Hauntings of Claverton Castle, Chapter 19
My harrowing supernatural gothic novel continues—and my travels are over.
A few days ago, I returned from my road trip from Oregon to St. Louis, Missouri. I probably mentioned this trip was because a friend has Parkinson’s Disease (or atypical Parkinson’s) and needed to rehome her cat. So… I’ve added a new cat to my clowder.
I read a chapter in The Cat Whisperer by Mieshelle Nagalschneider on how to properly introduce a new cat to your cats, and I watched a Jackson Galaxy video on the topic via YouTube. Despite my initially following the instructions—closing Momo in the library—my cats noticed him rather quickly. Two of them are fine with him—I just have one cat who needs to at least tolerate him instead of hissing, howling, or screaming. Momo the new cat is mostly living in the library for now and sometimes exploring other parts of the house. He’s twelve years old and black and white—a cow cat. He’s sweet and mellow and loves to have his head petted.
Chapter 1:
Chapter 18:
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Hauntings of Claverton Castle, Chapter 19
During breakfast, Samantha pictured the bed curtains and considered broaching the topic. Every evening so far, she had fallen asleep with the curtains open because it was summer. Yet every morning, she awoke to find the curtains closed. That morning, she’d hastily thrown off the covers and wiped her damp brow with her palm.
At the breakfast table, Samantha noticed the stack of genealogy books next to Mr. Prendregast’s cup of tea and small plate topped with ginger cake. He was polite enough to refrain from pouring over the books whilst others occupied the table. She decided against mentioning the ghost and the curtains in his presence. Not for the first time, she wondered if the family did not wish her to know about her bedroom’s previous tenant.
Samantha swallowed the last of a strawberry tart. “Do excuse me for asking this, Mr. Prendregast. I know you are extremely interested in the genealogy of your own family....”
“Yes, and rightly so. I can trace the family tree all the way back to the eleventh century.”
Reginald rolled his eyes. “She knows that, Father.” Whilst his father glared and sputtered at him, Reginald turned to Samantha. “He can possibly trace it further back, with some conjecture.”
“That’s very impressive.” Samantha turned back to Mr. Prendregast. “No doubt you are equally knowledgeable about your family’s history.” She stabbed a slice of roast potato with her fork.
Mr. Prendregast frowned and peered at her with narrowed eyes under his bushy gray brows. “Well…. yes, I suppose so. I mean, of course that is true!”
Harriet sipped from her porcelain cup. “Father loves the study of history. I wish I were half as clever.”
“Humph.” Her father swiveled his glare toward her. “You aren’t clever in the least, girl. All the more reason to marry you off as soon as possible. I hope you do nothing foolish—more foolish than you’ve already done.”
Samantha froze and stared at Mr. Prendregast. She forgot what she wished to ask him.
Reginald said, “That is hardly just, Father. Harriet is frightfully clever at… embroidery. Needlework. It requires quite a bit of creativity, you know. Well, I suppose you wouldn’t know, Father.” He turned to Samantha. “I’m sure you understand this.”
Samantha sat back and smiled. “Yes, indeed, you are correct. Harriet is a fine seamstress and stitcher.”
“Am I?” Harriet stared at her friend unblinkingly. “La, thank you, but I must say there’s nothing clever about that.”
“Nonsense,” Samantha said. “You also know a great deal about botany.”
Reginald twirled his fob-decorated chain. “But what, Miss Ponsonby, did you intend to ask our father?”
Samantha cleared her throat. “Oh, yes.” She spoke too quickly and did not look directly at her host. “Pray forgive me for asking, Mr. Prendregast, but… I wonder if you had a sister who died when she was eight years old.”
“What!” Mr. Prendregast shouted.
Samantha jumped. As the one harsh word emanated from his mouth, Samantha heard a clatter of pottery. He’d knocked over an empty plate. Harriet’s and Reginald’s widened eyes dashed back and forth between Samantha and Mr. Prendregast.
“That is all in the past,” Mr. Prendregast growled.
She felt bold now that she’d out with it and had stirred him up. She realized he was frightened. This, combined with a peculiar sense she might be dreaming, enabled her to make eye contact despite his hostility and indignation.
Mr. Prendregast glared. “My sister Gertrude—my sister needn’t be brought up all these years later. What’s done is done!” He threw down his napkin, and as he pushed his chair back, its legs screeched against the hardwood floor. He rose from the table. Everyone remained silent as he stalked toward the door, opened it, exited, and slammed the door shut behind him.
Reginald stared at the door. “Well, that’s that.”
“Gertrude?” Harriet said. “We had an Aunt Gertrude? This is the first I’ve heard of her.”
“Same here.” Reginald faced Samantha. “She died at the age of eight? How did you discover this?”
“Her ghost told me,” Samantha said. “Oh, I fear that sounds peculiar.”
“Not in the least.” Reginald shrugged. He toyed with his fobs. “Well… perhaps a bit.”
Harriet said, “I didn’t think you were that strong of a Sensitive. Have the ghosts been talking to you for long?”
“No, the first time was last night, on my way to bed.” Samantha sipped hot chocolate. “One of the ghosts spoke to me—a little girl, eight years old. She told me… about her Uncle Jonathan.”
Harriet stared at Samantha. “Jonathan? Why, we did have a Great-Uncle Jonathan. I remember meeting him when I was a child. I say, did our father not mention him a bit that evening when he was going on and on about our family history? His favorite topic.”
Reginald frowned thoughtfully. “Not by name.”
“Truly?” Samantha squeezed the arms of her chair. “He was allowed to meet you? He was in this house?”
“Well, maybe meet isn’t exactly the word.” Harriet fluttered her hands about. “I saw him from across the great hall, in a roomful of relatives. He didn’t speak to me.”
“He didn’t speak to me, either,” Reginald said. “Wasn’t he the portly fellow with the beady black eyes and the unpleasant smirk?”
Harriet resumed fluttering her hands about before hiding them below the table. “Yes, well, that’s how I remember him.”
Samantha took a deep breath. She cast her eyes upon Harriet and then upon Reginald. She explained what the little girl specter had said the previous night. They stared at her with their mouths hanging open.
“How can this be?” Harriet’s cheeks reddened.
Reginald asked, “Why not? You don’t believe the girl’s own ghost?” Samantha glanced up toward the ceiling. As she’d discerned without looking, the customary swirl of inchoate apparitions occupied the breakfast room. “It sounds to me like our not-so-great uncle Jonathan was so abusive that he was responsible for Aunt Gertrude’s death.”
Harriet frowned at her brother and threw her napkin down. “It could have been a demon pretending to be a ghost!” She turned to Samantha and peered at her without a smile. “Samantha dear, you can’t know for certain. Don’t you think it possible this was a deceptive demon?”
Samantha watched a portion of the misty ghosts descend toward the floor and hover a foot above the hardwood, not far from the table. As she had the previous night, the ghost girl materialized partially, forming a misty and vaguely human shape. Samantha sat staring at the apparition.
Reginald gulped from his wine glass. “I think it highly likely that, on the contrary, our aunt’s ghost spoke for herself. She was drawn to Samantha, owing to her powers.”
“I do attract ghosts here.” Samantha still eyed the specter.
Following the direction of Samantha’s gaze, Reginald shifted toward the small apparition’s general direction before turning back to her.
Samantha watched the specter, whose energy was making her nervous. It was an unhappy energy, perhaps because of Harriet’s doubt. “I do not believe I have ever attracted demons. I admit that was the first conversation I’ve ever experienced with a ghost.”
Reginald peered at her through his quizzing glass; she hoped he didn’t notice the spot on her chin. “Well, you are friends with the Montmorencys.”
“What has that to do with anything?” Harriet asked.
“Quite a lot, silly.” Reginald sat back. “We can invite them to be our houseguests. They can confirm what Samantha has said and perhaps enlighten us with more information about our spotless family’s history.”
“Oh!” Harriet tossed down her napkin and glared at Reginald. Samantha gulped, convinced Harriet would like to believe the family truly was spotless.
Samantha watched the ghost girl drift sideways. The specter’s gaze focused on Reginald; perhaps she’d taken a liking to him. “Yes, I agree, Reginald. That is an excellent idea.”
“Samantha, why do you keep looking away from us?” Harriet tapped the tabletop with one index finger.
Samantha nodded once toward the specter. “The girl’s ghost.”
“She’s watching us?” Harriet whispered. “In daylight?”
“Yes,” Samantha replied.
“Oh, dear.” Reginald tucked away his quizzing glass. “Let’s not provoke her, shall we? More reason to have the Montmorencys call.”
“That is quite sensible,” Samantha said. “Yes, they must come, and not merely owing to how delighted we would be to have their company.”
The girl phantom drifted back up to the ceiling.
Harriet sighed. “I shall enjoy their company, and they’ll prove our uncle was no monster.” Samantha and Reginald turned to each other with raised eyebrows.