Stories From Another Place by June Kingston Smith

Author:June Kingston Smith [Smith, June Kingston]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Stories From Another Place; June Kingston Smith; supernatural; short stories; ghost stories; macabre
Publisher: Linellen Press
Published: 2019-03-25T16:00:00+00:00

And I am still trying to figure it out. The hand belonged to a man who was buried with his wife and baby. They were the missing tenants of my house and they had been murdered and buried along with their clothes and possessions. Buried with them was their pet Samoyed dog.

The Cottage

T

he little stone cottage was gorgeous. It stood in the middle of lush green lawn, garden beds filled with geraniums, roses and lavender, and was surrounded by thick bush. We could hear the thunder of waves pounding the steep walls of the cliffs in the distance.

We had turned off the main road, followed the winding gravel track through the bush until it came to a sudden end, and there it was – built over a hundred years ago by a pioneering family of the district, and now open for tourists. After picking up a leaflet, strangely the only one at the tourist centre in town, we couldn’t wait to have a look. And it just happened to be on the way to a beachside restaurant where we planned to have lunch.

At the gate a young man in wellington boots, his arms full of wood, grinned at us. “Hi there, you here to have a look around?”

“Yes, is it okay?” I nodded.

“Sure, follow me. I’m just getting wood for the fire.”

We followed him across the damp lawn and onto the tiny front veranda. “This place is gorgeous,” I said as we entered the front room. “I love it.”

“Yeah, most people do.” He handed us a brochure as we paid the entrance fee. “That’ll give you a potted history of the cottage and grounds. We’ve only been open a few weeks. Feel free to wander.” He smiled and turned to the fireplace. “I’ve almost let the fire go out and it’s so bloody cold today.”

“You can say that again,” David agreed. “But winter’s the best time to come. No crowds.”

“Yeah, well, we wouldn’t mind a few here. You from the city?”

“Yes, but we come here every year for a break. Check out the wineries, new places to eat and work on some new music.”

“Music?”

“Yeah, we sing and I play keyboard. When we come down here the creative juices always flow, and we like it when it’s cold with open fires everywhere.”

“Yeah, when you don’t forget to put on the wood. Cool about your music though.”

“Right. Well, we’ll go off for a look. See you in a while,” David said.

We left him tending the fire to wander around. The room we were in was the sitting room, with furniture of the era scattered around – two wing chairs and an over-stuffed couch, a dresser displaying old vases and ornaments, and walls covered with photographs of people in hats and long dresses, all sternly staring at the camera. What a solemn lot they were.

A doorway to the right led to a bedroom with a very high four-poster brass bed complete with stepping stools. At each side of the bed were little tables with lamps and candles and in the corner stood a marble-topped stand with a large pitcher and bowl.

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