Haunted by Love

"I suppose so," I agree reluctantly. "At least we can have breakfast together. Sleep well Ruth, love," I tell her. She bends and our cheeks brush as we kiss, not on the mouth this time but more chastely. She turns and I hear her soft, careful footsteps and she moves to the door. As the door opens I'm half blinded by the seemingly dazzling light from the landing and I reflexively shut my eyes.

"Night, night Bethany." The door gives a gentle squeak as she pulls it closed but I barely have time to lie back down before it jerks open again. "Beth, quick, come here," Ruth calls in an urgent whisper, "there's something down there!" Slightly bemused, I slip out of bed and hurry over. She nods across the wide landing towards the bannister and the open void to the hall below. I peer through the balustrades, rising on tiptoes to see down into the dim-lit hall where a shadowy form stands. I watch in dread as it turns and, even with the soft-focus blurriness of a ghost, the cold, cruel-featured face of Sir Lovell instantly recognisable. My moan of fear releases the breath I'd been holding.

"Arabella!" Sir Lovell shouts and I am startled to hear a ghostly voice speak actual words; Lady Blyth's ghost had been virtually silent. This voice, though it seems real at first, has the same strange acoustic of the crying child, as if coming from the hall and yet also from beside and behind me as well. However, where the crying stirred the heart with pity at the suffering it embodied, his voice chills the soul with its implacable malice.

I tremble as I feel the same vicious hatred as on Bodmin Moor and reach out to Ruth for support. "Arabella, come here you mealy-mouthed cunt!" he shouts and there is a movement to the left when a dark-clad, dark haired female form emerges from the corridor that leads to Ruth's room. For a moment I think one of the other guests has been disturbed by the noise but the woman has the same indistinctness as the Lady: she too is a ghost. She moves to the head of the stairs and descends two steps before looking down into the hall. "Yes, Sir Lovell?" she asks. Her voice is soft but I think I can hear the barely-suppressed fear she is trying to control.

"Why are you still here, bitch?" His hate-filled voice cuts through me. "I ordered you and your enfeebling, book-learned morality gone from here yesterday. My son has no need of a woman who's good only for teaching him how to be a simpering milksop. He's off to school soon and in the meantime, I mean to teach him what it is to be a man. Now, get out before I take my horsewhip to you!"

Suddenly coldness engulfs me and my sight seems to dim and grow misty; the icy chill is so intense it makes me gasp. Worse than the chill is the sickening sense of desperate fear and sadness that borders on despair. Ruth turns to me at the sound, a look of horror appearing on her face as she steps abruptly away. Blinking furiously I try to clear my vision and, as clarity returns, I see Lady Blyth's ghost materialise in front of me to head across the landing towards the stairs. The sense of hopelessness lifts as I remind myself that these are simply echoes of past events and not real in the here and now.

"No, Lovell, please," she begs and I hear her voice for the first time. "Until William must go, please, let her stay for his sake and mine." I take nervous steps forward, following Lady Blyth, both wanting and not wanting to see again into the hall below. Sir Lovell looks up, a momentary expression of surprise on his cruel face as he looks towards Lady Blyth and me, stood just behind her.

"Silence, woman, I shall not be gainsaid in this. She will be gone inside the hour or she shall know my displeasure, as shall you."

The dark clothed woman, Arabella, returns dejectedly up the stairs even as Lady Blyth hurries to her. The two women cling together and I see Arabella is slightly taller and thinner that Lady Blyth.

"Those poor women." Ruth whispers but in the silence of the sleeping hotel, her voice seems loud. The two women's heads towards us, a look of surprise and fear readable in their wide eyes and open mouths, and I feel my heart start to race again: what new and horrible thing will Ruth and I see this time? We draw close, our hands instinctively clasping in mutual support as the two ghostly women stand stock-still, staring directly towards us. I turn my head and glance backwards but whatever these apparitions can see is invisible to me. As I turn back towards them, I notice Ruth did the same thing but also that the two spectres are now starting to fade, exactly the way the ghost in my room did, as the ghost of Arabella pulls away hurriedly, grasping the Lady's hand to tug her back down the corridor from which she emerged.

"I don't give a fuck what Alison bloody Curnow thinks, we're not going to spend the rest of tonight each on our own!" I tell Ruth quietly but firmly.

"I wish I could argue but that... demonic man and seeing the ghost of the Lady walk through you... god, that was horrible."

"She, it... walked through me?" I ask, aghast. "Something certainly felt horrible, but I didn't realize. Come on, I just want to hide under the covers with you." I lead the way back into my room, to the faint, residual heat of the bed into which we both climb. Gradually the chill leaves us and the reassuring solidity of Ruth is comforting as I spoon against her back with my arm resting around her waist. I feel tired and wrung out: I need sleep but for a long while it eludes me. I hear Ruth's breathing settle into the soft, steady rhythm of slumber. Please, no more haunting tonight. I think of Ebenezer Scrooge begging the ghost of Jacob Marley that the three spirits might visit all at once so that he can then sleep. If our hauntings have a purpose, I cannot fathom it, though they seem to have brought Ruth and I close, which is one good thing. I snuggle a little closer to her, take a slow, deep breath and try to relax.

Chapter 8: Research and Discoveries

I do sleep, eventually, exhaustion getting the better of me in the end. I open my eyes blearily to find them looking into the beautiful golden-brown of Ruth's. "Morning," she says. "You look wrung out," she adds.

"You look annoyingly well rested," I tell her, which she does, especially considering the night we've just had. I stretch and yawn and give a heartfelt groan. "This place is going to kill me; I don't know if can take many broken nights like last night."

"Oh, please don't say that, Beth."

"It's alright for you: you'll be safe at home and sleep well tonight," I point out as I sit up. "Excuse me, I really need the loo."

"I'd better sneak back to my room and mess up the bed to preserve your reputation," she says with a small smile and also rising.

"The way I feel now, I couldn't care less. Anyway, when we tell Alison about what we've seen, I doubt she'll give a shit who slept where!"

"True," she acknowledges with a smile. "However, unless you want to share a shower, it's probably better if I head back." I look at her, not sure if she's joking or not and her face is inscrutable, offering no clue.

"And your clothes are there too," I point out. She nods and leaves the room but only after a quick check to be sure the landing is empty.

It's ridiculous, but almost as soon as the door closes I start missing her. I use the toilet then strip and start to shower, hoping that the hot water will revive me and wash away the heavy tiredness. I attempt, semi-successfully, to lather myself down using the hobbit-sized bar of hotel soap and my mind drifts back to Ruth's question just before she left. Did she think I would want to share a shower with her? I guess she wouldn't have said it if she didn't want us to shower together, or at least not mind the idea. It would be nice to have someone to soap your back. "Bethany Cooper, stop kidding yourself," I say out loud, "it wasn't backs, yours or hers, that you were thinking of!" Do I feel better for admitting that? Not much, no because I'm sure that I shouldn't find the thought being naked with my new friend quite so... interesting.

While my conscious mind has been occupied with its debate, my subconscious seems to have made its own decision as a tingle of pleasure runs through me from my nipples that I have begun rubbing and pulling gently. I immediately stop: I shouldn't be doing this while thinking about Ruth... but then, what's the harm, really? What would it feel like to be naked with her? I love the feel of her when we hug, not just her comforting presence in the scary darkness but the shape and softness and warmth of her as our bodies conform, one against the other. What would her wet skin feel like against mine, smooth and slippery with soap?

Suddenly I recall her kissing me in the night; was that real or did I dream it? I recall how good it felt, maybe too good to have been real. Whatever, real or not, the kiss raises questions about my feelings for Ruth... though fewer perhaps than the way in which the fingers of my right hand have found their way between my legs to part my outer lips and reveal that I've become suddenly very wet within.

There is little self-control left in me, not as the urge to climax takes possession. I squat slightly, opening my legs to allow me to bury two fingers deep inside me as my thumb seeks my clit, pressing and rubbing. Mad thoughts run through my mind: the thought of Ruth doing this to herself, or whether Lady Blyth ever did this in here, in her bedroom, or did she have a maid pleasure her? What would happen if Ruth walked in on me now? Would she still want to join me in the shower, washing my back as my plunging fingers bring me to a gasping, shuddering orgasm..? My imaginings and reality collide and I'm forced to grab the side of the bath as the wonderful climactic spasms wrack my body with pleasure. God, it feels so good.

The trembling thrills pass and I straighten up. Tendrils of guilt and anxiety worm their way into my brain for thinking of Ruth as I masturbated. Shit, she was pretty definitely the trigger for my starting to finger myself! I wash my hair slowly, trying to get my thoughts in order. As I turn off the shower and step from the bath to begin towelling myself dry I am left with the uncomfortable feeling that, however awkward I feel about it, I cannot say it won't happen again...

I finish drying and hang the towel over the rail as I head back into the room to dress, combing my still very damp, tangle-prone hair through with my fingers. I spin round in alarm at the sound of the door opening behind me, about to yell at the intruder to get out but the shout dies on my lips as I see it is Ruth. Nevertheless, my shyness and embarrassment at being nude cut in, amplified by the fear that what I've just been doing in the shower will somehow be obvious to her, and I cannot help instinctively contorting myself to minimise what she can see.

"Sorry Bethany I thought you'd be nearly ready," she says, her voice full of concern. "I'll come back in a few minutes."

"No... no, you can stay," I tell her as I try to stop acting like a gawky teenager in a changing room. She slips through the door, closing it behind her. It occurs to me that I'm, for a second time, about to get dressed in front of her, this time from a state of complete nudity. This thought does nothing to ease my blushing.

"Thanks, Beth; I really didn't mean to embarrass you... although, you know you have nothing to be ashamed of, don't you?" I'm not convinced, though it's sweet of her to say it: I am fully aware of the size of my hips and the effect that my sedentary job and lack of self-discipline in respect of gym going have on my figure and that I'm just on the wrong side of 'softly rounded'.

I dress as quickly as I can without looking like I'm totally ashamed of my body. As I bend to pull up my knickers I surreptitiously glance towards Ruth and I'm astonished to see she's watching me, a gentle, contented smile on her face that's flattering but makes me wonder again about her suggestion of showering together.

Once I'm dressed we go down to breakfast, which Ruth concedes is pretty good. "Though not," she adds, "good enough to be worth enduring a night like last night!" a sentiment with which I wholeheartedly agree. Only Ken seems to be around this morning so we're spared making any decision on whether to mention our ghostly encounters to Alison.

After breakfast I drive Ruth home, a route I'm now getting to know. "Are you sure you don't want to spend the day here?" she asks for the third time.

"Ruth, much as I might like to, I have work to do and a deadline to meet so I have to visit Bodmin Library and get on with some serious research. You could always come and help me," I suggest.

"Unfortunately I've Bob the Builder and his merry men to deal with. Actually, it's Tom the builder and he's only got one man, but I really want hot water and electricity by the end of this week. I know, come over for dinner tonight. You know your way now, so as long as Gumdrop here behaves there'll be no problem." Of course, I'm hugely tempted to accept her invitation but I reluctantly decline.

"I really need to get on with this research and visiting you, while I'd love being with you," I can't help feeling a little bashful as I tell her this, "I'm not sure it'd make for an early night. The library is closed on Wednesdays so could we say Tuesday night instead?"

"Well, I can't say I'm not disappointed that sitting in some manky hotel tonight is preferable to seeing me... I'm teasing," she smiles at the look on my face. "Of course you need to get your work done but you absolutely must come over on Tuesday." Not seeing her for a day and a half is a surprisingly daunting prospect, especially being alone in the hotel tonight, but thinking of coming back on Tuesday is a comfort and lifts my spirit as I turn around and drive away.

The drive to Bodmin and the library there is uneventful, though I do find myself viewing the Moor, the hills and hollows that I found so terrifying that first night, a little more favourably; Ruth walks here fearlessly so it cannot be all bad.

Not surprisingly, the library is quiet on a Monday morning and once inside I ask for the reference library. I start in the local history section to tackle the first challenge: to prove that the events of the legend have some basis in truth and, if so, when they happened. The problem is that I have no dates beyond 'mid-nineteenth century' as my starting point and there are a surprising number of books in this section.

I scan along the titles: 'Bodmin: A Social History', 'Farming on Bodmin Moor', 'Bodmin Moor, A brief history of habitation', 'Moonrakers: Pirates and Smugglers in Cornwall'. None of those sound promising, though the 'Moonrakers' one might be useful as some background and help with Rick's opening, scene setting monologue. 'Bodmin Gaol and Punishment in the 18th and 19th Centuries', 'Policing in Cornwall -- A History', now that might be relevant if I need to check whether they even had police men back then so I pull that one out too. 'Bodmin Castle', nope, 'Victorian Bodmin', 'Bodmin between the World Wars'. Ah, what's this? 'The Ghosts of Bodmin Moor'. That sounds more like it. I search on and in the end have eight books to begin my research.

As promising as its title sounds, 'The Ghosts of Bodmin Moor' is a complete let down; far from being about the supernatural, the 'ghosts' in the book are the various abandoned farms and buildings that dot the moor. The next two books are more accurate in their titles but Purdew Hall is only mentioned in one and then only fleetingly, with no useful information. Still, it at least suggests others have heard of the legend.

Several hours have passed and I'm getting desperate for something to eat and, more importantly, coffee as the broken sleep last night is taking its toll. I decide to try one more book and then take a break. 'Tales of Bodmin Moor' is its unpromising title; another tedious social history of how hard life was on the Moor I suspect. It's not overly long but, like most of the books so far, there is no index so I'll have to browse through it, page by page.

Almost immediately I change my mind about this book for it is exactly the sort of work I need: a collection of ghost stories, one for each chapter. I flick through the pages, checking the chapter titles. Please let there be something... yes! Chapter 11: The Mysteries of Purdew Hall.

Purdew Hall and its estate (though the estate is now almost gone) stands in the southern half of the Moor on an area of higher ground. At the time of this tale, it had been the home of the noble Blyth family for over two hundred years, though the Hall itself was extensively rebuilt by Sir Isaac Blyth in the 1830s and 40s. The tale, however, does not concern Sir Isaac but rather his son, Lovell.

Lovell inherited the title and his estate not with the death of his father but that of his older brother, who died unmarried and without an heir just eighteen months after their father died. Lovell, as a junior son of a knight, had been making his own way in the world as an officer in the navy, rising to the rank of Lieutenant. Even within the navy, an institution with a reputation for harshness and brutality, Lovell seems to have been remarkable in his viciousness in imposing discipline. With the death of his brother in the early 1850s, his duty was, whether he liked it or not, to return home and become Sir Lovell.

Of course, simply being Sir Lovell was not all that was required of him, as his aged mother, the old Lady Blyth, made clear: he must do what his brother had not and marry so that, in time, an heir might be produced. To this end, she had already enquired among her connexions for a suitable, eligible young lady and had lit upon one Rosalind Redmayne who was, reputedly, as charming and beautiful a bride as any man could wish for.

I pause for a moment in my reading; there is something about the name Redmayne that seems familiar. I struggle for a minute and then remember there's an actor, Eddie Redmayne. That must be it.

The couple were duly married and, in time, Rosalind bore a child, a son whom they christened William Isaac. There were suggestions that the marriage was not entirely happy. Lovell's temper ill-suited him to a life ashore, much less to the role of faithful husband and loving father. Rumours of his violence and regular visits to the stews and brothels of Plymouth circulated, though never in his hearing for fear of a thrashing or worse. One can only imagine how hard marriage to this man must have been for Rosalind and it seems that her love and care was focussed wholly on her son as he grew.

Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, young William died. The cause was given as 'Brain Fever', a disease that would now be called Meningitis, and this may have been so. However, there was speculation: perhaps he had died after a beating administered by his father, or that his mother had poisoned him rather than have him sent away to become a man like his father, or even that the child had committed suicide.

Whatever the truth, stranger events were to follow...

The book goes on to relate the disappearances of Sir and Lady Blyth in more or less the same way as Alison told it to Mum, the only differences being that Lady Blyth and her husband had some kind of argument or fight the evening before she fled and that the weather had been '...appalling on that autumn night...'. I also learn, with some surprise, that old Lady Blyth was still alive at this point, though she died a few months later, possibly due to the stress and upset of all that happened, I shouldn't wonder.