The Ghost of Buxton Manor Read online

  By Jonathan L. Ferrara

  To the real,

  Rupert Errol Victor Buxton (10 May 1900 - 19 May 1921)

  and the real,

  Michael Llewelyn Davies (16 June 1900 - 19 May 1921)

  And of course,

  the real Aaron.

  Always in our Neverland.

  The Ghost of Buxton Manor © 2016 Jonathan L.Ferrara

  All rights reserved. It is strictly forbidden to reproduce or copy any part of this work without the written consent of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Some names are real but in no means represent the characters portrayed in this work.

  Cover design: Aaron Ferrara.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1:

  Nearly one hundred years later, and I had only just begun to accept the fact that I was dead. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to recall a single moment from my former life. In fact, if it wasn’t for my headstone, I wouldn’t even know my own name. The last thing I did recall was separating from my body. Now, that might sound somewhat extraordinary to you, but it certainly didn’t feel that way whatsoever. You see, I had expected to find a set of pearly, white gates opening up for me; a glorious light to rain down upon me, and perhaps even my deceased loved ones to race toward me, welcoming me home. But it was nothing of the sort. What I’m trying to say is that everything you were taught about life after death is wrong. Believe me, that idea is completely amiss—at least for me.

  I gather I must have done something rather awful when I was living, or maybe I just upset the Big Man in the sky…I wasn’t quite sure. What I did know was that I was permanently fastened to this decrepit house, alone, without a single soul to mingle with. I guess it could have been worse. Whoever built this house must have been exceedingly wealthy. The structure itself is massive: three stories high including an attic which is large enough to house an entire family in itself! It resides on 20 acres of private, uninhabited land. A lackluster pool sat untended out back. Plants and flowers that had long departed from the land of the living were scattered throughout the grounds. There is a modest timberland on the outskirts of the property that I enjoyed exploring ever so often. Don’t get me wrong—by no means was it an awful place to live, but after a few decades or so, it got a little lonely. I tried (more times past common sense than I care to admit) to leave the gates and behold what lay beyond the Manor’s range, but there are certain rules you must abide by in death, and if you don’t, well… you just can’t. Not ever!

  I started writing this book to keep myself entertained, but all it seemed to accomplish was to painfully remind me how pathetic and uneventful my afterlife was so far.

  By the way, my name’s Rupert. I am the resident ghost of Buxton Manor.

  * * * *

  The day began just like any other day. I would like to say that this particular morning I watched the sunrise from my bedroom window, but I hadn’t been able to witness sunshine in nearly a century. I couldn’t even remember what it looked or felt like. From this dimension (whichever one I had been condemned to), there simply was no sun—only an everlasting haze. Everything within my scope of vision was clouded by this mist, and outside the gates beyond my ability to venture, it thickened to a completely blinding fog. Even if there were a sun on this side, it’s not like I would have been capable of feeling its warm rays on my face. After all, I have no flesh. Although I might be invisible to people like you, I can assure you that I am quite real. I might be transparent, but I did have some sort of a body. From what I’ve seen of old photographs of myself, my hair was wavy, dark brown, shorter on the sides, and too long in the front (which seemed to cause it to swoop down across my forehead). I had honey-brown eyes, and I am stuck wearing the same attire as when I must have perished. I perpetually don a white, long-sleeved shirt and trousers, secured by a pair of suspenders. My physique appears as though I must have been active. So who knows, maybe I was some sort of an athlete when I was alive. Not likely though, considering sports or any form of exercise doesn’t seem to interest me whatsoever. I nearly forgot to mention that I know that I was seventeen at the time of my death, and when you die (at least for those of us who stay here on Earth), your appearance endures. I guess I should be grateful I didn’t die an old man, forever frail and crippled. But then again, it’s not like I had much time to actually live.

  So, there I was at my bedroom window. I can assure you that it wasn't much of a bedroom albeit, there was potential. All furniture in Buxton Manor was draped with clean, white cloths. Whoever lived here previously preserved the house, but never bothered to return; and so it was deemed abandoned with only a rare sighting of realtors throughout the century (none, by the way, had ever been able to sell the property).

  As I was saying, time didn’t exactly exist for me, so I am not sure as to how long I had been standing there, peering out the icy window, peeking over tall treetops, watching the blanket of fog slink along the grounds. I enjoyed this particular window. I hovered there often to daydream, hopelessly trying to remember who I was, how I died, or even what part of the world I was in. Did I leave any loved ones behind? Not like it mattered anymore. If there were people who once loved me, they had been long gone.

  Eventually, I managed to drag myself from the window and drift to the corner of the bedroom where a decrepit trunk sat. I’d never been sure as to why, but I had always found myself to be quite curious about this particular chest. I imagined it housed answers to my past, something that could potentially shed a bit of light on the life I once lived; but every time I tried to pry it open, my ghostly hands would pass right through.

  Though, this never stopped me from trying again.

  You see, the majority of physical objects (such as this trunk) are unattainable due to my gaseous form; but there were certain objects I was able to touch…books, for example. About seventy years ago, I was flitting around the library downstairs when I suddenly remembered something. It was the first thing I had ever remembered about my former life: I thoroughly adored reading. The memory presented itself within my mind like a sort of vision. I felt myself lying in a grassy field, back propped up against an old, oak tree, right beside the gates of Buxton Manor. I was engrossed by a delightful tale of a young boy who never grew up; a boy who could fly, who brawled menacing pirates—a boy who rescued lost children, whisking them away to Neverland. It was called Peter Pan. Have you heard of it before?

  Inspired, I then quickly scoured the shelves of novels until I found the story I sought. Believe it or not, I was able to touch it. I gather that’s how it works for ghosts. The more you remember, the more you’re able to move through each realm, regaining some human sense: touch and feel.

  Still, the chest was out of my grasp.

  I exited the bedroom, floating straight through the shut door, emerging out to the upstairs hallway. I then decided to head downstairs. If I had weighed anything at all, I was sure the damp, wooden floorboards would creak under my footsteps, but they remained silent. Even without living occupants, the house was always vocal due to the great deal of repairs it required. Perhaps even a woman’s touch. The faded wallpaper was spotted with mold, and it peeled in several corners. Undoubtedly, sections of the wall needed to be demolished and replaced, but that would surely have disturbed the families of rats who dwelled under the foundation. After all those years, I’d finally come to welcome their company. Any bit of life force (rodent or not) helped remind me that I wasn’t completely stranded within this seemingly empty world.

  I glided down the stairway, my feet a few inches from each step. My hand swept across the banister, but the blanket of dust laid undisturbed. I landed in the foyer where a Tiffany chandelier dangled above me. A circular, glass table was stationed beside me with a vase that outpoured a bouquet of limp lilies, dried and crisp, so ancient their color was lost long ago. I imagined my own existence to be like the lilies: once ebullient with life to slowly wasting away to practically nothing.

  I wandered through the sitting room—at least I assumed it to be the sitting room. A white cloth covered a bulky piece of furniture that I presumed to be a sofa. I had no need for doors so I moved through the wall, entering the kitchen which was nearly empty. The cabinets only contained jars of preserved food that weren’t able to spoil. Do you remember the clans of rats I mentioned earlier? Well, several of them scurried throughout the carpentry, foraging a can, relishing over what looked to be a jar of mushy pickles. My presence never disturbed them, not ever. They didn’t even know I existed.

  I drifted through yet another wall, passing the dining room table.
Located beside it was a glass cabinet with a copious amount of hand-painted dishes that hadn’t been eaten off of in decades, the drawers organized with fine silverware. For a moment, I envisioned dinner parties that must have taken place here. I could almost make out faint laughter of gentlemen playing rounds of cards as they puffed their cigars. I could almost hear giggling women in the adjacent sitting room, basking in each others’ company, gossiping over a cup of tea.

  I walked through the cabinet and popped from out the other side. The library was by far my favorite room in the entire house. It was truly glorious. Every wall lined with robust novels, hundreds of them—I’d read each and every book more times than I could count. I had no need for ladders to reach the highest shelves that climbed to the top of the vaulted ceiling. I merely levitated, soaring above the room as I scanned for a novel to read. Sooner than expected, I spotted Moby Dick and plucked it off the shelf, already scanning the first page as I lowered to the floor. I am a voracious reader, so I assume it didn’t take me very long to finish the story; but then again, time doesn’t exist for me so I can never be sure as to how truly fast I was.

  I sat at a desk for what might have been hours, spending my time writing in my journal. Oh, I nearly forgot to mention the second and only other memory I ever remembered. About sixty years ago (years for me are a complete guessing game), after I finished reading every book in the library for the first time, I remembered how fond I was of writing. I gather that all of the wonderful tales I read of magical worlds triggered something inside my soul, reminding me that I had previously inspired to write a book of my very own. Soon after, I peeked under my bed and found a journal I must have kept hidden before I died. From then on, I couldn’t seem to put it down.

  Halted by writers’ block, I headed outdoors, materializing in the backyard. I strolled along the edge of the pool, peering down into the filthy water that was nearly covered by a layer of auburn leaves. Because there hadn’t been anyone living here for quite some time, there was obviously no one to tend to the grounds. Since I died, the woodlands on the Manor’s outskirts had practically reached the front doors. The grass was exceedingly overgrown, weeds sprouting at every turn, bushes as tall as the average tree. Vines managed to slither up the exterior of the house to the rooftop.

  I wrapped around the Manor, passing the greenhouse where some sort of species of plant lived (a monstrous vegetation) which grew ravenously, and had burst through the windows and crept across the grounds.

  I walked down a cobblestone trail, setting off through a magnificent garden that overtook the front yard. The rose bushes were taller than myself—twice my size, in fact. They reminded me a great deal of the Queen of Hearts’ garden from Alice in Wonderland.

  I roamed though the maze of hedges for a while, wondering what the roses must have smelled or felt like. I gather most of you who are currently living don’t take the time to appreciate these sorts of things, but when you’re dead, you find marvel in everything you can no longer enjoy. I can’t tell you what I would have given to feel something again. Anything at all.

  By the end of my day (however you would like to count the minutes of my existence), I sat at the old, oak tree I previously mentioned before. It was situated down an untamed, carriage road, which ended at the front doors of Buxton Manor and made its way to a set of iron gates (better known as the walls of my prison cell). From this tree, I gazed out between the bars even though there was nothing there to actually see. Like I said before, beyond the Manor’s range, the mist became a fog—impenetrably thick. I sat there, writing in my journal and wondering what lay beyond the murk.

  I would like to say that there was more to the story of my afterlife, but that would be unmistakably misleading. I spent my days reading and writing, exploring the Manor in hopes of discovering something from my past; but after these last hundred years or so, there were only two things I ever did recall. There was nothing incredible about my life after death. I simply existed. But then again, it’s always when you least expect it when something truly extraordinary happens. For me, it would be that very evening.

  That’s when the gates of Buxton Manor opened for the first time in many years.

  I lingered under the shade of the oak, paralyzed with shock. I couldn’t believe it. I was sure my eyes were playing a trick on me; all those years of solitude finally took its toll. Was I losing my mind? I wasn’t sure.

  The iron gates screeched, pervading ivy reluctantly snapped as the gates divided. The strangest sort of buggy emerged from the haze, billowing clouds tumbling over a front window as it rolled onto the grounds. A woman sat inside the contraption, one hand swiveling on a wheel and the other painted her face with a miniature brush. She then came to a standstill right beside me. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I’d last seen a woman. When she arose out from the automobile, I took a moment to reconsider her gender. Her golden hair was cut shorter than any decent male, and she wore a tie and a suite that fit quite snugly on her—provocatively snug you might say. I could clearly behold her bosoms popping out of her low-cut top. Believe it or not, she wasn’t even wearing a corset.

  “Mr. Scone, I did it.”

  At first I thought she was involved in a conversation with herself, but after further examination, I confirmed she was speaking directly into some sort of device.

  “They said it couldn’t be done, but I did it! It’s time to uncork the good champagne. Tell everyone we need to celebrate!” She ceaselessly smiled as she hauled a brick-red, rectangular board out from inside her vehicle as well as a hammer and a plastic sack of nails. “What am I talking about?!” she giggled. “I sold it! I sold the un-sellable property! Buxton Manor, the one that’s been on the market for decades now. Because of all those preposterous ghost stories, I had to practically give it away, but I did it! Oh, and I think it’s time we negotiate a raise.” She folded the gadget so abruptly, I was sure whoever was on the other end of the receiver didn't have a chance to respond.

  With the sign tucked under her arm, the woman wrapped around her vehicle, struggling as her heels sunk into the earth. She headed for another sign which stuck out from the dirt a few yards away from where I sat. All that time, and I had completely forgotten about the ‘For Sale’ sign outside the house. After all, in the most recent decade, the sign had become no longer legible, conquered by foul weather.

  The woman then nailed her blush board to the front of the battered sign, and before she turned away, her eyes lingered upon the Manor. For a moment, I could have sworn I saw her shiver. Seemingly a little nervous, she clumsily bolted back to her vehicle, and then locked herself inside; the car screeching as it reversed. The vehicle slipped out between the gates, vanishing into the fog. And just like that, she was gone.

  Instead of leaping to my feet, I disappeared, my body exploding outward in a million directions. Shortly after, my substance gathered, my shape reforming at the old ‘For Sale’ post. That’s when I saw it: the reason as to why the woman had come all this way.

  Buxton Manor had been purchased.

  Chapter 2:

  My mind whirled, racing at a speed I wasn’t used to. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Someone was moving into my home. Soon, there would be people sleeping in my bedroom, eating in my dining room, reading in my library. Nearly a hundred years later, and Buxton Manor was finally pulled from the market.

  What was I to do?

  I began to make my way back to the Manor, wondering what it all could mean. Just when I reached the front doors, I turned around at the sound of an implausible neigh.

  Out from the woods emerged a coach-less carriage, rocking back and forth on the rugged path, towed by two monstrous steeds. I use the word “monstrous” for a reason. You see, this particular pair of horses were never from the living world. This was clear to me almost instantly. They were fleshless creatures without an ounce of muscle—or organs, for that matter. They were merely bones fastened together like the remains of a dinosaur displayed at a museum. However, unlike the extinct, reptilian beasts, these horses were somehow alive.

  They barreled straight for me, galloping across the lane, fog gliding away due to their heavy stomps. The reigns in which the carriage was secured appeared about ready to snap from the way the buggy chaotically dragged, knocking into massive roots, wooden wheels plunging into potholes before being ripped out. I’m not sure I had ever been so startled before. If I had any bowel movement at all, I was certain they would have released against my will.