THE NIGHTMARE STONE Read online

  Nobody spoke as the entrance to the property slid behind the car. The beautiful old wrought iron gates led the eye down an immense gravel drive, flanked on either side by the imposing trees that had evidently given the property its name. Their fleeting glance at the house revealed little. It was too far away from the road to be clearly seen.

  The pub was welcoming, the food was good. They sat out overlooking the river as the sun reached its high point. There were barges moored nearby and an occasional pleasure craft ambled along. The sound of water rushing over the nearby weir, the Sandford Lasher, could be heard when the wind drifted the right way.

  They paid the bill and went back to the car. After driving part of the way back up the lane, John parked near to the church and pointed left. A row of thick conifers stood back from the pavement, just the other side of thin iron fencing. The trees were easily twenty feet tall and there was no way to see through them.

  'This, I think, is the boundary of the land.'

  John had checked on Google maps before they left their house.

  'It runs up to the side of the church and the all the way back round to the road. Then, the other way, it runs down to the river.'

  'It's huge,' said Emma.

  'I reckon about twenty acres.'

  It took just another two minutes to leave the lane and turn back onto the main road. Almost immediately, John turned left through the gates of Sycamores. His window was down and the wheels crunched loudly as they rolled along.

  'Look at this place,' he whispered.

  They parked the car as near to the house as seemed polite. Then they climbed out slowly, somewhat overawed by the scale of what stood before them. They drifted towards the house. Sophie held back a little. John turned around to look at his daughter. He smiled at her to reassure her then walked over to take her hand.

  'It's okay, Sophie.'

  She squeezed her father's hand in return.

  'Do we belong somewhere like this, Dad? I mean, look at it. Just the three of us in this place?'

  They looked back at the house. The oak front door stood in a wide open porch. From where John stood, the house was at an angle. The door was in the middle of two wings, both comprising multiple wooden sash windows at ground and first floor level. Thick ivy clung to the walls and around some of the windows. The roof was steeply pitched; the gable ends rose gracefully from the lead flashing of the roof line, with their pleasing mock Tudor black and white colours contrasting beautifully with the aged bricks beneath.

  There was a matching black and white frontage over the porch. Tall spiralled chimneys balanced the house at each end. The organic shapes of the mature trees behind the house reached in, almost caressing it with their leaves.

  He stared hard. Maybe Sophie was right. Then Sophie started to giggle and she leaned in to her father.

  'Will I have to say “Your Majesty” to you if we live here?'

  Emma looked away from the house and smiled at her daughter.

  'You will. You can call me the same, as well. And I shall address you as “M'lady” if you want me to.'

  Sophie burst out laughing and tickled her mother. At that moment, the front door opened. Emma looked at Sophie and flashed her a look. Stop laughing now, the look meant. Let's not mess this up.

  John walked forwards towards the door. The shadows were deep and it was initially difficult to see if anybody was there. As he eyes adjusted he saw that a tiny old woman was framed in the doorway. She leaned gently on a stick and she swayed slightly as if the stick was not quite enough to hold her up.

  When she moved forwards, out of the deepest shadow, John saw that her hair was pure white, pulled up in an old fashioned bun on the top of her head. She had a shawl draped around her shoulders even in the muggy April heat and her black skirt reached the floor in neat folds. She looked straight at him with the bluest eyes he had ever seen, and for an instant he felt his head swim.

  The old woman frowned at him, her head tilted to one side.

  She's looking at me as if she knows me, thought John.

  When the woman spoke, her voice was stronger than he expected to hear from someone so old. There was purpose and authority there, and a sense of confident belonging.

  'Are you all right?' she asked quickly. 'You look a little...startled.'

  'No, I'm fine. Thank you. I'm sorry, I'm John Harris. This is my wife, Emma. My daughter Sophie.'

  John turned to wave loosely at them behind him, but the woman spoke before he had the chance.

  'I know who you are, Mr Harris.'

  John turned back to face her. His lack of understanding was evident; she smiled at him. There was humour there, not just a functional politeness.

  'I made sure I knew exactly who was coming to look around my house. The estate agent told me your names. Talking of whom, where is he? I said two o'clock and it is now gone that. I do detest tardiness. So, we shall have to start without him.'

  She went to move back into the house. As she did so, they all heard the sound of tyres on gravel. John looked to see if it was the unfortunate estate agent and saw that it was. He caught Emma's eye and raised his eyebrows. She smothered a smile.

  'I think the agent's here now, Mrs...er...'

  'Simpson,' called the woman from the hallway. 'Margaret Simpson. Do keep up. I'm sure he'll find us easily enough.'

  They looked at each other in bemusement, then did as they were told.

  FIVE

  John and Emma walked into the house with Sophie between them. He felt slightly disoriented and the groggy feeling in his head had not entirely gone away. Ahead of them, the old woman was calling once more, hurrying them into the hallway.

  'What happened then?' asked Emma quickly.

  'What do you mean?'

  'Outside. You looked really odd for a second.'

  'I don't know, honestly I don't. I just looked at her and for a second, I thought...'

  'What? Did you have a flashback?'

  'No flashback. I just thought she looked as if she recognised me, and it threw me, that's all.'

  Emma stopped and looked at him with probing eyes.

  'How can she possibly recognise you?'

  'She can't. I obviously read it wrong. It was just the way she looked at me. Anyway, forget it. It was nothing. And no, I promise there was no flashback.'

  She carried on looking at him in that way she did when she was most worried about him; when the past rushed up at him.

  'Emma, don't worry. I'm fine. Let's get in there before we share the estate agent's bollocking. Look, she's collared Sophie.'

  Emma looked. Mrs Simpson had linked arms with Sophie and was walking along supported by their daughter. The two of them were deep in conversation and Sophie was laughing at something the old lady had said. Then Emma turned back to John.

  John smiled weakly, hoping he had said enough to convince Emma. He didn't feel as convinced as he wanted her to be; something had been there, in that first look between himself and the old woman. He had not imagined it. She had recognised him.

  More than that, he thought. She was expecting it to be him.

  He pushed the thought away as he and Emma hurried to catch up with Mrs Simpson and Sophie. Richard the estate agent bundled through the door behind them, red faced and sweating.

  'Mr Harris, Mrs Harris. Nice to see you again,' he panted. 'I'm really sorry I'm late. I wanted to be here to meet you but I got held up.'

  John glanced in the direction of Mrs Simpson. 'I don't think it's me you need to apologise to.'

  'Bugger. I'd better go and say sorry.'

  He went past them and had just started trying to explain himself but he did not get the chance. Mrs Simpson turned to face him with surprising agility for someone so old. In a measured voice, she proceeded to tell him exactly what she thought of people who did not arrive on time. He apologised a few more times then offered to show the family around to make up. Mrs Simpson agreed, letting him know that was what he was paid to do.

  'Make sure you explain everything I have told you about the house. Everything. I shall be in the drawing room when you've finished. There is tea and soft drinks there when you're ready.'

  They all smiled politely as she left them. For a moment nobody spoke then Richard collected himself, straightened his tie and ushered the family towards one of the doors that led off the hallway.

  'I do apologise once more. As I said on the phone, Mr Harris, she can be a bit fierce when she wants to be. But the house is amazing, so let's press on. We start in this most impressive hallway.'

  Good recovery, thought John. He nodded and looked around, taking in the space for the first time. It was immense. The floor was tiled in original black and white, the walls were covered in an array of old paintings of hunting scenes, family portraits and modern abstract oils. Huge stained glass windows stood at either side of the doorway and the light that filtered in had a beautiful quality; the reds and greens of the glass drifted together to create a feeling of strange calm.

  A Grandfather clock stood against one of the walls, between two of the glass panels. It ticked loudly, the sound an orchestral echo in the cavernous space. Ahead of them stood an enormous spiral staircase that climbed up to a mezzanine landing. The steps were marble, covered in part with old carpet and brass runners.

  'Upstairs is remarkable, Mr Harris,' said Richard as he followed John's gaze. 'Let's start downstairs and then work our way up.'

  The agent nodded and started towards one of the doors that led from the hallway. John ambled after him. There were multiple large rooms on the ground floor, all with high ceilings and original features. Beautiful marble fireplaces stood under breathtaking works of art. The floors were covered in fussy old rugs and occasional tables groaned under the weight of ornaments that could
be either car boot tat or worth a fortune. John had a good idea which.

  The kitchen was huge with a lovely central island and room for a table that would seat ten. There were double doors that looked out onto the rear grounds and the whole family stood in awe as they took in the view. There was an old wall off to the right ('the formal garden,' said the agent) and to the left, lawns swept up and off into the distance, towards the row of conifers that had blocked their view earlier. But it was the view straight ahead that rendered them speechless.

  The patio area merged into overgrown grass that drifted gently downwards towards what appeared to be a lake over a hundred metres away. In the middle of the lake stood an island of sorts, covered in tall reeds. A stream meandered through a deep cutting towards the lake. Canada geese sat around the lawn and at the lake's edge, picking contentedly at the grass. Once John's eyes had grown accustomed to the vista and he had scanned left and right a few times, he realised that the lake was actually part of the main river that flowed along the bottom of the gardens.

  'That's the Thames,' he said to nobody in particular.

  'Yes,' said the agent quietly, seemingly genuine in his appreciation of the scene. 'It's some view, isn't it?'

  John's architect brain was already stripping out the patio doors and replacing them with large expanses of glazing to maximise the sight lines; he imagined himself out there on a steamer chair, cold beer in hand, looking at the river as the sun slowly set away to his left.

  'You're not wrong there, Richard.'

  'Shall we look upstairs? The view's even better from there.'

  They followed in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Back through to the hall, their feet echoing on the marble flooring, then up the elegant sweep of the stairs to the first floor landing. An enormous picture window gave another tantalising view of the grounds before they headed along the landing to look at the rooms that headed off it.

  The décor was tired and fussy and there was plenty that could be modernised and improved but Sycamores already had a hold over them. Most of the tour passed in a blur; the five bedrooms, the bathrooms, the cellars and former kitchens in the basement, the old attic rooms where the servants would have slept in the house's heyday.

  Finally, the agent invited them out into the grounds. He opened the kitchen doors and stood to one side as they walked out.

  'I'm instructed to allow you to explore the grounds by yourself,' Richard said.

  John waited to let Emma and Sophie go out first, then he turned and thanked Richard.

  'We'll be ten minutes.'

  'Take your time. There's no hurry.'

  The warm sunshine lifted their spirits even more. Sophie skipped down towards the lake and the river beyond. John went to warn her to be careful, an instinctive reaction based on years of habit, but Emma stopped him with a touch and a smile, whispering to him to let her go.

  The geese honked crossly as they approached them. Sophie chatted away happily at them. The lake was beautiful, the river front spellbinding. There were acres of land still to be explored, but that would wait for another day.

  They strolled back up towards the house. John sensed the electricity surging through Emma as she walked next to him. He could tell that there was so much she wanted to say but she was keeping her emotions to herself for now. There was one last place to see and Emma headed straight for it.

  The old walled garden was to their left as they headed up to the house. The three of them walked through the crumbling stone arch that led into the space. There were geometric lawns and well clipped box hedges running at knee height around them. The paths were gravelled with Cotswold stone chips. Opposite the entrance arch was a higher wall with another arch built into it. The lintel was solid and sound. A further stone arch stood on the lintel. Embossed into this top arch was a carving with the date '1614'. The carving had worn away over the years but it still showed the individual scrapes of the mason's chisel from so long ago.

  In the middle of the lawns there was a circular stone plinth, about two feet across and a foot high. It was of a similar stone to the archway but much newer. A rock rested incongruously on the plinth, cemented onto the plinth. It was about the size of a basketball and was smoothed by the elements and the passage of time. Lichens dotted its surface, lending it an organic appearance, as if it were almost alive. Most striking, a fist sized hole ran through the middle of the rock so that the lawns on the other side were clearly visible through it.

  'What a strange thing,' whispered Emma to John as she stared at the stone. Sophie ran around the gravel paths twice before collapsing onto her parents with shrieks of laughter. They walked back into the kitchen in each other's arms.

  The agent led them to the drawing room where Mrs Simpson waited. She had positioned herself on a long sofa.

  'Have you enjoyed the tour of the house?' the old lady enquired. 'I hope you found it agreeable.'

  She fixed the agent with another one of her hawk-like stares. 'Did you follow my instructions, young man?'

  'I believe I did, Mrs Simpson,' replied Richard.

  'Good. Now, please all sit down. Sophie, you next to me here. Your parents over there.'

  She patted the sofa next to her. Sophie walked over and sat down without a word. Her face glowed with happiness and she looked around the room in slow circles. Tea was poured and biscuits offered. John and Emma thanked their host. Richard took his cup and retired to the hallway.

  I bet you were told to do that, thought John.

  'How old are you, my dear?' asked Mrs Simpson as she looked at the young girl sat next to her. They were of a similar size. Both were slim, both blue eyed. John noticed how the line of Sophie's nose tipped up slightly at the end, silhouetted by the gentle light that filled the room. Mrs Simpson's profile was similar, but the decades had sagged her features, replacing the smooth skin of her youth with a map of deep lines and sun damaged pigmentation. Yet when she smiled at his daughter her eyes twinkled with a genuine warmth and the years seemed to melt away. They looked for a second like two schoolgirls whispering mischievously about some special secret.

  'Nearly thirteen,' said Sophie, emphasizing the first word.

  'Are you, now? How wonderful. I don't remember being thirteen. It is all too long ago and my memory is somewhat vague on such things. Can you guess how old I am?'

  Sophie looked at her mum, caught out by the question. Emma nodded in encouragement.

  'Mrs Simpson is quite old, Sophie. I don't think she'll be too offended if you make a guess.'

  'Well spoken,' declared the old lady.

  'I don't know,' said Sophie, suddenly enjoying the attention. 'I think you must be...maybe eighty something?'

  Mrs Simpson chuckled softly.

  'A very good guess. I came into this life in 1931. I'm sure you're very good at mathematics so you can tell me instantly how old I am.'

  'Eighty.'

  'Can you imagine someone that old?' asked Mrs Simpson. 'I could not have done so when I was nearly thirteen. I'm sure my head was full of nonsense then. Pirates and mermaids and fairies, I would imagine.'

  John looked anew at her. She looked somehow both older and younger than eighty; as if there was childlike innocence and ancient wisdom together.

  'I try to look after myself, Mr Harris,' she continued as if she had read his thoughts. 'I take a walk every morning and a large brandy before bed. It seems to have been good for me, as my continued existence proves. However, my morning walk has recently turned into a shuffle to the walled garden and back. Time is catching up with me and I am not getting any younger. So, if I can't enjoy the river and the grounds then I no longer have the right to be here, rattling around in this place.'

  She eased herself into a more comfortable position.

  'Sycamores needs a family. It needs to hear the sounds of laughter and conversation again. It needs to be brought back to life. So, to business. I'm selling because I'm now far too old to live here. As much as it breaks my heart, I shall have to see out my final days in a smaller property. I have my eye on a cottage a stone's throw from here and I want to move as soon as possible. The contents will be sold or you can make me a reasonable offer for any of the big furniture that you may like. I won't have room for much.'