Copyright Oggbashan October 2010
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
*
I had been helping out at a rural branch of my uncle's Estate Agent business during the summer vacation before I started on my MBA. I was on a year's sabbatical from the investment banker that had employed me for five years since I had graduated with an Economics first. The sabbatical hadn't been wholly voluntary. My employers were reducing their UK staff. I could have an unpaid sabbatical that might end with re-employment, or be made redundant now.
I chose the sabbatical because I could finance myself for the MBA course, if I was careful. The few weeks' pay for helping my uncle would be helpful.
Unfortunately his local manager thought that I should learn the business by trying to sell the difficult properties. I had managed to sell a couple of houses in poor repair. My share of the commission on their low value hadn't helped my finances much. The assistant manager, Sonia, had just given me two intractable sales to attempt.
One was a parcel of land beside a main road, with no vehicle access. Except for a small mound most of it flooded each winter. Even if I sold it, my cut would be enough for a meal for two in a decent restaurant, no more.
The other was nearby, a fire damaged listed building on the "at risk" register. Called The Nunnery, it was an extensive early Victorian building that had been unoccupied for thirty years since one wing had been destroyed by fire. The owner, a great-granddaughter of the original owner, had moved out after the fire to a lodge cottage. She had died two years ago leaving the ruin to her three granddaughters. The three were stolid farmers' wives. All they wanted was to share the money from the sale and forget their ancestors' status symbol.
My uncle's business had tried several times to sell The Nunnery, even offering it at auction with no reserve. No one had bid. Any new owner would be pressurised by the heritage lobby to restore it. That would cost millions to produce a building that might not be worth the money spent.
The only prospect, a year ago, had been a newly-rich woman with poor taste who thought that The Nunnery might be a cute weekend cottage. She teetered into our office on impossibly high heels with a tight leopardskin miniskirt. She thought she was God's gift to men but her orange tan and fake breasts repulsed me.
Her interest in The Nunnery hadn't survived a visit escorted by Sonia. Both of them complained of being pinched and slapped by unseen hands. I hadn't be around to see them but Sonia said her bruises were impressive. She nearly showed them to me, but I think my too-obvious excitement stopped her. I appreciate Sonia and I would have enjoyed seeing the sites of the bruises in places normally covered by her formal office wear.
But Sonia wouldn't give up on a client. She sold her a dreadful Victorian pastiche manor house with battlements, spires and even a moat. Only someone who was rich enough to buy it on a whim could have considered such a high-maintenance building.
I wouldn't try to sell a property without seeing it first. The piece of land was easy. I passed it every day driving to and from the office but I hadn't stopped. I would park and look at it closely tomorrow morning and then drive to The Nunnery. I booked out The Nunnery's keys.
"Watch out for pinching fingers!" warned Sonia as I was leaving. I turned back.
"What was it really like?" I asked.
Sonia shuddered.
"It was weird, Ralph. I haven't been pinched like that since fights in the schoolyard. They were vicious, really hard and vindictive. We couldn't stay in the house for more than a few seconds. We had no defence against invisible fingers."
"Have you thought of exorcism or ghost hunters?"
"No. The publicity would deter any potential buyers. We really need to sell it, if only for demolition and rebuild but the heritage lobby wouldn't allow that. Apart from the fire damaged wing it is an attractive building on a good site with extensive grounds. It could be a really great conference centre or, if anyone could afford it, a fantastic family home."
"Come on, Sonia" I said, "that's you in estate agent mode. What do you really think?"
"I mean it, Ralph. Honestly. I like The Nunnery... Or rather I did before I was bruised so extensively. It seems like a place to enjoy oneself. See for yourself but be prepared to run for it if the ghosts start pinching. They hurt."
"I'll be careful and be prepared to leave quickly if I am attacked."
"Do, Ralph. My bruises lasted for weeks but the client was pinched more than I was. Whatever it was didn't like her."
"Neither did I. She was too full of herself."
"Careful, Ralph. We can't afford to dislike clients. We sell property. We don't make judgements. But I privately I might agree. She was a twenty-four carat bitch."
"But you still sold her a property."
"Of course. Money talks even if you don't like its owner. While I remember, another thing. Watch yourself on that roadside bog. Apart from the mound the rest is very sticky mud."
"I'll be careful, Sonia. I'll be wearing wellingtons and I'm a country boy at heart. I've been stomping around in mud since I could walk."
"OK, but take your mobile."
"Never go anywhere without it."
Sonia patted me on a shoulder. I liked that. Over the past few weeks Sonia had become more tactile. She touched me two or three times a day. Every time my instinctive reaction strained at my trousers. Did she know what effect she was having?
--
The next morning was damp and misty. I pulled my car off the roadside beside the piece of land, changed into my wellington boots, and as an afterthought took my walking stick. I forced my way through the hedge and squelched along the other side, thinking of possibilities. Unless some of the ditches were bridged or filled in, there was no real access to raised mound. I prodded with my stick before carefully picking my way across the driest part of the ditch. Even so I had to choose my footing carefully. An embedded supermarket trolley helped at the deepest part.
Once on the mound there was some evidence of old masonry. There must have been a building here once. There hadn't been a house within living memory but planning permission might be feasible because it was within the village boundaries. There would need to be a dry causeway if only for the construction. A few tons of hardcore would do.
The mound was larger than I had thought. I had left my long tape measure in the car so I paced it roughly. I worked it out as forty yards by fifty, more than enough for a house, garage and garden. The whole piece of land was probably three hundred yards along the road by one hundred yards deep but most of it was too wet for anything.
The last time we had tried to sell it at auction the reserve price had been seven thousand pounds. There had been no interest at any price.
I walked to the edge of the mound furthest from the road. There appeared to be a drier part in the ditch that was confirmed by old tracks of bicycles and trainers heading in the direction of the nearby housing estate. It couldn't have been a popular place for the local youths or there would have been more litter.
I squelched back to the road. I didn't have any new ideas about how to market a mound in a swamp but now I knew exactly what was, or rather wasn't, there. I changed out of my muddy wellingtons and drove to The Nunnery.
I had to drag the carriage gates open before I could get into the estate. Weeds were encroaching on the metalled drive and the parkland was neglected but the design was still visible. The statuary at the ends of the vistas was too massive, large and heavy to have been stolen. I stopped the car and walked up to one statue. As I had thought from a distant glimpse, the statue was erotic, showing a naked couple enjoying copulation while standing. The smile on the man's face and the ecstasy shown by the woman gave me an erection as I studied them.
I was still erect when I unlocked the back door. Sonia had told me that the front doors were very heavy and stiff. The front door leading to the formal entrance hall was the way to bring in a potential client but I didn't care about making a good first impression.
I had just left the back hall into the servants' quarters when I felt an invisible hand press against my crotch.
"Nice..." a disembodied voice said in my ear.
"Who are you?" I asked as the hand pushed harder against me.
"One of the ghosts, of course. Didn't Sonia warn you?"
