The Haunted House From Hell

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Derek Cole had worked as caretaker and general handyman for the Wentworth Trust since taking early retirement from the police force due to stress.

He loved his present occupation.

The company had offices all over England, and their main interest came from buying up dilapidated old houses from people who had inherited them from distant relatives, and who did not have the inclination, let alone the finances, to restore them to their former glory.

Wentworth could rip out the interior of a property within a week and, by the end of the same month, would have the place fully rewired, centrally heated, with new fixtures and fittings, ready to be sold on for an absolute fortune.

Derek worked in Hertfordshire, where he had lived his entire life. At present, he had more than 30 properties on his list, and it was his job to complete regular checks to ensure that boilers were working and taps had not frozen during the winter months, not to mention carrying out any remedial repairs as and when necessary.

He spent the bulk of his working day in his van, driving from one property to the next and he loved the freedom it gave him. The beautiful Hertfordshire countryside was more inspiring to him than any painting he had ever seen, whether portrait or landscape, whoever the artist might be.

If it had been up to him, Derek would have opted to stay overnight at some of the properties he maintained, with a couple of notable exceptions. But, although the company allowed it, Maggie would never hear of it. They had been married for more than 40 years, and she had always been a good wife. But, just lately, Derek had seen a change creep over her personality, and it was not one he warmed to.

It was almost as if she had grown bitter about the fact that she had opted to be a housewife and spend her time looking after him and the home. They had never had children, due to a problem with Maggie’s tubes. According to the specialist, there was an operation that could have rectified the situation. But as there was no guarantee and Maggie hated hospitals at the best of times, she had decided not to go through with it.

For the most part, Maggie had been content with her lot. Or so it seemed to Derek.

Immensely houseproud, Maggie always ensured the house was scrupulously clean, regardless of whether they were expecting visitors. Even though they could easily afford it, she absolutely refused to hire a cleaner, even when her knees began to play up a few years ago.

She proudly hosted regular coffee mornings, and volunteered her services at their local church, with everything from flower arranging to tabletop sales.

There was hardly an evening when she was not attending some function or other. But still she always ensured that Derek’s dinner was on the table by 7pm, without fail, and woe betide him if he did not make it home in time.

But, just recently, Maggie had grown less enthusiastic about her duties. Most dinnertimes were spent with her complaining about the way someone kept their lawn, or what someone else had worn to a church function. The slightest thing seemed to set her off and, as Derek had learnt to his detriment, when she was in such a mood there was nothing to be gained from arguing with her, apart from being on the receiving end of an earful.

So Derek had learned to stay silent, and nod in agreement when necessary.

Most mornings, Derek sprang out of bed, eager to hit the road and complete his round, relishing the journey ahead.

But today, alas, was not one of those days.

Having spent more than 15 years as a uniformed police constable, Derek considered himself a level-headed and straightforward kind of man, not the sort who was given to idle fantasy or daydreams.

He did not believe in unidentified flying objects, or the Loch Ness Monster, Bigfoot, or fairies at the bottom of the garden.

But, for all that, he had seen and heard things that were very much out of his comfort zone. He had felt a familiar shiver of anticipation when he received the email detailing his call list for the day.

There, at the top of his laptop screen, was the instruction he dreaded.

Go to Porter house. New buyers arriving this afternoon. Ensure all is as it should be.

Derek knew the house well and not just by reputation. As a bobby on the beat he had often been called upon to chase local kids away when they had been spotted in the grounds, up to no good.

Even entering through the main gates had given him an odd, eerie feeling, which he had never forgotten to this day. The old Porter house, as it had always been known, had been acquired by Wentworth’s almost 20 years before. The property dated back to the mid-19th century, but, during the majority of the 20th century the property had been rented out, because the descendants of the original family who owned it refused to live in it.

The house had, over the years, been used as an asylum for fallen and deranged women, a workhouse, a convalescent home for injured soldiers during the two wars, and, in between the wars, an adoption agency for orphaned children, as which it continued to operate after the Second World War until it was closed down in the sixties after a government inquiry discovered that some of the children were being farmed out to wealthy men who were allowed to use and abuse them as they saw fit.

After that, the property remained empty for a while, but then the family began to rent it out as a private residence once more. This too, proved to be less than successful as rumour had it that most tenants did not last more than a couple of weeks at best before refusing to stay any longer.

Eventually, the house was inherited by a distant relative living in Canada, who, aware of the house’s reputation, did not even bother to come over to England to inspect it, but instead, put it up for auction and Wentworth bought it.

Those who lived locally were made aware of the terrible secret of the Porter property when the local paper ran an article about the house back in the eighties.

According to the story, a mother poisoned her only son and heir, before committing suicide in the house. Since then, the property was said to be haunted by the ghostly apparition of the woman, wandering along the corridors, crying bitterly for her crimes.

The press had dubbed her “The Wailing Woman” and, since then, the title had stuck. Just after Wentworth acquired the property, an enterprising psychic society in the vicinity had asked permission to hold a séance in the house, to see if they could contact the spirit of the woman.

But the members of the board refused, concluding it would not be good for business to encourage such events. Even so, a local author who wrote extensively about the history of the area penned a book tracing the lineage of the family who had owned the property since it had been built, and naturally included a chapter on the incident with the mother and her son.

This inspired another author, one who was better known for his more lurid tales, to elaborate on the tragic event, and even managed to include several eye-witness accounts from some of those who had seen the weeping woman during their time spent at the house.

The Porter house had been on Wentworth’s books since they first purchased it and it was now, by far, the longest-held freehold property they owned. And now that they had finally managed to unload it, the directors were determined that everything should go like clockwork.

Although the property had been properly maintained over the years, a lot of the fixtures and fittings were felt to be outdated so, as part of the deal, Wentworth’s had supplied and fitted a brand-new kitchen, and replaced two of the bathroom suites.

A gang of cleaners was sent in the day before it was viewed, and again on the day before the second viewing, just to ensure that the property would be seen at its absolute best.

There were rumours back at the main office that the agent who eventually clinched the sale was given a massive bonus and an extra two weeks of annual leave.

Derek, for one, would not be sorry to see the house leave their books.

The property had shaken his belief system in such a way that it was impossible for him ever to return to his old way of thinking.

The first time he actually entered the property, he felt an icy chill sweep through his body like a cold rush or an arctic wind. Although he was at the time aware of the stories surrounding the old house, he put still his initial experience down to that fact that someone had obviously left a window open, probably somewhere upstairs.

But, on inspection, he soon realised that this was not the case.

The property seemed to be permeated with the cold, and even when Derek, as part of his duties, tested the central heating system, although each radiator was too hot to touch, the very atmosphere inside the house still made it feel as if icy fingers were stretching out and grabbing at his very soul.

That same feeling overwhelmed him as he drove in through the gates for what, he hoped, would be his last-ever visit to the Porter house.

Derek parked his van on the gravel drive and stared up at the daunting property from his seat. It was early morning and the autumn sun had barely started to make its climb across the eastern sky, but even so, the daylight gave him courage.

As he walked to the front door, Derek felt eyes staring at him from the darkened windows above. But he refused to look up and pander to his overactive imagination.

Although he had never actually seen the wailing woman for himself, he had, on many occasions, caught a glimpse of something from the corner of his eye as he was making his rounds. Added to which, there was an eerie feeling of someone close behind him that he often experienced while walking through the old house.

To date, he had never turned around to see if anything was lurking behind him. This was not something he would ever admit to. Derek could not imagine what the reaction would be from his former colleagues, some of whom he still met regularly for a pint in the local, if he ever let on to the fact that, deep down, he was afraid.

Derek made his way round the house, switching on all the lights as he went. He justified this by telling himself that it was part of his job to test the electricity, but deep down he knew the truth behind his actions.

Even in broad daylight the Porter house appeared gloomy.

He whistled to himself as he made his rounds to block out any unusual noises that he might otherwise feel obliged to investigate. Old houses were forever creaking and groaning without outside interference, but, under the circumstances, Derek preferred ignorance.

He switched on the boiler to start up the central heating, as instructed, for all the good it would do. When the renovations took place, it was decided to leave the open fireplaces in the downstairs rooms in situ, as a character feature. Derek had overseen the delivery last week of fresh logs for the fires so, once the heating was on, he made his way to the utility room and collected some to build a fire in each room.

Once he was satisfied with everything, Derek took himself back out to his van for a cup of coffee. He carried a full flask each day but usually enjoyed it inside whichever property he was visiting.

This house was the one notable exception.

As he drained his cup, he noticed one of the Wentworth company cars turning into the driveway.

Derek screwed the cap back on his flask and placed it on the passenger seat, before stepping out and slamming the door.

He recognised Pam Stewart as she waved at him through the side window, before pulling up across from his van.

“Morning, Derek,” she said, brightly, “just arrived?”

Derek shook his head. “No, I’ve been here about an hour, been checking that everything is ship-shape and Bristol fashion, as per instructions.”

“Well done. Anything to report?”

Derek shook his head. “Only that I won’t be sorry to see the last of this place after today.”

Pam shot him a serious glance. “Not so loud,” she cautioned, looking around them to see if anyone might be lurking close enough to overhear their conversation.

Derek nodded his understanding.

“Come on,” continued Pam, “you can help me unload the box of goodies I’ve got in the boot.”

Derek followed her around to the back of her car, and she released the catch using the remote on her keyring. Sitting next to her briefcase, he saw a cardboard box inside filled with all manner of refreshments.

“What’s all this, then?” he asked curiously. In all his years on the job he had never known of the company supplying tea and coffee for their new clients.

Pam brushed it off. “Just a little something to say welcome,” she explained. “Be a darling and take them into the kitchen for me – I want everything to be just perfect when they arrive.”

Derek shrugged and bent down to lift the box.

He carried it into the kitchen, followed closely by Pam.

While she took charge of placing the contents of the box in the fridge and inside the cupboards, she ran through a list of instructions which, one by one, Derek assured her he had already dealt with.

When she was done, Pam took the empty box out to her car, and placed it back in the boot. She turned to gaze at the front of the house one last time, just to ensure that everything looked just right.

She was running her eyes along the top row of windows, checking that Derek had drawn all the curtains to make the place look more welcoming, when something suddenly caught her eye.

The attic at the top of the house had three windows, looking out to the front.

Pam strained to focus, shielding her eyes with her hand.

There was someone standing at the middle window, staring down at her.