The Bakehouse Ghost by Rebecca Netley

To coincide with the publication of Rebecca Netley's latest book The Black Feathers, she has written a short story, The Bakehouse Ghost exclusively for our members, we hope you enjoy it. For your chance to win a signed copy of The Black Feathers head to our competition page on October 12 to enter.

The Bakehouse Ghost
by Rebecca Netley

The sun is low in the sky as we near our destination, and the driver slows the horses and turns to me. ‘So, you’re the new baker at Steepleworth, missus?’  ‘I am.’ He gives me a searching look.

‘The bakehouse is a way out of town. Will you be living alone?’
I’ve not had the good fortune of marriage and am long accustomed to a solitary life. Even so, I’m aware that this departure from a busier situation could grow comfortless in time.
‘I’ve no need of company,’ I say.
‘Well, I suppose Naseby can’t have either. His last forty years were spent there without another soul to call companion.’
‘If Naseby managed then so will I.’

A sly expression falls across his features. ‘Not like the others, then.’
‘What others?’
‘Since Naseby died, I’ve brought at least seven bakers here and not one has lasted more than a month.’

I wonder why. The bakehouse is said to be comfortable and the wage more than generous. In truth I would have taken far less. We draw up finally at an ageing house, with hills behind and a vast lake banked by reeds.
‘I wasn’t told it was such a pretty spot. What cause was there for so many bakers to resign their positions?’
He glances up at the building and shakes his head. ‘You’ll find out soon enough, but I hope you’re a God-fearing woman.’
‘What do you mean?’ I say stiffly.
‘Put it this way, you may not be as alone as you think.’

And with that he tightens the reins and is off.
For a moment I do not move. It is dusk and darkness is creeping down from the hills where a pale mist trails about the woods. Not a bird or creature stir in the stillness. I think of his words and their meaning. Was he suggesting it’s haunted? 
I do not believe in ghosts but when I examine the house itself, with its narrowed windows and blackened frames, I feel, all of a sudden, something hostile in its presence and in spite of my scepticism, I shiver.

But the first week passes without incident and I do not dwell on that arrival, indeed I barely have time. A baker’s work is largely during night hours and there is much to do besides. Every morning at three, a man from town comes and collects the newly-baked crates of bread.

Yet, I’m aware that I’m not entirely at peace. There are instances when, for no reason, something unnatural seeps into the air and causes unease to twist inside me.
And I find myself noticing moments when I no longer feel I‘m alone.
There is such an occasion a few days later: I’m working in the kitchen. It’s fully dark and the windowpanes show only black. Rain spits at the glass but slowly, almost without notice, I’m conscious that the atmosphere is altered. The oil lamp dims and splutters, sending out sprawling shadows. And the house, usually a place of creaking timbers, is suddenly too quiet and I know, with all the force of my being, that something is contained within that terrible silence. There is a stirring and, with creeping horror, I feel its dreadful gaze upon me.

I grip the tabletop to steady myself. But I dare not turn and face who or what stands in the darkness for I know, as surely as I ever can, that whatever it is has no place in this earthly realm. So I remain frozen in limb until, as suddenly as it came, it departs. I recall the driver’s words and a burn of resentment goes through me because I have come to have a fondness for this place and its setting, and I’m not ready yet to give up such a good position. Besides, it’s probably the driver’s suggestion which has led to my feelings, and over the following days, I fall into denial and convince myself that I’ve been victim only to an overripe imagination.

But one morning, a little before three, as I wrap loaves and place them in crates, the front door swings open and footsteps make their way along the hall. I call out a cheery hello. There is no reply. The steps continue, pause momentarily outside the kitchen and move off. ‘Hello there,’ I say again and go out to the passageway. The hall is hung with darkness and only the tick of the clock breaks the silence. I am still pondering this event when hooves signal that the man from the bakery has arrived to collect his goods. 

In spite of a growing disquiet, I sleep deeply until one dawn I am dragged abruptly from my dreams. The room is bitterly cold and the candle low on its wick. It is as I come to full consciousness that I identify what has woken me: it is a noise, one that is both familiar and out of place. It cannot be, I think, but on it goes in the kitchen below: the sound of oven doors opening and closing.

I sit up. Now there are footfalls that cross the stone floor and reach the stairs. Standing, I clutch my gown and at the door, I press my ear to the wood and listen, my heart clamouring like a trapped bird. The steps pause just outside my room. With all my courage, I grip the handle and throw the door open. I expect to confront empty space again but this time, shadowed in dawn’s uneasy gloom, is a man.
I press a hand to my mouth. Part of me thinks I must be dreaming still, but he turns and sees me as I see him. And then the shadows close about him and there is nothing there at all.

Sleep has completely left me and shivering, I dress and escape the house to watch the sunrise. Dew glistens on the wet grasses and distant pines catch the red of the rising sun. In spite of my dismay, I think of all the places I’ve lived not one can compare to the loveliness of this. I have suffered much in my life but here, I believe, I could have found something like contentment, and I know I’m not done yet.
In my time, I’ve been called bloody-minded, and I hope it’s true because when I enter the house again, I stand in the hallway and shout out.
‘I’m not leaving.’

I begin an exploration of the rooms and discover, tucked away in the attics, a trunk containing Naseby’s possessions. There is precious little to show: some carvings and whittling knives but also unanticipated objects – a discoloured hair ribbon and a tarnished brooch bearing an indeterminate stone. At the bottom, I come across a framed photograph: a man, woman and young girl. From the way they are posed it’s clear they’re a family and it’s also obvious that the man I saw earlier and the man in the picture are the same.

But as I study it, a great sadness washes through me because for some reason I had imagined Naseby single. The little group here conveys such tenderness of affection but for four decades Naseby resided by himself, and I can only assume he lost his wife and daughter a long time ago. I do not know why but I take the photograph and stand it on the parlour mantelpiece.

It is afternoon when wheels rattle and the driver arrives with letters and supplies. His eyes examine me closely, but I keep my expression indifferent.
‘Still here, then?’
‘Still here,’ I say.
‘Have you seen him yet?’
‘Seen who?’ I say as if I didn’t understand.
‘Naseby.’
‘Naseby’s dead.’
‘I didn’t say otherwise.’ He gives me a grim look.
‘Did Naseby always live here by himself?’
‘I believe he had a wife and daughter once, both lost to fever but that’s long passed.’ He shrugs. ‘So, you plan to stay? You can come back with me if you want? I’ll wait.’
I shake my head.
‘It’ll get lonely out here.’
‘I’m not going.’

He shrugs again and after he leaves, I stand and watch the turning of the day, and the round moon that is already drawn in the sky. Then I re-enter the house and hear, somewhere a little way off, a voice warm and womanly. Quietly, I step into the passageway and ahead, where the parlour door stands ajar, a woman is brushing out a young girl’s hair. Then from somewhere further back comes Naseby himself, who lays a hand upon his daughter’s shoulder and leans in to kiss the crown of his wife.

I do not know if it is only now, in his own death, that they are reunited or if they were never truly parted but there is about the house a sense of great peace.
Before the trio disappear, Naseby raises his head and looks at me. He smiles.
I smile back.
Lonely? Not I.
_____________________
Short story by Rebecca Netley, author of The Black Feathers (Penguin Michael Joseph, 12 October 2023). Available to purchase via your local independent bookshop Bookshop.org