Vacant Possession

Vacant possession is the right of a purchaser to exclusive use of a property on completion of the sale, any previous occupant having moved out. (UK)

Richard and Mary had fallen in love with the thatched cottage as soon as they saw it. The estate agent’s voice had faded into the background when they had meandered around the spacious rooms which had been tastefully modernised, while leaving the character and integrity of the old building intact.

After looking around the four-bedroomed property, which stood in an acre of grounds, they were both drawn to the spectacular view from the south-facing garden, which looked out across the Mendip Hills. It was perfect.

Both self-employed, there was enough room for them each to have their own office and a guest bedroom for when the family came to stay and there was even scope to extend if they ever felt the need. Richard was a very successful author of children’s books and Mary was a graphic designer. They lived in a four-storey house in Cheltenham but wanted a quieter, slower pace of life. That was ten years ago.

This particular weekend, Richard was away in London on one of his promotional tours, when he would be whisked around various locations to sign copies of his illustrated books and talk to excited children and proud Mums.

Mary had stayed at home this time, happily pottering around in the garden for most of the day before enjoying a relaxing soak in a hot bath into which she had dropped some Rosemary and Eucalyptus essential oils. It was September, so the nights were starting to draw in and she thought about lighting the log burner but decided instead to put on an extra thick woolly jumper after her bath.

In the rustic kitchen, she found her Miles Davis playlist on Spotify and played it on the smart speaker, smiling to herself as she did so. Richard hated Alexa and refused to use her. He would rather time an egg by looking at the clock on the cooker than ask Alexa to do it for him, and on the odd occasion when he did instruct her, he would say things like, “Alexa, stop playing music please,” even though Mary had told him to say, “Alexa. Off.” She pottered around humming to herself as she prepared a light supper of prawn and avocado salad which she ate at the breakfast bar and then made herself a cup of tea before going through to the lounge to immerse herself in her latest project.

She had always been fascinated with history and had tried to find out more about the cottage, which, according to what she had found out, had been almost derelict in the late 1960's when a couple called Edward Harvey Peterson and Winifred Vera Peterson had resurrected it. When she and Richard had first moved in, they had found a box of old documents up in the attic and Mary had them on the floor by her feet. A Conveyance dated the Nineteenth day of July One Thousand Eight Hundred and Seventy-Six was open out on the floor, beside which she was kneeling, reading the beautiful scripted writing which was on a waxy, parchment-like paper that had yellowed over the years. Sometimes the writing was difficult to understand not only because of the excessive use of swirls and squiggles, but the language was very flowery and long-winded. The document was huge when opened fully and described the property, Yew Tree Cottage, Wendell Lane, Somerset in the County of Wessex as being delineated on the plan hatched in red together with the parcel of land edged in green and described easements and covenants which, their solicitor had informed them, were all quite normal and in order and nothing to worry about. At the end of the document, the purchasers had both signed it in the presence of a witness who had added his name, occupation and address. Both signatures had been witnessed by an Amos Ronald Bridges who had put his occupation as ‘Gardener and Handyman’ and his address as 16 Market Street, Somerset in the county of Wessex, and Mary wondered if he had been responsible for the creatively designed garden, which had, over the years, been lovingly tended and cared for, and was a beautiful collection of lawns, herbaceous borders, rose beds and, tucked away in the far corner, a vegetable patch and an ancient greenhouse. She and Richard had, during their tenure at the property, added a summer house, a herb garden, and a terrace so that they could enjoy the views while eating alfresco during the warmer weather. They both loved being out in the garden which was a riot of colour in the spring and summer and attracted dozens of species of birds ranging from pretty little wrens to the odd pheasant that would wander in and scratch around in the borders.

At about eleven thirty she decided it was time to turn in and went through the routine that she and Richard had done for years: check that the front and back doors were locked, turn the lights off and switch the landing light on before going up the stairs.

As she made her way up the stairs she suddenly felt a presence, as if somebody or something was behind her. Whatever it was settled on her and she could feel the weight of it on her shoulders and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She turned around but there was nobody there. For the first time in ten years, she wondered if the cottage was haunted.

She didn’t believe in life after death but believed that spirits come back and try to pass on messages. She fleetingly wondered if Amos was trying to frighten her because she had re-shaped one of his borders or whether she had disturbed some spirits by raking up the past and digging about in the old document box.

Hurriedly, she washed her face, cleaned her teeth, changed into her cotton nightdress, and got into bed. She switched off the bedside lamp and tried to settle down but whatever was on the stairs was in the bedroom. She sensed it standing over her and a tingling sensation rippled through her as the hairs on the back of her neck began to stand on end.

“Get out!” she shouted, “Go to the light, get out, go to the light!”

Nothing happened.

“Go to the light,” she repeated, more calmly this time.

Just when she thought she was alone again, the bed started to shake. Gently at first but then it suddenly became violent, causing her to grab the sheets either side to prevent herself from being thrown off the bed as she was being tossed around like a cork in the ocean.

“Go! Go to the light! Get out!” she screamed as she thrashed about.

Suddenly, the bed stopped shaking and she felt something go into her mouth and she consumed whatever it was that had been in the room.

* * *

When Richard returned the following day, he was surprised to see the curtains still drawn and immediately sensed that something was wrong. Mary never slept in past nine o’clock and it was gone lunchtime.

“Hello!” he called, dropping his overnight bag by the front door and placing his keys on the hall table. “Mary! I’m home. Where are you?”

He was greeted with silence. Anxiously, he darted from room to room. He noticed the box of ancient deeds and documents that Mary often rooted through on the lounge floor and there was an empty cup and saucer next to it. He went upstairs with trepidation, calling his wife’s name as he went. When he reached their bedroom door it was closed and he braced himself for what he might find on the other side. Pushing the door open very slowly, he said, “Mary? Are you okay?”

He was shocked to see the untidy bed, but no sign of his wife. He was confused because if she had gone out, she would have sent him a text, besides, her car was still on the drive.

“Mary!” he shouted out, “Where the hell are you?” He ran through the house, pulling blinds up and drawing curtains in each room as he went.

When he pulled the kitchen blind up, his heart missed a beat. There she was, sitting on the wooden bench out on the terrace.

“Mary! Didn’t you hear me calling you?” he asked, miffed that she seemed to be ignoring him as he strode down the garden towards her.

His wife didn’t turn around or greet him as she would normally have done when he’d been away and he noticed that she was still wearing her nightdress.

“Mary, what the hell’s going on?” he demanded, hands on hips.

Still no response. He was standing right in front of her, just a few feet away, but she was just sitting there with a vacant look on her face. Looking straight through him, staring into the distance.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental although it is based on a true story.