Page 67 of The Legend of Lovers Hollow
“Hello?” His expression suddenly clears. “Hi, Sam.” He pauses. “You did? That was quick. What did you find?”
I squeeze his hand again. “I’m going to talk to the others,” I whisper.
He nods and lets go of my hand, and I wander back towards the others. While Morgan takes his call, I get the others around me, giving a history of the chapel and when it was built, followed by a few other facts about some of the graves. Then I leave them to it, letting them roam freely.
The Schäfers, the Taylor-Joneses, Haru, and Amelia wander through the graves, excitedly pointing out the names they’d learned from Rosie on this morning’s tour. They manage to find Artie’s grave and Admiral Hilary’s. Edwina is there too, as well as Bertie. But they also exclaim excitedly when they find the grave of Lady Clare herself. Her husband isn’t buried here; his body was returned to his family, or so I’ve heard.
As for her lover, no one knows for certain who he was—I’ve heard the name Osyn and also Oswyn or Owen. The legend changes with each retelling, and I think it’s sad. Someone who was so important to Lady Clare, who loved her so much he was willing to kill and die for her, yet he’s remained nameless and faceless for over three hundred years. We’ve got a large portrait of Lady Clare up at the house and a smaller painting of her husband Clement St. John, but nothing for the other man. He’s lost to time.
“Ellis?” Morgan calls to me. I turn in his direction. “Do you know if there’s a ground-floor guest room available? One with access for a wheelchair?”
“Yes, there is. Why?”
“We have another guest arriving tomorrow, sometime around late morning or lunchtime.”
“Okay. When we get back, I’ll have John the Maid prepare the room.”
“Thanks.” He nods.
“Who is it for?”
He grins at me. “It’s a surprise,” he says, and goes back to his conversation.
I glance across and watch Thad, who is talking into the camera Kem’s holding while Faiz holds the sound boom over his head, just out of shot. Nearby, Bez and Jules are keeping an eye on the crew.
Eventually, I round everyone up. Thad wraps up the part he’s filming, Morgan finishes his phone call with someone called Sam, and I gather up the rest of the guests. Once again, we set off through the woods, this time heading in the direction of the Hollow.
I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but the air feels colder, the sky looks more overcast, and despite it being midafternoon, the light seems darker. A strange sensation settles over my skin, making the little hairs on my arms prickle. Again I have that feeling—the air is charged somehow, like before an electrical storm.
I can see the Hollow now, but just as we approach, Thad suddenly yells for us to stop.
“What?” I ask, curious at the excitement in his voice.
“Look!” He points to the hollowed-out tree in the centre of a clearing. Freshly fallen snow covers the circle in deep undisturbed drifts, but closer to the tree are footprints. These aren’t animal prints—they are very definite heavy boot prints, and they circle the tree several times over, as if someone had been pacing.
“Nobody get any closer just yet,” Thad says. “I just want to check something.”
We watch as he jogs around the outer edge of the clearing, disappearing momentarily behind the Hollow, then reappearing at the other side.
“Oh my gosh!” Haru exclaims, whipping out his phone and starting another Instagram reel.
“That’s quite clearly fake,” Mrs Taylor-Jones scoffs. “That John fellow could’ve come out here and made them before we arrived.”
“Actually, John doesn’t venture this far from the house,” I tell her as I eye the strange footprints.
“You’re missing the point,” Thad says as he jogs back to us.
“What point is that?” Ans asks eagerly.
“The Hollow is sitting right in the middle of the clearing and the footprints circle it,” he says thoughtfully as he watches Kem walking the circumference of the Hollow and filming.
“So?” Mrs Taylor-Jones frowns.
“So there are no footprints leading to or from it,” he explains. Kem rejoins the group but keeps filming the hollowed-out tree. “Where did whoever made those footprints come from and where did they disappear to?”
There’s a heavy silence as everyone ponders Thad’s ominous words.
I don’t need to ponder anything though. I’m pretty sure I know exactly who, or rather what, made those impressions in the snow. But then again, I have an advantage. I know that ghosts are real. Just as I know none of our ghosts would have ventured out here to make them, not after last night.