The Summer She Came Home.

The Summer She Came Home.

Alison Adams sat in her dark green Mini Cooper at the edge of Upton village, the engine ticking as it cooled. In her left hand, she held the estate agent’s directions, but they made little sense. Ahead was Upton, but she needed to find Lower Upton. Rascal, her shaggy companion, rested his chin on her thigh, sensing her anxiety.

She stroked Rascal’s head. “We have two chances. Straight ahead, or we’re lost.

The village lay quiet before her, a cluster of cottages huddled beneath a low grey sky. A church spire rose above the rooftops. A few villagers crossed the green, glancing at her car with a curiosity reserved for strangers. Something about the place tugged at her mind, a sort of déjà vu, a whisper of recognition she could not explain.

“I don’t know why we’re here,” she murmured.

She’d seen the cottage online, a poor photograph of a red brick building surrounded by weeds. Why this place? Recognition? Longing? A strange ache had bloomed in her chest the moment she saw the listing, as if the image had reached out and touched something deep within her.

Rascal whined softly.

“I know. It’s mad. But let’s see it.”

She started the engine and drove on.

The road narrowed as she left the village behind. Trees arched overhead, their branches forming a tunnel of shifting green. The air smelled of freshly ploughed earth. Alison felt her pulse quicken, almost with excitement.

Ten minutes later, she pulled up behind a silver Mercedes. A man stepped out.

Tom Adams, the property agent, stared at the stunning, tall woman with long black hair, her eyes sparkling as she got out of her little car.

He stepped forward. “Ms Adams. Tom Brooks.”

“That’s me. And this is Rascal.” She patted the mass of hair. “Sorry, got lost.”

He half shrugged. “Everyone does.” Tom handed her a single key. “As I told you, it’s derelict. Needs plenty of work and money to return it to anything like its former glory. In my opinion, bulldoze it and build something modern. It’s rather a large plot.”

“I assume you’re not going inside. Is it okay if Rascal comes with me?”

“Watch where you tread. Some of the boards are rotten. Your dog couldn’t make it any worse than it is. Years of pigeon droppings cover most of the floor. Watch out for dead rats. Might upset your animal.”

“Sorry, Rascal. You look after the car.”

The ground in front of the house was a riot of tall, tangled weeds, swaying in the breeze. Nettles brushed her jeans. Wild rose bushes clawed at her sleeves. Alison noticed a faint trail of flattened stems leading to the main door, where she supposed the agent had walked.

She paused at the door. The lock was in good condition, the brass barely tarnished. She touched it lightly. A shiver ran through her.

Her pulse quickened.

She turned the key and stepped inside.

The smell of damp hit her first, classic wet rot, and something older, deeper, like the air of a room decomposing, putrid, almost unbreathable.

The agent hadn’t lied. It was terrible. Plaster hung in strips. The windows were so filthy that they barely let in any daylight. Every door was missing, leaving only dark, gaping frames.

Yet a strange familiarity wafted over her. As if she’d stood here before. As if she’d once walked these floors, breathed this air, lived this life.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she whispered.

She moved warily, testing each floorboard. The kitchen was a time capsule. Under the window was a Belfast sink, the type wealthy people owned long ago. An old cooker and bread oven were still in place, their iron surfaces caked in rust. A cracked jug sat on a shelf, coated in dust. Part of her wanted to keep everything, preserve it, honour it, but common sense prevailed. The sink would stay, but everything else had to go.

The kitchen stable door was bolted from the inside. After a struggle, she dragged it open. The rear garden was full of trees, their drooping branches touching the ground. Pink and white blossoms gave a dreamlike backdrop to the long grass rippling in the wind. At the far end, sunlight glittered on a stream.

Her mind seemed to recall a memory she didn’t have, a picnic by the water, a hand in hers, a promise whispered beneath the trees.

Finished, she returned to Tom.

“You’re not keen,” he said through his open window.

“You could say it needs work. But I’m prepared to make an offer.”

Tom’s face didn’t change.

“One hundred fifty thousand. If the owners want more, forget it.”

“It’s a lot lower than they’re asking, but you’re the first interested buyer in years. I’ll talk to them.”

Alison followed him back to the office. As she let Rascal out for a run, she noticed two older villagers watching her from along the road. Their conversation stopped abruptly. One muttered, “Another one.” Rascal growled at a closed window. A curtain twitched.

Tom joined her. “You technically own the cottage. They accepted one twenty. I did the searches some time ago. I’ll check again, but nothing will have changed.”

Alison blinked. “One twenty?”

“You forget, I knew they wanted rid of it. The land is worth that alone. What are your plans?”

“I’m organising my thoughts. Common sense tells me to knock it down, but I intend to have the building structurally surveyed to see if a refurbishment is viable.”

Tom smiled. “You’re the owner. Hope it works out.”

***

Long summer nights added to Alison’s hope of completing the work in good time.

To save money on a hotel room, Alison had the builders refurbish one small room, affectionately known as the sanctuary. The outside toilet served as a washroom.

She ate at the village café, slept on an inflatable mattress, and watched her funds diminish

“It’s time I did some work,” she told herself.

The builders left at five each evening. Silence settled over the cottage, thick and watchful. Alison tried to busy herself, wiping a patch of counter that didn’t need cleaning, rearranging the torch on the table, anything to stop her mind from inventing shapes in the shadows.

Rascal paced the small sanctuary, nails clicking on the boards, pausing now and then to stare at the doorway.

A faint creak came from the spare room. Not the sharp crack of cooling timber, something different, a footstep, softer, almost hesitant.

She made tea, but the steam rose strangely, curling sideways as if nudged by an unseen hand. Rascal whimpered. Alison’s pulse thudded. She told herself it was nerves, exhaustion, imagination. Yet the cottage felt awake, listening, waiting.

Temporary lights cast long shadows. One dark corner unnerved her, so she moved the lamp. Even so, the first night, strange noises woke her.

Rascal lifted his head, ears pricked.

Alison slipped into her dressing gown and checked the building. As she entered the spare bedroom, the sounds stopped. Moonlight cast shifting shadows. Her thin white nightdress wafted around her, though no breeze existed.

She reached for the light switch. Nothing. Not connected.

“Imagination,” she whispered.

She tried to close the door. It appeared jammed.

“Another job for the joiner.”

For no reason, she shouted, “Good night. I’m off to my bed.”

In her mind, faint as breath: Thank you.

Rascal growled.

Terrified, she grabbed the duvet, scooped up Rascal, and fled to the car. She wrapped herself in the duvet, but sleep evaded her. Rascal curled in the driver’s seat, staring at the cottage.

At dawn, she crept back inside. Nothing had changed. The bedroom door still wouldn’t close.

At the café, she asked the waitress, “Do you know anything about the red brick cottage?”

Silence. Then a smile. “Can I take your order?”

“I’m the new owner.”

“Everyone knows it’s been purchased many times. No one ever moved in. They say it’s haunted.”

“Are you pulling my leg?”

The girl ran her hand through her hair. “No. Why would I do that?” But her eyes flickered.

Later, as she sipped her juice, the girl returned.

“The padre knows the history. You never know.”

The priest, Graham Parkinson, welcomed her and Rascal into his cramped office.

“Aren’t you the new owner of the Lodge?”

“I am. But I need your advice. Some say it’s haunted.”

He frowned. “My dear Ms Adams, the cottage was a wildlife haven for years. It was part of the gatehouse properties when the area belonged to the landed gentry. As for ghosts, we both know they don’t exist. Old houses make noises. Villages make up stories.”

Alison thanked him, unconvinced.

That night, determined to prove she wasn’t imagining things, she entered the spare room, closed the door, and sat on a cushion.

Rascal refused to enter. He stood rigid, hackles raised, staring at the doorway. A low growl rumbled in his throat.

“Rascal, it’s fine.”

He backed away, whining.

The air grew colder. Alison Shivered. Her breath misted.

Weary, she fell asleep.

Something woke her. She shouted, voice shaking, “You can’t exist.”

Moonlight spilt across the floor. Shadows shifted.

A voice in her mind: Please, please, open the door.

Her fear softened for a heartbeat. “All right. I’ll open it.”

She reached for the handle. The door swung open of its own accord.

“Thank you,” the voice whispered.

Her hand tingled as if someone had touched it.

Outside, Rascal barked.

“What are you?” she whispered.

Silence. Then: I’m Joseph.

“Well, Joseph, I’m tired. Goodnight.”

She fled to her room, but the house felt different, lighter, alive.

The next day, she revisited the priest.

“Graham, is there something strange about the Lodge?”

He hesitated. “Please come in.”

In the lounge, he offered coffee. His hands trembled slightly.

“I should have been honest. Stories do exist. I’ve always discounted them.”

“I can understand why.”

“The Lodge belonged to the local squire. A cruel man. He treated his tenants terribly. Rumour has it that he claimed rights over their daughters.

Graham leaned back, eyes distant. “The squire was feared, truly feared. Old records mention fines for imagined offences, evictions in the dead of winter. People said he walked the village like a king surveying his kingdom, and no one dared meet his gaze.”

He paused, then continued softly, “Joseph wasn’t like the others. He worked with horses, a gentle soul, always helping neighbours without expecting coin. The girl, Annabelle, was known for her laughter. You could hear it across the green. They say she and Joseph met by the stream behind your cottage, always at dusk, always in secret.”

Graham blinked. “Yes. The squire discovered their relationship. He flogged the young man and sealed him in the cottage. He died there. The villagers buried him in a pauper’s grave in the church grounds. Strange, but he was given a stone marker ”

Alison felt cold. “And the girl?”

He rubbed his thumb along the rim of his cup. “Villagers claimed they saw her once more, standing at the church gate, pale as moonlight. Then she was gone. Some believed she fled. Others… others thought her heart broke. No one knows.

That night, Alison entered the spare room again.

The door swung open before she touched it.

For successive nights, she communicated with Joseph. He recounted his life, including the squire, the girl he loved, their secret meetings, the betrayal, and the darkness.

Sometimes she felt warmth on her hand, like from an open fire. Sometimes she saw flickers of images. A strange smile spread across her face as her imagination painted Joseph, his hand reaching for hers.

She was no longer afraid.

She felt that whatever the future held, this was where she should be.

Together, they wrote The Evil Squire. Joseph “spoke” in images and emotions; Alison shaped them into words.

Rascal never entered the room but lay outside, occasionally lifting his head as if listening.

For the first time in many years, Alison felt needed.

When the manuscript was complete, she contacted her literary agent. In a wonderful mood, she drove off the grass verge outside the Lodge.

She never saw the lorry.

The blare of a horn. The screech of tyres. Metal grinding.

Then silence.

Alison stood beside the wreckage, watching paramedics work on her lifeless body. Rascal barked frantically. A police officer tried to restrain him.

From behind her, a familiar voice murmured, “I’ve waited a long time for you to come back.”

She turned and saw Joseph as she remembered him. Young, good-looking, and the love of her life.

“I’ve always loved you, Annabelle.”

Memory flooded her. The cottage. The girl. The squire. The love he attempted to destroy.

She reached for Joseph’s hand.

The wind lifted the pages of her manuscript, scattering them along the road like white birds taking flight.

Together, they strolled away from the Lodge. Neither looked back.