The House of Goodbyes: A Spooky Tale.

The Hardwicke House, as it is known locally, is a sorry looking sight, slowly decaying, and rumoured to be haunted by the ghost of its former owner Leslie Hardwicke. The legend has it that one rainy night on the 31st of October, 1934 Leslie descended into madness, after his flighty wife left him for her Italian lover. The old house’s walls echo with whispers of “Goodbye–goodbye!” followed by high pitched laughter. However, it has to be said, these rumours began after a group of hippies in 1969, when squatting there, heard said whispers and laughter. Older folk in the village, when they heard about it, just rolled their eyes, and remarked that all the strange cigarettes the hippies smoked probably had a lot to do with the ghostly manifestations. Sixteen years have passed since the hippies left The Hardwicke House, and few people have dared to venture inside since. The last to do so was an odd old woman, who strangely disappeared after being seen climbing through one of the windows by the postman.

“How do you like it so far?”

He handed her back the piece of paper. “Not bad. Are you planning to take them inside? The place looks like it might fall down any minute!”

“Oh it’s fine! The roof is still on and there aren’t any big holes in the floorboards.”

“Hmm! You little daredevil you! Well, I wish you luck with your ghost tour. Sorry I can’t come, can’t get away from the hospital.”

“Never mind, doctor mine. I can always arrange a special tour just for you,” she smiled.

Leslie is in the bedroom putting on his shoes, when he hears laughter coming from the hall downstairs. No, it can’t be!

Excitedly he peers over the bannister. “Lola! Is that you?” Silence. The house feels like it is holding its breath. He hurries down the stairs calling her name, going from room to room, but the house is empty.

He rubs the back of his neck. I must’ve drank too much of that whisky last night.

It’s been just over a week since Lola left. He plays that night over and over in his mind.

“But- but why?” he asked, his voice shaking with shock, whilst Lola packed her suitcases. “I thought you were happy— we were happy!”

“I just got bored is all,” she drawled. “I’m goin’ back to New York with Mario.”

He stood there helplessly whilst she snapped the suitcases shut.

“Goodbye!” she trilled, pushing past him and hurrying downstairs, her heels click clicking on the wood, like a frantic woodpecker.

The front door slammed shut, and she was gone.

He told his friends that Lola was visiting family, and would be gone for a while. He knew deep down that Lola would never leave him, that she’d be back soon. The strange old woman who knocked on his door a few weeks after Lola left had told him so.

Lost and soaked through from the heavy downpour, he felt sorry for her when she asked to use his telephone.

“Sorry, I haven’t paid the bill,” he said sheepishly, “but come in and get dry by the fire. I’ll make us some cocoa.”

Seated by the fire, the old woman squinted at him through her spectacles.

“I see a golden haired lassie walking down yon stairs,” she suddenly said in her funny accent, which he couldn’t quite place. She waved a knobbly finger in the air. “But she will be back! Oh yes, she will return.”

He stared at her. “What do you know about her? Who told you?”

The old woman tapped her head. “Nobody told me lad. I knows things. I just knows.”

“I’m not certain I want her back, to be honest–” began Leslie, not wanting to appear like a sap, but inside his heart beat faster.

“But she will be back nevertheless,” interjected the old woman.

She rose from the armchair. “Thank ye for the cocoa. Here-” She reached in her pocket and held out a silver coin.

“Oh dear me no, no need to pay me!” Leslie exclaimed.

The old woman let out a croaky laugh. “Nay, ’tis not payment, but a lucky coin for ye!”

“Oh I see,” Leslie decided to humour the funny old woman, and took the coin and was about to put it on the table, when she waved her knobbly finger at him. “No lad, keep it in yer pocket, all the time. For the good luck then will be on ye.”

“Oh I see, right you are,” Leslie replied and put it in his trouser pocket. He stood by the fire, tapping his pipe on his leg. “Look, I cannot let you go out in such dreadful weather– would you like to stay the night?”

The old woman looked at him, and a look of horror flickered momentarily on her face. “No sir! Thankee but I could not stay here.“

Bemused, he thought to himself but she is so old, surely she cannot think-

“My intentions are entirely honourable,” he stated lamely.

The old woman looked at him as if he was crazed. “I am ninety years old. And I must be on me way now.”

“Will you be alright? Where will you go?” Leslie asked. “Do you need a map?”

“A map? Why would I need a map lad? I knows this village like the back of me old hand.”

“Right you are, “Leslie said, thinking she must be a little confused. Oh well, nothing much I can do about that.

Later that night his head hurt and Lola haunted his dreams. The old woman appeared and waved her finger at her blonde head and she vanished.

The weeks pass and the house remains quiet, but with a queer atmosphere like it is waiting for something, or perhaps someone.

Leslie is uneasy and invites his friends from the office over several times a week for drinks after work, so he has some company. He mentions the curious old woman, but none of them have the faintest idea who she is. They bring over their gramophone records and the house feels brighter for a few hours, but once they are gone the same eerie feeling returns.

One night Leslie is seeing the last of his guests to the door.

“See you at the office on Monday old chap, keep your chin up!” With that his guest steps out into the dark cold night. Leslie shuts the door.

Goodbye- goodbye!

He whirls around. “Who- who’s there?” His voice quivers. Silence. From the sitting room the gramophone clicks on and begins to play a record; one that he recognises as one of Lola’s favourites. How can she be haunting me? She isn’t dead!

Leslie dashes to the front door and runs down the road, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He runs and runs, not looking where he is going and collides with a constable on his beat, who takes great offense and hauls him down to the station, and books him for being drunk and disorderly.

I should’ve kept that coin in my pocket, Leslie sits with his head in his hands in a cell with a dirty old tramp who keeps singing some old folk song over and over.

The Sergeant comes to the cell. “Pipe down if you know what’s good for you!” he shouts at the tramp.

He unlocks the cell and orders Leslie to come with him. “I do apologise for the mistake sir,” he says and lets Leslie go after explaining that Constable Hubbert is new on the job and rather overzealous.

Out on the street Leslie slowly walks back to his house with trepidation. He decides that if anything else should happen tonight he will face it like a man and demand an explanation. The house feels warmer than when he left it, despite the fire having gone out hours ago. As he gets undressed for bed something shiny falls to the floor with a tinkling sound. The silver coin! So I did have it after all! Then he remembers that he had spilt mustard down his grey pair at tea time and had changed into a black pair afterwards.

As he bends down to retrieve the coin it falls into a gap in the floorboards. He tries in vain to pull it out but it vanishes into the dark slot. Oh why didn’t I have that repaired? he reproaches himself. He decides to have a handy man come over in the morning and pull up the floorboard, then feels foolish. Fancy believing that queer old woman!

He is woken in the middle of the night by a faint sobbing. Then a white mist appears over the end of his bed and the outline of a woman starts to form. He yells and pulls the cover over his head.

“Leslie– Leslie –”

He peers over the blankets. “L-Lola?”

There she is sitting at the end of his bed, dressed in an expensive evening gown. “Oh Leslie, Leslie–” she cries. “Mario he done me wrong. He’s no good! I’ve come back Leslie. I’ll never leave you again, I promise. Oh forgive me-“

Leslie flings the blankets aside and dashes to the bathroom and locks the door.

The ghost tour was going well. The Hardwicke House was full of creaky creepiness and, according to one person there were voices whispering in one of the bedrooms, whilst another claimed he saw the face of an old woman at one of the windows when they were going inside, but the windows were so cracked and dirty it was easy to imagine seeing a face in the dim light.

“So do you believe this house is really haunted then?” a young man aged about eighteen with a blond mullet asked the Ghost Tour leader, as they were making their way from looking around the bedrooms and going back downstairs.

“No,” she laughed, “But it’s fun though!” And made me a few quid too. But she kept that to herself.

“Hey did you hear that?” Mullet Boy said. “Sounds like a crackling sound- oh-listen!”

From downstairs they heard the scratchy sound of an old record playing. They all rushed down the staircase.

“In here!” shouted one of the men.

They all crowded into the former sitting room of Leslie Hardwicke, and saw a shellac record spinning round on the old gramophone.

“Was that you?” they asked each other. Nobody owned up to putting on the gramophone record.

Click on the above to go to YouTube to see the Gramophone play the eerie song : This House Is Haunted, by Roy Fox and his band.