The Haunting at Hawke's Moor Read Free Page B

her hands were accustomed to more delicate treatment and she
wondered how long it would take them to recover. Getting up for a
moment, she walked out of her bedroom and into the hall. Hunger bit
into her stomach. They hadn't eaten since morning. It was probably
time for some of the bread Lisle had baked. She'd added too much
salt, but it was still edible, provided one was hungry.
    Anne walked downstairs and kept going
into the kitchen which Lisle had done her best to clean. There were
still shelves covered in dust, but the floor, the fireplace and the
preparation tables had been scrubbed. The fireplace smoked quite a
bit, but there was nothing they could do about that for
now.
    Grabbing some bread, she returned to
the main parlor. Faded silk hang on the walls, the lightest pink,
but she guessed they had once been red. A tapestry hung on one
wall, depicting a medieval battle scene. She didn't know the
history of it, or even if it had belonged to her family. It could
have come with the house, but she'd never heard of this house
mentioned, or knew of the people who'd built it or lived here. Her
great aunt, as far as she knew, hadn't lived here, but someone had.
Someone with their family's portraits on the walls.
    Her steps echoed across the room,
particularly as they had removed the carpets with great effort,
leaving large geometric shapes in the dust on the floor. The
staircase was made of very dark wood and ornately carved. Again, it
looked medieval, perhaps even older than the house, which appeared
to be late Tudor in origin, with sectioned windows and gabled
roofs. Lead plate windows distorted the view outside of the dark
and gray, unending moors. The sun was a fuzzy orb on the horizon,
barely seen through the clouds.
    Feeling a moment of despondency, she sat
down on the musty sofa, acknowledging that she might be cleaning
for the rest of her life. The kitchen garden would also have to be
started soon. They wouldn't stay healthy for long if all they ate
was bread.
    On the fourth day, the weather cleared
and Anne decided it was time to seek out the farm she had been told
about, the one belong to the Turners. Donning her cloak, she set
out, the blustery wind forcing her to wrap it tightly around her,
the wind making wearing a hat impossible. The umbrella would be
useless as well, so if it started raining, she would have to get
soaked.
    The ground was uneven and there was no
path to follow, which made traversing the moors difficult. She felt
tiny, like an ant, in the middle of this vast expanse of land and
sky. The wind howled across the land and after a while, she could
see more cultivated land on the horizon, and white dots that must
be sheep. That had to be the Turners, she decided and kept going. A
moment of fear assaulted her, wondering if she would make it back
before dark. The sun set so early in these parts. Getting lost on
these moors would be horrible, but then hopefully any light in the
windows of Hawke's Manor would guide her home. She hoped
so.
    As she walked, she wondered if someone
by the name of Hawke had built the house. At some point a Hawke—and
she could safely assume it was a man—had lived there, and the house
had been named after him.
    The walk became easier as she reached the
Turner's pasture land. At least they had sheep, which meant there
was perhaps lamb she could purchase.
    In the distance, she could see the
Turner's farm was modest, a cluster of squat stone buildings, grass
growing on the roofs and the yard surrounded by gates. Stone fences
ran from the farm across the land, sectioning pastures. A cow
grazed nearby, but she didn't see anyone around.
    As she got closer, a man appeared
inside the fenced section, wearing the same gray wool as everyone
else she’d met, a white linen shirt and a piece of cloth tied
around his thick neck. He had short, brown hair and a flat face. It
took him a moment to realize someone was approaching, when he
turned and leaned on the fence, waiting patiently as she