where I work?" She stands, clad only in knickers, and reaches behind me, taking a woollen jumper from the chair stood there and pulls it on. It is baggy and long, virtually a dress on her. I notice what seem to be my clothes hanging muddy, stained and dishevelled from the back of the chair; I doubt the pale jeans will ever recover.

"Well," Ruth says, as her head pops up through jumper's neck, "I suppose I ought to tell you that I come from a long line of Cornish wise-women and witches." She looks at me and makes mysterious gestures with her hands before smiling and giving a little laugh. "Or I could admit that your work pass fell out of the pocket of your jeans." She bends and picks up a couple of lumps of wood from the basket beside the range and, swinging opening the grille, carefully places the wood on the faintly glowing embers before blowing gently. A yellow tongue of flame licks up the wood and she closes the door. 

I watch as she picks up a small kettle and walks over to the old fashioned sink to fill it from the brass tap before replacing it on the hob of the range, right above the fire. She moves with an easy grace that I can only envy, even more since she seems several years older than I. She is quite slim and her straight, dark hair hangs down her neck to below her shoulders. I notice she often reaches up to tuck the hair back behind one ear or the other.

She looks up and sees me watching her and bows her head. "I'll see if I can find you something to wear because you're clothes are still wet; back in a moment." She leaves the room and I'm left on my own.

I take a deep breath. "Well, Beth, you didn't expect this!" I mutter. I take stock of myself and my situation. I stretch and the aches in my arms and shoulders and the pain in my bandaged hand bring back all too vividly my struggle in the muddy, sucking bog. Yes, that was definitely real. What about the dark shape that so terrified me? I don't know but I put it down to an overactive imagination in a strange and scary situation. 

And what about being here now, with this woman Ruth? She is, in all likelihood, quite literally my saviour. I have to find some way to thank her when I get myself sorted and so the first thing I need to do is to get back to my car. This, of course, presents the challenge of actually finding it; I was lost when I broke down and I'm even more lost now. "You're not going to win any prizes for fashion I'm afraid, Bethany." Ruth's voice floats through the doorway. 

It's odd, but I don't feel lost; no, somehow it feels right that I should be here. I can't help giving a little chuckle and shake my head. I might work on Mystery, Myth and Murder but I've always thought all the spooky supernatural stuff was just, well, bollocks, frankly. And here I am being chased by eerie shadows across Bodmin Moor to arrive at a place where I feel I belong. "Get a grip, girl," I mutter under my breath, "or it'll be Tarot cards and Ouija boards next, and then it's a slippery slope to mystical jewellery and too many cats!" I smile to myself.

"What's so funny?" I look up as Ruth returns carrying an armful of clothes and see she has also slipped on a pair of leggings and thick socks.

"Oh, nothing really," I reply. "I was just thinking that I have never been more lost in my life and yet I don't feel lost. Does that sound weird?"

"Well, a bit, I suppose. I mean, you do know that you're not actually lost, don't you Bethany?" she asks and she drops the clothing on the bed. "There you are. Hopefully they'll fit, more or less."

"I know you know where we are but I don't, so I feel lost. And I have no idea where my car is... and I've lost my phone, too, in that bog." My litany of complaint is interrupted by my body sending increasingly urgent signals. "Um, us there anywhere I can wash and, er, I need to use the loo."

"Oh, of course. There's no running hot water, I'm sorry to say, but the toilet and the cold tap in the cloakroom work. If you want to use that, it's just through there," she points out through the door to the hallway. "In the meantime, I'll get the bowl I use to wash ready in the sink here. Is that okay? It is a bit primitive, I'm afraid."

I return, my bladder feeling much relieved, to find a gently steaming bowl of water in the sink, with soap and a flannel beside it. She helps me wash so I don't wet the bandage on my right hand. It's not anything like a shower but at least the mud on my face, hand and arms is gone.

"Thanks so much, Ruth; this is so kind of you." I go over to the clothes on the bed and find a baggy t-shirt, jogging trousers, a hoodie and a pair of socks similar to the ones she's wearing. Ruth goes and checks the kettle and moves about while I start dressing. My aches complain but, with my bandaged hand, I'm glad that the clothes have no buttons. They're a little small and smell slightly musty but they cover me up and are warm. "How do I look?" I ask.

"Um, is there a style called 'Refugee Chic'?" I shake my head. "That's a pity now, because you're spot on for it."

"I do feel a bit of a refugee," I say and see a look of disappointment on Ruth's face. "But one whose found a safe place to be," I add hastily.

"Good. Right, would you like some porridge for breakfast?" she asks as I stand stiffly. I suddenly realise how hungry I am.

"Oh god, yes please!" I tell her. "Thank you so much for all this, Ruth. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Certainly: can you add some wood to the fire? Not too much, mind." I stoke the fire, carefully, as instructed, as Ruth mixes the oats and water in a saucepan that goes on the hob beside the kettle. She hands me a wooden spoon. "You can be on stirring duty," she instructs.

It takes a while but eventually the porridge is cooked and the tea made and we sit down together. I take a sip of the tea and I'm surprised by the taste, not unpleasant but, "Hmm, this tea tastes... different. Is it an unusual blend?" 

"No, just ordinary tea bags; it's probably that the milk is goat's milk," she explains and I nod. "So, what does Bethany Cooper do as a Programme Assistant at the BBC and what brings her to Cornwall?"

"Okay, well I'm a researcher and, hopefully, a writer on a TV programme,  Mystery, Myth and Murder..." I pause, waiting for her to nod or smile or say 'Oh wow,' but she just looks blank.

"Sorry, but I don't have a telly," she says apologetically, "what's it about?"

"Well, it does stories, sort of dramatizations I suppose, of mysteries, like reports of strange events such as sightings of ghosts, of myths and legends and of unsolved or infamous murders."

"And is that why you're here? Are you researching, what, the Beast of Bodmin?"

"I am researching but it's a ghost story, a haunting at Purdew Hall; it's now the Purdew Manor Hotel, do you know it?" She nods.

"I know of the Hotel; it's a couple of miles from here but can't say I've ever visited it. So what's the story?" she asks interestedly and I tell her, relating the story as I had at the creative meeting. She sits, elbow on the table with her chin resting on her hand and she listens intently, taking the occasional spoon of porridge or sip of tea.

"And since then at Purdew Hall people have claimed to have heard a child crying, begging for his mother, or a woman roaming the house, lost and dejected and, out on the Moor, a dark shape has been encountered, a woman fleeing or a man running and chasing. Um..." Last night comes back to me.

"What is it, Bethany? What's the matter?"

"It's... no, I'm being silly." I do not actually believe in ghosts, I tell myself.

"Was it something on the Moor last night?" she asks with disturbing insightfulness. "Come on, you can tell me..."

"Alright, there was something... something and nothing really, but it felt very real at the time. I climbed a hill beside where my car broke down to try and get a signal on my phone and there was something up there: dark shape, sort of human-like but... strange." I take a deep breath. "It was also completely, fucking terrifying!" I blurt out and I am trembling as I recall what I felt. Ruth's hands enclose mine reassuringly. "Sorry. I guess it was my overactive imagination on a dark and stormy night in a strange, unnerving situation. I'm not some mad woman, really."

"I'm sure you're not," she replies with certainty, "but don't assume it was just imagination: perhaps you really did encounter the spirit of Sir Lovell."

"Oh come on, Ruth, surely you don't believe ghosts are real, do you..?" She nods.

"I didn't but I... I think this house is haunted," she admits. "People around here think it is too."

"Really? Why, have you seen something?"

"Mostly it's feelings, fear mostly but sometimes," she looks a little shy, "just a couple of times, it's been love. There have been noises and, just once, I came into this room," she gestures towards the doorway and the hallway beyond, "and I saw a woman clad in grey bending over something pale just inside the back door over there." There is complete conviction in her voice. 

"Were you scared?" I ask, fairly predictably given recent experiences.

"No, not at all, strangely; I could feel fear and sadness but, you know, they weren't mine. D'you understand me?"

"I think so... the fear and sadness belonged to the woman, the ghost. Do you know who the woman was?"

"I don't know but there are tales of a woman who lived here being found dead in 'strange circumstances'; maybe it's her." She looks at me. "Another story for your programme?" she asks.

"Perhaps. Would you want to tell your tale on TV?"

"Oh, probably not," she admits and I smile, finishing the last of my porridge.

"Thank you, that was delicious. You've been very kind to me Ruth; what can I do to thank you?"

"Can you milk a goat?"

"What?" I wonder if I heard her correctly. "Why?"

"Because Nancy and Mabel are in the shed and they need milking, obviously!" she laughs, standing and taking the bowls to the sink.

"Oh yeah, obviously. I should have known, obviously, because all my friends have goats in their sheds!" I find her laughter is infectious or perhaps, after last night, I just need to laugh.

"Well, if you want me to help finding your car I need to get them milked."

"Why keep goats?" I ask, "Why not just buy milk and keep it in the fridge?"

"In part because I like the taste of goats' milk but mainly it's because I don't have a fridge." I look at her in amazement. "Don't worry, 'Buy a fridge' is on my list of things to do, right after 'Get the electrics in here sorted'! In the meantime, there are Mabel and Nancy. So, are you coming?" 

I watch Ruth carefully sterilize a bucket and then apprehensively follow her outside. I feel safe in the house but outside is, after last night, a scary place. The day is unexpectedly bright but cool with a gusty breeze that keeps the high clouds moving. Ahead is Bodmin Moor, undulating and rising, grey-green, russet and brown. I give a shiver that isn't just the breeze cutting through my borrowed clothes. Ruth turns right and walks around the farmhouse, which is larger than I imagined but also more dilapidated, until I find myself in a shed that's large enough to be called a small barn and is full of the smell of, fairly obviously, goats.

She sets up and washes the goat's udder and a few minutes later I'm standing watching Ruth milking Nancy. She works with an easy confidence that makes the job look simple, though I'm pretty sure it's not. I suspect that I'll get my chance to find out shortly. "So, do I get to learn more about who Ruth Penrose is? What does she do, apart from milk goats, and what brings her to this, please excuse me, very run down farmhouse?"




Haunted by Love



"Well, my family were from Cornwall, St Austell in fact, and I liked coming here on holiday. As to why I'm here, in this 'very run down farmhouse'" she gives me a hard stare of disapproval, "well I suppose my experience wasn't too different to yours: I got lost." she sighs. "It was last year and my life was not going well. I worked for a big finance company in the City of London, BJK Investments; a massive salary, true, but insane pressure, stupidly long hours and colleagues, mostly young blokes, who seemed to think sexism was obligatory. I was a big disappointment to my parents," she adds with a chuckle and I look at her in surprise. "They're very socialist in their outlook, hippies in most people's eyes probably, and to them it was as if I'd sold my soul to the devil by choosing to work for BJK. I was good, though I say so myself, but the work, well, it wasn't exactly illegal but more and more it made me feel... dirty, d'you follow me?"

"Not exactly illegal but definitely immoral you mean?"

"That's it. Anyway, I was down here on holiday and I wanted to drive to Tintagel, on the north coast, and tried to get clever taking a short cut across Bodmin Moor. I'd planned it all on a map but then left the map in my room. That was daft of me but not as daft as thinking I could drive the route from memory."

"I'd have said not using a sat-nav was daft, but look how that worked out for me," I smile. "Not that I'm much good at map reading either."

"Anyway, I ended up here and it was like, I don't know... there was something about here, this house. I suddenly had the strongest feeling that this was where I belonged." To my surprise, she is blushing and she looks up at me awkwardly. "You're the first person I've ever admitted that to." I am touched by her confidence. "I did some searching and found the place was for sale, it had been for years but no one had ever wanted it, which amazed me. However, I did get told the place was haunted or possibly cursed, at least according to one old boy in the nearby village pub. It looks like the haunting bit is true, but I've never felt it's cursed; I always feel very safe here. That's strange, isn't it?"

"Well, I guess if you said you felt safe living in a haunted house to most people then they would think it a bit peculiar but you're right, it feels very safe in the house," I tell her, remembering how secure I felt earlier. "I'm sure when you've fixed it up it'll be a lovely place to live."

"Thank you, Bethany. It feels so nice to finally have someone who agrees with me! I've a local builder and his mate working on the rest of the house, the plumbing and electrics mainly but also general repairs and plastering and stuff, and they hate it, saying the house gives them the creeps."

"They've probably been listening too much to your old man in the pub," I tell her and she nods.

"You're probably right. I, on the other hand, didn't believe him, or maybe I didn't care if he was right because I'd already decided: I quit my job and bought this house. A crazy woman, right?"

"No, you're not crazy; hopelessly romantic and idealistic perhaps, but not crazy. I wish I had your courage just to follow a dream."

"What dream's that?" Ruth asks, intrigued, tucking her hair behind her ear as she looks up at me. 

"Oh no," I chuckle, "I didn't say I had a dream but that if I did I'd want the same courage as you have to just go for it." 

She nods as she pats the goat on its rump. "Right, that's Nancy done. Now it's your turn with Mabel." She looks at the apprehension on my face. "Don't worry, Mabel is very placid and I'll help."

Ruth does the cleaning and set up but before very long I'm sat squeezing a goat's udder with my un-bandaged left hand. I get a real sense of achievement when, after many failed attempts, a thin stream of milk squirts out. "Wow, I did it!" I exclaim.

"Well done. Now next time see if you can get it in the bucket instead of down your trouser leg!"

"Oh, you're so fussy!" I complain. "You know, when I set off from London yesterday afternoon, sitting in a barn wearing -- what did you call it? - 'Refugee Chic' and trying to milk a goat wasn't exactly what I had planned for today," I tell her, as this time the milk hits the inside of the bucket. "Mind you, getting lost, breaking down, nearly drowning in a bog and wandering in terror over Bodmin Moor weren't on my to-do list either."

"What were you expecting?"

"I don't know: a lie in, a big cooked breakfast and starting my research, probably..." It occurs to me that I've not exactly made much effort to leave here so far this morning and return to normal life. I feel at ease here, almost as if I'm on holiday. "I'm sort of glad I'm here instead and I'm very happy to have met you."

"That's very sweet," she replies, "and I'm glad you're getting lost brought you here."

"Even so, I need to find my car... and then get a new phone and call Rick, I suppose." I've started to get the knack of milking and work steadily in silence for a while until Ruth touches my shoulder and tells me to stop. She squats beside me and bumps the udder with her hand before milking it a little more and then stopping. 

"That's it, all done," she says as she wipes the teats dry. We both stand and I pick up the half-full bucket of milk, anxious to do as much as I can to help, and we head back inside. "Here, come with me and we'll find a map to help locate your car," she says and, as we move from room to room, I suspect that this is in part an excuse to give me a tour of the house. The rest of the rooms are in various states of renovation, some just needing decorating and the completion of the electrical work as wires sprout from walls and ceilings. The bathrooms have a way to go, with no tiling and unfinished plumbing.

"You're not changing much are you," I observe. "Are you keeping a tight budget?"

"No, not really; as I said, my job paid silly money so I've plenty saved. I actually don't see any need to change much and in fact it's only the en-suite bathrooms upstairs and the cloakroom downstairs that are alterations."

"You needed your en-suite bathroom then?" I tease, wondering at the same time why she'd need one given she seemed to be on her own.

"Yes, absolutely!" she replies, a little defensively. "Anyway, I've thought of maybe offering Bed and Breakfast in the future, just a couple of rooms, so I'd really need it then, don't you agree?"

"Ruth, you don't have to justify your choice to me. Besides, I'd do the same in your position." She relaxes and we conclude the tour as we arrive back in the kitchen. "Um, weren't you supposed to find a map?" I ask.

"Oh yes!" She walks over to the dresser and pulls a couple of maps off a shelf and a pen. "I, er, just remembered they were here," she explains sheepishly. She spreads out the first map; it's an Ordnance Survey map that takes me back to school geography lessons with its colours and symbols (is that square with a cross on top a church with a tower of one with a spire?) and the faint pink contour lines curling sinuously. "Right," Ruth says confidently, "Now we're... here." Her finger points to a spot on the map beside a narrow double black line: 'Other road, drive or track' my glance at the legend informs me and she uncaps the pen to mark the spot with a little blob. "So, Bethany, you came down the A30 and turned off where?"

"Oh god, I'm not sure. Let me think... Polyphant, the home of the elephant-headed parrot! I drove through a place called Polyphant."

"Okay." Ruth is laughing as she scans the map until her index finger stabs down. "There's Polyphant so, from the A30 you were probably coming along this road..." she traces a little yellow line. "Did you turn off?"

"Um... yes... the sat-nav made me turn left, but not immediately. It was, I don't know, maybe two or three miles on? I drove through another village I think, one with a pub" her finger tracks the road.

"Hmmm, that might have been Tregunnon... so left could be... here? No, you'd have ended up too far to have walked here. Hmm... was it much beyond Tregunnon you turned left?"

"I'm sorry, Ruth, but I'm not sure. I turned left and then it told me to turn right but I don't know if I got the right turn, you know, the right right turn."

"Okay, maybe we need to try something different. What do you remember about the road you broke down on?" This is getting harder because part of me doesn't want to remember the scary walk up the hill in the dark.

"Yes, there was that hill beside it. Fairly steep but not, like, mountainous. I climbed it to see if I could get a signal on my phone." Ruth pores over the map intently for a minute or two, eyes scanning.

"You said... Ahhh, there, look." She points and there is an 'other road drive or track' that's so 'other' that it becomes dotted and, as it follows the contour line of a hill, just stops. I nod, remembering what I'd seen. "And there, up the hill and if you came down this way," her finger moves, "you come to an area of marsh that I'm guessing you fell in to, you poor girl. From there, in this direction for about, what, a mile and a half at least, more if you didn't follow a direct route... you come to here, Trehalow Farm. So I reckon your car must be roughly... here." She draws a neat little cross. "Do you want to go and get it?"

"I do, though I don't much fancy walking on the Moor again."

"Don't be daft, Bethany, Mr Bump can take us." She carefully refolds the map.

"Who is Mr Bump?"

"Oh, he'll be my car."

"And he has a big dent?" I ask smiling.

"We'll he did, and on the day I bought him too, though the accident weren't my fault!" she protests. He's also bright blue, like the Mr Men character, so the name was inevitable really. You probably think I'm a bit soppy giving my car a name."

"Of course it's soppy," I tell her, "Anyway, I'm sure Mr Bump will be very happy to meet Gumdrop, when we find her."

"Gumdrop?" she asks with a quizzical raised eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes, really; and I'm not taking any teasing from a woman with a car called Mr Bump!" I check my clothes but my jeans are still too damp to wear so I fish the keys from my pocket. I also take my jacket, even though it too is still damp I know I'll need it. Hopefully at the hotel I can get it cleaned.

We leave through the hall and out by the front door. There is what might once have been a garden to one side, extremely overgrown, and a driveway in which sits a small, turquoise blue Peugeot: Mr Bump. Ruth leads the way to the car and before I get in I turn and look back at the house just as weak sunlight breaks through momentarily. I have a sudden vision of this house as it might once have looked, tended and cared for with bright white walls and flowers in the garden. For some reason my imagination also furnishes the scene with a woman in a long, grey dress standing in the front doorway as another woman in a pale crinoline dress approaches holding the hand of a child.

I blink in surprise and the vision vanishes, even as the sunlight fades once more. A little confused I climb into the car, reluctantly taking my gaze from the house.

Chapter 4: Back to Reality

I had feared that Ruth was going to expect me to navigate but, mercifully, the map remains folded on the dashboard and she seems confident about where she's going.

I try to concentrate on where we're going and memorize landmarks, something I've never been terribly good at, as Ruth points out places or sights. It's almost as if she's trying to convince me that Cornwall is a lovely place, something I can see for myself. However, I am apprehensive of returning to the hill that had scared me so badly.

We turn right and I'm surprised by a sense of déjà vu until I realise that we've arrived from the opposite direction and we're now on the road on which I broke down. Mr Bump bounces along the increasingly narrow and uneven road until, at last, there is my car looking very forlorn and abandoned with one wheel on the grass where I slewed on the track. 

I look nervously up the hill as we pull up behind Gumdrop but it is just a hill, covered with grass and dotted with clumps of gorse, a stunted, wind-sculpted tree near the top that I hadn't seen in the darkness.

"It's just a hill, Bethany," Ruth's voice speaks my own thoughts but, somehow, that fact that she says it helps.

"I know, but it was so scary last night."

"Come on," she says, opening her door and climbing out. I do the same and she walks around the car and takes my hand. She starts to lead me up the hill but I hesitate. "Beth, it's okay, we'll be fine," she promises and, reluctantly, I allow her to lead me. 

The climb is much easier in the light and as we reach the top the view is amazing: the Moor lies open and it falls away in front of us to rise again in hills and tors in the distance. Releasing Ruth's hand I step up onto a half buried boulder and take in the vista. The breeze is strong and cold but there is nothing scary, not now. "You're right, Ruth: this is just a hill and the Moor is just wild and lonely, not evil," I admit. "It was just that the shadowy shape seemed so real last night."

"Perhaps last night it was. You know, for a woman who works on a programme about ghosts and mysteries, you're very, I don't know, not cynical but... humdrum and prosaic." I look down to see her looking up at me and notice again the silver glitter of the pendant around her neck, hanging inside her jumper and the checked shirt she's wearing underneath. I hadn't paid much attention earlier, given she was sitting topless, but now, without thinking, I reach down to gently pull the jumper's neck opening a little wider to see the pendant better.

"A pentacle?" I exclaim, surprised. I wonder if it's just an ornament of if whether she wears it for a reason.

"You're wondering if I'm a witch or a pagan, aren't you?" she asks, an amused look in her eyes and I nod a little awkwardly, suddenly feeling that I might be trespassing in something very private and personal. "I suppose I am a bit," she admits, "but... not properly, not really. Mum is pagan so I grew up with it, though she never tried to indoctrinate me. She gave me this just after I started working at BJK and said it was to remind me never to forget that the important things in life weren't a career or money and that life in a big city wasn't real life. At the time I thought she was just finding another way to criticise my choice of career."

"But now you think differently?" I ask and she looks out over the wild moorland as the wind whips her hair.

"Yeah, she was right and you know living here, on the Moor, it's not difficult to feel the earth and sky and wind and rain as spiritual forces. I'm not a witch though!" she adds firmly.

"I never suggested it," I assure her, "though I'm sure you'd be stunningly brilliant at it if you chose to be one."

"Thank you," she smiles as we walk back down the hill. "Well, here's your car."

I reach into my pocket and draw out the keys. "I wonder if she'll start," I say as I open the door and slip into the driver's seat. I turn the key in the ignition expecting nothing and wondering how a breakdown truck will be able to retrieve it. To my surprise it starts perfectly. "I really didn't expect that," I told her.

"Hmm, it looks like your Gumdrop has been a mischievous girl!"

"I think you're right. Still, I won't tell her off too much."

"Good. Now, we'd better get going. I'll lead the way to the hotel and you follow, alright?" I agree and Ruth returns to her car. There is a distressingly long drive in reverse before the road broadens enough for us each to turn our car around.

I follow Ruth and Mr Bump and discover where I went wrong: at a junction on a bend I went straight on instead of following the road around as it curved right. Ruth's navigation is faultless, however, and fifteen minutes later we pull into the Hotel's car park where I draw up alongside her and get out.

I look across at the hotel: a bleak, dark grey stone building that is, as Mum had said, rather down at heel and shabby. It also exudes an air of brooding malice, almost malevolence, which reminds me somewhat of the shadow on Moor and makes me shiver.

"God, what an unpleasant place!" Ruth exclaims, echoing my thoughts.

"Perhaps it's nicer inside," I reply, trying to convince myself. The look on Ruth's face shows that she too thinks that the unpleasant aura has nothing to do with the state of repair of the place. I'm rather disconcerted that the word 'aura' found its way into my thoughts as if I'm some kind of New Age spiritualist. This is a cheap, backwater hotel but one that has TV, phones, hot running water and Wi-Fi I remind myself. I feel a slight pang as I turn to Ruth. "Well, I guess it's time to say goodbye. Thank you so much for all you've done," I tell her. "For taking me in and warming me, for bandages and 'Refugee Chic', for tea and porridge and goat milking and... well, just everything."

"Bethany... Beth," she ventures the diminutive and I don't mind, not from her, "you're very welcome: it was all my pleasure. I feel very happy to have met you."

"Me too oooph!" I have the breath squeezed out of me as she wraps me in a startlingly firm hug that, once I recover from the surprise, I return. "If you ever get your bed and breakfast going then..." She pulls back, an offended look on her face.

"Don't you dare!" she says. "I'm not having you say you might come back as a paying guest one day." She relaxes slightly. "You're down here for a while so there should be time to drop in to the farm again; you need to bring these clothes back at least."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean I didn't want to meet up again... I know, why don't you come over to the hotel here so I can treat you to dinner one evening? What about Monday or Tuesday? Or Sunday lunch tomorrow even." She looks at the Hotel warily but nods.

"Okay, let's say lunch tomorrow," she agrees. "Well, you probably want to get in and have a bath and get changed and log on and... whatever."

"Yes. I ought to contact Rick." I suddenly realize that some sixteen hours ago I was suddenly cut off mid-sentence; he'll be a little worried I should think. However, first I have to say goodbye to Ruth and there seems to be some awkwardness in doing this; perhaps it's the intense indebtedness I feel for her unstinting kindness and friendliness, not to mention probably saving my life. "I'll see you again tomorrow. I hope those builders of yours don't give you any hassles and get on with the work to your lovely house." It's such a feeble comment but I'm unsure what else to say.

"They're not coming over today but don't worry, I can keep them under control. I'm not such a hippy that I'm not looking forward to electricity and hot water! I'll see you tomorrow." She bends forward and kisses my cheek. "You be safe in there," she adds glancing at the Hotel.

"I'll be fine," I promise, returning her kiss before she returns to her car and, with a final wave, backs out of the parking space and drives away. I open the boot of my car and take out my suitcase, feeling somehow that rucksack would have been more appropriate. I lock the car and make my way into the hotel. Crossing to the reception desk I hear a man's voice, which makes me jump.

"Mornin' Madam. Can I help you?" he asks with distinct Cornish twang. He is in his fifties, dark hair turning grey and thinning on top.

"Oh, yes. I'm Bethany Cooper and I was supposed to be here last night but I, well, my car, broke down and I lost my phone."

"Oh, I'm very sorry to hear that. Still, you're here now and you look... er..."

"I look a right state I know, but if you knew the night I've had you'd understand! But what I really need is a hot bath and, yes, some food. Do you serve lunch?" 

"Well, let me just get you signed in and you can go up to your room for a bath and the restaurant opens in just under an hour at twelve thirty if that would do you?"




Haunted by Love



"Perfect," I reply. "And can you tell me what the password for the Wi-Fi is please?"

My room is at the front of the Hotel overlooking the driveway and small car park. The room doesn't have the sinister feel I got looking at the Hotel but it's a pretty depressing place none the less, with tired, worn décor in muted colours. The bed is a double, but only just, and there is a bedside cabinet with a lamp that has the most hideous shade -- a domed contrivance of Paisley fabric with a fringe of tatty tassels around the bottom that makes it look like some psychedelic jellyfish. Finally there is also a desk in the room on which sits an old, battered telly, the miniature kettle with a single cup and a pot containing sachets of tea, coffee, sugar and tubs of milk.

First things first: I use the toilet and begin filling the bath before starting my laptop and connecting to the Wi-Fi. There are four emails from Rick that show he's becoming increasingly worried about me until by the final email, sent a couple of hours ago, he is desperate:





Haunted by Love



"I'll bear that in mind. I don't suppose you'd be willing to act as a guide if I do go out there again would you?"

"It would be my pleasure, Bethany. Are you okay? You look tired." 

"You won't believe the night I've had," I tell her as I grab her hand and pull her to the Guests' Lounge that is, as I'd hoped, empty. I urge her into an armchair and draw another one up so I can sit close, facing her.

"You too?" she asks as she sits. "I had to come over early to see you because of my night!"

"Why? What happened?"

"No, you go first."

"Okay. Well, something woke me up in the night. At first I thought it was the wind but it was a child crying. It was calling 'Mama' and something else... 'Baya' or 'Bear-ra'; something I couldn't make out properly." I see the look on her face. "No, Ruth, before you suggest it there are no guests with children here, I checked." She nods in acceptance. "Anyway, the child's cries woke me up but then I saw a woman. Shit, Ruth, it was a ghost. That sounds so corny sitting here but it's true. It was a woman and she was at the door, banging on it like she was trying to get out."

"Oh god!" she exclaims. "Were you scared?" I think for a moment.

"When I first saw her, the ghost, I was bloody terrified. For a moment I thought it was a person in my room but I could tell as I looked that she wasn't real. It was scary but... Ruth it was just so desperately sad. Hearing a child cry in such fear or pain was horrible enough but the poor woman trying to get through the door to comfort or rescue the child but unable to do so. She was so desperate..."

"And you think it was the ghost of Lady Blyth and the crying was her son?" I nod dejectedly as I relive the emotions of last night and feel Ruth take my hand to comfort me. I look at her, gazing into the light, golden brown of her eyes that shine with concern. I wish she'd been with me last night.

"So, what happened to you last night?" I ask after a few moments.

"Well, nothing as right scary as you had," she assures me. "I was lying in bed last night listening to the wind and I heard a noise from upstairs, from the main bedroom actually, right above the kitchen. It sounded like soft footsteps but I knew that was silly so I thought maybe it was something banging in the wind. It was really disconcerting so I went up to check." I imagine her climbing the stairs, pitch black as she has no electricity.

"Sooner you than me in the dark!" I tell her earnestly.

"Well, I did have my little electric torch. Anyway, I could still hear them, the walking feet, as I came to the bedroom door, which was closed. When I opened the door the sounds were really clear and they were definitely footsteps; I could almost follow where the person was pacing up and down... but there was no one there!"

"What did you do?"

"I did the same stupid thing most people probably do: I said 'Hello, is there anyone there?'" she smiles. "Of course there was no answer -- it would have really freaked me out if there had been! -- but the footsteps stopped and I got this real feeling of anxiety, almost of panic."

"What were you worried about?" I ask in concern and she looks a little awkward.

"Um... you, Bethany; I had the most intense feeling that something horrible was going to happen to you. That's why I came over here sooner than I planned. I'd have come even earlier but..."

"But you didn't want to seem like some mad woman?" I suggest.

"Yes, something like that. I was so glad when I saw you standing there looking at that picture and nothing terrible had happened." Her hand squeezes mine just a little tighter. "Although..." That thought hangs between us: something pretty horrible had happened to me in the night. 

"You don't think, maybe, we're getting carried away here?" Her hand releases mine and she sits up a little, drawing back slightly.

"What do you mean?" she asks, a slight edge to her voice.

"Well, I tell you I met a strange, threatening shadow on the Moor and hear a crying child and see a ghost, while you hear disembodied footsteps, and then there was that ghost you saw at the back door, and we're both just 'Oh, what was it like and were you scared?' Neither of us is questioning what the other says, we just accept it." She relaxes a little.

"So you're worried we're encouraging each other, like two girls telling each other ghost stories at a sleepover until we're both seeing things?"

"More or less, yes."

"Well I know what I saw and heard, and I guess you know how it was for you, right? Maybe my worry for you might have been me over reacting but only because I... I like you and I care about you after what happened the other night."

"I really like you too, Ruth. I, er, I did wish you were there after I saw that ghost last night, I can tell you!" I laugh and she smiles. Just then I hear Alison calling my name. "That's the owner; she's promised to show me a couple of paintings they have of Sir and Lady Blyth. Come on."

I introduce Ruth and Alison to each other before she leads us through one of the 'Staff Only' doors.

"This is our part of the house," she explains. "It used to be the drawing room and the library," she tells us as we pass a dining room and a sitting room. "This was the estate office," she shows us the kitchen, "and this room here was the study," she says as she ushers us into her bedroom. There on the wall opposite the bed are two portraits that seem to have been painted directly onto the wood panelling. That has to be the only reason that they're still there because there is no earthly way anyone would choose to have the picture of Sir Lovell staring at them and certainly not in bed. I feel Ruth edge closer to me, her arm slipping though mine as we look upon his intense, dark-eyed and malevolent gaze. His nose is crooked, evidently broken at some point, his mouth a thin, hard line that curves upwards slightly in the left corner to become a cold sneer.

"Fucking hell," Ruth murmurs to me, "I thought a portrait was supposed to be flattering!"

"What's even more worrying is the possibility that this is a flattering portrait!" I whisper back. "He's not exactly handsome, is he?" I say to Alison.

"Oh, I don't know," she muses, "he has a certain rugged appeal..." Ruth and I exchange a look of incredulity at her comment but tactfully say nothing, edging past to look at the painting of Lady Blyth more carefully. Immediately I know that this was the woman whose ghost I saw last night.

"Oh my god: it's her," I gasp.

"What's that?" Alison asks curiously. "What do you mean, 'It's her'? Have you..." she gives a little squeak of excitement, "have you seen Lady Blyth's ghost?"

"I, erm, well maybe... I saw something last night..." I reply awkwardly, embarrassed to admit it to Alison in a way I hadn't been with Ruth.

"She's got hair like yours, Beth," Ruth interjects, "and blue eyes too; she's beautiful."

"Her eyes are a much nicer blue than mine," I smile. "She's certainly beautiful though. Makes you wonder why she chose matey there."

"The marriage would probably been arranged between his family and hers in large part. She, Lady Blyth, would have been under huge pressure to marry Sir Lovell, whatever her feelings in the matter I'm afraid," Ruth replies.

"But you saw her?" Alison insists. I realise that I'm going to have tell her something and so I simply say I had seen a ghostly figure at the door of my room that looked like she was trying to get out. 

"I sort of suspected it might be Lady Blyth," I admit. "That was why I wondered if there was an old floorplan..."

"Because you wondered if it was her room!" she finishes as if she has just made some Sherlock Holmesian deduction. However, I just nod. "Oh, I'll definitely ask Ken about them," she assures me as I reach into my pocket looking for my phone to photograph the two pictures.

"Damn!" I curse softly as I remember the phone's lost. Ruth guesses what's happened and reaches into an inside pocket of her coat before handing me a little digital camera.

"Would this help?" she asks and I smile in acceptance.

"Would you mind if I photographed the two paintings? To include with my research?" I ask Alison and she acquiesces happily.

"Would, I mean if you show this tale on 'Mystery, Myth and Murder' would there be like proper filming with actors 'n'all? And might Ken and I be on TV?" she asks excitedly.

"Well, yes and very likely," I tell her as I line up the camera to photograph Lady Blyth and then struggle to find the shutter release button.

"Here," says Ruth, her hand brushing the back of mine as she reaches over to guide my finger. I take a couple of photographs of each painting in turn and one of the two of them together, showing them in-situ, before thanking Alison. We make our way back out into the main hall by reception where Alison apologises, saying she must get on with work.

"She's going straight to Ken to tell him all about you, the hot-shot TV producer!" Ruth teases.

"I'm not a producer, as you well know." I walk over to the entrance and through the doors to stand in the porch. Just inside the outer door are a pair of muddy walking boots and a small rucksack, Ruth's I guess. "Do you think this is a porch or a portico?" I ask as I stand looking out. It is raining, again, the staccato patter soft but immense, filling the world with its sound. I have the intense but bizarre urge to slip my arm around Ruth, to hold her and be held. As I feel her shoulder brush mine the urge is almost overwhelming.

"Do you ever feel like things are happening to you like you're part of a story?" She asks unexpectedly. "Like... whenever you do something it seems afterwards to have been part of a script?" 

"You mean... what? Us meeting? You taking me in the other night?"

"Yes, all of that. For instance, why did I take you to milk the goats?"

"What?" I laugh at the unexpectedness of the question. "They needed milking and you didn't want to leave me sat on my own I suppose. But Ruth, I loved doing that, I loved that whole morning," I confess.

"Exactly! The goats could have waited and I certainly have never asked a new visitor to come and milk them with me before, so why did I do it with you, a woman who was half-dead with cold?"

"I was neither half-dead nor cold at that point; you had cared for me and warmed me up." I feel the blush heating my cheeks as I remember the sensation of her warm, almost naked body heating mine as I woke. To my surprise, I see the colour rising in her face too. I give in to the coercive urge inside me and put my arms around her. "I know I said it before, but thank you." After a brief hesitation, she hugs me back. I wonder if the sound of rain will always make me think of her holding me?

"I don't know if this is scripted, but I really need to go into Bodmin and sort out a new phone," I tell her as we move apart. "Plus, if I'm honest," I lower my voice, "the food here isn't up to much and I did promise you lunch so I thought we could eat elsewhere."

"You're not just after a navigator are you, Beth?" I put my tongue out at her.

"While I've no doubt I'm forever in need of a navigator, I think spending time with a friend is much more important," I reply. "Anyway, it's not my fault I was never a girl scout or whatever; I bet you were."

"Queen's Guide actually," she replies with a touch of pride and I try to look suitably impressed despite having no idea what this means. She obviously senses my ignorance. "Queen's Guide is like the highest award in Girl Guiding; you have to take on challenges and lead and go on expeditions to gain it."

"So it's like the top Girl Guide badge you can get?" I ask and she laughs.

"Yes, I suppose so. Anyway, as a friend and a navigator, I'd love to come with you."

Chapter 6: Bodmin

The drive to Bodmin gives us time to just chat and get to know each other: she shares details of her past career in the City, her growing frustration and disillusionment with her work and how finding the farm seemed to offer the chance to reinvent herself. I tell her of life at the BBC, the way it lacks the glamour that people assume it must have, the frustrations of my seemingly stalled career and, to my amazement, even how I came to be sleeping with Rick.

"So, do you love him?" she asks. It is a disconcertingly direct question and one that I have been reluctant to put to myself. It makes me think.

"I... I certainly like him. I mean he's good company and... well he's good in other areas too." I pray that she doesn't ask me to explain that as I feel my cheeks ignite.

"Okay, so he's good in bed and good company when you go out," she says, smiling at my discomfort. "However, the other important question is: does he love you?"

"He cares about me; he was very worried when I told him about getting lost on the Moor and very insistent that I should take more care of myself." Though he didn't say he loved me, even after I said I did to him, a treacherous thought reminds me, and even his concern had felt rather domineering. "We've only been out a couple of times so it's still early days..." I finish rather lamely and then curse myself: I've just admitted that I've slept with Rick each time we've gone out. I glance at Ruth, hoping she doesn't think me a complete slut, though I couldn't really blame her if she did. "What about you? Is there any boyfriend or significant other in your life?" I ask, deciding that we've discussed my love life quite enough.

"No, not at the moment," she admits. "I guess I don't fall for someone easily but when I did I fell hard but it didn't work out. I'm sure there's the perfect someone for me somewhere and that somehow we'll find each other. Until then I'm going to see where life takes me."

"Like going to Bodmin with the mad woman who banged, half dead, on your door in the middle of the night?"

"Yeah, why not? Turn right up ahead there," she says and points.

Bodmin is unexpected: an odd mixture of old and new with old stone buildings and modern shopfronts. Still, this does mean that there is the very modern mobile phone shop that has all the latest models. Unfortunately it also has, as Ruth observes, "The usual patronising, smarmy gits as sales assistants!" I have to agree because, although I might not be the most tech-savvy woman in the world, I'm not a simpleton either; I have a pretty good idea what I want, which isn't a phone that has a tiny screen, small memory and indifferent camera just because it's available in pink!

"Look, I had the C4 model, which I really liked, but I know there's now the C5 and the larger C6 so if you could just show me those and let me know the price and plans available, please," I say as I realize that if I let this guy keep making suggestions we'll be here all day. Ruth gives a little nod of approval as he leads the way. "Oh, and I'll need my old number transferred to the new phone please."

There is some trial and error -- the C6 is very large and feels rather like holding a paperback book to my ear but the screen is amazing and Rick did say I could charge it to expenses-- and rather more internal debating over the very large price and whether I should change my contract but forty-five minutes later we are walking out of the shop.

"Sorry that took so long," I apologise to Ruth.

"You looked so set on that big phone and the assistant looked so annoyed when you changed your mind at the last minute."

"I didn't mean to mess him around but the big model was just a silly price really. Anyway, he should have told me at the start that the C5 is waterproof. I'm glad I noticed that after what happened to my old phone." I hesitate when I see Ruth's expression. "Being waterproof wouldn't actually have helped my old phone would it?"

"Not really, no. Still, you can make calls and take photos in the bath without worrying!" she teases. "So, what now?"

"Do you mind if we do a bit more shopping? Well, after a cup of coffee, obviously. I could do with your help buying some stuff for walking on the Moor and I'd also like to find the library so I can come back tomorrow and get on with some research."

Ruth happily accompanies me, advises me and guides me around the town. The library, an amazing old stone building, is of course closed but will be open tomorrow but, I notice from the sign outside, closed on Wednesdays. We move on to visit several shops, some to buy and others just to browse. Ruth's taste doesn't do 'pretty and girlie', preferring practical, simple and, occasionally, elegant. 

"Also comfortable and warm!" she insists when I make this observation to her. "No point in wearing something that hurts or means you freeze your arse off! The history of fashion seems to contain quite a lot of things designed to constrict, hamper and possibly humiliate women, corsets and high-heeled shoes to name just two!" I look at her a little surprised by her vehemence. "Sorry," she adds, more calmly, "it's a hangover from working at the bank. I got quite a lot of stick in the beginning because I don't wear heels and preferred a trouser suit to the narrow skirted suits that seemed de rigueur for female staff. Who wants to waddle like some demented penguin?"

"Some people would call it a sexy, feminine sashay," I suggest, smiling.

"Well, I think a woman's walk is sexy enough and doesn't need ridiculous exaggeration," she says firmly. I wear heels when the situation seems to demand it but, since I've never felt I move with any particular poise or elegance in them, I rather regret not taking Ruth's 'screw you' stance sometimes.

We head to what I promise will be the last shop and in the light of our last conversation I find myself watching Ruth walk. She is quite tall and slim, but not skinny. She walks with a confidence and ease in her mud-stained boots and trousers. Is it sexy? I think perhaps it is, or should be: a strong, confident independent woman should definitely be attractive. Of course, Ruth also has good legs and a nice bum, which helps too. Maybe I should take up hiking because I find myself envying her figure and I have the clothing now.

I suddenly realise we are hours past lunch. "I'm sorry, Ruth; I promised you lunch and it's getting late so no more shops. What do you fancy to eat? Whatever you like, it's my treat."

"Actually, what I really fancy is a curry and I know just the place. Is that okay?" 

The meal was very good and very filling, which made our walk back to the car more of an amble but a happy and contented one. "Hotel or farm?" I ask as we begin the drive back.

"Can we go back to hotel? I'll walk home and we can have a drink in the bar first as you didn't want to drink with the meal."

"It'll be dark; will you be okay walking on the Moor in the dark?" I ask apprehensively, remembering my own experience.

I'll be fine. I've walked the Moor at night before and I know the way; I also have a torch in my rucksack."

"You're such a Girl Scout," I tell her with a chuckle. "What else have you got in there?"

"Queen's Guide, remember! And there's a small plastic sheet that I can sit on or maybe shelter under, a couple of energy bars, a water bottle, a compass, a box of waterproof matches and some kindling, a whistle and a little first aid kit. Got to 'be prepared'! You know, 'Be Prepared' the Scout and Guide motto?"

"I didn't," I confess, a little embarrassed by my ignorance. "Have you ever needed much of the stuff you carry?"

"Well, the first aid kit's been useful once or twice and I've used the compass sometimes when walking somewhere new. The sheet gets used but it's a bit of a hassle putting it away when it's wet." She smiles, "I used to carry chocolate bars but they'd either melt on warm days or I'd eat them in the evening when I was at home and I got the craving. Energy bars are much less tempting!"




Haunted by Love



"So what have you got for dealing with terrifying night shadows on the Moor?" I ask, only half in jest. "Crucifix? Holy water?"

"I'm afraid not; I shall just have to depend upon my dauntless, indomitable spirit." She holds her clenched fist over her heart, chin raised like some female worker in a Soviet poster and then laughs. "Honestly, Beth: if I'd been in your place the other night I'd have done what you did and run away." 

We draw up outside the hotel and as we get out I see Ruth bite her lip, uncharacteristically nervous. "Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yes, I just want to ask you something, but it's a bit, um, cheeky I suppose. I wonder could I use your bath? There's no running hot water at the Farm so having a proper bath is such hard work..."

"Of course you can! We should have gone via the Farm and picked up some clean clothes or clean underwear at least."

"Actually, in my rucksack..."

"You really are prepared for everything, aren't you?" I laugh.

"No, not quite everything," she replies cryptically, "but most things."

I sit on the bed as Ruth soaks in the bath. The bathroom door in front of me is open so we can chat; I can see she is happy, relaxing with her eyes closed at the moment. Suddenly there's a knock on the door. "Shit!" I exclaim as we look at each other in alarm. Ruth taking a bath isn't exactly illegal but it's certainly not quite right either. "Who is it?" I call.

"It's Alison," comes the rather muffled reply.

"One moment," I say rising from the bed. I put my fingers to my lips and Ruth nods as I move past the bathroom, pulling the door closed as I go. Opening the room door I give Alison a bright, and hopefully innocent-sounding, "Hello."

"Ah, Bethany, I just wanted to give you this," she hands me several sheets of paper. "It's a photocopy of the old floor plans; Ken thought you'd like a copy more than just looking at the originals."

"Oh, thank you very much," I reply gratefully. "That's perfect, thank you."

"He couldn't copy it all in one, I'm afraid because the original is too big for our copier so he had to copy a bit at a time..."

"No, that's not a problem," I reassure her. "This will fit in my folder better anyway." I notice her looking over my shoulder into the room where Ruth's coat is hung over the back of the chair and her trousers, rather embarrassingly, lie on the end of the bed where she left them. "Sorry, Alison, I need to get on. I ought to email my boss and update him how I'm getting on. I'll mention the plans... Um," a thought suddenly occurs. "Alison, you mentioned seeing the ghost, Lady Blyth. Where was it you saw her?"

"I thought I said: it was here, on the landing," she gestures to the area outside my door. "I was coming up the stairs and she was sort of gliding along. I thought it was a real person at first because she seemed to cast a shadow on the wall but it wasn't a proper shadow but a sort of darkness beside her." My mind immediately thinks of the thing on the Moor.

"Thank you, that's useful to know." She bobs her head and turns to go, letting me close the door. When I open the bathroom the first thing I see is Ruth's naked form as she stands in the bath. "Oh god, I'm so sorry!" I say, looking down and hastily retreating, pulling the door closed. "I should have knocked." Blushing furiously I sit on the bed.

Moments later I look up as the bathroom door opens once more to see Ruth calmly towelling herself dry. "Don't worry, Beth; please don't be embarrassed on my behalf." I nod, trying to keep my eyes on her face in an attempt to respect her privacy and not seem to be eying her body. Earlier she'd stripped down to bra and knickers in the bedroom before going into the bathroom and I remember that first morning in her bed and how she was quite happy for me to see her topless. Once again she seems to be able to read my thoughts. "Mum always said that my brother and I should never be embarrassed or ashamed of the human body, ours or anyone else's. She'd been brought up Catholic and hated the way she'd been made to feel that almost everything to do with the body was shameful; especially nudity... and sex, of course."

"So you have quite liberal-minded parents then?"

"Yes, I suppose so. 'Bodies are natural, sex is part of life, love comes in different forms and it's all cool!' as my Dad once put it. What about your parents?"

"Ha! No, they were, still are, both rather prudish, Mum especially. They're not particularly religious or anything just depressingly middle class and 'proper'; they'd fit embarrassingly well into Victorian Britain." I can't help thinking that Ruth has good reason to feel comfortable in her, it has to be said, very attractive skin. If she's happy to be naked perhaps I shouldn't be so hung up about looking at her... or about getting undressed in front of her in future.

"You're not much like your Mum and Dad then," she says reassuringly. "I'll be ready in a couple of minutes. Do you have to email your boss like you told Alison?"

"No, I just said that to get rid of her. Did you hear what she said about seeing a shadow with the ghost of Lady B?" I try not to stare as she steps into her clean blue knickers, drawing them up to cover the dark triangle between her legs. Watching someone dress is almost as intimate as seeing them undress. 

"Hmm, and you were thinking of your shadowy shape on the Moor, I assume?" I nod. "Could be, but she didn't seem to have felt the threat that you did."

"Well, not exactly my shadowy shape but, yes, the thought did occur. Assuming it wasn't all my overactive imagination."

"Do you believe it was?" she asks, she slips her bra on, covering them and her large, dark aureoles then fastening it.

"Had nothing else happened, then maybe, but hearing that crying and seeing that ghost... well, perhaps I'm less 'humdrum and prosaic' now."

"Sorry for calling you that. Can I use the excuse that we weren't friends then and I didn't know you?" She walks over to the bed to retrieve her shirt and pulls it on. Without thinking, I reach up and start buttoning it for her.

"No, it was a fair comment... my friend." I look up into her face; yes, she is after just a couple of days, a close friend. It seems strange that it could be so, but no stranger that the rest of the weird shit that's happened to me. "Come on, Ruth, hurry up and finish dressing because I want a drink."

Chapter 7: Restless Night

We go down for drinks in the bar and I try to persuade Ruth to book into the hotel for the night rather than risk the walk back. "Beth, I'll be fine, I promise. Besides, I need to milk the goats tonight and in the morning and, please don't think me a coward, but I don't think I could actually sleep here... sorry."

I'm surprised that such an amazingly together and capable woman has just said that. I also feel disappointed that she's going to leave me, though I'm not sure why. Perhaps because I want to know if she sees the ghost too, maybe I feel I need her strength or it could be simply that I'll miss her company. All of them, probably.

After just a single drink each I walk with her out through the front door of the hotel and cannot help shivering; the night is cold and when I look up there are a few clouds drifting briskly on the steady breeze lit by the moon that is waxing towards full. "See, with the moon that close to full I'll hardly need the torch," she says, trying to allay my fears.

"Ruth, please... please stay here tonight. I need you here, with me because..." there are several reasons I could give, "...because I need to know that I'm not imagining this."

"Imagining what, Beth?"

"All this spooky, creepy, scary stuff. Please. I can drive you to the farm and we can milk the goats together, you can grab some stuff and come back with me. I've only had one drink." There is an odd look on her face, almost disappointment as If she thought or hoped I might say something different; perhaps it was just the play of moonlight and the electric light above on her face because after a moment she nods.

"Okay," she acquiesces.

"Oh, thank you! It'll be like we're having a sleepover," I say happily as I reach out and hug her in gratitude. "Come on, lets sort out a room for you."

"Will I be sleeping in it?" she asks wryly, "Or is it just for decorum?"

"Well, I hoped we'd be in the same room, in case the ghost appears," I reply, "but paying for a room it does mean that you'll get breakfast."

"And the decorum?"

"Um, I think Alison Curnow might be wondering what's going on between us," I confess awkwardly. "I'm pretty sure she knew we were both in the room and I think she saw your trousers on the bed when you were in the bath earlier."

"Is that a problem for you, what she thinks?"

"Mum always said that there was nothing more important that your reputation," I reply, remembering her handwringing anxiety over what Mrs Jones would think about something or other or whether she should have told Eileen Jackson something else and what if Eileen repeated it to Linda May... "I really don't want to be like my Mum." I say quietly.

"So, shall we book a separate room for me or... whatever you're happier with because I really don't mind."

"I so want to say 'Fuck Alison and her opinion' but... I do need her and her husband's cooperation in researching and writing this ghost story so I can't risk upsetting them. I'm not saying that they'd be upset by us sharing a room, I rather suspect they might be more upset by the loss of revenue, but whatever, I don't want to risk it."

So that's what we do: we go and book Ruth a room for tonight. It's not next door unfortunately but along the landing to the left, through the arch and then down the corridor to the right; I don't think old Ken deliberately gave her a room miles from mine; I hope not, anyway. It's then the drive over to the farm, and some hasty milking. At least Ruth's is hasty; she has finished and has time to go, sort out her changes of clothing and return to the shed before I'm done. "Well done," she says and I finally finish.

"Thank you, and thanks for letting me finish: it's quite a satisfying feeling isn't it?"

"Mmm very, and especially so when you use the milk to drink or cook. I want to start growing some vegetables next year too and maybe get some chickens. Make this more like a farm again, you know?"

"That sounds lovely. I envy you living here; well, maybe not right now but when the builders have finished definitely. "

"Even with the spooky, scary Moor outside?" she asks as she locks up and we head to the car. I still don't know how to explain it but here on the farm and with her it feels very safe.

"Yeah, even with the Moor," I smile.

Back at the hotel we're lying side by side in my bed looking through the floorplans that Alison gave me earlier as we try to work out which room is which. The re-working of the building into a hotel and the fact that neither of us is particularly good at reading the plans makes it a challenge.

"We can assume that the stairs are the same..." I say, holding one of the sheets above us so we can both see it "so... this is still the main landing here..." My finger points to the paper as it flops around above our heads.

"I know. Hang on a moment." Ruth jumps up and goes to the bedroom door. She goes to her rucksack and fetches a Swiss Army knife from it and then proceeds to work the fire escape instruction sheet out of its frame. A minute later she is back in bed. "Ta daa!" she says as she holds up the instructions, alongside the sheet I hold, and there on the bottom half is a small floor plan with the current layout. It's a long way from ideal but it does help.

"So Room 1 was the old master bedroom, more or less, Room 2, this room was... no the room the other side, Room... 10 used to be the Master's Dressing Room which means this room was, oh yes, the Mistress's Dressing room.." I look at Ruth. "Had you considered that for your house: his and hers dressing rooms?"

"No," she smiles. "Anyway, there'd be no one to use the 'his' room and I don't have enough clothes to need a separate room for them." She returns to studying the plans. "You know, if this was her room, Lady, er, Blyth's room then seeing her ghost here makes sense; the ghost was replaying something terrible that happened."

"Is that all a ghost is, I wonder: just a replay of something intense and emotional?" I muse. "Is that why I felt more sadness than terror by the end?"

"Perhaps," she replies, a little distractedly, "though I guess it might also be the spirit of the dead person stuck reliving particularly emotional or traumatic events, unable to move on. Ooh, look: the room I was given used to be the Governess's room."

"How very kinky!" I answer, saying the first thought that comes to mind. The idea that a ghost is actually a dead person's spirit is quite upsetting, especially thinking of the boy William crying. On the other hand, maybe I was experiencing Lady's Blyth's memory of the event.

"Not that sort of Governess," she replies, slapping my hand playfully and distracting me. "A governess helped to look after a child but, unlike a nanny, she was mainly a teacher. For girls in wealthy families the Governess would usually be their only teacher, while boys would sometimes have a governess until they went to boarding school."

"How old would that be?" I ask. I don't think William's age was mentioned in the story Alison told Mum.

"Ten or eleven I think but it might have been younger, I'm not sure."

"You seem very knowledgeable about this stuff."

"You'll have to blame my love of historical fiction books, I'm afraid."

I tidy up the papers from the bed, placing them on the bedside table and we turn out the lights before settling down under the covers. Our shoulders and arms touch, inevitably in the rather narrow double bed and her lower leg brushes mine. It feels so very comfortable and safe that I cannot help wriggling a little bit closer to her as we talk quietly about favourite books and films.

We quieten as tiredness builds. However, though I am very comfortable and happy, I struggle to find sleep, my mind restless. I should have called Rick, or texted him at least, but somehow everything -- him, work, the BBC and the programme, even home and London itself -- all seem like a different planet. I feel captured by events here, both the supernatural and the earthly, and it feels scary and exciting and... mysterious, all mixed up together.

The moon outside gives just enough light to see the vague outline of her sleeping face: she looks beautiful and so peaceful. I drift into a doze eventually; perhaps I even sleep a little. It doesn't feel as if it lasts long when I am woken again by the cries. "Ma-aaaa!" The sound chills me once again but this time there is no wondering if I imagined as I see the gleam of Ruth's eyes, wide open in the dark. 

"Was that..?" she asks, her voice a tight whisper.

"Yes," I breathe as under the covers our hands meet and clasp in mutual reassurance. I wait for the next cry. 

"Maaa-maa!" Tonight I am ready, looking over Ruth towards the door, and see the pale shape coalesce into existence: the same white robe and wavy hair rippling down her back. The sharp intake of breath tells me Ruth sees it too and there is a tiny flutter of relief within me that this is not all just my imagination. "Bear-aaaa... Maamaa..." However much I anticipate them the cries retain the power to shock me each time. "Maaaamaaaaa! Bea-aaaaa! Heeelll meeeee!" 

The fear, the abject terror in the voice still distresses me, much as it does the shade of Lady Blyth as I watch her fists beat the same silent, ghostly tattoo on the door as she again futilely seeks to escape and return to her suffering child. Resting against Ruth I can feel her flinch too, telegraphing her upset at the sounds and sight. "MAAA-MAAaaa! Maaa... Bea-aaa... M-Maaa..." The cries reach their crescendo and begin fading, growing weaker as, the same as last night, the woman becomes frantic, "Maaaa... Mama!" 

I sit up to see the slumped form of Lady Blyth crumpled on the floor raise its, her, head and tip it back in the same thin cry as yesterday. "Lady, I'm so sorry for you," I say quietly. I am startled as the figure appears to react to my words, her head turning towards me and her hand lifting, she seems to see me even as she fades. Had the ghost really reacted to my voice?

I find I have been holding my breath and let it out with a sigh and a shiver; my skin is chilling rapidly as the nervous sweat evaporates. Ruth makes a sharp sound, half gasp, half sob. "Shit, that was horrible!" and I can see her cheeks glisten with tears in the dim light. Without a moment's thought I lie back down and wrap my arms around her to hug her tightly. She responds in kind, hugging me back with her head pressing into the curve of my neck. I kiss her cheek as I make soothing sounds. It makes me happy to be able to comfort her after she looked after me. "Thank you," she says.

"It makes a change for me to be looking after you," I reply, "but you're right, it is horrible and it had me in tears too last night. I find it easier to be brave with you here."

"Is that what you feel being here, just brave?" she asks. It is strange question.

"Well, no... not just brave; I feel very happy and comfortable. Why?"

Ruth reaches up and brushes my cheek with her fingertips, a startlingly pleasurable feeling. Her breath is warm and soft on my skin. I look into her eyes; in the darkness the whites are faintly glistening around the dark depths. I'm not aware that either of us moves but our noses brush gently. Her fingers are in my hair. "Because I really want to give you a kiss," she whispers, our mouths so close that I can feel her words on my lips.

"Er, okay," is all I manage before our mouths come together. I tense, briefly, but then start to enjoy the feel of her lips on mine, so warm and soft and everything you could want with a kiss; almost as if, though I hadn't known it, this was what I had desired all along. I have such an upsurge of affection for this woman, for the warmth and tenderness in her that I haven't felt from anyone for such a long time. Our lips part and I press my cheek against hers as we hold tight. 

It is like being a teenager again as the emotions of finding something new and special fill me. The idea that I, as an adult, could feel such intense friendship and affection for another woman is amazing: it is like having a best friend once again. It could just be all that's happened, the fear and strangeness countered by her kindness and openness has made our time together more emotionally intense than anything I've experienced in years. Perhaps when I go back to London it'll all settle down and I'll simply have a new friend living in Cornwall...

I open my eyes, waking into darkness as cold air infiltrates the bedclothes. Ruth is no longer cuddled against me and I feel the mattress move as she evidently climbs out. I look up at her, dimly visible in the almost pitch dark room, the moon no longer shining on the curtains. "What's the matter Ruth?" My voice is husky with sleep.

"Much as I love sharing the bed with you, Beth dear, I ought to head to my room if there aren't to be any awkward questions in the morning." I want to tell her not to go, to come back into the warmth with me, but she has a point. We could be filming down here in a few weeks and comments from Alison Curnow about Ruth and I sleeping together could be embarrassing, to say the least, especially with my, well boyfriend I suppose, Rick.

"I suppose so," I agree reluctantly. "At least we can have breakfast together. Sleep well Ruth, love," I tell her. She bends and our cheeks brush as we kiss, not on the mouth this time but more chastely. She turns and I hear her soft, careful footsteps and she moves to the door. As the door opens I'm half blinded by the seemingly dazzling light from the landing and I reflexively shut my eyes.