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The Waiting Light: Part Two - A Ghost Story from the English Countryside

I am touched by your response to the first part of the story! It is my first attempt at writing fiction, so your comments really blow wind under my wings. I won't keep you too long in this intro, but two housekeeping points:

1) The photos I'm sharing in this blog were taken on the most beautiful late Winter / early Spring day in Dartmoor, at the 9 Maidens stone circle. What a place! I thought it fit this story, because this is exactly how I imagine the weather during the first meeting of Lucy and the handsome vet :D

2) I think I owe a little explanation about what a turnpike is for my non-British readers. I realised that when you search for it on Google, the historical meaning is deeply buried under the modern use of this word. Turnpike used to block the road until the toll was paid. In the story, Lucy lives next to an old toll house. Historically, they were very common here in the UK, and many remain today, having been modernised and converted into small houses or holiday lets. I decided to call the place Turnpike House instead of Toll House because I thought it sounded more interesting, emphasising the village's long history. 

Above is how I roughly imagine the Turnpike House. Image Credit – Harper

This is PART TWO of The Waiting Light.
Read PART ONE HERE

***

It was a beautiful late-winter morning; the sky was clear blue and the sun bright, enhancing the green of the grass in the orchard and the fields. It seemed as if spring was just moments away. Nothing bad could happen on a day like this, thought Lucy. She looked out of her bedroom window towards the turnpike house. The silent figure gazing up at her from the shadows in the orchard last night felt almost unreal. It was hard to believe in ghosts or witches under this piercing sunlight, but despite everything, the feeling of unease still lingered.

Emily, who lives in the row of cottages up the road, just a few minutes’ walk from her, had messaged to ask if she wanted to go for a walk in the surrounding fields this morning. Naturally, Lucy wanted to go for many reasons. She cherished her freedom to go out with a friend whenever she liked. She loved exploring nearby fields, woods and paths. Lucy was also curious about Emily and eager to get to know her better. Emily was a couple of years younger, pretty, easy-going, bubbly - simply charming. From what Lucy had learned, she didn’t have children, had been through a few long-term relationships, had just ended her most recent one, and enjoyed living alone. On many levels, they shared similarities: both were single, middle-aged women with small cottages in the same village. Yet, their lives couldn’t be more different, and Lucy was eager to learn more about her. In a way, it was like a glimpse into the life she might have had if she hadn’t spent the past twenty years devoted to her son and her ex-husband’s career.

She was spinning those thoughts while buttering a slice of toast. If she could magically remove Chris from her life, it would also erase Oli… and no matter how much resentment she might hold towards her ex, Oli was the most precious thing in her life. She and Emily might be equals, but at least she has Oli. Lucy didn’t think that having children was in any way compulsory for every woman; it’s a personal decision after all, but she always wanted to be a mother, and Oli was worth the years she gave to Chris. Her train of thought was interrupted by Emily knocking on the door.

They drank coffee, discussed their exes, work (Emily is a nurse at a community hospital), cottage renovation costs, and were now strolling through the fields overlooking the village. Lucy’s eyes drifted to the turnpike, and the change in her expression didn’t go unnoticed.

Emily asked: “Does it still bother you? The whole candle situation? I completely forgot to ask about it.”

“Oh no, it’s nothing... I just thought I saw someone again last night.” She laughed lightly, trying to downplay it. “Whoever and whatever they are up to, I really don’t care; I just wish it wasn’t happening so close to my cottage.”

Emily looked at her with concern and said, “Make sure to lock all doors and windows at night and do not open the door to anyone after nightfall.” After a moment of silence, she added, “It’s probably just kids sneaking in, or maybe someone is surveying the property?”

“At night? With a candle?” They both laughed at the absurdity of it when a gate to the field they were passing creaked loudly. They turned their heads to see a man in a field coat shutting the gate behind him.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said, tilting his head towards them both, showing no willingness to continue the conversation. He stood by the gate, emptying his pockets of syringes, placing them in a bag, and taking out a worn notebook. He looked busy, but it didn’t seem to deter Emily.

“Hello neighbour, have you managed to save any sheep?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

“Yes, I have. Three, in fact. They’re on antibiotics, and I’m confident they’ll recover,” he replied and returned to his notebook, but Emily pressed on. “Have you met our new neighbour? This is Lucy; she moved from London last summer. Lucy, this is John…” They exchanged greetings, and Emily turned to Lucy. “John grew up in the village. You probably guessed he’s our local vet, and he knows everyone and everything that happens around here… Oooh, you should ask him about the turnpike!” she exclaimed.

Lucy felt her cheeks flushing immediately, but before she could speak, John interrupted, “Let me guess, you’re afraid of a witch? Or have you seen a ghost?” He looked at her impatiently, as if he’d heard those stories countless times. It was clear he didn’t believe any of it. “People really need to stop repeating this nonsense. I played in that house throughout my childhood, snuck there in my teens, I walk and drive past it daily - there is nothing there, but…” he gestured towards Lucy, “You shouldn’t be going anywhere near it, it’s dangerous.”

“So you do think there might be some danger there,” Emily quickly concluded.

“Yes, the roof falling on her head,” he replied, with just a hint of irritation.

Lucy observed him as he spoke to Emily. She had seen him around the village many times over the past months - walking his dog, driving past her cottage, chatting with neighbours - yet they had never been formally introduced. She knew he lived alone in a cottage on the far side of the village and was well respected and trusted.

John was handsome, but not in a smooth, polished way. He didn’t seem like the type to use under-eye cream. She doubted his morning routine went beyond a quick shower. She admitted to herself that he was quite imposing, with a broad chest, a strong jawline, and dark hair that was greying at the temples. How old might he be? Forty-five? Probably a bit older, she thought. His characteristic wrinkle between his eyebrows deepened as he frowned, looking at her.

“A burning candle in the turnpike house? Are you sure?” he turned his head to look directly at Lucy, who nodded, still feeling a bit silly. On this bright, beautiful morning, it didn’t seem that serious, and she shouldn’t even be mentioning it… But the memory of the silent figure creeping through the shadows last night couldn’t be erased even by this bright sunlight.

“Could be kids?” suggested Emily.

John paused to think before speaking. “ I don’t know of any village kids who would prefer to sneak into empty buildings rather than play video games. My brother’s boys rarely put down their phones, and there’s definitely no Wi-Fi in the turnpike house...”

“It’s been happening for months, but I think I’m the only one in the village who can see the back window. Did the previous owner ever mention anything like that?”

“No," Emily and John said together, and he continued, explaining, “He worked night shifts and wasn’t home that often.”

“I think he was seeing a woman in town, and that’s probably why he eventually sold the house to you, as he moved in with her or something like that,” added Emily.

They stood in silence for a moment before John said, “I’m working late tonight anyway. On my way back, I’ll walk the path behind your cottage and the turnpike to see what’s happening there. I’ll let you know if I find anything, but you don’t go there alone.”

***

The rest of John’s day went as usual - routine health checks, vaccinations, and chats with farmers. He had known most of these people all his life and treasured this peaceful, steady existence. Still, meeting new people was difficult, especially women his age. “So when I finally meet one, I should really try to be nicer, shouldn’t I?” he muttered to himself, thinking of Lucy as he walked towards the barn. He was called in to check on a cow, but his mind was fixed on the pretty face of a new neighbour. Lucy seemed lovely, and he didn’t mean to embarrass her over her worries. He understood it. She was a single woman living alone in a village without street lighting. She probably overheard her neighbours talking; perhaps Jocelyn was going on about her grandparents’ stories again - stories he had heard many times over the decades - and here you have it: one spooked woman who now believes she lives next door to a haunted house. He sighed loudly.

Despite his firm belief that nothing supernatural was happening there, he admitted to himself that the candle in the window seemed odd. Could it be a homeless person who had wandered from the town? The issue is that the house is not safe for anyone. When summer arrives with dry weather, it becomes a serious hazard - the last thing the village needs is a fire, especially with Lucy living next door. He didn’t like the idea of some vagrant lurking in her back garden either. She appeared to be a kind, gentle woman. He saw her around the village, heard people talk, and everyone agreed that she made a great addition to the community. Someone who cared, wanted to be part of the village, and genuinely made her cottage a home, not just a holiday house. He had been hoping to introduce himself for a while, and now he felt like a total brute. “It’s ok”, he decided, “I’ll go talk to her tomorrow, and I’ll be on my best behaviour.” He turned his attention to the cow in front of him. “Let’s see, what’s going on with you, madam?” He gently patted her back and resumed his work.

It had become completely dark before he got back to his 4x4. His dog, Barley, wagged his tail at the sight of him. “I know it’s cold, but a little walk would do you good, old lad.” Barley comes to work with him every day, but lately, his age has started to show. More often than not, the dog prefers the comfort of the back seat, especially now in winter. John would leave the car door slightly open in case the dog decided to come along, but today he didn’t, and it was worrying him. He felt Barley’s time was nearing, but he wasn’t ready for it. He pushed these thoughts aside and instead said aloud, “We’ve got a job to do tonight, and you’re coming with me.”

John parked his car on the roadside about a mile from the village. From here, a trail led into the fields and eventually joined the path that went to the orchard between the turnpike and Lucy’s cottage, and then further into the village. He decided to walk through the fields to get a look at the turnpike house’s back window from afar, to see if there was any light inside without disturbing whoever might be there. It was dark and cold, but the moon illuminated the narrow path ahead of Barley and him, and the countryside seemed to be awake with shadows dancing, owls hooting, and a gentle wind swaying the trees’ branches along the track. It was beautiful, and he loved this land. As he emerged from beneath the canopy, revealing open fields along the familiar path towards the village, he noticed the light. He halted abruptly and frowned, gazing at the tiny glow in the window. Judging by its colour and flickering, there was a candle in the turnpike house, just as Lucy had said. The curtains in her own home were drawn, with a dim light seeping through what he believed was the living room at the back of the cottage.

He began walking again towards the turnpike, his eyes fixed on the candle. He paused as he neared the building, still hidden in the shadow of the overgrown brambles and hawthorn. He gazed intently at the small, open side door, but saw only darkness. He could clearly see a pillar candle on the windowsill now, casting shadows and making everything else around it seem even darker. He whistled gently at Barley, who, in his youth, was a well-trained working dog, spending hours every day in the fields and farms with him. Barley instantly understood what his owner wanted. He went to the open door, sniffed around and stuck his nose through the threshold. John ordered him to stop before he went inside. The dog didn’t seem to sense any danger, but he didn’t want to risk him getting hurt in this decaying building. He moved closer to the narrow side door, poked his head inside, and was surprised to see that the candle had been extinguished. The wick was still smoking. Was it a gust of wind that did it, or had someone blown it out?

The only source of any light inside the turnpike was the moonlight filtering through the dirty windows, so he used his phone’s light as far as it reached. He regretted not treating Lucy seriously and not bringing a proper torch. He called out, “Is anyone in here?”, but his words echoed in the silence, bouncing off stone floors and rotting walls. He repeated the question again. Barley seemed eager to get in, wagging his tail, but given his age and declining senses, John decided it was best to come back here tomorrow during the day to see if he could spot any signs of squatters or anything more sinister.

***

One of the best parts of Lucy’s new, slower life was that she no longer worked on weekends. A client of hers had retired, and instead of finding someone new, she adjusted her workload and limited her working days from Monday to Friday, hoping that once she finishes renovating the cottage, she will drop to four days a week. She loved waking up on Saturday morning, knowing she had the entire weekend to herself. Today was gloomy, with the sky dark and threatening rain, but nothing could dampen her enthusiasm. She jumped out of bed, hurried downstairs to the kitchen to make coffee, then returned upstairs to do her makeup and spend considerably longer than usual choosing what to wear. “I really need to calm down; he didn’t say he will definitely come, only if he finds out something.” But there was a chance that John would come, and for some strange, unnamed reason, she cared how she looked, even if she wasn’t ready to admit it to herself. She only did a light touch of make-up (“I don’t want to look desperate, in fact, I actually don’t care at all,” she told herself confidently) and chose casual but fitting jeans, then looked in the mirror. The 40-year-old version of herself smiled back at her, and she smiled in return. Judging by Joyce, she might have at least half of her life ahead of her - and it’s the best part. The part when she’s steady, confident in her path and trusts herself. And she is free.

Whatever haunts the house next door hasn’t vanished from her thoughts, but she is no longer alone with it. Last night, she drew the curtains tightly and didn’t look outside. Although she hardly knew John, she felt she could trust him; he would check what was going on in the turnpike and tell her of his findings. He seemed like a down-to-earth, reliable person, and she felt relieved now that he promised to look into it.

Her thoughts were pleasantly swirling when she heard a knock; her heart skipped a beat, but she took a deep breath and went to open the door. As she reached for the doorknob, she noticed something in the letterbox. She automatically pulled it out and opened the door to see John’s handsome face; this time, instead of a frown, he was smiling at her.

“I hope I’m not interrupting, but I promised to come by after I checked the turnpike.”

“Thank you so much for looking into this for me. You don’t know how relieved I feel…” Lucy said as they entered the kitchen, her eyes falling on the letter she was holding. John’s eyes followed. It was a handwritten note on a plain piece of paper:

Leave the turnpike alone.

Close your curtains after dark and stop asking questions.
You are being watched. This is your only warning.

The village will not protect you.
Some lights are meant only for the dead and the forgotten.

To be continued...

This is PART TWO of The Waiting Light.
Read PART THREE HERE

The third and final part is coming next week. I hope you enjoyed this second part. I'm so excited to be sharing the end of the story with you very soon! I'd love to know what you think so far.

Thank you for reading,
Adriana x