Halton Cray (Shadows of the World Book 1) Read Free Page A

‘If there is a ghost in it,
he probably wants to be left alone.’
    ‘Good philosophy.’
    We strolled past the grand organ that took up most
of the back wall. Although I hadn’t stood here in maybe two or three years, it
never failed to thrill me, as if I was seeing it for the first time.
    ‘I’d better get round there,’ she said, taking a deep
breath.
    The shop was farther down the entrance hall, which
in its heyday was a luxurious parlour.
    ‘Where shall I meet you when I’m done?’ she asked
nervously.
    ‘Just stick to this part of the house. I’ll be
wandering about. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Good luck!’
    ‘Eek! See you soon!’
    I watched her down the hallway where she disappeared
into the gift shop. The next corridor I turned down ran alongside the main courtyard,
encompassing it in a full square. The wind was howling up the brickwork wildly
and rattling at the windows like a trapped animal. I stared through the glass,
my eyes tracing up the looming White Tower. An open window near the top allowed
a red curtain to blow in and out. In another corridor across the courtyard, I
saw in my peripheral vision an outer door swing suddenly open, as if someone
had slammed into it. It startled me. I couldn’t see anybody there and for a moment
I thought it must be the strong wind, though it seemed too deliberate. I
scanned that corridor looking for the door-slammer. Nobody appeared. I was well
acquainted with the ghost stories of the Cray.
    I mounted the great oak staircase to the first
floor and headed for the North West Wing, into what was once the main bedchamber.
It sat directly above the gift shop and held grandly framed prints of famous
portraits, such as Holbein’s Henry VIII and Gheeraerts’s Elizabeth I.
    Passing the odd visitor, I walked to a balcony at
the far end. This overlooked the north courtyard and front gates. It reminded
me of a time when my friends and I had set out to capture a glimpse of the
Cray’s most notorious visitor: Sir Halton’s ghost. The last Cray family only
inherited the estate after the disownment of an elder brother named Halton. The
name was traditionally given to every first son in the male line. After his
father cast him off, Halton returned years later – some say for revenge – but died
en route in the mid-nineteenth century. People often report seeing his ghost
finishing that journey; galloping down Bourne Hill during the witching hour before
passing through the closed iron gates and vanishing altogether. Allegedly, if
anyone encountered his apparition, it was a bad omen for those living at the
Cray. Locals rumoured that the last members of the family saw his ghost themselves
before dying off within a few years of one another. The property was abandoned
for some time after that.
    No matter what we’d heard as kids, we planned to
see the ghost for ourselves. It’s not as if we weren’t scared; excitement and
curiosity just took over. None of us were more than fourteen. Stacey had refused
to come, but the rest of us snuck out and met at the village library before
stealing to the Cray after dark. We got on the grounds via a gap in the railing,
taking care not to alert rangers who patrol the land. Wanting a good view of
the rider, we ascended the balcony where I now stood some seven years on. We
faced north with the expanse of Bourne Hill’s fields inclining before us,
deeply shaded by numerous oak and chestnut trees. Those nearer the crest all
grew wind-shaped, their trunks aslant and their branches like harrowing arms,
reaching out sideways and stretching upwards for the sun’s warmth, a victory
for that constant rising wind. We scared one another stupid each time we
fancied seeing movement in the fields–
    ‘Earth to Alex!’ Stacey’s depleted voice broke me
from my daydream. My eyes instinctively followed the sound. ‘What planet were
you on?’
    ‘Sorry, Stace. I was miles away. How did it go?’
    ‘Well…’ She pulled a face. I knew the look.