Page 18 of Murder Most Haunted

The sound of a baby crying woke Midge from her sleep. She lay there, disorientated for a moment, back again in that hospital all those years ago, the wailing of newborns overwhelming her.

The noise got louder, forcing her heart to race along with it, until the shriek came to an abrupt halt.

It must have been a fox, Midge told herself.

Foxes, she had often been informed, made a sound like screaming while mating.

She could not verify this herself, being as unfamiliar with foxes as she was with noisy lovemaking.

Her stomach rumbled as she stretched out across the large bed.

A tiny, unspeakable part of her found some joy in the movement.

Although Bridie had never actually said anything, Midge always felt that because of her size she was taking up more than her fair share of the bed and had, therefore, adapted to sleeping curled up so as not to bother anyone.

Another thought occurred to her. Without Bridie here, she could wander down to the kitchen to get a snack.

At home, Bridie would have sighed at her for getting crumbs on the sheets and that would very much have been that.

But here, there was no one to notice.

The ticking of the great grandfather clock on the landing abruptly gave way to the chimes of midnight as she stepped out into the corridor, which was unexpectedly cold and draughty.

So much so, in fact, that, having no slippers, she returned to her room and pulled on her police boots before making her way back down the hall.

She had only got halfway along, due to her efforts to muffle the strikes of her cane on the floor, when a shout from the south wing made her blood run cold.

Walking as fast as her knee would allow, Midge made her way along the passage, turning into the south wing at exactly the same time that Harold appeared from the east passage, dressed in a pink dressing gown and fluffy slippers. ‘Blimey!’ he panted. ‘What the hell is that racket?’

The racket was Dr Mortimer standing by one of the hall windows, his face a mask of fear. Thankfully, he had stopped shouting, but was instead holding his finger to the glass, pointing down at the garden below. ‘Look . . . look . . . tell me you can see that?’ he whispered.

Harold pushed him gently to the side and looked out into the night.

‘What?’ he said after several seconds, as the doctor breathed in large, harsh gasps beside them. ‘I can’t see anything.’

Dr Mortimer shoved him away and pushed his own face to the glass.

‘It was a bloody ghost!’ he said, his hand shaking as he tried to wipe the condensation from one of the panes.

He turned to Midge, grabbing at her arm.

‘You saw that, right? I mean, that thing . . . that was definitely there, wasn’t it? ’

Reluctantly, she peered out over his shoulder.

The barren moorland’s pervasive presence sent a shiver through Midge, with the moonlight only amplifying Atherton Hall’s isolation.

The south lawn glowed with fresh snowfall, but beyond the fountain and the old woodshed to the side, she couldn’t see anything else. ‘No,’ she replied.

‘Exactly like Rendell described it!’ exclaimed the doctor.

‘His words were “something white”, which is very broad for a description,’ said Midge, her cheeks beginning to chill pressed against the frosty pane. ‘Particularly in a snowstorm.’

‘Noah’s going to be peeved that he missed it,’ said Harold.

‘There is no ghost there,’ repeated Midge.

‘I saw it,’ snapped the doctor. ‘A figure in white.’

‘Why are you up so late?’ asked Midge.

Dr Mortimer shook his head as if to clear it. ‘I . . . I was just getting some water for Gloria to take some sleeping pills.’ He stepped away from the window. ‘She’s a bit overwrought from everything,’ he continued, before blinking for a moment. ‘Why are you wearing a pink dressing gown, Harold?’

‘Oh!’ Harold smiled, sheepishly. ‘I didn’t have any clothes with me, did I? So, Rona kindly lent me something to sleep in. Do you know she names her shoes?’ he whispered in an aside to Midge, but the doctor had already started walking back towards the bedrooms further along the corridor.

‘Dr Mortimer?’ called Midge.

He spun back towards them. ‘Yes?’

‘The kitchen is that way,’ she said, pointing towards the end staircase behind her. ‘Gloria’s water?’

‘Oh . . . right,’ he said, but didn’t change course. ‘I’ll leave it,’ he said. ‘She’s probably asleep by now anyway. Good night.’

They stood watching until the doctor had disappeared back into his room.

‘Too scared to go downstairs in the dark,’ grinned Harold.

Maybe, thought Midge. Or maybe not.

‘Would you like me to accompany you back to your room?’ Harold asked, sticking his arm out. ‘I’m assuming you were asleep?’

It occurred to Midge that this was the first time, as an adult, that a man had seen her in her nightdress. ‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘But no. I don’t think any ghosts will bother me tonight.’

‘Fair dos,’ shrugged Harold, good-naturedly. ‘I better get back to my beauty sleep. Got an early start trying to dig that coach out!’

‘Well,’ said Midge, unsure of how to end the conversation.

Despite his words, Harold didn’t seem to be moving, so she turned and walked back towards her room, leaving him where he was.

Curious as to why Noah had missed the excitement, she decided to walk via the East Wing, the creaking of her knee synching with that of the floorboards, a shard of light spilled out from under his door and she could hear both his and their host’s voices from inside.

Presumably they were still busy working on Rendell’s interview for the podcast, she thought, which would explain why they hadn’t heard the doctor’s commotion.

With a groan, she eventually pulled herself into her own bed, mulling over what she had just seen and trying very hard to ignore the rumblings from her thwarted stomach.

Had Rendell and the doctor both seen a ghost this evening?

This was an easy question for her to answer.

No. Of course not. The very idea of the paranormal was absurd to say the least. But, in Midge’s experience, the important fact in this situation was that, for whatever reason, the doctor, at least, certainly believed that he had.

Suddenly, the hairs sprang up on the back of her neck.

Outside, across the night air, came more screeching, so terrible this time that she felt compelled to put her hands over her ears to block out the sound.

Sliding off the mattress, she grabbed her cane from its resting place next to the bedside and hobbled over to the window.

Pulling the curtain back, she peered out on to the ground below.

In the middle of the croquet lawn, illuminated by the moonlight, was a beautiful red fox with the partial entrails of a sheep clamped between its teeth.

As Midge watched from above, the fox lifted its bloodied muzzle up to stare at her before turning and padding softly away into the night, its paws leaving crimson prints in the snow.