Rachel turned the car engine off and sat quietly for a moment.  She had needed to get away from the city for a while. She needed space, she needed peace and quiet.  That was what she had told Guy, her boyfriend. Well if you can call someone who has a wife your boyfriend. She was starting to grow tired of his never-ending excuses and every time she saw him, she felt like he wasn’t really there anyway.  He always had his mind elsewhere and one eye on the clock. She was tired of being ‘squash with Derek’ or ‘emergency storyboard meeting’, or ‘breaking news crisis’. She wanted to be seen for herself, that when someone looked at her, they saw her and only her.

 

She got out of the car and fetched her small case from the boot.  Locking the car, she wheeled the case up the path of the cottage she had rented for a week and found the key under the flowerpot where the owner had said it would be.  Coming from London, she found it incomprehensible that someone would leave even a window open, let alone the key to the door in such an accessible spot. Still, it meant she would get the privacy she was craving.

 

Unlocking the door, she stepped inside the cottage and looked around.  The cottage was straight out of another era. No phone, no tv, not even a radio.  How did people live like this? As there was no phone, Rachel realised there would be no internet connection either.  She would have to find civilisation each day just to check her emails. However, the journalistic instinct in her was looking for a story here.  Why had no-one updated the cottage, why did it feel like it had been stuck in a timewarp for years? Why had the owner neglected it so badly? It was habitable, there was fresh linen and the cottage had been aired, and upon walking into the kitchen she saw a paper bag of fresh groceries on the table so the owner had been along that day to prepare for Rachel’s arrival but why had it been forgotten about when it came to modernising.

 

She placed her car keys on the table with her mobile phone and glanced in the bag.  Bread, some fruit, potatoes, tea and coffee and a few tins. She opened the fridge and found milk, salad vegetables and some meats and some bottled water. Rachel made herself a sandwich and grabbed a bottle of the water and headed out into the back garden.  She sat down on one of the garden chairs and breathed in the fresh air, something that was sorely lacking in London. As she ate the sandwich, she spotted an old bike leaning against the wall. It had been years since she had ridden a bike, but as the saying goes you never forget how to.  She finished the last bite of her sandwich and went over to inspect it. It was in good condition and the tyres were firm. She wheeled it down the side of the cottage and out of the gate.

 

She set off down the lane and instead of heading towards the main road, she took one of the quieter lanes away from the cottage and into the countryside.  As she rode, she felt the breeze against her face and for the first time in many years she felt alive. She turned down a path that took her past a nearby wood and as she rode, she felt a sense of freedom.  She cycled around the wood and in the distance she saw an old manor house.

 

She cycled towards it, thinking a tour around a manor would be an interesting way to spend the afternoon, they were always good for research.  She realised she had left her phone back in the cottage so she wouldn’t be able to snap any photos or record any notes but she was blessed with a good memory so she headed up the driveway to the door.  As she approached she realised that the manor was even more neglected than the cottage she was staying in. It didn’t look like anyone had visited the place for years. Rachel hopped off the bike and walked up towards the front of the house.

 

There was a faded notice pinned to the door which confirmed the place was closed to visitors and she frowned in disappointment.  She turned the bike around and was about to climb back on it when a voice made her jump.

 

“Hey missy, this is private property.”

 

Rachel turned around to see an old man in navy dungarees and a flat cap staring at her, a large shovel in his hand.  Her heart started beating faster and she nodded quickly. She didn’t know whether to abandon the bike and run, or whether to try and leap on it and pedal away.  So she tried to do both and run with the bike, trying to mount it as she ran but her foot slipped and she caught her ankle, sprawling to the floor with the bike on top of her.  As the old man approached her, she tried to scramble away but her pant leg was caught on the bike.

 

“Please don’t hurt me, I’ll leave. I promise I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

 

The old man leant down and freed her pant leg from the bike then offered his hand to her.  “I’m not going to hurt you, why would I want to do that?”

 

Rachel took his hand and stood up, trembling slightly.  “I-I’m sorry, you just startled me. I guess I have an overactive imagination.  Perils of being a journalist.”

 

The old man removed his cap and wiped a hand across his brow before replacing the cap and looking at her intently.  “And what brings a journalist out this way then, missy?”

 

Rachel smiled at him nervously. “Well that’s kind of a long story but the short version is I was out for a bike ride and came across the house.  I thought it was one of those open to the public but clearly, I was wrong. I am sorry to have trespassed.”

 

The man leant on his shovel, his blue eyes watching her.  “It used to be open to the public, many years ago. However, the owners moved away after the tragedy.”

 

Rachel’s eyes shot up in curiosity that.  “Tragedy? What tragedy was this?”

 

The man frowned at that.  “Call yourself a journalist?”  He stares at her for a few minutes then nods.  “Aye well, I guess it was a bit before your time.  This house here is meant to be cursed. There have been many stories over the years of people going missing, young girls they were.  Well, of course, the master and missus didn’t think nothing of it see, until that night.”

 

Rachel rubbed her arms, suddenly feeling quite chilly.  “What night?”

 

The old man leant closer to her.  “Aye, that night. All the house was in darkness, everyone asleep.  Then a terrible scream rang out, the young mistress of the house it were.  Her parents ran to her room but she were gone, see. And no-one ever saw her since.  Oh the police were called and they did their investigating but nothing came of it. She were never found.  So her parents shut the house up and moved overseas. And no-one has been out here since. Until you, that is.”

 

Rachel shivered and looked at him.  “What a tragic story. I wonder what happened to the young girl, she must have been abducted.  You know there’s no such thing as cursed houses.”

 

The old man straightened up and gave her a smile.  “Of course not, it’s just local gossip. Well seeing as you’re here, I see no harm in you having a look at the place.  It’s a bit dusty mind, they can’t get a cleaner to go in there, not from around here. All too scared, see? But not me, I don’t scare easily, missy.  So I just keep an eye on the place, I can let you in though. But I advise you to watch your step, as I said the place is old and in bad shape. Don’t want you having another tumble.”

 

Rachel’s journalistic instincts were battling with her fears but in the end, they won out and she accepted the old man’s offer to look inside.  He unlocked the front door with a large iron key and pushed the door open to allow her in.

 

“Just give me a shout when you’re done, missy and I’ll lock up behind you.”

 

Rachel nodded and walked into the old house.  She coughed a few times, the dust was kicking up under her feet as she walked along the hallway.  Looking up at the walls, she saw a row of portraits, all featuring similar young girls. Rachel shivered again as she looked at them, the eyes of the portraits seemed to follow her as she walked but it was just a trick of the light.  The last frame was empty, Rachel thought to herself it must have been a picture of the young girl who went missing. The parents must have taken it down when she disappeared.

 

She reached the end of the hallway and opened the door there.  It led into the old sitting room and Rachel went inside, looking around at the furniture and decorations, left just as they had been when the family lived there.  Next, to the fireplace, there was another door and Rachel opened it curiously. A small passageway ran behind the fireplace and Rachel started to follow it. Just then a cold draught came from nowhere and blew the door shut behind her.  Rachel could hear her heart beating in her chest. It was quite dark and Rachel reached for her phone before remembering again she’d left it on the table back at the cottage. She could see some light coming from somewhere ahead so she headed towards it, it must mean there was an exit at the other end.  As she got closer, she realised the light was coming from two small holes in the wall. She got closer, maybe she could see the old man and get his attention so he could let her out. She peered through the holes and noticed she could see the hallway where the portraits were hanging.

 

Her heart froze in her chest as she realised she was now one of them, her picture now filled the empty frame as her eyes darted back and forth, following the next unsuspecting visitor who came upon the house.  She left London so people could see her for who she was. Now they would see her forever, as a portrait in the mysterious manor house on the hill.