The Ghost of the Widow's Walk

   The house hadn't had a tenant in a while, but it had been well maintained. As I walked into the foyer, it only smelt of bees wax, furniture polish and fresh sunshine, not dust and mold. There were sheets over all the furniture, but the sheets were clean and the obvious candidates for the smell of the freshly laundered linen. Because the windows were clean, there were glints and warm gleams from many of the surfaces: the wooden bannisters, the picture frames, and a couple of crystal vases scattered around on side tables.
         "This is much better than I expected," I said to the real estate agent, Mrs. Slocomb. "In fact, this is perfect!"
         Mrs. Slocomb blushed with pleasure and said, "Oh, what a relief. When I read your email about wanting something by the beach, this house immediately came to mind. I was worried you might find it a bit old fashioned."
         "That just makes it even better. I prefer a house with a bit of history, rather than a modern box," I informed her, while trying to take in everything at once. It really was an adorable house, inside and out, a grand old lady from the late Victorian era with every bit of frippery … gingerbread makes everything better.
         Mrs. Slocomb looked a little concerned. "Yes, well," she said in a confidential tone. "When I've been here by myself, in the past, I've heard noises from the attic. I haven't been game to go look. It might be rats."
         "I'm not scared of rats. I'm from Australia … we grow our rats big over there. If I do see a rat, I'll call you and you can arrange for an exterminator with the landlord. Or lend me a cat."
         "My cat would run at the sight of a rat," said Mrs. Slocomb, with a smile. She started to tug sheets off the furniture, revealing what looked to be the original furniture from when the house was built. It was all dark carved wood and faded fabrics.
         "Oh, don't worry about that, Mr. Slocomb," I said. "I'm looking forward to tidying up and investigating the house."
         "Okay, then, Miss Dickens," said Mrs. Slocomb. "I've had the electricity and water connected, and you've got all my contact details. If you have any problems, just give me a bell."
         "Thank you. I think I'm really going to love it here."
         I spent the rest of the afternoon settling in. I uncovered the furniture and folded up the dusters (after a good shake) and put them away. I put away my groceries in the kitchen, which had the modcons like plumbing, a dishwasher, a refrigerator and a microwave, but an old wood stove dominated the room. It was huge and was tucked into a special niche with a lovely border of tiles and a mantel piece. I found a kerosene lantern and got it ready for use. I made up my bed, with a lavender-scented patchwork quilt, and unpacked my clothes. After that, I went to investigate the beach before the sun went down.
         The breeze was full of ice, so I put on a coat and gloves, and a beanie. The house was perched behind a series of grass-covered dunes, with a deeply cut path that led down to the shore. As I scuttled down the path, the grass was well over my head, and so I was mildly surprised when I suddenly stepped down onto the sandy beach.
         I was slapped in the face with a handful of wind-whipped sand, smarting my eyes, filling my mouth and nostrils with grit, and taking my breath away. It took a minute to clear my eyes.
         There was no one silly enough to want to walk on the beach but me, so I was completely alone. Even though the sky was blue, the sea looked grey and murky, with the wind tatting fringes of foam on the crest of each wave. Along the tide line were untidy shawls of brown seaweed knotted with twigs. The sand was as grey as the water and littered with pebbles. The contrast to the golden, sunny beaches of Queensland's Gold Coast couldn't have been more dramatic.
         However, unlike the sterile beaches of my hometown, the beach here showed signs of being inhabited by something other than human beings. Several birds were fossicking through the stranded seaweed; their plaintive calls sounded like children crying. I could see small crabs scampering over the sand.
         The bitter wind kept tugging at my clothes, and every now and again would catch up another handful of sand to throw at me. Even without sand, the wind was pricking tears from my eyes. It was too cold to linger, and the sun seems to be making a dash for the horizon. I decided I would come back down when it was less windy.
         As I turned back, I caught sight of the roof of my new home. The roof sported several chimneys and a proper widow's walk, with its own ornate railings and a pretty cupola. For just a second, with my eyes still blurred with tears, it looked as if someone was standing on the widow's walk in the shadow of one of the chimneys. My heart thundered with shock. Then I blinked, and I could see that no one was there. It had just been an illusion.
         Still, I was shaking on the walk back to the house. I couldn't decide if it was from cold or from the fright. My overactive imagination was one of my greatest resources as a writer, but it could also be a stinker once in a while.
         Back at the house, I could suddenly see the reason why the old wood-burning stove had been kept when the kitchen was renovated. I hunted up the wood pile – and was grateful to see the pile was impressively large – and soon had the stove chasing the night-time chill out of the kitchen. The crackle of the flames made a cozy sound. I poured blessings on the head of my landlord, who had also seen fit to supply the house with modern ducted heating.
         Just as the last of the sunset faded, above my head, high up in the house, there were some muted thuds. Mrs. Slocomb's rats were wearing lead boots. Part of me was frightened and didn't want to leave the light and warmth of the kitchen. The more sensible side of me realized I had to confirm the presence of – or lack of – rats or I would never sleep from unresolved curiosity.
         I remembered the old-fashioned kerosene lantern in the pantry, which I had taken care of just a few hours earlier, and spent a few minutes fiddling with the matches and getting it properly alight. It gave off a brave glow, and I felt better having it with me. The house's electric lighting was poorly positioned, making shadows in the corner rather than illuminating them. Climbing the stairs with the lantern, I again mentally thanked my landlord.
         The thuds were irregular, both in timing and intensity. It sounded nothing like ghostly footsteps, which I found comforting. I had been honest with Mrs. Slocomb; rats didn't worry me. But the hallucination, mirage – whatever it was – of the person on the widow's walk had most definitely spooked me.
         As I walked through the house, I turned on every light I could find. I tried telling myself I was just checking for broken light bulbs, but it really to keep my spirits up. I am not a naturally brave person. It worried me that there might be an actual intruder in the house, like a squatter. After all, the house had been left empty for a long time. I saw no rats or their droppings.
         At the very top of the house was a cavity that sat under the cupola, and there was a small door that I assumed led out to the widow's walk. There was an ornate iron key in the lock, one of those really heavy keys that look like they should be used for chains and shackles. It turned easily, obviously the lock was oiled against the salt in the wind from the sea.
         Once the door was open, it looked like a portal into darkness.
         For a long moment, I stood at the door, willing myself to step out into the night. I had started to shake again. There was a cold wind blowing through the door, but I knew it wasn't the cold that was making me tremble. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves and stepped out onto the tiny balcony with its chest-high railing.
         Once outside, the night wasn't as dark as it has seemed. The foam of the waves was visible in the light of the stars, of which there was a multitude. I realized the light from the lantern was half blinding me to the true beauty of the night.
         It was very cold, but the salt on the wind made it bracing. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the numinous and luminous stars blazed in the purple satin of the night sky. People always talk about the night sky being made of velvet, but this was no soft and furry evening. It was as slippery and sleek as a satin dress, and just as elegant.
         All my fear was cut away by the knife of the wind. I could see a tree leaning over the roof of the house, and as it tossed it tapped the roof. There was my ghost!
         I don't know how long I stood staring up at the stars, but I was finally driven inside when I could no longer feel my fingers, or the tips of my nose and ears. Coming from Queensland, I wasn't really used to dealing with such cold, so I quickly collected the lamp, locked the door, and scampered back to the kitchen.
         The warmth of the kitchen felt cloying after the brisk night air, but as my extremities tingled as they thawed, I made a vow to dress more warmly next time I ventured to the widow's walk. I didn't want to risk chilblains or worse.
         The muffled thuds pattered over my head, but I ignored them.
         
   The next day, I drove into the town to finish filling out the forms at the rental agency, and purchase a few more supplies. I had a mind to try beach fishing. And I wanted to buy another jacket, something with a hood, and fleece-lined gloves, for my next expedition onto the widow's walk.
         The rental agency was a cheery little shed, tacked on to the local library, which was housed in an elderly cottage. As I walked in, a handsome young man looked up from his computer and said, "Hello. How may I help you?"
         "Is Mrs. Slocomb in?" I asked.
         The young man looked serious. "I'm sorry. Mrs. Slocomb is unavailable. Could I help you?"
         "Do you know when she will be back? She has some forms to me to fill out."
         The young man's expression went from concerned to bewildered. "But Mrs. Slocomb hadn't worked here for nearly a year. You must be mistaken."
         "But then was that who had arranged my rental? Have you only just started working here? I met Mrs. Slocomb yesterday, when she gave me the keys to the old Victorian house just behind the dunes. She was an older lady, in her early sixties, and in robust good health."
         The young man went white and pointed to a picture on the wall behind his desk. "Is that who you met?"
         I took a closer look at the picture, showing three people standing in front of the shack. There was the young man, an older gentleman, and the perky figure of Mrs. Slocomb.
         "Yes. That's the woman I met," I said, with a growing feeling of confusion and a sudden flush of horror.
         Now more green than white, the young man turned to me and said, "Mrs. Slocomb died of a massive heart attack nine months ago. She was showing a young couple through your rental property at the time…"