Haunted Fields Read Free

turned the wheel to the right, thinking, What harm can it do?
    A dark figure crunched through the gravel, heading straight for him.
    The hut had been empty. According to a sign, the left prong of the fork led to the farmyard – whilst the right, watched over by a CCTV camera, was forbidden to those without an appointment. He had chosen on impulse; chosen recklessly. A woman stood and towered over him as he climbed out of the Corsa. By the way she was dressed, Freddie thought her more likely to be a lawyer than a farmer.
    â€˜Can I help you?’ asked the lady. ‘This is the manor, not the farm office.’
    â€˜I’m after Ridge Farm,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Would you be able to point me in the right direction?’
    â€˜I can do better than that, Mister–?’
    â€˜Freddie, Freddie Forster.’
    He offered the lady his hand. She took it, her grip firmer than he’d anticipated.
    â€˜I’ll tell you what, Mr Forster. Why don’t you come on in and I’ll jot those directions down for you?’
    â€˜Great, thanks!’ he said, his feet sinking into the gravel as he followed her. He looked past an ornate water feature towards the vast, noble building, his gaze drawn to a top-floor window. A droplet of water splashed against his face, cooling his cheek as it slid away.
    And that’s when he saw it – the gaunt, miserable face of a man older than time itself. The face, eyes vacant, looked close to death. Shivering, he watched the face until he could see it no more. People – living, breathing people – just don’t look like that! he thought.
    â€˜Such a sad face,’ he said, without meaning to.
    â€˜I’m sorry, Mr Forster?’
    â€˜Oh, I, err – nice house.’
    Her eyes bore into him.
    Leaning forward, he lifted the cup to his lips. Tea had never really been a favourite of his – mostly due to Rhona preferring coffee, though partly because anything that didn’t go well with vodka tended to rank low on his thirst-quencher top ten. But this stuff, clearly expensive, was something else. He eased himself into the squashy armchair, his mouth creasing into a smile.
    â€˜The manor has been in my family for seven generations,’ said the lady, sitting in the companion armchair directly opposite him. She brushed several, fallen strands of her shoulder-length black hair back behind her ear. Her eyes, dark and unyielding, seemed to pierce him every time he looked up from his tea.
    â€˜So, Ursula,’ he said, recalling the large portraits of serious-faced men out in the high-ceilinged entrance hall. ‘Is Hawkins your married name?’
    â€˜No!’ she said. ‘I’m not married. And I’m not related to the five members of the Davidson clan you saw mounted on the lobby walls either. Not by blood, that is. John Davidson is my step-father. He has no one else.’
    Freddie surveyed his surroundings. Ursula’s study was as spacious as the lobby, with a high ceiling, walls lined with shelves adorned with books, ornaments, and potted plants. Two large windows looked out over the entrance, offering breathtaking views of the sloping lawns, of a small wood, and of fields. Beyond the estate, the hillside fell away and the land levelled out, exposing yet more fields, stretching on and on.
    â€˜How do you know Elizabeth and Gregory?’ Ursula asked.
    â€˜I don’t, really,’ he said, blowing at the tea. ‘Elizabeth’s an old friend of my step-mums’. You might have known her, my step-mum. She used to live in the Ravenby area.’
    â€˜I’m good with names,’ said Ursula, taking a sip from her own cup.
    â€˜She’s called Rhona, Rhona Forster,’ he said. ‘But back then she’d have been a McCall. Her dad was a sheep farmer.’
    Ursula spluttered.
    â€˜Are you ok?’ he asked.
    â€˜Tea… wrong hole…’
    â€˜Do you want a glass of water or