Janes Song

Janes Song.

I love children, preferably other people's, but many years ago, one young lady changed my life. I set my goal of being a millionaire by forty. Keevil House was one more step on the path. I purchased this old house at auction in London. I should have realised that, as the only bidder, something was not right. Overjoyed at my good fortune, I ignored the warnings. From the literature supplied, it seemed it had been empty since the end of World War II, when it had been used as a children's home and school. However, according to the blurb, its previous owners made sure it remained wind and watertight. This property would be the grand addition to my exclusive hotel group.

         One week after the auction, a letter landed on my desk from the firm of solicitors in Dunfermline, acting for the sale of Elgin House. They asked me to visit to sign all the relevant documentation and complete the transaction.

         My objective was all-encompassing. I'd travel to Scotland, complete the deal, visit the site and prepare rough sketches of the alterations required for my architect and builder. My journey by car was uneventful.

         A local hotel proved suitable for my needs, and I booked a two-night stay with bed and breakfast. The next morning, the weather, as described by the hotel receptionist, was dreek, which I gathered in English meant wet and horrible. With little choice, I ventured forth, found the solicitors and was warmly greeted. The paperwork was ready for my signature, and I duly signed. I requested that all services be connected as soon as possible, and they agreed to help.

         Leaving their offices with explicit directions, I went in search of my new acquisition. I hoped to finish my survey in one day and travel south the next morning. I was excited about what lay ahead. In the pouring rain, I found myself driving up and down narrow country lanes for two hours before finally finding the entrance to the old manor house.

         The gatehouse looked too good to be true. A solid three-bedroom bungalow. This would be ideal for my new manager. A quick look around determined it needed work, mainly decorative, and it would be more than acceptable.

         Time was passing, and I drove on. At the end of a long, meandering, overgrown, tree-lined drive stood the manor house. A silence from years of abandonment surrounded it. My first impression of this Victorian relic was one of amazement; this spacious old mansion had been given over to loneliness and echoes of the past.

         My decision to buy had been the right one. While parking my car, I noticed several small headstones immediately to my right, surrounded by a mixture of wildflowers. Curious, I wandered over to those nearest. Someone must have loved animals, for it appeared these were the final resting places of the family pets.

         I walked around the building. There were weathered streaks on the walls and cracks in the paintwork, but beyond its forlorn appearance, there seemed to be nothing structurally wrong. The walled garden was overgrown but not irrecoverable.

         Heading towards the main entrance, I inserted the key and was pleasantly surprised to find it turned easily. Pushing the massive door open, I found myself in a beautiful, pillared, and mirrored hallway. This place had the splendour and spaciousness of a grand mansion. Looking forward, a broad, once-carpeted staircase rose in a majestic sweep to the upper floor. As I stood there admiring what was mine, the main door slammed shut with an almighty crash that echoed through the empty rooms and passages.

         Through the worn shutters, filtered sunlight cast strange, flickering shadows. For a moment, I shivered, but with plenty of work to do, I told myself that standing there would achieve nothing. With clipboard and pen in hand, I began my survey. To my left was the main dining room; its bare walls and boarded-up fireplace showed years of neglect. The most bizarre thing was the number of broken children's toys scattered everywhere. While making copious notes, a strange thumping sound came from the hall. Intrigued, I retraced my steps. A child's coloured ball bounced down the stairs, one tread at a time, and came to rest in the centre of the hall. Not knowing why this happened, I gave it a hefty kick to one side and continued with my report. The rooms were empty apart from those discarded toys.

         The ballroom was fantastic with its high, ornate cupolas, radiating light into every corner; even the marble fireplace was original. Briefly, I imagined what it would be like in the winter with large logs blazing in the hearth.

         Behind me, I heard squeaking. I turned as a rust-covered tricycle trundled across the floor. I was seeing things, as its wheels were rusted solid. Whatever I thought I'd seen could only have been my imagination or a trick of the light.

         In the eaves above the ten spacious bedrooms were the original servants' quarters. Climbing the narrow staircase that led to them, I felt something intangible.

         The air was thick with foreboding. Strange thoughts filled my head as my nerves tingled. The sensation of evil made the hairs on my neck rise. At the top of the narrow wooden stairs, I heard children laughing as they played, but in the background, I heard screams of terror. Closing my eyes and shaking my head, the sounds disappeared.

         Each room was small, with broken furniture littering the floors and cracked mirrors hanging from rusty nails. To me, this part of the house was terrifying, depressing and dismal. My notes designated the whole area, 'Useful for storage'.

         I returned along the corridor from which every bedroom led off. Each door was shut. Strange, but I'd opened each door to enable air to circulate.

         My next inspection was the library. Once in the main hallway, the hairs on the back of my neck began to tingle. There was the distinct sound of someone saying, 'Hello'.

         At the top of the stairs stood a barefoot girl, leaning on the bannister and staring at me. I'd never seen anything so dreadful; over her slim frame, a nightgown hung in tatters. As I moved towards her, she ran away and, despite searching every room, no trace could be found.

         Without warning, every light flashed on and off a few times before remaining at full brilliance. A hammering on the main door followed this.     Gingerly, I opened it to find two Scottish Power Engineers. "Sign here, Guv. That's you connected."

         I closed the door, and my little girl materialised in front of me. Her lips had no colour; her pale eyes held a frightened look, with dark rings around them, as if she'd had sleepless nights. The blood froze in my veins as a dim, shapeless shadow covered her, and they drifted away.

         Later, she reappeared, made no sound I could hear, but I distinctly saw her lips move. 'Help us.'

         What was I to do? Again, she vanished. I must admit that I was intrigued, but I felt helpless. Looking at my watch, it was well past six in the evening, and I still had plenty to do. Deciding enough was enough, I would start again in the morning.

         I was about to get into my car when my little ghost appeared in the pets' graveyard, barely discernible in the fading light. She seemed to be watching me.   I moved towards her. This time she did not disappear. Now I could clearly hear her singing. "Tommy is a Turtle, Molly is a Cat. My name is Jane, and I'm just a Dirty Rat."

         Into the gloom she faded, still singing. I will come back tomorrow.

         I returned to the hotel, went to my room, sat on the bed, bewildered by what I had seen and experienced. Maybe I'd been overdoing it, and they do say stress can bring on hallucinations, but it had appeared so real. During dinner, I asked the young waitress about Elgin House, but she knew nothing. Exhausted, I reasoned that a good night's sleep was the answer to my problems.

         That night, I had the strangest of dreams. I had no idea where I was, but the air seemed laden with the scent of wildflowers. Children played happily, shrieks of laughter filling the air. Then a shadowy veil covered everything, and darkness filled my mind. I awoke in the morning, drained. The last thing I wanted was to return to that house, but I had no choice. To buy it, I had mortgaged my other hotels; to abandon it would destroy my dreams. I picked at my breakfast, read the local paper from cover to cover, drank far too many cups of coffee, but I knew I must go back.

         As I negotiated the long drive, I attempted to convince myself it had been my imagination. I laughed out loud, sure that if I undid every shutter, sunlight would dispel my fears. On opening the main door, I stood there listening. There was no sound, not even the chirping of birds. My inner self told me to shut the door and leave, but that young girl's pitiful face lingered in my mind.

         I grabbed my clipboard, walked to the stables and started work, thinking that if I stayed out of the house for a while, the clearer my thoughts would become. I scribbled away, made sketches and formulated plans. The little coach house and cobbled yard were ideal for parking and offices. The stables, once converted, would provide at least ten additional bedrooms. Pleased with my activities, I entered the small smithy at the rear of the coach house, and my fear erupted. I tried to run, but my feet would not move. In front of me stood that wretched-looking girl. She stared into my soul. Not a word was spoken, but I heard her.

         "The others told me to speak to you; they know you will understand. Please listen, I don't have much time before the dark ones come. Bad people have been naughty, and they hurt us."

         I stood there rooted to the spot and stammered, "H...How can I help?"

Whether she heard me, I didn't know; she vanished, and I was free to move. I ran into the yard, sat on an old millstone and breathed the wondrous clean air.        

 Maybe I was going mad; after all, I had been working all the hours possible for the past year. The cold, fresh air restored my reason. What did she mean by, "They know you will understand"? I wandered around the building looking for something, anything that made sense.

         The swing in the garden swung as if being pushed, and again I heard her. "Tommy is a Turtle, Molly is a Cat. My name is Jane, and I'm just a Dirty Rat." The swing stopped, but her words lingered as the perfume of wildflowers penetrated my nostrils. The penny dropped. The girl had been directing me to the graveyard. My mind whirled at an unbelievable thought.

         Determined to discover if my thinking had any sense to it, I rummaged around for anything that resembled a spade. In a dilapidated garden shed, I found what I needed, and with resolve I walked briskly to the pets' cemetery. Trembling, I searched for Jane the Rat. A tiny wooden cross, which had rotted at the base, appeared to mark the grave. I began to dig, desperately hoping that only the brown earth existed beneath my feet. Taking time out, I leaned against a tree to regain my breath. For the briefest of moments, she appeared and looked down into the hole. This time, a smile lit up her angelic face before she faded away. I almost gave up, but the memory of her face urged me to keep going. At a depth of about five feet, I saw what I didn't want to see: a small human skull. Then I knew; I was meant to find it.

         I contacted the police, but how could I explain why I was digging such a large hole in what was supposedly a pet graveyard? It didn't matter; I'd deal with that question if they asked.

         In less than an hour, the whole area had been closed off, and men were digging furiously. At the station, I gave a statement that seemed to satisfy the DI in charge, and I returned to the hotel for another night.

         At breakfast the next morning, the Detective Inspector arrived. Over three cups of coffee, he told me they had discovered six small skeletons and were in the process of opening up the remainder of the marked graves. He explained that I could continue with my survey, but to keep away from their excavations.

         "Who are they?" I asked.

He looked at me. "I suppose you know that during the war, your property was a children's home/school. From our records, it appears that many of the youngsters ran away; some were found, while others remain missing. It was wartime, and with the bombing of the dockyards and a hundred other reasons, missing children, unless someone shouted, were overlooked and eventually forgotten. Regrettably, many years have passed; their parents, if they had any, will be dead, and even if any of the murderers are still alive, we'd spend a lot of time and taxpayers' money trying to prove the impossible. At least they will be buried properly. Oh, by the way, my men found a tiny bracelet on the wrist of the little girl you unearthed. On it was the name Jane. Thought you might like to know."

         I returned to the house, finished my survey and waited. Jane appeared for a short while. With her ordeal over, the mistrust in those large blue eyes was gone. She shimmered with triumph, wrapped in the warm glow of sunlight. She didn't walk or run; she drifted without sound across the floor, fading as she went.

         As I drove back to London, I thought to myself. So, the house has a ghost. Maybe that could be good for business.

         When Jane's Hotel opened, the sun shone, and the birds sang. Sometimes guests ask whose children play among the wildflowers. I smile politely and tell them they live locally.

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