The truth came out in February, when Grace and Millie arrived to stay with Annabel. Along with them came three tatty cardboard boxes, bearing the last relics of Hawthorn Cottage. They squatted in Annabel’s small strip of hallway behind the front door, and she immediately resented their intrusion. It was as though inside their battered exteriors lay the essence of the cottage, and by opening them a rush of grasping fear would rise like smoke into her apartment, permeate the Laura Ashley wallpaper and settle in the pores of each room, untraceable but ever-present.

Annabel had forgotten she even had a secret – if you could call it that. In light of the events of the past few months, it had seemed inconsequential. She had planned on telling Grace the day she’d made the discovery, but then they’d had their awful fight. Grace had overheard that unfortunate conversation with her editor, and even as Annabel drove away in a fury, leaving her sister behind, she had known she was in the wrong. Grace needed help; and yet that condescending big-sisterly tone of voice had chased Annabel all the way back to London and to the avoidance of apologies.

However, what had unsettled Annabel far more was that while Grace had lived in Yorkshire, for the first time ever the distance between the sisters hadn’t just been physical. How could Annabel truly empathise with a situation she could barely understand? The sister she knew wasn’t living in Roseby: this Grace had a permanently blanched face, drifted around her tiny cottage in a half-daze, and went to bed earlier and earlier. Annabel had gone there with the intention of bringing some life and fun to the place, but soon her muscles ached from sharing that uncomfortable, lumpy mattress. She spent copious time massaging the nape of her neck, trying to disperse the knots of tension. She exchanged regular covert texts with her mother and father, all along the lines of ‘What do I do?’ And each time their worried but pragmatic parents had replied with different versions of, ‘Just be there for her. She’ll come through it.’

Thankfully, now, in light of their discoveries, Grace was finally coming back to them. It was a slow process, but Annabel’s concerns were easing. And so she wasn’t too worried when Grace said, as they sat together on the sofa on her first night back in London, ‘You haven’t shown me your article yet.’

The piece had been published a week ago. It wasn’t what Annabel had originally intended, but she was satisfied with it. She had only grabbed onto the idea with such enthusiasm in the first place because she needed a distraction. She had been grateful to turn her excursions to Yorkshire into something more familiar – research trips, not just support for a sister she only recognised in glimpses. And then, of course, in light of that final dash back to Yorkshire for Grace, it had been written hastily and filed late.

She pulled the magazine from a pile, passing it over. She waited, watching Grace chewing absent-mindedly on her lip as she read. Annabel was worried it might be reigniting the cooling embers of memories, but when Grace had finished she glanced at her sister with a smile, her features loose and open, and Annabel relaxed.

‘It’s great – although I’m glad I never saw that chair. The landlord must have been really helpful?’

It was at the mention of the landlord that the secret re-presented itself to Annabel, settling squarely on her conscience. She scrutinised her sister’s face. Was this the time to mention it? Did Grace need to hear another ambiguous story with sinister undertones? But even as she considered her options, the game was already up. Grace knew Annabel’s expressions too well, and now she was frowning. ‘What is it?’

‘I came across something – while I was working on that article …’ Annabel found that her hand was moving to her neck again, her fingertips busy loosening a sudden point of tension. But she forged on, knowing she was past the point where she could stop. ‘It was on the day I went off to do some more research … the day we had the fight …’

***

The car had been bitterly cold, the windows choked with ice, but as Annabel left Grace and Millie behind in the warmth of the cottage, she was determined to hunt down a good story. The pub with the ghost chair seemed her best chance of salvaging something half-decent from this mess of an idea, since Meredith had been so deliberately obtuse. If Grace wasn’t living here, Annabel might have enjoyed telling Meredith to remove the pole she had stuck up her bottom, but she’d had to let that one go.

At the beginning of the steep hill, she rammed the accelerator down, and felt the car struggle its way out of the village, the engine strain gradually easing as the incline lessened. If the gritter hadn’t been through she wouldn’t have got this far, but although snow was piled up against the dry stone walls, the road was now more of a slushy brown mess. She still lost traction at one point, hands flailing as she spun the steering wheel back and forth, her heart hammering by the time the tyres reasserted their grip. 

She knew the pub hadn’t been far, but she had a moment of unnerving doubt as she turned right at the junction of the moortop road. This was the way, wasn’t it? Yes. Ben had definitely turned down here last time – she remembered because they had already lapsed into silence five minutes out of Roseby, and she had feared a day as long and empty as the meandering road ahead of them. Her choice was affirmed moments later when the pub came into view. The Flittin’ Hob, it was the only feature on an otherwise deserted terrain. It was a compact building, its roof and eaves heavily laden with snow, and a chain link fence to one side delineating the edges of a small car park. Annabel pulled in, climbed out, and headed hastily through the frosty morning towards the main entrance, wondering if it would be open this early. But the door gave way immediately at her push.

The interior reminded her a little of the pub in Roseby, but here the haphazard mosaic of paraphernalia that served as decoration all but obliterated the stone walls. At only a glance, Annabel took in a variety of large and small photographs from across the decades, some framed, others Blu-Tacked, along with two dartboards, a variety of shields, medals in glass casings, ancient street signs, and an assortment of dinner plates. Rows of tankards dangled overhead from thick nails poking from rough-hewn beams. The room felt crammed full, but it was lifeless except for a fire in the grate, ribbons of flame flicking outwards in brief, heady escape before the heat reclaimed them. And to one side of that, roped off, was the item she’d come to see: a nondescript wooden chair, a few simply carved flourishes along the upper horizontal panel at the back its only feature of note. A handwritten sign made from folded card perched atop the seat. 

‘SIT HERE AT YOUR PERIL’

Annabel laughed at the overblown language and moved closer to read the plaque on the wall behind the chair.

 ‘The ghost chair is legendary in the area, and has been in the The Flittin’ Hob for over 100 years. In 1874, Henry Brook was said to have been poisoned while he drank in this seat – the result of a dispute with a local farmer over livestock. His enraged spirit still lingers around the chair, hoping to seek out his old enemy and take his revenge.’

Annabel stepped back and concentrated hard on the chair, daring the wretched Henry to show his presence somehow, make it move. Then wondered what she was doing when she didn’t believe in ghosts.

At the moment she thought that, a voice from behind her asked, ‘Can I help you?’

Surprise made her start, then she turned to find an old gentleman surveying her curiously. He was unexpectedly well-dressed, with pullover and tie and smart cords, his shoes shining in a way that reminded Annabel of her father’s army habits. His manner was so courteous and non-threatening that she thought it safe to presume this wasn’t an apparition of Henry Brook.

‘Not about to sit on that, are you?’ His tone was solemn. ‘I wouldn’t risk it.’

Annabel smiled. ‘No, but I was hoping to talk to somebody about it. I’m a journalist – I’m doing a piece on the folklore of the area.’

‘Ah, you’ll be wanting my son-in-law then,’ the man explained. ‘He’s the landlord here, the place has been in his family for years. I’m just minding it while they’ve all nipped out – there’s not normally much business at this time of day. I can give you his telephone number – you could call him or pop back this afternoon?’

Annabel waited as the old man moved to the bar, his short walk revealing a slight limp. He wrote on a scrap of paper, and when he handed it to her she put it in her purse. ‘Thanks. While I’m here, is there anything you can tell me about the chair? Is the story on the wall supposed to be true?’

The man nodded. ‘Peter’s family are certain of it. His mother and father ran this place for close on forty years, but they moved to sheltered accommodation in town last summer, to be closer to their daughter. Peter and Shelley are hoping to do the place up and add an extension for a B&B, they want to get it making some money for them. They tried to sell it a few months ago, but there wasn’t much interest … market being as bad as it is … it’s terrible what’s happening at the moment …’

‘Perhaps no one wanted a place with a haunted chair …’ Annabel jumped in, sensing the man might well be heading into a ramble about the economy, and keen to stop him.

He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘So has anybody sat here, despite the warning?’

‘There’s not been many, I don’t think – no matter whether you believe the curse or not, it’s not worth the risk, is it? But now and again there have been a few pranksters who’ve decided to show off. Peter and his family have kept a journal – those they know of who’ve been brave or stupid enough to sit there – and nowadays the list is enough to put most people off … If anyone looks like they’re thinking about it, Peter brings out the book for them to see, and asks them if they really want their name added to it …’

Annabel felt a slight prickle brush the back of her neck, and was annoyed with herself. Don’t let yourself be taken in, she scolded silently, as she asked, ‘What on earth does it say?’

‘I can show you …’ The old man bent down and began rummaging behind the counter. ‘Let me see … I think it’s somewhere here … Ah, yes …’ And onto the bar top he laid a scruffy leather notebook with a thick piece of elastic round it.

Annabel nodded, accepting it eagerly, unwinding the band, and opening the first page.

Colin Doughton

5 June 1967

Heart attack, 1970, aged 34.

The man pointed to the first date. ‘That’s the date he sat in the chair.’

Annabel nodded, already ahead of him, while turning the page:

Roland Shillman (drunk)

10 December 1971

Found dead at bottom of Skeldale, 4 Feb 1972. Aged 47. Unknown causes.

On it went, one name on each small page, a dozen people altogether. Each person had apparently taken up brief residence in the chair, then met with an unexpected end a few months or years later. The most startling was a record from the early eighties – a group of four young men who all had a turn for a bet while they were drunk. Their car had rolled down a bank on the way home from the pub, all but one killed outright. The only survivor took his own life a few years later.

‘This has to be made up,’ she said, shaking her head as she leafed through.

‘I don’t think so. There were more as well, early on, but they didn’t begin to keep a record until the 1960s. They started it as proof, since they were fed up with people belittling or joking about the curse as though they were making it up. The book has served as a good deterrent. Especially when it’s backed up by other means …’

He gestured to a framed newspaper article near the chair. Annabel went across. It was from the eighties, reporting a car crash. There was a picture of a mangled car, and mention of the same four names she had just read. It even said they had been drinking in the Flittin’ Hob earlier that night.

Annabel couldn’t contain her incredulity. ‘So you’re really telling me that everyone who sits in that chair suffers an untimely death? It’s not possible. People would be talking about it everywhere – it would be famous. It’s just … crazy.’

‘Exactly.’ The man raised his thick eyebrows as he spoke. ‘Would you want to be the one raving on about a haunted chair in the countryside? How many people do you think would believe you? Besides, there was just one …’ he added, leaning over and flicking through the book, ‘… who lived to tell the tale.’ He reached the page he wanted, one of the final entries, and prodded it with his finger.

Connie Romano

9 September 1989

Spent a month in Kirkshaw, from 13 September 1989

Annabel had to read it twice to make sure she’d seen it correctly. ‘Oh my god!’ She began to rummage in her bag and brought out a small book, holding it up.

‘Yes, that’s her,’ the man confirmed, as soon as he saw Ghosts of the Moors. ‘We have one of those books here too.’

She could barely contain herself. ‘Her grandson married my sister. I’m staying in her house at the moment!’

‘Is that so?’

His unruffled response made Annabel feel a bit giddy. The coincidence was startling, wasn’t it? Grace would definitely think so. But that thought sobered her immediately – Grace was a worry at the moment. ‘So what is Kirkshaw?’ she asked, reminding herself that she was here purely as a professional journalist.

‘A hospital for the mentally ill, so I’m told. Or it was – I gather it’s closed now.’

Annabel was lost for words, and her head was spinning. Adam’s grandmother had been mentally ill? She was pretty sure that Grace knew nothing of this.  She remembered all the questions the police had asked about Adam’s mental health when he disappeared. Grace had staunchly defended him, and at the time Annabel agreed with her. But these kinds of disturbances could run in the family, couldn’t they? Perhaps there was a lot more going on inside Adam’s head than either of them had realised. She was lost in twisting logic for a moment, getting way ahead of herself, and it was only on realising that the man was waiting for her to say something that she snapped back to the present and asked, ‘Do you think I could take a copy of this?’

He shrugged. ‘You’ll have to ask Peter. I can’t see why not, but he’s the boss.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back this afternoon then.’

‘I’ll tell them you’re coming,’ he replied, and she thanked him and headed for the door.

As she walked outside, into a swirling cold wind that had sprung up from nowhere, she immediately pulled out her phone. When Grace picked up her mobile she spoke before Annabel could get a word in, and her tone was strange and high, unnerving Annabel further.  ‘I’m driving, I’ve only just reached town. I’ll have to speak to you later …’

‘All right,’ Annabel agreed. And once Grace had hung up she was grateful for the delay. Perhaps she shouldn’t be telling her sister about this right now. Grace had enough on her mind.

She got back into her car, glad to escape the relentless swirling chill, and checked that the heating was turned up high. Then she drove slowly out of the car park, but a shiver ran through her shoulders, a sense of being spied upon, and she peered behind her. The pub was still, curtains drawn upstairs, and the downstairs windows dark and empty. She rolled her shoulders, trying to relax as the vents began to puff warm air into the interior. She was getting as bad as Grace, all jumpy and wishy-washy. In defiance she rolled down the window and shouted ‘Bugger off, Henry!’ towards the pub, hoping that if his vengeful spirit had decided to loiter in the car park, he would get the message that she wouldn’t be scared off so easily. Not when she had finally found her story.

***

As soon as Kirkshaw was mentioned, Grace couldn’t contain herself.

‘A mental hospital? Really? I’m sure Adam never told me anything like that.’ Grace thought for a moment then shook her head, giving another little gasp at the thought. ‘Surely that can’t be true. You remember that sweet little old lady at the wedding – she didn’t seem nutty to me.’

‘I think she would have had to stay in Kirkshaw if she was still nutty,’ Annabel remarked dryly.

‘You know what I mean – no, I just can’t believe that …’

Annabel frowned. ‘Grace, you barely knew the woman. And perhaps Adam wasn’t aware of it either – in fact, why would he be? He was only, what, about thirteen when this happened? He was living in York then, with his mother – perhaps they didn’t know.’

‘Maybe. It’s just – oh god, Annabel, that place …’ She paused, but Annabel could tell she was still uneasy by the way she chewed her lower lip. ‘Really? Are you sure they weren’t just pulling your leg? And why on earth would she have sat in the chair in the first place?’

Annabel shrugged. ‘First of all, Kirkshaw definitely admitted her. The local health authority still have the records, so I checked them. Of course, we can’t say for sure it had anything to do with her sitting on the chair, but according to the landlord, the list is genuine. I went back and spoke to him that afternoon. The story goes that Peter’s mother Joyce and Connie were great pals, but they fell out over Connie’s book. Joyce had helped her with the research to begin with, but got very irate when Connie was dismissive of many of the legends. Peter thought she took it as a personal affront to the chair. It got out of hand one night when they’d both had a few drinks, and were in the middle of another argument, and Connie apparently stormed across to the chair, plonked her bottom on it for a mere second or two, and said, “Joyce, it’s just a sodding chair.” Connie and Bill left pretty hastily after that, and the next they heard Connie had been shipped off to Kirkshaw. When she was released, a month or so later, she paid Joyce a visit, and after that neither Connie nor Joyce ever discussed it again. Joyce once said to her son that Connie would “never forgive herself”, but Peter wasn’t sure exactly what she meant.’

‘You seem to know the whole story,’ Grace commented.

‘That’s because the family were only too willing to help. I think Peter was hoping he could use the publicity to bring some attention to the pub – it sounded like they were in dire financial straits. His parents hated even touching the chair – at one stage they wanted to burn it but they were too frightened! However, Peter thought it could be a great selling point for the pub. He hoped people would hear about it, come and see it and buy themselves a drink or two while they were there.’

Grace suddenly picked up her glass and stood up. ‘I think I need to go to bed.’

‘But it’s only eight o’clock,’ Annabel said, surprised.

‘I know, I know … I just need an early night …’

And as Annabel watched her leave the room, she was afraid it had been far too soon to tell her sister everything.

***

There were noises in the hallway.

Annabel looked at the clock: one a.m. She listened for a while then got begrudgingly out of bed. Normally she would grab her big umbrella ready to use as a weapon, but this time she was pretty sure she knew what was going on. She marched through the dim lounge towards the light of the hallway, and as she poked her head around the corner it was to see Grace frantically searching through boxes, a mess of papers piling up on the floor around her.

‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘I can’t stop thinking about Connie.’ Grace’s hair was wild, her hands flitting between loose sheets as she scanned them for something Annabel was unaware of. ‘And I had a horrible dream when I went to bed … Connie was rocking in a chair like a crazy person … dressed in black, with Bess and Pippa at her feet. I’ve never dreamt like that anywhere but Roseby … it’s got to mean something. And this is all I have to look through …’

‘All right, Grace …’ Annabel went rapidly across to her and pulled her up onto her feet, holding both her arms and forcing Grace to look at her. ‘Just stop, okay. The things I told you brought back memories. It was too soon, and I shouldn’t have said anything. Your dreams are just your subconscious trying to process the things that frighten you. Nothing more, okay. No hidden meanings whatsoever. So, what I am going to do is give you one of my sleeping tablets and you are going to go and get some proper rest. These will knock you out – you won’t dream at all, I promise. Okay? And I’ll listen out for Millie. You can lie in tomorrow.’

She was relieved when Grace acquiesced easily, and made sure she watched her take the tablet, half distrusting, knowing they were as stubborn as each other in their own way, and that Grace could easily plan to sneak out again once Annabel was asleep. But the tablet seemed to be swallowed, and Grace headed to bed without a fuss, Millie fast asleep in the cot next to her.

When Annabel got back into bed she decided those boxes had to go. They were a visceral reminder of Roseby; they allowed the past to keep ambushing them. She would tell Grace they needed to get stored somewhere else.

Her mind drifted, and before she knew it she was back in the pub again, in front of the chair, and this time Connie was sitting there. This was a much younger version of the Connie that Annabel had known, perhaps not Connie at all, except somehow Annabel knew that it was. Connie was weeping, her forehead against her knees, her arms covering her head protectively. Eventually, she looked up with tear-stricken eyes and put her finger to her lips. Her posture remained frozen that way for a moment, as though listening, then Annabel noticed that in her other hand was a crumpled page covered with writing. As her gaze fell on it, Connie held it out, her eyes imploring Annabel to take it. And Annabel was about to reach for it, when from behind her, so close that she felt the spurt of breath release the tiny hairs on her neck, came a man’s low, scornful snigger.

What the hell was THAT?

It was only as she whirled away, gasping, that Annabel realised she had been asleep, and that her movement had actually been a desperate lunge in the bed. Now she found herself wide awake, staring at the clock again: five a.m.

‘I am not Grace,’ she said aloud, angrily flinging back the bedclothes. ‘I do not need to absorb her fears.’

She marched to the kitchen to get some water, but once her glass was full, she found herself drawn towards the landing. The light was still on, the papers scattered. She surveyed them, then went to check on Grace and Millie, finding them both sound asleep.

This is an opportunity, she thought to herself. I am going to go through everything, tell Grace what I find, then we’ll throw as much as possible away, and store the rest somewhere else – somewhere well away from here.

She gathered up the papers and dumped them on the living room floor, then dragged the rest of the boxes beside them. She grabbed her iPod from the bedroom and flicked through, deciding that a cheerful dose of the Scissor Sisters was definitely called for. She turned the volume up a little louder than was comfortable, and began.

***

Grace emerged after nine, distinctly bleary eyed. ‘I slept like a rhinoceros,’ she said. ‘I’m still foggy.’ She poured herself a drink and was making toast when she added, ‘Oh, I’m sorry I left such a mess …’ As she wandered out to the hallway, Annabel got up and followed.

Grace stared at the empty space for a moment. ‘Where is everything?’

Annabel put her arm around her sister. ‘I went through it for you this morning. It’s just letters, and old bits of correspondence. You don’t need it sitting here. I’ve put them in file boxes and asked my friend Alec to shove them in his attic space for now. I’ll take them there later this morning …’

Grace nodded. ‘I don’t know what came over me last night. I felt so unsettled, like there was another mystery, and now I needed to know what happened to Connie, as though it was Adam all over again. But it’s different. I’m not getting caught up in it, Annabel, I swear. I’m glad you’ve sorted through everything. It’s done.’

Annabel had planned to tell Grace what she’d found, but when Grace turned to her so resolutely, she wavered. Would it help? Perhaps in the short term, but what if it meant Grace believed in curses and demons and strange dreams again? Was it worth that? No. But even so, she wasn’t sure she’d done enough to keep her thoughts hidden, not when Grace could read her so well. But Grace was groggy, and after a few moments, Annabel knew she’d succeeded.

The answer to Connie’s mental decline was in that box, she was sure of it. A curse perhaps greater than one Connie could have imagined for herself. A letter from her daughter Rachel, dated two days after Connie sat in the ghost chair, two days before she went to Kirkshaw. A letter that changed everything.

 Dear Mum and Dad,

I’m so sorry to write this, but I don’t think I can bear to speak the words. I’ve just come from the hospital. I found a lump a while ago – but I didn’t want to worry you. I was convinced it was benign; even the doctors were reassuring. But I got the results today … and it’s not.

There’s a chance it may have spread already. I have to have more tests. I am terrified, but I can promise you that I will fight this with everything I’ve got. For a few days I have had this horrible feeling, like I am somehow doomed, but I know I’m being silly. For now I need to be strong – for Adam as much as for myself.

I am so sorry to bring this to your door. I love you both very much, and we will talk soon.

Rachel