Haunted

By Nhys Glover

Old attics intrigue Maddie Wright. They offer rare glimpses into the lives of people from the past. So, when her cousin Byron invites her to spend the summer at the 18th Century English manor house he's just inherited, she has no choice but to accept. But when dark family secrets of religious fanaticism, torture and murder are revealed, Maddie realizes she's bitten off more than she can chew.  Not only must she risk her life and her heart to help a damaged man gain his birthright, but she must also survive the heartbreak that will surely come from loving Demon, a beautiful, tortured soul, who believes he has a terrible destiny to fulfill.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belisama Press
• Release date: Nov 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223883586

Nhys Glover

After a lifetime of teaching others to appreciate the written word, Aussie author Nhys Glover finally decided to make the most of the Indie Book Revolution to get her own written word out to the world. Now, with more than a quarter million of her ebooks downloaded internationally and a winner of an SFR Galaxy Award for 'The Titan Drowns', Nhys finds her words, too, are being appreciated. At home in beautiful Durham County England, Nhys these days spends her time "living the dream" by looking out over the moors as she writes the kind of novels she loves to read.

Book preview

OTHER BOOKS BY NHYS GLOVER

ANCIENT ROMAN HISTORICAL ROMANCES:

Liquid Fire

The Barbarian's Mistress

Lionslayer's Woman (Sequel to Liquid Fire)

White Raven's Lover (Sequel to Barbarian's Mistress)

The Gladiator's Bride (Sequel to White Raven's Lover)

WEREWOLF KEEP TRILOGY:

Guardian of Werewolf Keep

Imprisoned at Werewolf Keep

Defiance at Werewolf Keep

Insane (A novella)

NEW ATLANTIS TIME TRAVEL SERIES:

Nine Lives (Cara/Jac)

The Dreamer's Prince (Jane/Julio)

Savage (Faith/ Luke)

Shared Soul (Maggie/Travis)

Bitter Oath (Liv/ Rene)

The Titan Drowns (Eilish/Max, Karl/Lizzie, Pia/Marco)

The Key (Kat/Bart)

Pieces (Krista/Dirk)

Second Chance (Bree/Hakon)

Watcher (Jin/Rafe)

Vision of You (Ellen/Duke)

Osiris (Takhara/Dan)

Causality (Willow/Jarvidh)

Gods of Time (Teagan/Jason, Lucien/Alba)

Book of Seeds (Shay/Cy)

Echoes of You (Josie/Chen)

Breathe (Meg/Rico)

SCORPIO SONS SF/SHIFTER ROMANCE SERIES:

1: Colton  2: Connor  3: Cooper  4: Chase

5: Cameron  6: Caleb  7: Conrad  8: Charles

GREYWORLD SWEET PARANORMAL ROMANCE

Your World or Mine?

Her World or Ours?

Their Worlds Collide

His World on Repeat

REVERSE HAREM ADVENTURES:

THE AIRLUDS TRILOGY:

The Sacrifice

The Chosen One

Goddess Unbound

THE AIRSHAN CHRONICLES

The Five

Daemon

The Devourer

GLADIATOR

1. Typhon  2.Asterius  3. Talos  4.Orion  5.Marcus

THE DANANS

Captive

Escape

Reunion

Outliers

Gift

Shattered

Stolen

PROTECTORS

Sand, Stone & Steel

Ice, Shard & Smoke

Blade, Hilt & Amphion

Galaxeans

Shadow

ALFIE WIMPLE TRILOGY (Paranormal Romantic Comedy)

Sticks and Standing Stones Can Break my Bones

But Ferrets Can Never Hurt Me

Dragons, On the Other Hand...

MINERVA’S MYSTERIES (Cozy Mysteries)

The Lost Child

The Missing Party-Girl

The Troubled Man

OTHERS:

The Way Home (Ghost Romance)

Caught in a Dream (SF Sweet Romance)

Labyrinth of Light (New Age Inspirational)

For Love of Liam (A Sweet Romanic Comedy)

Haunted (A sweetish Romantic Mystery)

Return to Me (New Age Healing Romance)

Find out more about Nhys and her books here:

www.nhys-glover.com

1

DEMON

The scrunch of tires on gravel was nothing new to me, so I barely registered it at first. It wasn’t until the sound stopped suddenly that I realized what I’d heard. Someone had driven up to the front of the house and parked there. No one ever did that. It was... strange and oddly wrong.

Dropping my book to the floor beside my mattress, I jumped to my feet and flew up the steep flight of wooden stairs that led to the attic. Here there was a window that looked down over the front of the manor. The dormer-window was filthy and the glass thick and rippled, but it gave me what I sought: the answer to my question.

A small red car sat outside. I had no idea what sort it was, as I have no knowledge of such things, but I did know it was expensive and new. To me, the sleek lines and shiny enamel shrieked money. Was it a sports car? It didn’t appear to be a convertible.

As I pondered the vehicle, a man and woman stepped out of it. My heart sped up in my chest so fast I felt instantly sick. Visitors. No one ever visited Langford Manor anymore. Not since the master died. Only the staff that maintained the property entered the gated and walled estate, and they always drove around the back and parked there, out of sight.

So, who were these strangers and how had they gained entry?

I felt violated and invaded. My anxiety, which I’d worked long years to control, blossomed inside me like a weed. What did these people want and how had they managed to get past the state-of-the art security system at the gate? I’d heard the master talking about it when he’d first had it installed. Maybe it no longer did its job. Maybe it had grown old, over time—out-dated—and now it had failed when these invaders had attempted entry.

Studying the man, I tried to get a sense of him. It was difficult from a distance and from this angle. Usually, I needed to be in the same room as a person to determine his or her essence.

He was a tall, slim man in his mid-twenties, if I had to guess. His short, sandy-blonde hair was a riot of curls but already beginning to recede. Yet it didn’t detract from his aquiline good looks. His was the face and physique of a scholar. For that reason, I should have found him unthreatening. However, the very fact that he was parked outside the front entrance to Langford Manor, my home, the place in which I had existed for as long as I could remember, made him a threat.

As he gesticulated with wide, windmill motions of his gangling arms, I studied his clothing for more clues to his identity and purpose. He was no workman, not dressed in a button-down shirt and dress pants. Such clothing appeared both informal and overdressed at the same time. Was it because they seemed expensive, even from this distance?

I turned my attention to his companion and audience. The woman’s hair was more honey blonde and she wore it in a long, casual pony tail down her back. She was tall and slim like the man, but appeared a little younger. I was no good at judging age, though, so I was probably wrong. Like with cars, I was ignorant of the details others could so easily deduce about each other.

The woman was pretty, I could tell that much, with her fine-boned features and large eyes. Her wide mouth was pulled into an amused smile as she glanced backwards and forwards between the manor and her companion. It was an indulgent smile, as if whatever the man was saying, or the way he was saying it, entertained her.

Though she was dressed in jeans and blue tee-shirt, she didn’t look masculine. There was a natural grace about the way she moved that could only be labeled feminine. I sensed it wasn’t trained into her, as women of the upper-classes were trained for grace and deportment. Her grace seemed second-nature, pure and fluid. And because of its very innateness, that femininity called to something base and terrible within me.

My instinctual reaction to her therefore made her far more of a threat to me than her companion.

The sound of an approaching car drew my attention away from the couple. It was Mrs. Cuthbert’s silver mini. I could at least recognize that kind of vehicle. Cam had been excited when his mother bought it. And its compact and sturdy design seemed to reflect the middle-aged woman well.

Mrs. Cuthbert had been housekeeper at Langford Manor for twenty years, taking over from her mother when she retired. As her mother had taken over from her mother. Though being in service was no longer common, it was a tradition Mrs. Cuthbert’s family still took very seriously. The manor was hers to protect and maintain. Though her duties had become limited since the master’s passing, she still took her job very seriously, as if she expected the new owners to descend upon the place at any tick of the clock, and she didn’t want to be seen as less than the impeccable housekeeper her mother had once been.

That thought struck a nerve. Could this couple be the new owners? I’d given up years ago worrying someone would come to claim the house. Cam had said some American had inherited the place, but he was too busy to visit. At the time, I’d seen it as wasteful to leave such a large and well-cared for property empty, but I wouldn’t complain. It had made life easier for me.

The short, stout housekeeper climbed out of her blocky little car and approached the invaders. I expected her to assume her fierce, protective posture, ready to send these intruders away with a flea in their ear. Instead, she seemed nervous as she forced a sunny, welcoming smile onto her face and shook each person’s hand in turn. For a moment, the three people talked, probably exchanging pleasantries, before Mrs. Cuthbert did the unthinkable.

The guardian of Langford Manor led the couple up the stone stairs to the large, oak front door.

No, she couldn’t be bringing them inside through the front door! That meant they were important guests. My last hope fled that they were tourists who’d somehow gotten past the security system by accident. As did the idea that they were simply misguided decorators or contractors being brought in to carry out some maintenance task. Mrs. Cuthbert would have told them to meet her at the rear, the entrance she always used, if that were the case.

My anxiety escalated. Who were these people and what would their presence in Langford Manor mean to me? My quiet, safe seclusion was suddenly in jeopardy, and I had no idea what to do about it.

There had been many times in my life when I had felt helpless and alone. This might turn out to be far worse than even those nightmare periods. It was the not knowing that always got to me the most. The waiting and not knowing; the wondering about what terrible thing I might do to some unsuspecting Innocent who came my way.

If these intruders stayed, they would be in terrible danger. And this time that danger might reveal me to the world.

The thought horrified me.

2

MADISON

It was good to finally be out of the luxurious sardine can that passed for a sports car. My body felt like a pretzel, after being crammed into the passenger seat, creamy leather notwithstanding, for six long hours. Especially after being squashed into an airplane seat in Economy for the eight hours before that. The drive up from Heathrow should have been fast, though. Byron had said as much when he insisted we leave for the North straight from the airport, after picking me up. So, after determining from Google Maps that there were only two hundred miles between London and North Yorkshire and the time it should take, I’d agreed. Would I never learn?

The highways—no, motorways—certainly speeded up the journey, but once we got off them the trip really slowed down. Of course, the scenery made up for the delays. The moors were everything I’d imagined they’d be and more. Like I was in the highlands of Scotland or something. For an American city girl, the view out the car windows had been uniquely breathtaking.

But Sat. Nav. had let us down somewhere along the way, and when we ended up being directed into someone’s muddy farmyard, I’d begun to wonder if we’d ever reach our destination.

My cousin, Byron, had been so confident he could get us where we needed to be in good time. But that was Byron. Even as a kid he’d been cocky and over-confident. When I’d spent summers at his parent’s place in the Hamptons, he’d brag about how far he could swim, how deep he could dive, how high he could climb in the big oak tree on his property. Mostly, he had to be rescued, because Byron had never been physically up to the challenges his mind had so confidently set him.

It always seemed to me that he permanently lived in a fantasy-world where he was Harry Potter or Ender, or some other childhood hero. He just expected to be able to do the things those characters did. And when he failed, instead of bringing him back to earth, it simply had him brushing the incident off as an aberration and moving on to the next grand adventure.

So, when Byron emailed me that he’d finally come into his English inheritance, a Stately Home in the Yorkshire Dales, I was just a little bit suspicious. Yeah, his family had always had money, lots of it, so it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he’d inherited something from some rich family member in England. He’d inherited most of his dad’s money when he was eleven; it therefore only made sense that an uncle, who had outlived his own son, would leave him properties as well. Money kept money in the family.

But it had all sounded too whimsical. Like when Harry Potter discovers he’s from a magical line of magicians and goes off to train at Hogwarts. Owning an eighteenth century manor house in England just sounded too OTT for my liking. Surely Byron had embellished the truth, yet again. I was certain it would turn out to be a pile of rubble not fit for habitation, especially after sitting empty for fourteen years.

I was not a dreamer. Even as a kid, I’d never mistaken fantasy for the real world. Having parents who had to scrape to keep a roof over our heads could do that to a girl. And the fact that my mom’s younger sister had married an old man for his money, and enjoyed lording it over us by inviting us to visit one or other of her expensive homes whenever possible, only served to grind me more firmly into gritty reality.

I was no Cinderella. My rags never turned to riches. I’d worked two jobs to pay my way through college and chosen teaching because it would, at least, give me a steady, if unimpressive, income.

Byron, on the other hand, had become a professional student. With all the money he could ever want, he’d indulged his every whim. And Byron’s whims included studying obscure academic subjects at prestigious Universities around the world. Currently, he was completing post-grad studies in micro-biology at Oxford.

To say I resented his freedom and problem-free lifestyle was a given. Though I know it made me petty, I couldn’t help comparing his life to mine. Byron had never had to work a day of his life—I didn’t count studying because that was more of a hobby he lazily pottered with—while I seemed to have done nothing else but slave away for as long as I could remember. Even vacations with Byron felt like work. I was the unpaid companion to a kid no one else could stand.

When I was ten Dad got laid off from his job at the mill. I asked Mom why she didn’t ask her sister for help to pay our stack of bills. Mom had looked ashamed.

Our Momma taught us to make our own way in the world, never asking for help, or offering it, she explained painfully. Your Aunt Linda can’t see past that. She thinks that, because I married for love, I made my bed and have to sleep in it. And of course I wouldn’t exchange your Daddy for someone like James Horton for all the money in the world. Her hollow eyes had looked anywhere but at me while she forced a smile onto her face. But she gives us vacations, doesn’t she? What other kid at your school gets to go to the Hamptons for summer vacation?

I soon realized that Aunt Linda wasn’t being kind when she invited me to stay over summer as a playmate for Byron. Just as I realized that I didn’t appreciate all the luxury and good food I was given during those times, because being treated like the poor relative turned gourmet steak to sawdust in my mouth and 1500 thread count bed-linen into abrasive potato sacks. Yet it was habitual, accepting vacation opportunities from Linda, and later, Byron. It was as habitual and obligatory as taking a fast shower before the hot water ran out or making your bed.

This year I let him pay for my flight to England, even though I would’ve been better off taking a summer job to help pay for the new second-hand car I needed to replace my old clunker. But when Byron offered me a month staying in a place Jane Austin might have visited, it was too hard to pass up. Okay, so Yorkshire was not quite Austin country, but England was England. It was such a little place; the counties couldn’t be that different from each other, could they? And who wouldn’t want to experience life as it might have been lived back in the seventeen hundreds? If the place actually existed, that is.

If that makes me sound like a dreamer, or a hypocrite for complaining about Byron, I will admit to it. Maybe it’s more accurate to say I’m a realist out of necessity, rather than by choice. Somewhere, buried deep inside me, is the girl who wanted to be Hermione Granger almost as much as Byron secretly saw himself as Harry Potter. And if I lost out financially from the experience... well, maybe on some level or other I must consider it worth the risk. I’d stop taking vacation hand-outs if I really wanted to, wouldn’t I? Byron wasn’t twisting my arm.

And even though a big part of me had doubted the reality of Langford Manor in North Yorkshire, I’d given up the hope of a reliable car for the possibility that it could be as Byron described it, and I could experience it for a few idyllic weeks before returning to the drudgery of my real life. Did that make me like my Mom, marrying for possibility of love rather than practicality of money? The thought made the pragmatist in me shudder.

But driving up the private road to the front of the three storied Georgian structure had made all my doubts disappear. Langford Manor did exist, and it was just as picturesque and grand as Byron had led me to believe. It even had a wall all the way around the property and a huge wrought-iron gate that had stayed ominously closed until Byron entered a code in the panel on the wall.

Now, as I stood listening to my cousin wax lyrical about all the property’s features, I felt a budding sense of excitement. Maybe this was really going to be the kind of adventure Byron had always promised and never made good on. Maybe this month might become a gem I could hold in my memory forever, sighing in wonder whenever I remembered it.

Byron spun his arms around him like a windmill, to indicate the size of the place. There are sixteen bedrooms, Maddie. Sixteen! And ten acres of carefully tended gardens within the wall. I can just imagine how the guys back home’d freak. Isn’t it amazing?! His upper-class Boston accent sounded English to my ears, and I could quite imagine him as the Lord of the Manor. The thought of him in a white wig and silk pantaloons made me smile.

At the sound of another vehicle approaching, I turned to see a silver mini minor trundling towards us down the long gravel drive. The small rotund woman who stepped out of it looked flustered and nervous.

I’m Jessica Cuthbert, the housekeeper here at Langford Manor. Are you Mr. Horton? I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow. Though her words sounded like a slap on the wrist, her tone was obsequious. Did she think Byron would sack her, if things weren’t perfect?

Byron grinned brightly and offered the middle-aged woman his hand. Yes, I’m Byron Horton and this is my cousin Madison Wright. She’s another American, I’m afraid, just visiting for the summer. I wanted to show her my inheritance.

Mrs. Cuthbert shook my hand firmly before turning for the front door. Well then, come along inside. I’ll show you around and see what I can do about tea. There should be enough in the pantry to put something together. I did plan on shopping tomorrow morning, before your arrival. For fresh produce, you know.

I wanted to apologize for putting her schedule out, but it wasn’t my place to do so. Byron was the one who had made the arrangements. If he’d told her we were coming tomorrow, then it was his mistake. But then, Byron never admitted to mistakes. Never had to. That’s what money did for a person.

As I told you on the phone, sir, I will endeavor to make your stay as comfortable as possible. But I don’t recommend staying long. The house... well, the house can put a person off, if you get my drift. It’s been empty a long time. Since your uncle died fourteen years ago, in fact. Even before his death it wasn’t a good place to stay. I consider myself lucky to live in the dowager house rather than on-site.

We had entered the main foyer, and although the summer afternoon was warm and sunny, inside the air was cold and a little dank. I was used to Byron’s Hampton mansion, with its wall-to-wall carpet and air-conditioning. Here, the tiled floor was hard and unyielding underfoot, for all it was a beautifully crafted, intricate design of black and white squares, and there was obviously no temperature control.

A curved staircase led to the upper floors, its banister of ornately turned dark wood polished to perfection. The walls were covered by a dark wallpaper, the actual color hard to determine in the gloom. Above us hung a heavy chandelier, which probably glistened like rainbows when lit, but in the darkness looked... sad, like a beautifully gowned debutant wallflower.

Was the odd chill in the air what put people off? I’d heard that some really old houses in England could be drafty and hard to keep warm, even in the middle of summer.

You’re talking about the ghosts, aren’t you? There’s nothing I like more than a good ghost hunt! Byron rubbed his hands together, his eyes shining with excitement. He was like a little boy who’d just been told Santa was on his way down the chimney.

I didn’t believe in ghosts, but I could well believe Byron did. But he should have warned me about what I was getting into. Things that go bump in the night could be quite disconcerting, even if they were totally natural in origin.

Do they rattle chains and moan? Byron went on, ignoring my reaction.

Well, no. It’s no castle with dungeons and such, after all. It’s more floor boards creaking and things going missing. You put some’ut down and next time you look it’s gone or moved. Doors open and close on their own, too. It can be... disconcerting.

Mrs. Cuthbert looked over her shoulder up the staircase, as if she expected a ghost to appear on the upper floor at any moment.

I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. Shrugging it off, I laughed.

Very inconsiderate ghosts, from the sound of them. Maybe we should have an exorcism to get rid of them. Do they say who the ghosts are? Not your uncle, I hope, Byron, I said lightly, downplaying my growing discomfort.

In the shadowy foyer, lit only by light coming in through the windows on either side of the front door, I felt as if I was being watched. The hair on the back of my neck rose in response.

Oh, no. The Master has surely moved on. The ghosts are much older. Some say they were here even before the Hortons bought the place from the Langfords. The Langfords were local landed gentry who fell on hard times and had to sell, you know. The rash of new industrialists were buying up everything in the area at the time. The Hortons owned wool and cotton mills in Bradford. And like many rich men of the time, Henry Horton wanted his family to have cleaner air and a country lifestyle. So he moved them out here and rode the train to work every day from Ilkley.

Cotton mills? I think I remember reading about those. People suffocated, breathing in the airborne fragments, didn’t they? And the mill owners didn’t care, I said, turning to take in the dower portrait of a Victorian man, who seemed to be looking down on me from the dark wall.

Aye, not a good life. Glad those times are behind us, Mrs.