The Haunting of Harriet Read Free

turned slowly in the lock. A young, slim woman crossed the threshold followed by what at first she thought was a rat. The rat sniffed at her and she recognized it as one of those funny German sausage dogs. She patted it on the head and listened to her house. It approved of these visitors and so did she. She opened her arms and the young woman accepted the embrace with a natural familiarity and courtesy of manner that both house and mistress found endearing.
    “Welcome to Beckmans,” Harriet said.
    “Thank you.” The reply came with mirrored courtesy and warmth. The young woman spoke softly with a pleasant, cultured accent. Harriet studied her at some length, liked what she saw and so together they set off, the one to guide and the other to explore yet both with a mutual feeling of belonging. Harriet felt no intrusion had taken place. She welcomed this person into her house and took delight in showing her around. Together they covered every inch of the house, with Harriet chatting away as she used to when she was a child, perfectly relaxed and happy to be sharing her love of Beckmans with another after all these years.
    She had lost count of how many “viewers” there had been over the years. Not one of them had proved worthy of admittance, let alone a welcome. They had all been sent packing in no uncertain terms. Many years of practice at making people feel uneasy had paid off; she was an expert at it now and considered it a rather amusing pastime. This young lady was different. She fitted the bill nicely. There was a familiarity and a similarity that pleased them both. Harriet was delighted to show Liz her house. But she would show it through her own bright amber eyes, and only the parts that were filled with light, laughter and music. Not the other; not yet. Beckmans deserved nothing less than to be displayed in all its glory.
    Although the entrance hall was shabby and smelt of decay, Liz felt warm arms envelope her. A comfortable feeling of coming home embraced her as she took her first tentative steps onto barely recognizable black-and-white marble floor tiles. Beckmans was making her welcome, which deserved a polite acknowledgement. Saying a courteous “Thank you” she opened the inner door, stopped in her tracks and let her mouth fall open. She was standing on years of dust and debris but beneath this demeaning layer of grime she could determine solid parquet flooring, herring-boned blocks of beech covering a magnificent circular hall that could swallow the entire first floor of their present house. The outside of the house belied these internal dimensions. The sense of space the architect had created was phenomenal. It was like entering the Tardis. Liz stood rooted to the spot but the house was drawing her in, oblivious to its present dilapidated state.
    “Come in,” a voice said. “See Beckmans in all its glory.”

    An explosion of lights shocked the millennium sky. For a split second Liz was lost, suspended between the past and the present. Her fingers stroked the rough wooden rail that ran the length of the little bridge, while her mind adjusted to the time change. A breeze moved her hair and she saw her own face gazing back at her beside the ruins of the old boathouse, both mirrored in the night-dark water. The second volley dashed her thoughts as the reflected fireworks sent illuminated litter scattering over the unbroken surface. In that moment Liz saw the faces of her friends next to her own, childlike, smiling out from the water. She looked up and caught their true faces pointing upwards as they waited in anticipation for the next burst, eclipsing the stars with their brilliance before they too burnt out and faded to a familiar rosy glow. The air was full of the acrid smell of saltpetre, and the rosy pink took her back to that unforgettable day when she first fell under Beckmans’ spell. It was the same colour as the morning light that flooded through the rose window. She easily willed herself back