Haunting Greg - Book 1, The Porth Kerensa Series

Chapter Seven

I wake up in the kitchen, narrowly avoiding materialising on top of Lulu; though, she doesn't notice me. A glance at the wall calendar tells me it is sometime in September and I have slept for at least six weeks. The whole of August 2009 has passed me by, gone forever while I slept in Limbo. I have lost many summers to my accursed dreamless slumber and I wonder how much a soul can keep losing and still stay sane. I am tired of missing out on life. I lost everything the night Father shot me and in death I still grieve for the things that should have been mine. I didn't make it to Heaven and it seems unfair to me that I also lose out on huge swathes of my Afterlife.

I drift through the house slowly, peeping into all the rooms. The Chy is alive with people, buzzing with laughter, chat and creativity. Gone are the days of silence and loneliness; when the only noises were the echoes of the past in my memory.

Greg is not in any of the ground floor rooms and his study still looks pristine perfect. I think that even if I did have a sense of smell, I would not be able to detect his scent in the empty room. Not a trace of his presence lingers in this room. It's as if he has unpacked his belongings and then walked away from it all.

I shouldn't be so enthralled by the man, for nothing can ever come of it. I am no one, no body and I belong nowhere. Greg can only ever be a dream for me. Yet, I cannot stay away from him. He is like a light drawing me towards him, pulling me into his orbit. I've tried telling myself it is only my loneliness that makes him so fascinating to me, coupled with the fact he has sensed me, spoken to me and seen me. Deep down though, I know it is so much more than that for me.

I move around the room, looking at the framed photos of the girl I now know is his daughter, Katy. I study her intently, trying to see a resemblance between her and Greg Fisher, but I cannot see even a hint of him in her face. Her brown hair is a lighter shade than Greg's, she is petite with a pretty face and lovely pistachio green eyes. She is almost the same age as I was when my father shot me, but she is a teenager born in a different country, a different time and she will never fear her father the way I feared mine in the last few seconds of my life.

I wander out to my mother's rose garden, stunned anew by the beauty Greg has brought back to her beloved garden. The weeds have been cleared, the roses pruned, fences fixed and the gazebo made splendid again. It has been re-painted a sparkling white and the windows gleam in the warm September sun. I always mourned the decay of Mother's rose garden more than any other part of Penwith Chy. It seemed wrong that something she loved so much should become neglected and forgotten. There was no beauty in its wilderness. Now, I can almost imagine the heady scent of the late blooming roses Mother planted years ago. She was an aficionado of the humble rose and once again her garden is proof of her love for the gorgeous flower.

As I near the gazebo I realise Greg is inside, sitting on one of the cushion covered love seats, reading. I slip into the gazebo and linger unseen near the door. I am there but a minute when he lays the book down on his lap and looks at the door with a smile on his tanned face.

"You've come back then, Cas. I was beginning to think I'd upset you and you'd gone for good."

If he was looking at me directly I'd think he could see me, but he is looking at the door. Ha! He’s probably waiting for me to slam it shut, like I did the library doors. I am not overwhelmed with anger today though, and I do not intend to repeat my childish display of temper.

"Where did you go? It was strange without you following me around the house."

"I don't know where I went," I answer, softly, even though I know he will not hear me.

He laughs, jovially. "I'm glad you're back anyway, I missed my ghostly stalker.”

"I prefer the term admirer," I say, haughtily.

Greg picks up the old book on his lap and strokes the cover of it gently. "I'm reading a book I found in the memorabilia I bought back at the auction. It's a history of Penwith Chy and the people who lived here. It's hard going; worth it though as it’s very interesting.”

"It bored me to tears,” I reply, moving around behind him to glance at the book I recognise now as my father's. “I was made to read it when I was a kid."

"It has a family tree in the back of it," Greg continues. "I find it very sad that it ended with three tragic deaths, four if you count Jory's. Now, I find myself wondering if you are Grace or Jennifer. I worked out from your angry display last time we met that you're not Lord Derrick."

I stay silent this time, not that it matters when he cannot hear me anyway.

"I wonder too, what keeps you here. Did you love this house so much you cannot bear to leave?"

"I loved my mother more," I snap. "I don't know why I'm trapped in this bloody house, and you ask too many questions."

"I've been toying with the idea of writing a new history of the house. I thought a rewrite of this and I’d add photos of your family. I’d be writing an epilogue for your family so to speak and perhaps including more of a history of the village."

My tone is waspish when I say, "What's stopping you then?"

"I don't know if I'm a writer anymore," he answers, without hearing me; quietly and so sadly I suddenly want to cry for him. He looks around as if surprised at the truth he has admitted out loud.

"You won't know until you try," I tell him. His sadness is more than I can bear and I drift through the wall, floating out of the gazebo; leaving him to think about the truths he is hiding from.

It has been years since I have heard anyone say mine or Mother's name out loud and suddenly I cannot bear to stay in her rose garden anymore. Memories assail me from all sides and it hurts my poor dead heart. The nights she tucked me into bed and kissed me goodnight when I was a little girl, our horse rides, books she read me, days spent on our beach and fishing off the jetty in the summer, dresses she sewed me, stories she made up for me, birthday candles we blew out together.

I curl up into a ball and cry, until I think there will be a river of my tears running down to the Atlantic.