The Ghost House by Helen Phifer

Christmas, which added to the ten others he had in his wardrobe. He took it out and rolled it across the bed until the knife appeared and he inhaled sharply. The long thin blade was covered in flecks of dark brown, dried blood.
    It was a very old knife and he knew that by the worn, cracked wooden handle. It was hard to imagine this knife ever being used for anything other than to cut and slice pure white skin with such delicacy. He poked around in the small zip pocket at the front of the bag and felt the gold rope chain between his fingers. He pulled it out and held it up to the light. He had tugged it from Jenna’s neck just before he sliced her throat open: his little piece of her.
    He retrieved the tin box from the shelf and took out the photographs. They were mainly pictures of the servants but there was one photograph of Lord and Lady Heaton and their son Edward. It was this one that fascinated him so much; he was drawn towards Edward and had spent hours staring at him. He looked so aloof; there was quite a distance between him and his parents. There was something so compelling about him that he had begun to haunt his dreams.
    That first time he had looked at the photographs he had recognised the huge house behind them and he knew he had to find out more about this man. He had spent a very enjoyable afternoon in the library going through the archives, researching the family, and all the time he had felt as if there was some bond between him and Edward, a bond that was growing stronger.
    He knew that he had to find a way to open one of the doors to the house and go inside so he had gone there one wet, miserable morning when he knew there wouldn’t be so many dog walkers around. He walked the perimeter of the building trying every door and had felt like crying when they were all locked up tight. He then began to wonder if the owners had ever left a spare key like his mother did: she left hers under a plant pot. He began to check the area, any plant pots and planters had long gone but around the back, near to a small door, was an overgrown rockery. He had spent the next ten minutes sweating and lifting up stones and rocks and had gasped when he saw a rusty piece of metal almost buried under one of them, the very tip sticking out. He brushed away the woodlice, dug his fingers into the moist soil and pulled out a rusted old key. He didn’t dare breathe in case it was too good to be true.
    Wiping the key along his trouser leg he walked over to the door and put it into the lock, the pleasure he felt when the key turned was indescribable. He was meant to be here. There was a reason he bought that tin box: he felt connected to Edward Heaton more than he ever felt connected to anyone in his entire life.
    I’m sitting on an absolute fortune, some idiot would pay thousands for this knife
. But he wouldn’t part with it now for anything or any amount of money because it was a part of him and he still had so much work to do, work that he knew had never been finished over a hundred years ago. He wrapped it back up and hid the bag at the back of the wardrobe, pulling a blanket on top of it because if his mother found it she would phone the police in seconds. That he was her son wouldn’t matter; there would be no loyalty. Then he kissed the gold chain and placed it into his tin box next to the picture of Edward and put it back on the shelf. He needed to play it cool for now, wait until all the fuss had died down. He knew it would take a while because missing girls were big news in this small town.
    He sat down in his armchair and looked out of the bedroom window that faced onto the busy front street. He liked to watch the people going in and out of the newsagents across the road. There would be a steady flow of traffic until about seven o’clock and then it would slow to a trickle and become peaceful. If only they all knew that he was watching them and that, should he decide to do something about it, they would well and truly