Ferguson ran his fingers along the medieval tapestry, stirring up the dust, just as the hands who created it were now dust too. He lit a cigarette, and watched the smoke rise lazily, gracefully towards the high ceiling. He looked around him.

‘No wonder people see ghosts here’, he thought: if ever a house was truly trapped in the past, it was Salvatore, with it’s dulled-metal knights guarding the walls, and the faces of Gower ancestors watching every move of the timid, entranced observer. But Ferguson was neither timid nor entranced; he was, however, observant - Someone was watching him from the balcony above the staircase…a white flash of light, and it was gone.

His curiosity piqued, the ghost hunter fairly sprinted up the steps and found himself in a bedroom untouched by the passing of decades. Cherry blossom-embossed wallpaper gave the room an appearance of Summer pleasantness, but the contents within were drab: three brown writing desks, a bed with a quite enormous teak headboard above it, bearing intricate carvings, and no less than three lights, a riot of etched glass and gold-coloured tin. And of course, the obligatory unsettling oil painting, deceptively depicting a smiling girl under a romanticised sky of whispy clouds, a saccharine product of the Post-Millais school.

Light from a large slim, window lent the room the appearance of life, of relevance, but all was truly dead here, and nothing more so than Ferguson’s hopes of a breakthrough, a real story. He dropped upon the bed, sighed inwardly, and noticed the sky darkening outside, to complement his mood.

The train journey had been a long one, and he found himself dozing. He placed his legs onto the bed and decided to relax for a short while…just a short while.

Ferguson woke with a start. Now, the only light in the room was provided by a full moon. His sleep had been uneasy, despite his exhaustion, and his sweat had stained the pristine white bedsheet. Moonlight glared pointedly at a dressing table to his left, and his weary eyes eventually recognised a faded pink music box, or jewellery box…he couldn’t be certain. A tiny, wretched-looking ballerina posed on top of the lid; it began to turn…slowly, and instead of music, voices filled the room…

“Keep still, damn you!”

“Don’t…please, sir…”

“Hold her tightly, you fool!”

“I’ll teach you! Little witch!“

Childish sobbing floated around the room, varying in pitch and volume. It ceased only when Ferguson grasped the music box. The words he had heard, the crime he had witnessed (for he was certain that murder had been done right here in this room) shook him to the very core of his being. And reinforcing his unease was the realisation that one of the three voices he had heard belonged to Lord Phillip Gower, and another voice was his own.

Ill fortune followed Keith Ferguson, as surely as his dark shadow dogged his weary footsteps. A ‘psychic researcher’ for a decade, his reports told the same old sad story of his bad luck; not a single shred of objective proof, not a single ghost captured on film. And it wasn’t for the lack of effort; he had spent many cold and uncomfortable nights in some of the most famously-haunted houses in Britain, listening to the rats scurrying about and the wind howling through the hallways - but that’s all it ever was…rats…and the wind. Proof was as elusive as his own personal honesty, for now he had been obliged to become a professional liar.

His reputation within the Paranormal Research Society was poor, and now here he was, in May 1946, on his way to the celebrated Salvatore House, a place of legend but one which had been investigated thoroughly many times before; he was the Society’s errand boy now, Ferguson mused irritably, someone they dispatched when they wanted another sensationalist book written, another share of the profits. Ferguson’s own works, ‘My Life as a Ghost Hunter’ and ‘Candlelit Vigils in Haunted Houses’ had sold well, the Society took it’s own percentage, and had come to rely on more on book sales than patronage or contributions from the wealthy.

So Ferguson resigned himself to writing another potboiler, full of lies about how the Grey Lady of Salvatore appeared to him at midnight in the the maze, or the time when a candlelabra floated by itself past the old paintings which graced the walls of Olde Salvatore House; it was all so predictable, all so profitable… He sighed, and continued his brisk walk from the railway station to the servant’s lodging house where Lord Phillip Gower awaited his arrival.

A swift handshake, small talk and the offer of a malt whisky quickly followed Ferguson’s entrance. Gower was the stereotypical former military man; grey moustache, clipped accent, tolerant of little besides his own moral and social superiority. The small talk faded away, and Gower spoke loudly, hurriedly:

“Now, Ferguson, I have an offer to put to you - I want you to prove that Salvatore House is free of spirits, and is in fact, a perfectly-desirable place to live.”

“I see…but you’ve said yourself that the house is haunted, Lord Gower…I don’t quite understand…”

“I want shot of that damned house. No-one will buy it, not even the Americans who’ve looked it over - they all know the stories, of course - and that’s why I can’t get rid of it; it’s a hateful place”. His cheeks reddened, and Ferguson sensed that he was embarrassed. Gower’s voice lowered.

“It’s a hateful place…the spirits there take on any form they like…any form that can trouble us deeply. I’ll pay you handsomely to lie about it, Ferguson.”

A price was agreed. To hell with the Society, Ferguson would suit himself, and line his pockets for once. He began to walk the gravel driveway to Salvatore House.