A Trip to Hinton

As the sun dipped behind the trees of Foscombe Park he leant back on the creaking old wooden bench and enjoyed the relative peace this haven in the centre of town afforded him. Life wasn’t bad at all, he didn’t hate his job like some of his friends did, and the walk from the office to his simple but homely townhouse took him through this urban oasis every day. He would have to get up soon and continue his walk home soon. But for this moment he was more than happy to enjoy the last slivers of the pink, orange sun which was dipping under the line of trees which hid the tall office buildings. There was a very simple supper waiting at home and the lure of his bed was greater than the pleasant evening. He bathed in the final warm tickles from the retreating day and then made his way through the darkening streets to his small but perfect home.

The evening was, as ever, taken by a meal, some reading, preparations for the following day and then a little more reading before bed. Usually a reader of fiction he had chosen a local history book this week as he was heading north into the Dales at the weekend to enjoy some walking and the hospitality of the local pubs and of course the meticulously selected Bed and Breakfast. He was staying in a small village that was perfectly positioned for the most popular and famous walking routes. It was also the village with the most interesting history. From the Celtic settlements through the two devastating plagues with the Wars of the Roses sandwiched in between. The book of the region had quite a chapter on Hinton and its place in time. He had reached the section on the witch craze of the seventeenth century when he decided it was time for bed. He placed his book onto his coffee table, rose from his chair and headed up the stairs to bed.

Suddenly he was in the dark. Wide awake, cold and absolutely aware of every sound and feeling around him but in complete and utter darkness. He felt enclosed but was unsure if he was. Stretching his arms out sideways he felt nothing. He repeated this ahead and behind himself then above his head, cold wet stone met his fingers about four inches over his head. He shuffled forward carefully with his hands out in front of him. After about three feet his palms touched wood. Was it a wall or a door? He wasn’t sure. It gave slightly as he pushed at it. He decided it was a door. Where was he? Why did he feel so drowsy, and his legs, they felt like lead. He began to feel a wave of nausea and fatigue wash over him. He stumbled and couldn’t keep his knees from giving way. He was unconscious before he hit the wet stone floor.

He woke with a start and took a moment to regain his composure. It was his bedroom, the sun was beginning to creep through his blinds and across the floor. He put his hand to his brow, he was covered in sweat. The dream had been fleeting but it felt unnervingly real. He sat up and shuffled his body round so his feet were on the floor. He looked down at his filthy feet. He was absolutely appalled that he had gone to bed like that and immediately made his way to the bathroom to shower.

It had taken longer than usual to shower and be ready to leave the house so he had rushed his breakfast. However by the time he had made it out of the house and on his way to work things were back to normal and he began focusing on the day ahead. There were two meetings planned and he had a document including costings to redraft. It didn’t feel like a busy day was heading his way and as he mentally prepared himself the unpleasant thoughts of the dark room drifted far away.

The first meeting came and went without any real controversy or innovation and he returned to his desk to complete a few minor tasks. It wasn’t long before he was interrupted by Eileen the tea lady pushing her archaic tea urn on an ancient trolley. She, along with her equally elderly colleague Yvonne had been working for the company for forty years. They ran the small staff canteen and made their way around the offices at 10.30 and 2.30 with tea, coffee, biscuits in the morning and home made cakes in the afternoon. There had regularly been rumbling that they were superfluous to the company’s needs but the consensus was they were integral to productivity and morale and so it had been quietly decided that they would work until they retired without being replaced.

He always had a coffee in the morning and a tea in the afternoon. He rarely turned down either a biscuit or a cake and today was no exception. Eileen presented him with a perfectly made filter coffee and two custard creams without him needing to request them. He smiled in thanks and Eileen nodded in response. It was these little pleasant punctuations in his day that made it such an enjoyable experience. The rest of the day eased through and he soon found himself heading home through the park. The weather was turning a little and the sky was a mottled blue grey. He chose not to delay and headed straight across the park and towards his house.

He dined and then moved to his comfortable chair where he returned to his book. This evening he discovered the history of the Dunning family who had been accused of witchcraft by their neighbours after a child had gone missing from the village. They were arrested tried and all six of them sentenced to death. Hattie, Charles and their four teenage children were to be hanged. Only five of them were though as somehow the eldest daughter Maggie escaped from the jail cell. The rumour was that she turned herself into a rat and scampered away. The more likely explanation is that as an attractive young woman she was able to persuade a guard to free her. The hanging of the five was done outside the village and the site of the execution is still a spot ghost tours go to regularly.

After he finished reading he closed his book, locked the doors, turned off the lights and headed up to his bedroom. Within seconds he was asleep.

Then he wasn’t.

He was back in the dark. He could feel the cold slightly slimy floor against his bare feet. His body was crumpled and propped up against a wall as if he had slumped there. All around him was quiet and still. He felt cold and damp, he stretched out his hands to touch the walls around him. He was in the corner of the room. Climbing to his feet he edged along the wall feeling his way until his fingertips touched the wood again. It was definitely a door. He sidestepped carefully along until his body was pressed against it, his ear turned to the roughly cut wood.

He listened, holding his breath in the hope he might hear something that could give him a clue to where he was.

There it was.

Distant but clear. Footsteps. As he listened there was the unmistakable sound of hard shoes against a stone floor and as he listened they came closer.

Then a voice. Not words but laughter, and not the kind of laughter that joy brings but the uncontrollable outpouring of unbridled wickedness. He knew this was not the sound of someone who was there to help him. Before he had a chance to react the laughter was coming directly through the wood and without warning it stopped. He held his breath clamping a hand across his nose and mouth. Through the barrier he could hear the deep, crackling breath of whoever was on the other side. Everything stilled for just a moment. Then a metallic rattle disturbed the quiet. This was a door! He shuffled quickly back through the dark to the corner of the room and bundled himself into the smallest shape he possibly could. He screwed his eyes as tightly together as he could.

The alarm bleeped in his ears and he was awake in his bed. It was Thursday morning and he had to get up for work. He climbed out of his duvet and placed his feet on the ground. His feet were filthy again, but looking down he noticed his hands too were covered in grey green grime. Shaking his head he made his way to the shower and readied himself for the coming day.

The morning was as manageable as ever and the previous night’s unpleasantness was consigned to the back of his mind when he was disturbed by the familiar rattle of the tea trolley. He looked up to greet Eileen but was shocked to see it wasn’t her, what made the shock greater was that it wasn’t Yvonne either, the face was unfamiliar. She was older, far older than either of the two ladies he knew. The woman now looking down at him had none of the warmth or care he was used to. She stared at him with soulless eyes.

“Could I have a coffee please.” He said in an almost embarrassed way.

She handed a cup to him. Her gnarled hands shaking as he reached out and took it from her.

Without a word she turned and pushed her trolley away.

The rest of the day came and went and soon he was home sat in his living room. It had been a pleasant day finished with a very tasty supper and he was going to spend time preparing for his weekend away. The owner of the bed and breakfast had sent him a bundle of leaflets along with details of his booking so he was planning to go through them to see if there was anything he might like to have a look at.

After disregarding the local pottery museum and putting the vintage car tour into the “maybe if it rains and I’m really desperate” pile he opened the black and red leaflet that read “Hinton Ghost Walk”. He read through the vague description of the stories the guide would tell during the walk and noticed a sticker had been added.

“Maggie’s Year Special. To celebrate Maggie's Year our trips will take a special detour on the hunt for Maggie.”

Intrigued he picked up his phone and typed in “Hinton, Maggie's Year”. The first link was a local history page which explained that locally it was believed that every 66 years the surviving member of the Dunning family would return and take her revenge by imprisoning and hanging a local. There were apparently records of this stretching back to the seventeenth century but the website didn’t name any and so he was quick to dismiss it. He returned to the leaflet and created a maybe pile.

He was back in the cold and dark when seconds before he had been in his bed. He had finished going through the leaflets and then gone to bed. How was he here again. He remembered the door. Oh. And the person behind it. There was no sound now. No movement. He clambered to his feet, back pressed against the wall. His heart pounding as he shuffled along in the cold blackness. There it was. The door, now could he find the handle. His hands fumbled around trying to locate something. There it was. He grasped it and turned it slowly. It clicked open.

He paused for a moment and thought. Maybe the person behind the door was still there. He thought again. But this isn’t real. It’s a dream. He was actually lying asleep in his bed. Whatever was behind the door was not real. Scary, but not real. He held onto the handle and pushed with his shoulder and the door shuddered open.

He stepped out into a very dimly lit narrow corridor with a ceiling slightly too low for him to stand upright. The small amount of light that was coming into the corridor started at the far end and dripped its way off the moist stone walls and down onto the cold hard floor. He crouched and began walking up the corridor stopping every couple of paces to check for sounds. If he heard none he started again. As he got closer to the light he noticed it was another door, this time slightly ajar. He crept towards it carefully. He peered through the gap. It was another room, this one lit. It was like everywhere else, bare stone walls and floor but it was dry, he could see there was a wooden chair stood on an old rug but the gap was too small to see much else. He paused for a moment to listen. It was silent, he couldn’t be certain but it seemed there was nobody behind the door. He pushed it and stepped inside. He felt a crash against the side of his head and he was asleep again.

He woke up. He looked down his feet were bare and muddy, his hands, they weren’t there, they were tied behind his back. Around his neck was something rough and tight. He was standing upright, pressed against a tree. He was outside, it was cold and his head throbbed. He looked ahead and saw he was outside, all around was countryside, not a house for miles and stood in front of him was a hooded figure. In the dark he couldn’t make it out. It came closer and pulled the hood back. He knew the face. It was the strange tea lady.

“What’s going on?” He spluttered.

She looked at him with dead eyes.

“Someone has to pay.” She replied

“What?” He stuttered looking around frantically. “But. This is a dream.”

The woman laughed and took a knife from inside her cloak.

“Oh, this is not your dream.” She replied And with a hack she cut a rope that had been stretched to his right. Immediately the one around his neck tightened and his body lifted from the ground.