ANGRY SPIRIT PART 3 Chapter Two

After ascending the stone steps and making a hurried entrance into the main hall, Nathan stopped, clearly awestruck by the sheer vastness of the space around him. The stone tiled floor and dark wood paneled walls, amplified the sound of they’re less than distinguished arrival. Echoes of his rapid steps, drifted away into the distance of long corridors, stretching out from either side of him.

Sinister looking figures and faces hung from imposing wooden frames on three of the walls. Each one proclaimed the identity of previous Ashton Lords.

The canvas faces seemed to stare down at him from the elevated location of their frames, with coal black eyes that seared into his every nerve. He had no doubt each one was passing their stern judgment, obviously displeased that yet another raggy-arsed member of the lower classes had the impertinence to venture into the inner sanctum of their prestigious domain.

For a moment, he stood there, almost entranced by the heavy sense of macabre eeriness. Two unpolished and neglected ancient suits of armour stood guard at either side of the staircase rising majestically to the second floor.

The steps ascended to a landing, which formed the centre platform for two further staircases that flanked off from its left and right extremities. Yet another portrait had pride of place upon its wall. The proportions of which were a clear and determined announcement of the subjects’ status and importance.

Nathan began a slow approach to the base of the stairs, more by a strange and irresistible compulsion than any desire for closer inspection. His ability to blink seemed to have been robbed from him, his power of speech also gone. The only sounds he emitted were the painfully slow clip-clop … clip-clop, as the hard heels of his cheap shoes struck home against the cold, stone floor.

The painting towered above him, its overstated grandness held him stone-like in consuming curiosity.

‘Who was this God awful figure leering down on every visitor?’ Nathan repeatedly asked himself, with screaming thoughts. ‘Why would someone with such inherent ugliness have such an oversized image of themselves in such a prominent location?’

"I see you’ve discovered the famous portrait of the Old Master!"

Nathan cringed in surprise, amazed that he hadn’t heard anyone approaching him across the hard floor.

"Ah, Lady Ashton!" he almost gasped in relief. "He looks a bit of a mean character!"

"Indeed he was." She replied, before passing a somewhat nervous glance in the portraits direction. "To be honest, he gives me the creeps!"

"I can understand that," Nathan replied, making a feeble attempt to lighten the obvious tension with a faint smile, which sadly failed to materialize. "Who is he?"

"We simply refer to him as the Old Master. Only his direct descendants know is true identity, all others are kept in blissful ignorance."

"Someone must know who he is surely!"

"I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Harrison. But, if you heed by the local legend, you will do well not to be too inquisitive when it comes to the Old Master. There are many around here who believe that, should you learn his name and attempt to share your knowledge with others, both you and the recipient will fall victim of tragedy before the sun rises on the following day."

"Yeah… right!" Nathan instinctively scoffed. "I’m sure legends like that are just what the tourist around these parts loves to hear."

"I’m not saying the legend is true, Mr. Harrison. But I do assure you that there have been many instances in the past where the involvement of this legend has … shall we say overridden coincidence in some untimely and quite suspicious deaths." She paused for the briefest of moments, as if gaining enough composure to complete her sinister statement. "Not least of all, my late husbands!"

"I’m sorry, Lady Ashton. I didn’t mean to rake up bad memories."

"No, no … don’t worry, Mr. Harrison," she replied, quickly dismissing any sign of embarrassing emotion. "You haven’t. Bad memories are all part of the job, where Lepton Hall is concerned. Now! Shall we join your companion in the Crimson Room?"

Noting the sudden and awkward discomfort his hostess was feeling, despite her efforts to hide the fact, Nathan, quickly agreed to her suggestion and followed close behind her as they made their way towards a large open doorway.

When they entered the room Miranda greeted Nathan with an air of obvious irritation, much akin to that of a disgruntled parent, embarrassed by her offspring’s wonder-lust.

"I do hope you will both forgive me," Lady Ashton began, looking a little troubled by the prospect of what she was about to say; "I have an urgent appointment in London this evening. I hate leaving you both like this when you’ve traveled all this way. But, I fear I won’t be back until after lunch tomorrow."

Miranda, smiled, understandingly, though Nathan couldn’t help feeling her Ladyships sudden announcement, more than a little odd, bordering on rude. Neither of which surprised him, he had always harboured a deep resentment for the ‘upper classes’ and had never been surprised by displays of arrogance on the few rare cases where he had been forced to be in their presence.

"Please, feel free to make yourselves at home. Godfrey has taken your things up to your room. I’ve already instructed him to take care of your every need. Now if you’ll excuse me? I really must dash."

With a well practiced hastiness Lady Ashton retreated from the room leaving her guests somewhat stunned at the unexpected speed of her exit.

"So! Now what do we do?" Nathan enquired.

Before Miranda could offer any reply, Godfrey entered the room, his silent approach took them both by surprise.

"If you’d care to follow me, I’ll show you to your room where you can freshen up before dinner."

Without further statement, Godfrey slowly turned to retrace his steps, adopting a pace sedate enough for the stunned guests to follow obediently behind.

"I don’t think I’m going to enjoy our stay here." Nathan whispered. "This place gives me the creeps already."

Miranda passed him a silent, sideways glance, her expression a clear indication that she was in full agreement.

After climbing no less than five sets of stairs and touring the length of countless corridors, the massive scale of Lepton Hall soon became apparent. Another slightly concerning fact that Nathan noted was why they had been allotted a room which was obviously located in the old servant’s quarters. Tucked conveniently away out of reach from the main thoroughfare of the old house. As they ventured further and further away from lavishly decorated corridors, lined with an abundance of exquisite light fittings, the ambiance seemed dulled and subdued by an obvious lack of convenient appliances and welcoming comforts.

Finally, Godfrey paused by a door midway down a long unimpressive hall way. "I trust this will be to your liking," The manservant said, in his now accustomed expressionless voice. "Dinner will be served at seven-thirty prompt." He proceeded to open the door before, once again leaving in indignant silence.

"Wow! Very stately!" Nathan exclaimed, sarcastically, immediately unimpressed by the sparseness of the usual comforts one might expect in such a palatial residence.

"We’re not here for a holiday, are we?" Miranda responded, wiping an inspecting finger over the top of a single set of drawers, nestled just inside the room.

After inspecting the modest room in its entirety, which took only a few minutes and very little energy the decision to return downstairs in time for dinner was quickly and mutually made.

Despite the length of the journey to the ground floor, they made good time. Nathan noted the point at which the servants’ quarters ended and the house proper started. A clear dividing point that had not merited being marked with a door. Only a heavy, deep red, velvet curtain hanging from a brass rod separated the two areas.

Once again when they eventually emerged onto the lower landing, Nathan was compelled to stop and stare at the painting of the Old Master. He felt instant disappointment when despite a thorough carefully examining its entire surface, he was unable to find any indication of who its ugly subject was, or indeed who was the poor artist who had to sit under the steely gaze of the evil-looking man and paint it.

Miranda’s reaction was extreme and shocked Nathan to the core. "Oh, my God! It’s him! I can’t look at it." On that she spun on her heels and made for the stairs.

"Miranda! What’s wrong?" he called after her, beginning a feeble attempt to match her pace.

"Never mind... Just come away from it. It’s evil!"

"What are you talking about … Miranda … wait!"

Only when she had reached what she clearly considered the safe distance from the groundfloor and out of sight of the painting did Miranda stop.

For a moment she leaned heavily against the wall, in desperate need of support. Whatever she had sensed, must have attacked her mediumistic senses and left her in a state of exhausted submission. Her eyes welled heavy with tears, her complexion suddenly drained clear and ashen of all traces of healthy colour. Her lips trembled, with such nervous vigour it momentarily robbed her of the power to speak.

"Come on, Miranda. It’s only a painting, it can’t hurt you."

She attempted no reply, and made no immediate recovery from her disabilitating shock.

"Don’t tell me you believe in all the local rubbish, about not speaking his name for fear of a terrible death? It’s a painting, for God’s sake … Just a bloody painting."

"So it’s just a painting is it?" she finally answered, with a concerning angry tone in her voice. "Just…a painting of who? Who is it, Nathan? You tell me … Go on, if it’s no more than a painting you tell me who the man in the damned painting is?"

"I can’t tell you who it is!"

"See … even you daren’t say his name. So don’t you dare preach at me for being scared!"

"I can’t tell you who it is, Miranda, because I don’t know who it is!" Nathan replied.

"You know who it is, all right. I know his name is screaming out inside your head, but you’re too afraid to say it aloud. Admit it Nathan. Get down off that bloody high horse, and for once admit your scared … damn it!"

"You’ve lost the plot, Miranda! It’s finally got to you!"

Nathan stomped away, his anger no longer containable.

"Go on, Nathan! Say it! Say his name out loud; it’s only a painting after all."

Miranda’s scathing words echoed around the vast hall, assaulting his ears from all sides. Amplifying the rage that burned away in his head.

"Alright … Alright! It’s Joshua Edwards. JOSHUA EDWARDS! Happy now?"