Greg James, fresh from a messy divorce takes a job in Scarborough on the east coast of Yorkshire. To get away from the southwest of England which has been his home since birth thirty-nine years ago; to make a fresh start. He buys Sycamore Cottage, a run down almost derelict residence in a nearby village. On arrival his welcome is somewhat underwhelming; many of his neighbours stand outside staring at him as he parks up. He’s even approached by an old woman who questions his sanity for buying the cottage he’s looking up at. She departs, telling him as she walks away, the place is haunted by a ghost.
Undeterred, he enters, the place is certainly creepy, but he isn’t ready to be put off by such an unlikely tale. Then, as he surveys the dusty remnants of an otherwise functional kitchen, a female voice behind him says – hello! Turning, he faces a younger woman - not only can he hear her, but he can also see her too.
This starts a roller coaster ride as shock after shock makes it feel he was destined to find this place and discover its secrets, in addition an employer who produces the ultimate surprise. A tale of serial murders and transition from the afterlife.
Coming soon - Sycamore Cottage by B.L. Miller.
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An excerpt;
I opened up, I’d had the keys to the property sent to my previous address. I took one final look at the now evening sky which appeared to be clouding over, it looked like rain was heading this way. If it did, I’d soon have an early warning of water leaks if there was a hole in the roof. The door creaked, loudly, I’d have to make the purchase of a can of oil an early purchase, assuming there wasn’t one tucked away in a cupboard. I peered inside, it was cleaner than I expected, and as I entered, I didn’t encounter a forest of cobwebs I’d expected. Maybe the estate agent had found someone after all. The view in front of me was dark and gloomy, I looked to my right and saw a light switch which I tried. A light came on, somehow, I hadn’t expected that. I assumed I’d have to seek reconnection, probably other utility supplies too. A better start than my pessimistic thoughts could hope for. I looked up at a single naked light bulb which was dusty, stained and had cobwebs hanging down. To my left was a dusty table, a religious ornament stood at its centre. Above a coat rack with several coats of make appearance hung. I imagined they had been there a long time and were musty and full of big spiders. Hung over one end was a hat, one I assumed was handy on a rainy day. I’d have a look at that, to see if it still had some use.
Stairs led up on the left, I tried a light switch, and another light came on. At least I shouldn’t fall down the stairs if I was careful. The hallway was stark, no carpet, but instead a mosaic patterned tile floor led off to a room ahead which as I approached appeared unmistakably to be a sizeable kitchen. Certainly, larger than the one I’d left. Walking in I remembered what I’d seen when I briefly viewed it before. Whoever had lived here had invested in a new cooker and the cupboards all around looked quite recently installed. There was a table with four chairs. I had no idea who had lived here before, but I imagined I’d soon be told.
I walked to a sink unit and tried the tap, in fact both taps. Each worked. One was obviously for hot water, so I’d have ti find the source of heat. There was a heating boiler on one outside wall. I saw a radiator at one end and turning I noticed another in the hallway I’d missed as I walked past. Assuming the gas supply worked I’d be warm at least. I stepped towards the cooker and turning on a tap I heard the low hiss is escaping gas with its familiar, pungent smell. Another pleasant surprise. I just needed to go upstairs and see where I could spend the night, hoping I could leave the Z bed on the car, although I now needed to grab a bag of clothiers and a sleeping bag before darkness fell. There was a knock on the front door, it was loud and urgent.
‘Yes?’ I opened the door and an elderly woman holding an unlit torch stood some distance away. I knew Covid social distancing had been all the rage some while back but all that now seemed to be in the dark and distant past.
‘You’re not staying here, are you?’ She asked what seemed an astonishing question.
‘Of course, I am, I’ve just bought it.’ I replied.
‘You’ve bought it?’ She repeated my answer.
‘Yes, I’ve got a job in Scarborough, I plan to live here.’
‘You can’t live here; you must be mad.’ I’d had my mental state questioned several times recently, but those questions had been raised by people I knew, not be complete stranger.
‘Is there something I don’t know?’ I reacted.
‘You mean you don’t know?’ I was getting frustrated by what was beginning to feel like questions from a pub quiz.
‘Know what. I’m new here this place was up for sale. I arrive and half the village stare at me as if I’m some alien.’ I paused and asked the important question.
‘What am I supposed to know?’ I waited patiently to be enlightened.
‘The brutal murder, here, in there!’ She leaned over and pointed into my newly published house. Now that was news to me. I realised the estate agent had probably kept that quiet. It also gave a good reason for the give away price I’d paid for it.
‘Really, when was this?’ I looked up and once again I saw people standing outside their homes, this was beginning to feel rather creepy. I looked back inside now.
‘A year ago, a man is in prison for it.’ I realised there was some research needing doing. I was starting to feel cold as the night air closed in. The woman turned and started walking away. ‘I just came by to warn you. Best you found out sooner rather than later.’ She’d reached the gate, and I was about to renter my hallway when she added one final repost. ‘It’s haunted too.’
I closed the door. I took a deep breath and stared forward at what I’d bought. Strangely, fear didn’t grip me. I’d always had an interest in the occult. Anything weird and unexplained. Obviously, this woman, together with half the street now expected me to come running out screaming with some apparition chasing me out with a white bed sheet over its head! They’d be disappointed. A murder, seriously? Much as I was chomping on the bit to grab my iPad and check out the history of Sycamore Cottage, I decided more practical things needed doing first. I looked upstairs, I had to sleep somewhere, and I did recall a nice double bed. So nice in fact I’d decided not to buy one. Perhaps a new mattress only? I had visions of the one upstairs being soaked in blood when I pulled back the covers, I certainly had no intention of using. First, I walked into the kitchen and finding a kettle with a coating of dust, I blew most of it off and filled it with enough water to make tea. I let the tap run a while, suspecting as yet un replaced lead water pipes supplied the supply. I switched on the kettle and looked for mugs.
This felt surreal. Had it not been for the grime and dust, this place had the feel that someone had just walked out the day before and left it – just as it was when i arrived. I glanced out through the rear door window. It was dark and probably best that way too. The small front garden was overgrown enough, I dreaded to imagine what the far larger rear garden was like. The kettle clicked off. I went to the hallway and grabbed a bag I’d brought in from the car which had a carton of milk and some teabags. I was sure there were teabags somewhere although I wasn’t even going to think about opening the fridge yet, to see what something had once been what the previous owner had poured over their corn flakes.
I’m upstairs now, mug of tea in hand, the main bedroom overlooked the street outside, I imagined I was still being watched, especially now I’d switched on the light. “Fuck e’m” had entered my thinking again! Sure, enough the bed was still there. I pulled back the covers and found just a plain, clean sheet covering what i imagined was an equally unmarked mattress. All this needed was a good wash. I’d find a laundry somewhere surely. I went to a free-standing wardrobe and opened its doors. No bats flew our scratching my face with their tiny claws. Inside were women’s clothing. Pretty dresses and a nice coat in a shade of red some fashion designer would know immediately.
Next was a chest of drawers. I put my mug down and opened the top drawer. Inside was quite a shock. In neat lines were unmistakably women’s underwear. The whole room had a feminine feel about it. I almost felt I was intruding as I picked up a pair. They were brief to the point of nonexistence. Here was a lady of fashion. She certainly dressed to kill. Then having created that last word in my head the sheer magnitude of my current predicament sank in. Someone had died in this house, and it was likely to have been the owner of the garment I held in my hands. I was looking at them intimately, imagining them being worn, being removed too. But by whom? Perhaps she’d never worn them, then again what if she had. She certainly dressed to give an impression. I looked at the thin strings and knew where they went! No panti line for this girl. One other thing too. Not a single bra! She obviously didn’t wear one, probably didn’t need to. A modern girl certainly. I needed to find out more so I carefully, respectfully, replaced the item back in the drawer and after sliding it shut, grasped my mug of now much cooler tea and returned to the kitchen.
I turned on my iPad. Thankfully, I didn’t need WiFi and to my surprise the phone signal was stronger than I assumed it would be. Pleasant surprises had been at a premium so far. One thing for sure, a call into the estate agency I’d used would be high on my list the following day. I Googled, Sycamore Cottage, murder, Wenbury. The screen exploded into instant views of a horrific murder. I went to look it up when I froze. A female voice behind me spoke.
‘You liked my knickers then?’ I spun around and facing me was a beautiful young woman I put in her late twenties. Where the hell had she sprung from. If I felt surprised, it was nothing compared to that shown on her face. ‘You can see me then?’ She asked.
‘Of course I can, why wouldn’t I?’ I replied, amazed she’d even questioned it.
‘You’re not frightened, others have seen me and headed out the door like Usain Bolt!
‘Why?’
‘You still don’t get it, I’m not from the living. I’m dead, I was murdered here. I’m her ghost!’ The penny dropped like a sheet of corrugated iron drop from a great height.
‘Oh fuck - you’re not!’
‘Oh, but I am. Can I come in?’
‘It’s your kitchen, or it was.’ Whatever it was glided past me and perched on the table in front of me.
coming soon a compelling paranormal crime and mystery story by B.L Miller
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