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Book: MAGDALENA'S GHOST: THE HAUNTING OF THE HOUSE IN GALLOWS LANE by PEPPI HILTON
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Authors: PEPPI HILTON
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walking along them. Then the sound stopped outside her bedroom door. She presumed the wind must be causing the old house to creak and groan, and thought nothing of it at first as she buried her head under the bedding once more. And then a shiver ran down her spine as she heard the familiar words outside her door: “Are we having a cup of tea?”
Her heart pounded fiercely against the walls of her chest and she sat bolt upright in bed and listened.
“Are we having a cup of tea?”
She was unable to think clearly, she must be dreaming – yet she knew she was wide awake. But this was no dream. She knew she had heard that familiar voice repeating those tiresome, irritating words which had kept her awake, night after night, during her mother’s wanderings. Each night her mother had climbed the stairs and walked along the floorboards which creaked with every footstep, before stopping outside the bedroom door and repeating those exact words.
“Are we having a cup of tea?” the frail voice whispered again. It was undeniably her mother.
The words were repeated over and over until finally Beryl got out of bed, the terror etched in her aged face. She hobbled over to the door, pinned her ear to it, and listened. She was afraid to open it, but she knew she must. She flung the door open and was greeted by the mewing of her old and failing cat, which was standing there looking bemused. Beryl shooed it away, angry that it had disturbed her, and angry that she had imagined something as ridiculous as her dead mother calling her as she once used to. She settled back down and it didn’t take long for her to go back to sleep, once the palpitations had stopped. She let the incident steal away from her memory, and it was soon forgotten.
Several weeks later, Beryl awoke from a deep sleep to the sound of a melancholy tune being played on the old piano. She knew that tune well, as it was the one that Billy had first learnt to play as a young child. She recalled the many times he had played it for his mother, and how she had stood at his side marvelling at his musical talents which he had clearly inherited from her. Her senses were in turmoil, what was it, who was it? For a brief moment, albeit irrational, she thought Billy must have returned. He must be playing, he must have come back. She climbed stealthily off the bed, lit the candle, moved over to the door and opened it slowly. The music played louder and louder, until there was no mistaking that someone was down there. She hobbled down the stairs with great difficulty, her old bones creaking and groaning with pain. She crossed the dismal and dreary hall and looked hesitantly into the sitting room, but the music had stopped and no-one was there. She looked around, aided only by the dim light reflected by the candle. For a moment she was convinced that the music sheets had been moved from their normal place on the piano rest. But before she could make sense of it, she heard the sound of the rocking chair creaking as it moved back and forth on its old frame. Her heartbeat rose in volume as it thumped aggressively in her chest and seemed to echo in her ears. She headed apprehensively for the scullery, terrified of what she might see. But as she peered into the room she saw that the chair was empty – but it was rocking to a standstill as if someone had just got out of it. A shiver ran down her spine and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
In the dim light of the flickering candle, everything looked sinister and unnerving. It was a big empty house for one person to be alone in, apart from the cat, and sounds had a tendency to echo in the night through the silence which penetrated the large empty spaces. There was only one answer, it was the cat that had been on the chair and had just jumped off. Probably the cat had been walking along the keys of the piano as well, and that was the sound she’d heard, not the familiar tune she remembered. Content with that explanation and
Her heart pounded fiercely against the walls of her chest and she sat bolt upright in bed and listened.
“Are we having a cup of tea?”
She was unable to think clearly, she must be dreaming – yet she knew she was wide awake. But this was no dream. She knew she had heard that familiar voice repeating those tiresome, irritating words which had kept her awake, night after night, during her mother’s wanderings. Each night her mother had climbed the stairs and walked along the floorboards which creaked with every footstep, before stopping outside the bedroom door and repeating those exact words.
“Are we having a cup of tea?” the frail voice whispered again. It was undeniably her mother.
The words were repeated over and over until finally Beryl got out of bed, the terror etched in her aged face. She hobbled over to the door, pinned her ear to it, and listened. She was afraid to open it, but she knew she must. She flung the door open and was greeted by the mewing of her old and failing cat, which was standing there looking bemused. Beryl shooed it away, angry that it had disturbed her, and angry that she had imagined something as ridiculous as her dead mother calling her as she once used to. She settled back down and it didn’t take long for her to go back to sleep, once the palpitations had stopped. She let the incident steal away from her memory, and it was soon forgotten.
Several weeks later, Beryl awoke from a deep sleep to the sound of a melancholy tune being played on the old piano. She knew that tune well, as it was the one that Billy had first learnt to play as a young child. She recalled the many times he had played it for his mother, and how she had stood at his side marvelling at his musical talents which he had clearly inherited from her. Her senses were in turmoil, what was it, who was it? For a brief moment, albeit irrational, she thought Billy must have returned. He must be playing, he must have come back. She climbed stealthily off the bed, lit the candle, moved over to the door and opened it slowly. The music played louder and louder, until there was no mistaking that someone was down there. She hobbled down the stairs with great difficulty, her old bones creaking and groaning with pain. She crossed the dismal and dreary hall and looked hesitantly into the sitting room, but the music had stopped and no-one was there. She looked around, aided only by the dim light reflected by the candle. For a moment she was convinced that the music sheets had been moved from their normal place on the piano rest. But before she could make sense of it, she heard the sound of the rocking chair creaking as it moved back and forth on its old frame. Her heartbeat rose in volume as it thumped aggressively in her chest and seemed to echo in her ears. She headed apprehensively for the scullery, terrified of what she might see. But as she peered into the room she saw that the chair was empty – but it was rocking to a standstill as if someone had just got out of it. A shiver ran down her spine and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
In the dim light of the flickering candle, everything looked sinister and unnerving. It was a big empty house for one person to be alone in, apart from the cat, and sounds had a tendency to echo in the night through the silence which penetrated the large empty spaces. There was only one answer, it was the cat that had been on the chair and had just jumped off. Probably the cat had been walking along the keys of the piano as well, and that was the sound she’d heard, not the familiar tune she remembered. Content with that explanation and
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