Prologue
A pair of booted feet heavily paced the cold stone hall leading into the main part of the house. They would march a few feet up the hall, take a quick military like turn and parade back down the hall. They stopped completely for a minute as another pair of boots stepped through a door and the owners of the boots spoke together. The latter pair then left the house and the former, more worn pair traveled up the stairs and down another hall and stopped briefly before another door.
Edgar Stoorchester walked into his fiancé’s room and bowed at the waist. His betrothed lay in her bed, a thick quilt covered her weak frame; she coughed thickly into a bloodied handkerchief.
“The doctor says I might not live through the week, due to advanced tuberculosis,” she said after her coughing fit had passed. She laid the bloody handkerchief on the bedside table and took a small sip of water.
“Dearest,” the man said, taking her hand, seemingly ignoring her comment, “Have you given thought to the contract I spoke to you of last week?”
“Yes,” she said feebly, “I have it all ready written and the witnesses have signed. Would you like to read it over?”
The man nodded his head gently, “If you wish it.” A barely perceptible smile grew on his lips as Caoimhe bent over on the other side of the bed to retrieve the contract from the dresser drawer, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. Caoimhe handed it to Edgar who took it tenderly from her hands. He unfolded it and read the words keenly. Caoimhe coughed a little as he folded the paper back up.
“As I’m sure you read,” she said quietly, “I’m giving most of my property to you. I thought that maybe, since all of my relatives are deceased, that you would be the most reliable person to give it to, since you would be my husband if I could but live a few but a more months.”
“Indeed,” he nodded, “I am most honoured by your never ending generosity.” As the young woman looked away briefly, his eyes flashes avarice, but they resumed their kind and caring way as she smiled at him. There was silence for many minutes as Caoimhe absentmindedly petted her cat, a Blue Angel, Precious Luna. The cat purred soothingly as her mistress stroked her silky grey fur.
Edgar seemed to twitch with anxiety as the silence wore on, whilst Caoimhe seemed to be enjoying every moment of it. His eyes darted from Caoimhe’s face, to the many pictures on the walls, to the one window that looked over a pond and Scottish countryside, towards the door, and at the cat. He nearly jumped out of his chair when one of the maids came in and set a tray of tea upon a table. He motioned for the maid to go ahead and leave, and she did so. He took the two tea cups and set them upon their platters, and poured the steaming tea into them.
“The physician, on the way out, gave me a medicine that will help your cough,” he said, and he poured a vile of dark liquid into one of the cups. He handed the cup with the medicine in it to the young woman and she sipped from it, “It tastes different,” she said, “It has a most bitter taste.”
“It’s the medicine, dear,” he said, “The physician ordered me to put it in your tea this afternoon. I’m sorry that it tastes unpleasant; it cannot be helped.” He took a sip from his own cup and watched her drink from her own.
The red headed girl quickly placed a hand to her forehead and didn’t realize that she had dropped her cup and the rest of its contents had spilled onto her night shift and the quilt. The man just grinned. “What’s wrong?” he asked, seemingly not worried.
“My head…it hurts…” she cried, “It hurts…” she looked up at him, a tear sliding down her face, from the pain. “Help me…” she gasped before another coughing fit shook her all ready fragile body. Precious Luna darted under the bureau on the other side of the room; she hissed angrily at the man as he walked around the room.
“Help you?” Edgar sneered, “and risk you living another month? Or year? Or God forbid longer.”
“What? What do you mean?” she said in between coughs, her forehead was furrowed in confusion.
“My dear girl,” the man said, nearly laughing, “You don’t think I wanted you to die an easy death in a week when I could seize a rich woman’s property legally here and now and watch smiling as you suffer a cruel and merciless death.”
“But why?” blood had smeared onto her thin, pale face as she coughed the blood up from her lungs.
“Why? Because, I’ll take what I can get in a world that is cruel to those who desire power and glory, and kind to the humble of heart. Why should you, who wished to give away her money to the poor, be the owner of this estate, and me, who wishes to become famous for my power and money, be cramped in a small apartment in London?”
“But…” she cried, holding her handkerchief in one hand, and her aching head in the other, “I thought…that you…”
“Well, you thought wrong,” he said strongly, picking up her cup which had fallen into her lap. “It’s amazing how fast this poison works, isn’t it?” he began to examine the now empty cup. “The juice from the berries of Baneberry mixed with Monkshood…of course, it did get watered down from the tea, but really, the tea just helps it go down easier.”
Caoimhe had begun to curl up in a fetus position, coughs racked her brittle body, and tears from so much pain began to flow down her cheeks. “I suspect you respiratory system should be failing, at about now,” he grinned, showing his almost pointed canines, “As well as all of your other organs in your body. Notice it’s getting harder to breath? Harder to stay awake? I told you the liquid would help you sleep,” here he laughed forebodingly, “Eternal sleep. You must come and tell me one day what it’s like to never be able to wake up.”
Caoimhe, against the odds of her failing body, lifted her head off of the bed and glared at the man standing before her, “You’re rotten,” she hissed, barely able to make her voice be heard, “You’re a greedy little snake, a coward who crawls on it’s belly! You may have succeeded in taking everything from me, but I promise you, from this moment on, I will never leave this property until your family is gone. You shall hear my suffering each night, and you shall suffer yourself. I will not rest,” she paused, wheezing in another breath, “Until you and your descendants are dead or gone from my property…” she drew in another breath, and her head dropped upon her limp arm; her body free of suffering, but her soul still restless.
The man sneered and threw the cup onto the floor, breaking it into many pieces. Her smiled as he felt for her pulse, and finding none, he called for help. The two maids came in as fast as they could, and when they saw their mistress’ flaccid form lying upon the bed, they questioned the man. He put honey on his sharpened tongue and denied that he knew what happened.
“She, all of a sudden, just crumbled into a ball and died,” he said, nothing but a single maliciously sorrowful tear did he shed for her sake, which was enough for the maids to believe that he was in sorrow for the loss. But really, he was as happy as one could be, having gained what he had been trying for, for such a long period of time.
And so the estate, through legal contract signed by witnesses, passed to Edgar Stoorchester, and he became the lord of the Rose Garden Manor, later named to Stoorchester Manor. He eventually married a wealthy woman and received a considerable dowry from her parents. They had two children: Miles Stoorchester, who later inherited the manor, and Rose later came under the name of McPherson and moved to another manor on the far side of Scotland. Their line continued to live in that house, too greedy to give up its riches, and too proud to admit they were at least, in some way, frightened of the nightly events that, soon after the Scottish heiress died, began happening.
Edgar Stoorchester walked into his fiancé’s room and bowed at the waist. His betrothed lay in her bed, a thick quilt covered her weak frame; she coughed thickly into a bloodied handkerchief.
“The doctor says I might not live through the week, due to advanced tuberculosis,” she said after her coughing fit had passed. She laid the bloody handkerchief on the bedside table and took a small sip of water.
“Dearest,” the man said, taking her hand, seemingly ignoring her comment, “Have you given thought to the contract I spoke to you of last week?”
“Yes,” she said feebly, “I have it all ready written and the witnesses have signed. Would you like to read it over?”
The man nodded his head gently, “If you wish it.” A barely perceptible smile grew on his lips as Caoimhe bent over on the other side of the bed to retrieve the contract from the dresser drawer, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. Caoimhe handed it to Edgar who took it tenderly from her hands. He unfolded it and read the words keenly. Caoimhe coughed a little as he folded the paper back up.
“As I’m sure you read,” she said quietly, “I’m giving most of my property to you. I thought that maybe, since all of my relatives are deceased, that you would be the most reliable person to give it to, since you would be my husband if I could but live a few but a more months.”
“Indeed,” he nodded, “I am most honoured by your never ending generosity.” As the young woman looked away briefly, his eyes flashes avarice, but they resumed their kind and caring way as she smiled at him. There was silence for many minutes as Caoimhe absentmindedly petted her cat, a Blue Angel, Precious Luna. The cat purred soothingly as her mistress stroked her silky grey fur.
Edgar seemed to twitch with anxiety as the silence wore on, whilst Caoimhe seemed to be enjoying every moment of it. His eyes darted from Caoimhe’s face, to the many pictures on the walls, to the one window that looked over a pond and Scottish countryside, towards the door, and at the cat. He nearly jumped out of his chair when one of the maids came in and set a tray of tea upon a table. He motioned for the maid to go ahead and leave, and she did so. He took the two tea cups and set them upon their platters, and poured the steaming tea into them.
“The physician, on the way out, gave me a medicine that will help your cough,” he said, and he poured a vile of dark liquid into one of the cups. He handed the cup with the medicine in it to the young woman and she sipped from it, “It tastes different,” she said, “It has a most bitter taste.”
“It’s the medicine, dear,” he said, “The physician ordered me to put it in your tea this afternoon. I’m sorry that it tastes unpleasant; it cannot be helped.” He took a sip from his own cup and watched her drink from her own.
The red headed girl quickly placed a hand to her forehead and didn’t realize that she had dropped her cup and the rest of its contents had spilled onto her night shift and the quilt. The man just grinned. “What’s wrong?” he asked, seemingly not worried.
“My head…it hurts…” she cried, “It hurts…” she looked up at him, a tear sliding down her face, from the pain. “Help me…” she gasped before another coughing fit shook her all ready fragile body. Precious Luna darted under the bureau on the other side of the room; she hissed angrily at the man as he walked around the room.
“Help you?” Edgar sneered, “and risk you living another month? Or year? Or God forbid longer.”
“What? What do you mean?” she said in between coughs, her forehead was furrowed in confusion.
“My dear girl,” the man said, nearly laughing, “You don’t think I wanted you to die an easy death in a week when I could seize a rich woman’s property legally here and now and watch smiling as you suffer a cruel and merciless death.”
“But why?” blood had smeared onto her thin, pale face as she coughed the blood up from her lungs.
“Why? Because, I’ll take what I can get in a world that is cruel to those who desire power and glory, and kind to the humble of heart. Why should you, who wished to give away her money to the poor, be the owner of this estate, and me, who wishes to become famous for my power and money, be cramped in a small apartment in London?”
“But…” she cried, holding her handkerchief in one hand, and her aching head in the other, “I thought…that you…”
“Well, you thought wrong,” he said strongly, picking up her cup which had fallen into her lap. “It’s amazing how fast this poison works, isn’t it?” he began to examine the now empty cup. “The juice from the berries of Baneberry mixed with Monkshood…of course, it did get watered down from the tea, but really, the tea just helps it go down easier.”
Caoimhe had begun to curl up in a fetus position, coughs racked her brittle body, and tears from so much pain began to flow down her cheeks. “I suspect you respiratory system should be failing, at about now,” he grinned, showing his almost pointed canines, “As well as all of your other organs in your body. Notice it’s getting harder to breath? Harder to stay awake? I told you the liquid would help you sleep,” here he laughed forebodingly, “Eternal sleep. You must come and tell me one day what it’s like to never be able to wake up.”
Caoimhe, against the odds of her failing body, lifted her head off of the bed and glared at the man standing before her, “You’re rotten,” she hissed, barely able to make her voice be heard, “You’re a greedy little snake, a coward who crawls on it’s belly! You may have succeeded in taking everything from me, but I promise you, from this moment on, I will never leave this property until your family is gone. You shall hear my suffering each night, and you shall suffer yourself. I will not rest,” she paused, wheezing in another breath, “Until you and your descendants are dead or gone from my property…” she drew in another breath, and her head dropped upon her limp arm; her body free of suffering, but her soul still restless.
The man sneered and threw the cup onto the floor, breaking it into many pieces. Her smiled as he felt for her pulse, and finding none, he called for help. The two maids came in as fast as they could, and when they saw their mistress’ flaccid form lying upon the bed, they questioned the man. He put honey on his sharpened tongue and denied that he knew what happened.
“She, all of a sudden, just crumbled into a ball and died,” he said, nothing but a single maliciously sorrowful tear did he shed for her sake, which was enough for the maids to believe that he was in sorrow for the loss. But really, he was as happy as one could be, having gained what he had been trying for, for such a long period of time.
And so the estate, through legal contract signed by witnesses, passed to Edgar Stoorchester, and he became the lord of the Rose Garden Manor, later named to Stoorchester Manor. He eventually married a wealthy woman and received a considerable dowry from her parents. They had two children: Miles Stoorchester, who later inherited the manor, and Rose later came under the name of McPherson and moved to another manor on the far side of Scotland. Their line continued to live in that house, too greedy to give up its riches, and too proud to admit they were at least, in some way, frightened of the nightly events that, soon after the Scottish heiress died, began happening.