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    The Haunting of Knott Cottage: Shadows in the Past, #4
    The Haunting of Knott Cottage: Shadows in the Past, #4
    The Haunting of Knott Cottage: Shadows in the Past, #4
    Ebook107 pages1 hour

    The Haunting of Knott Cottage: Shadows in the Past, #4

    By Mo Raven

    ()

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    About this ebook

    A picturesque but dilapidated cottage. 

    Centuries of ownership by a family of doctors with a chequered past

    A little girl who is too scared to come to lessons in a converted stable… 

    What secrets does Knott Cottage hold? 

    Carla Sinclair, a divorcee and keen historian, jumps at the chance to sell her soulless modern home and buy Knott cottage. 

    It will be perfect, she thinks, for someone like her with a fascination for the past—and the converted stable is just right for her music studio. 

    But Carla is not in the cottage for more than a day when things start going wrong. 

    Someone—or something—seems to be averse to her delving into the past. 

    Or is it someone trying to get her attention? 

    Carla changes the locks and confides in her friend Diana, but things just continue to get worse. 

    When one of her students is too terrified to return to her lessons, Carla knows something must be done. 

    But what? How can she stop the interference in her life from a force she can't see? 

    Determined not to give in, Carla keeps digging… 

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBlue Gem Publishing
    Release dateJan 8, 2018
    ISBN9781922772039
    The Haunting of Knott Cottage: Shadows in the Past, #4

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      Book preview

      The Haunting of Knott Cottage - Mo Raven

      Prologue

      Will Saxon took a nail from his mouth and hammered it into the pine and then uttered a quickly-smothered curse when he just missed his own knuckle. Little wonder in this light, he thought sourly, casting a black look at the guttering candle. 

      The shadows, flickering on the wall like live things, were giving him the creeps.  

      His hands shaking, he used his teeth to pull the cork from a bottle of brown liquid and took a long draught to steady his nerves before putting three more nails between his lips and picking up the hammer. 

      The small night-time noises about him made him nervous; every squeak from a scuttling rat or sizzle of a moth in the candle wax made him stop and listen tensely. The thought of the carcass he was nailing inside the coffin was fixed in his brain like the images burnt into eyelids after gazing too long at the sun. 

      He couldn’t blink away the image, so maybe the cheap whiskey could wash it away.

      A thump in the alley caused his stomach to lurch, and his heart pounded like the thudding hooves that had trampled the nameless, faceless man he was sealing into the borrowed pine box. His eyes darted to the shrouded figures in the corner of the room, almost expecting them to be staring at him reproachfully for his betrayal. 

      He strained his ears for any sign of an intruder and froze.

      Someone was outside his door. 

      He caught his breath in his throat and forced his muscles into immobility as he listened to the midnight sounds of the alley. 

      Then the sharp wail of a stray cat rent the air, and he heard a coal bin skid against the stones.

      The tension in his shoulders eased. Calm yourself, Will, old boy, he muttered to himself. Unless the old Paddy has a gang of toms on the payroll, you’re alone in your work.

      He forced a grim laugh at his own foolishness then got on with the job: nailing the substitute into the family coffin.

      The poker table he frequented in the tavern on the outskirts of the town demanded far more coin than his wallet could support, and it was run by an Irishman who was more than generous with loans for gambling but ruthless in collecting his debts. Many a man had developed a limp as a result of missing a payment, and they were the lucky ones. Will wouldn’t have given a ha’porth for his chances of survival if confronted by the collectors.

      Luckily the good doctor paid top dollar for unblemished specimens, and the fever that claimed mother and daughter hadn’t disfigured their bodies. 

      Will shuddered, caught between two devils of his own making: the money he owed and the pressure to keep providing fresh cadavers. Every stray cat causing a ruckus in the night could be a thug coming to collect on his debt, or it could be the law coming to arrest him as a resurrection man. 

      He wasn’t proud of what he did, but times were rough. No one was hurt, and if he did his job well enough, no one would ever find out. 

      He glanced into the corner again as he finished nailing the stranger in the coffin meant for the mother and daughter lying there swaddled in coarse, dirty blankets. No matter how he justified his actions, he felt they were passing judgement on him. 

      Still an’ all… the old Paddy wanted his money, and delivery of the woman and child to the good doctor would unburden him for a time. 

      Will put the hammer on the workbench then turned his attention to the corpses in the corner. He picked up the child and slung her small body over his shoulder, careful to keep her securely concealed in the blanket before he slowly opened the door. The creaky hinges squealed as he peeked into the shadowy alley. 

      Nothing there. Sucking in a deep breath, he moved to the wagon, still keeping a good eye out. His waiting nag whinnied, and as he pulled back the stained canvas and dropped the girl like so much timber. 

      Will stretched his back. What was the point of delicacy with the dead anyway? Once they were in the ground, it was all about worm food and rot. At least the good doctor might do some good with what he found out after cutting her up. 

      He had himself almost convinced as he shuffled back into his parlour, but then a shiver from either the cold or his conscience rippled through his spine. The face of the lamenting father came unbidden to his mind. 

      A pox on it, he thought, grabbing the bottle and drinking until the image blurred and drifted away. Dead is dead.

      Buried or not, you won’t be going back to him, will you, my girl? he muttered to the wrapped figure lying at his feet. Makes no difference to you where your bones rest, but it makes a world of difference to me. 

      He crouched before the inert body and hoisted her over his shoulder, blew the candle out and then huffed and grunted into the empty alley and dropped mother next to daughter. Once the canvas was safely secured over his grisly cargo, Will leaned against the wagon and wiped the sweat from his grizzled face with a dirty handkerchief. 

      Another night’s work done. He locked the door of his house then climbed into his wagon. The nag turned to him and snorted. 

      Who are you to judge me? Will grumbled. You demand your oats same as the gambler demands his debt. Where do you expect that coin to come from? 

      Irrational it might be, but he was sure he sensed the animal’s condemnation. That and the weight of his own conscience made him tired.

      You’ve been on every trip with me, Bess, he said sourly. Your precious hooves aren’t any cleaner than my hands. In for a penny in for a pound. He flicked the reins and clicked his tongue. We’re in too far to quit now. Let’s get along to be back by dawn.

      As the horse’s hooves clopped along the road, he drained the last of the amber liquid and felt the burn to his belly. He half-dozed as the horse led the way to the doctor’s cottage, knowing the way. She’d pulled the wagon with its grisly shipment many a night before, and she’d do it for countless trips in the future.

      What did it matter how many times he compounded the sin? Will wiped the corner of his mouth with his filthy sleeve. How many times could one man be damned, anyway?

      ONE

      Moving Forward

      Carla Sinclair listened with pride as Mia’s nimble little fingers danced over the keys, playing Mozart’s Piano Concerto Number 11. 

      Mia had come a long way. When she first started lessons, she had spent many a frustrating session clumsily tripping over her scales. Now she was showing the promise of a real musician. Carla’s heart swelled as the piece came to an end.

      She clapped enthusiastically for the little girl on the piano bench. That was lovely, Mia. Just remember your posture and your tempo. Stay consistent, and you will be spectacular at your recital.

      The little girl beamed with pride. Thanks, Mrs Sinclair! I mean, Miss Carla! She hopped down and packed away her sheet music. Smiling, Carla walked her to the sliding glass doors and watched as she skipped down the slate path to her mother’s waiting car. Her students were still getting used to calling her Miss Carla after her divorce. She was still thinking about going back to her maiden name, but there was so much paperwork… she’d worry about it later.

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