Short story

Despite having only been in the business for around 5 years, Sergeant Roe had several staunch no’s when it came to calls he received requesting police presence; anything that had giggling teenagers on the other end of it, people ringing for trivial matters like a lost shoe, or people claiming something of a supernatural manner. Tonight, he was breaking his last rule.

It was not a decision he’d taken lightly. Roe was, above all, a man who valued the principle of ‘seeing is believing’. He was an orderly and candid man of middle age, who after spending years training to become a policeman found a personal affront to those who, in his eyes, seemed to make a joke out of the law he’d dedicated his career to. So it was strange, his colleagues thought, when he had announced to the office one day that he was heading out to a smaller town by the name of Rowan Hill on the edge of the city on account of an ongoing haunting in the town. It was very unlike the man, who would often be found debating matters theological or pseudoscientific, to waste his time on the hours drive up to the town for something he would usually scoff at.

But the Sergeant had in his possession information which he had found greatly disturbed him. The tale began with the unfortunate death of a young woman who had only recently moved into Rowan Hill in the months prior to her passing. Reports from spooked locals claimed to have seen the young woman just as she was in life, seen from the windows and moving about the house. This in and of itself was nothing too unusual; such a tragedy was bound to leave an impact on those around her, especially in a sleepy little town like Rowan Hill. But the one piece that stuck out to Roe, which is what had spurred him on to taking up the case, was the fact everyone in the village seemed to agree. Reports came from every manner of citizen, church-going pensioners, the few teens who attended the local school, even the single police officer stationed in the towns police station, an old and decaying building, who’s interior would have presumably been quite stylish in the 1970s, now stood as a testement to the towns aging atmosphere, swore by all his decades as a man sworn to the truth that there was in fact a ghost in that house.

When Sergeant Roe parked his car in a small space on the side of the pavement, the light spatter of rain that fell down around him wrapped around the town in a sort of cocoon. Few cars trundled down the road, and the only passersby he saw regarded him with a hopeful yet wary gaze. No doubt word of his arrival had spread amongst residents, it was probably the most excitement they had seen in a long time. Reaching down into his pocket, he pulled free a small notepad and opened it. Inside, written in neat handwriting as befitting a man of his nature, was several names and addresses of various residents who had either known the young woman or claimed to have seen her spirit. He pulled his phone from his pocket to access Google Maps, but with the rain falling in a deceptively heavy manner, opted against it. No matter, he figured, a town this small was bound to be easy to navigate.

Over the course of the next 2 hours, Roe was able to piece together a solid image in his head; the young woman was 24, by the name of Rosie Finch. Finch was, in all intents and purposes, a complete introvert. Even those who had claimed to know the woman quite well were only able to give small snippets of information of her life. She had not yet had the time to settle into town life before her death, and a combination of her own shyness and the natural hostility of a small town against outsiders meant the only information he could gather was insubstantial at best. What he did know, was she had no contact with her family, desired a peaceful life, and frequented the library. Although many did not know her, her presence was akin to a warm summers day, something that those experiencing grow used to, and miss sorely once they’re gone. But whether this collective grief and mourning over the untimely loss of a young woman in the prime of her life was born of that tragedy, or a lingering sense of guilt over the fact no one had attempted to really, truly know Rosie Finch was still undecided.

Once he had visited every manner of acquaintance Finch had known, Roe decided to move onto the more pressing matter; that being the ghost. These accounts were far more solid than all descriptions of the woman herself, a fact which was not lost on him. They were all the same; people passing the house would see Rosie herself moving around inside, carrying boxes or shuffling around the living room. One man even claimed to have seen her about the garden, staring down over her namesake roses. She was no translucent figure, not deathly pale or flowing through walls. Apparently, it truly was as if the woman had risen from the grave, and decided to take a stroll around her living room. Roe found himself unusually enraptured by this fact, and perhaps too soon decided to see the house for himself.

He drove up to the house, and stepped out. It was a large enough townhouse, somewhat separate from the others, like its owner. A bicycle still stood propped against the wall, and the unused driveway due to the lack of a car was in the first stages of being reclaimed by weeds. The house was unassuming, typical to the area, if not slightly larger. The large curtains made of intricate lace offered little in the way of privacy, and he could see clearly the interior of the house. He paused on the opposing pavement, and took it in for a moment. Perhaps foolishly, his mind had conjured up images of a rickety old cottage, something dingy and derelict and more fitting a ghost story. As his mind wandered….he saw it. A figure, clearly a woman, walked past the bottom left window. Once again, the sergeants mind went into overdrive, as every ounce of assurance he’d held in his own beliefs seemed to ebb away