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    The Haunting of Manor Lodge
    The Haunting of Manor Lodge
    The Haunting of Manor Lodge
    Ebook68 pages1 hour

    The Haunting of Manor Lodge

    By Margaret Miliner

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    The Haunting of Manor Lodge

    ​

    The first release from Twin Monocle Publishing is a creepy one. Margaret Miliner's tale of two women on a weekend break from the chaos of their high pressure jobs pulls no punches. Full of strange imagery and shocking scenes this is a traditional haunted house classic ratcheted up to a new level.

    Taking the standard tropes of the genre--and who doesn't like a ghost story--The Haunting of Manor Lodge adds a new spin to the proceedings. Not only does it deliver on the psychological scares and blind-siding twists, but delves deeper into the more visceral aspects of modern horror.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTwin Monocle Publishing
    Release dateOct 13, 2017
    ISBN9781386953210
    The Haunting of Manor Lodge

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      Book preview

      The Haunting of Manor Lodge - Margaret Miliner

      Prologue

      Now that it was winter Manor Lodge took on a coat of frost as did the surrounding moors giving the farm and its extensive lands an ethereal, other-worldly, quality. The sun glinted of the hard crystalline surface deepening the sunken effect of the trail of foot prints that wound meandering up to the Lodge’s front gate.

      At the end of the rail, stood by the iron gates, was William Falkirk, dressed as always in the fine regalia of the country gentleman; tweed jacket and matching trousers; a flat cap with a feather sewn into the crease on one side. On his feet knee-high boots of glistening leather; in his hand the polished silver orb that adorned an ebony cane that concealed a short rapier. Under normal circumstances a horse and cart would have been employed to take him to the Manor Lodge, but weather conditions had prohibited such a luxury. Not that Falkirk was indisposed, rather he relished the chance to walk through his land, admiring all that he had accomplished over the short few years since their arrival in the Yorkshire Moors.

      He heard the children long before he saw the first of them, Anthony, the youngest, burst from the kitchen door and scramble over the courtyard, slipping on shallow frozen puddles as he raced to his father. His siblings followed shortly behind, a whirlwind of smiling faces and yelps of delight. ‘Father’, they called to him and ran into his arms. He swept Ant, the maid’s pet name for the youngest, a name which had stuck, into his arms and spun him around. Once free of the gaggle of children, six in all, the oldest still no more than thirteen years, Falkirk’s gaze found his wife at the threshold of the house. The flickering light behind her suggested the warmth of a roaring fire. He shivered and for the first time, now so close to warmth and repose, became acutely aware that his feet had become quite numb during the trek back home.

      Come children, you’ll catch your death out here, he said before ushering them inside. Before closing the sturdy kitchen door behind him so that he could finally enjoy a hot tea and the fire against his sodden feet, Falkirk took one last glance outside. Night came in early at this time of year; the sun was already waning and the long shadows deepening. Jags of night cast by the sparse trees bit into the pristine white that covered the ground. Had he stayed longer to watch the scene he might have spotted movement in those shadows. Had the welcoming warmth promised inside not tempted him away he might have spied, crouched at the boundary of the farmyard, a man, knife in hand and evil intent in his eyes.

      That was the last anyone knew of the Falkirk name, relegated from that night on to nothing more than stories. Once upon a time there was a wealthy family, strangers to the area, who lived up in the Light Peaks in a grand old house. A fire was struck that consumed the children, Mr and Mrs William Falkirk and the maid who lived with them. Locals from the surrounding villages, a hundred or more able bodies some reports said, took all night to quench the flames. The following day bodies were found charred beyond recognition in the nursery which occupied the top floor. A mother huddling her children, her blackened body inseparable from those that surrounded her; in the kitchen Mr Falkirk was discovered having been unable to save his young family, perished just feet from the stairs that lead him to the nursery. It was only later that another body was found, after the smoldering wood had been removed and the site investigated by the police. In the cellar a person, male or female it was impossible to determine, sat in the corner, legs crossed as if serenely awaiting death.

      Chapter One

      The problem with trekking out onto the Yorkshire Moors with someone who has recently recovered from an emotional breakdown, thought Jeanna as she heaved herself over a small boulder, was that they have far too much energy. It was as if a great dam had been released after years of repression and now it was all coming out, channelled into a renewed vigour that Jeanna was finding hard to keep up with.

      Mal you’re going to have to take it a bit slower, Jeanna called out, her voice only just louder than the wind. They had only been walking for three hours at the most and yet it seemed as if it had been all day. Not that Jeanna was complaining at all. It was good to be out in the countryside again and the scenery was spectacular. They had come along a road ominously called ‘Snake’s Pass’, which thankfully only referred to the fact that it wound its way thorough

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