Chapter 2: Two - A London Haunting: A Christmas Ghost Story

“Mr Lord? Mr Lord, it’s Lottie Beck, from the agency – your new carer.”

Your dedicated carer, she could have added, wondering as she turned the lock – her head still throbbing – what else she might find out of place in this house.

Whether Mr Lord had had carers before, or had suddenly decided to invest in a care package, she didn’t know, but someone from the agency must have been here beforehand to assess the criteria. If so, why hadn’t they mentioned the Christmas tree in the living room? But then, who was she kidding? She knew all too well, even after only two years in the job, that agencies and care home owners conveniently omitted anything they thought might be ‘off-putting’ for their staff. They didn’t want any fuss or grumbling; they just wanted someone to fill the post, do what they had to do – the basics, mainly – earn their pay, and go home. That was the way of it. But not with Lottie. Not when people – often vulnerable people – deserved more.

Then again, when Sarah from the agency had rung her about this placement – she of the bored voice and equally bored stare – Lottie hadn’t asked too many questions either. She’d been delighted to have the chance to care for one person for a change, rather than dashing from house to house, cramming morning, afternoon, and evening visits into a blur of fifteen-minute slots.

There was no doubt about it – to be a carer, you had to be a whirlwind. There was never any time just to sit and chat, the very thing most of the cared-for craved. Those whose children and grandchildren had long since dropped off the radar, and most of their friends too, either frail themselves or having passed. So this…this had been something different. A chance to form a bond, just as she had with some of the residents when she’d first started at Silver Birches. As well as ninety-two-year-old Alice – silent Alice – who hadn’t communicated with anyone for decades until Lottie came along, there’d been Bobby, who’d loathed the place and made sure Patsy, the owner, knew it; Patsy, who charged the earth while cutting every corner.

Ah, Bobby had been a rebel! A warrior, she’d called herself, insisting ageing wasn’t for the faint-hearted. She and Lottie had become the best of friends, someone Lottie hadn’t known she’d needed so much after losing someone her own age she’d been close to. As with him – Matt – Lottie’s time with Bobby had been too short, but the moments they’d shared remained among the most precious of her life.

From Bobby, she’d learned how to live. How to be, essentially. To endure, no matter what damage time and tide might try to inflict. To be true to herself, and to never – ever – give up. Yet Lottie had nearly done just that.

When Matt had been taken by an illness that had seemed to strike from nowhere, ravaging his body with such breathtaking ease, she’d been ready to go with him. Life had seemed utterly bleak without him by her side. Why carry on?

But everything had a point – that was another of Bobby’s lessons. She’d said every breath carried you somewhere, to someone, and once there, a purpose might just reveal itself. It didn’t matter how small it was either, it was still purpose. For Bobby, life wasn’t over till it was over. And sometimes, as Lottie knew, not even then.

With the door now unlocked, she stepped into a narrow porch, another door lying a few feet in front. The smell hit her at once – that of all things rotten and decrepit.

Many things.

A hoarder’s house, then? Again, if so, why hadn’t Sarah mentioned it? Not least that she might have to bring hiking gear to scale the piles just to reach Mr Lord! If she rang Sarah now to complain – because honestly, some houses were exactly like that, piled floor to ceiling with what residents called their ‘treasures’ – she knew what she’d hear, word for word, as if being read from a script sheet: ‘People have the right to live the way they want, in the manner they want, if they’re deemed compos mentis enough. So, Mr Lord is a hoarder, is he? Deal with it.’

That wouldn’t be why she’d complain, though. It would be because it was simply unhealthy for anyone to live that way. There might be rats nesting in every nook and cranny, mould growing that could choke lungs already weakened by age and illness, and trip hazards galore. Practical issues. And if so, a cleaning team should have been brought in first, rather than leaving it all for the carer to negotiate.

Just the porch door left, and she’d be in the house properly, able to see for herself what kind of nightmare awaited. She braced herself, sleeves metaphorically rolled up, ready to tackle it Lottie-style, to care for Mr Lord and the house if need be.

She could begin in the living room, where the Christmas tree stood, after settling Mr Lord – wherever he was – with a nice cup of tea. If he agreed, she could pack the tree away – baubles, tinsel, lights and all – or, better yet, bin the lot considering the state everything was in. The tree could be replaced, of course, but at the right time: Christmas. A brand-new tree standing there instead, something that didn’t spark mockery or induce tears, but sparkled merrily, as it was supposed to.

Yes, with his permission, that’s where she’d start. She’d make this place gleam.

Come on, Lottie. Deep breath. You can do this.

She closed her fingers around the door handle, noting its coolness, and pushed. The sight that met her was not what she’d expected. There were no sideboards crammed with books, papers, and unopened letters piled high; no dusty paintings hanging askew on the walls; no floor buried beneath debris. The hallway ahead was old-fashioned, yes – drab, certainly – but also empty. Of everything.

Even the smell had faded, making her wonder if it had been her imagination that had conjured it. It didn’t smell of anything in particular now, nor did it look as if anyone lived here. It was hollow and silent, with only the Christmas tree left behind.

Lottie gulped. Of course someone lived here – Reggie Lord. And this emptiness was preferable to what she’d pictured so vividly while standing between doors.

Wasn’t it?

“What a strange place,” she muttered, venturing deeper.

Mr Lord hadn’t yet appeared, so she’d call out again, but not before giving herself a few more moments to take it all in. There wasn’t even a carpet, just bare boards.

The living room door was to her right – closed. And up ahead was the kitchen door, half-closed. Could Mr Lord be in there?

Lottie called out again and moved towards it, curious to see the state of that too, just how old-fashioned ‘old-fashioned’ could be. Some homes she’d visited were true time warps, relics from as far back as the thirties and forties still pressed into service, and proudly so. She was musing on this when she heard him – answering her.

“Here. I’m here,” the voice called, leaving Lottie to work out where here was.

The living room…she turned back towards it. She hadn’t seen him through the window, but Mr Lord could still be in there, hidden in the darkness of the room. And if so, what else? What if it was a shrine to Christmas? If, alongside the tree, there was some kind of enchanted grove, with dusty snowmen, a nativity scene even, or several of those miniature village ornaments like the ones her family brought out every year, all postcard-perfect houses in the snow with jolly Christmas markets?

She and her mum had stuff like that too, and actually, she often wished theirs could stay out for most of the year – those, and all the Christmas cushions they had: bright red or snowy white, one embroidered with It’s a Wonderful Life in curly script, another with crocheted parcels piled high. She loved tinsel too, and how her mum went wild with it, throwing it over everything, herself and Lottie included, then grabbing her daughter’s hands and dancing round the house to a jingle or two.

Christmas. It was a time for family, for gatherings, for remembering not only who was with you, but who was gone – for raising a glass and toasting each and every one of them. Your mum then pulling you into a hug, because of course there’d be tears in your eyes, and as she did, a little of that Christmas glow returning.

Lottie’s imagination was still having a ball with all this, but this time she didn’t scold herself for it. She let it run, enjoying the direction it was taking her as she continued towards the living room, her hand on the door now, ready to push it open.

She rattled the handle. Was it stuck?

Either that or locked.

And if locked…why?

Her cheerful visions of Christmas dissolved as the voice reached her ears again.

“Not there. Come away from there! Upstairs. I’m upstairs.”

If Lottie had expected someone rough-edged but with a heart of gold – a typical London geezer turned gent, even if he did have a hoarding problem, maybe even a former gangster with a bit of old-school sway – she was wrong.

Reggie Lord was none of those things. He was…something else entirely. She struggled even to describe him, a phrase popping into her head that she didn’t truly know the meaning of, yet it presented itself all the same: an enigma.

Mysterious? Was that it?

Eighty-four, but straight-backed rather than stooped, though it was said he suffered from chronic back pain. Nor was he unsteady on his feet, as so many his age were. His face was deeply grooved, his hands veined and blotched, but even so, it was clear he’d been a handsome man once – solid, broad-shouldered. And yet…there was something about him that seemed diminished. His spirit?

“You’re here,” he said. “Good.”

His voice held no quaver, no hoarseness, something overused and now worn out. It was smooth instead, though quiet, restrained, each word clipped.

At the top of the stairs, they regarded one another among more closed doors. What Reggie Lord made of her, Lottie couldn’t guess – her dark hair was still streaked with blue, a hangover from her teenage days that she wasn’t quite ready to relinquish, and her eyes were rimmed with kohl. The blood on her forehead wasn’t an issue; she’d adjusted her hair to cover it, not wanting to alarm him. She could always see to it later.

There was a moment’s pause, and then he turned, heading back to his bedroom, she presumed, clearly expecting her to follow.

His…living room/bedroom, as it turned out. Maybe even his entire world. And this room…it was cluttered. Every surface buried.

“Over there,” he said. “You can sit there.”

He was pointing to a plain wooden chair, best suited to a kitchen. She made her way towards it, sidestepping as best she could what littered the floor, and sat. Meanwhile, he lowered himself into an armchair, somewhat frayed at the edges.

She gulped. This was exactly how she’d envisaged the rest of the house might look back in the porch, the smell included – as if knowing the mess was hiding out somewhere. All of it would need clearing: stacks of old newspapers and letters, some opened, some just tossed aside; empty cardboard boxes, and food debris – which was the main culprit behind the smell. Brown paper bags from Chicken Cottage, McDonald’s, and local pizza places lay scattered among the litter, whatever remained in them – any leftovers – she didn’t want to know. Still, they revealed something: this man wasn’t out of touch, not if he could manage Uber Eats.

God, she was melting! Downstairs in the hallway, the air had been cool enough, but up here the heat clung, and so this room – with all its windows shut – was stifling.

Again, none of this had been mentioned to Lottie. The rest of the house was orderly enough, so the agency had likely downplayed it as an issue.

But this…this was not normal.

As Lottie continued to sit, unease pricked. If not normal, then what was wrong here? Because in some ways, it felt as though she’d entered a tomb.

“Mr Lord,” she began, a host of excuses rushing to her tongue. Perhaps this job is better suited to someone more experienced than me, she could say. Or, Rather than one dedicated helper, how about a small team, two or three, still personal to you, but sharing the load? It could be a very effective form of care, not costing much more.

She’d even risen from the chair, desperate to escape the stale air, if only for a moment, to step outside the room and steady herself. As she did, her eyes drifted to the single bed, which was strewn with more debris, including clothes, newspapers, and magazines that would also need to be delivered if he were housebound.

On her feet now, with Reggie staring at her, puzzled by her actions though she’d said nothing beyond his name, no niceties, her eyes kept roaming the room. As they did, her hands tugged at the neckline of her uniform, the collar too tight suddenly.

“Mr Lord,” she said again, noticing a built-in wardrobe in the corner with clothes spilling from it, and alongside it a fancy marble mantelpiece. Its surface was clear except for a clock, which showed the wrong time, and beside it, a photo frame. It was no ordinary frame either, but ornate, silver, though in need of a good polish. If it had once held a picture, it no longer did. All it enclosed was a black, yawning chasm.

She didn’t realise she was pointing until she heard her own voice again.

“What…what was in there?” she asked. Then, softer, “Who?”

Before an answer could come, it was as if that black chasm leapt at her, swelling at the edges of her vision, closing in until it swallowed her whole.

A well of loneliness. A grief she recognised.

She plunged into it, hands still clawing at her neck.