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Chapter one

Christmas Eve

My name is Arthur Kipps. When I was a young man, I worked in London. I was a solicitor. I worked for the same company all my life.

Fourteen years ago, I bought this house called Monk’s Piece. I live here with my dear wife, Esme.

Esme’s first husband had died. She was a widow when I married her. I became the father of her four young children. Our years at Monk’s Piece have been happy ones.

It was Christmas Eve. All the family was at Monk’s Piece for the holiday. We were all sitting by the big fire at the end of the day.

I was in my armchair, listening to the laughter and the talking.

‘Wake up, Father!’ someone called. ‘We’re going to tell ghost stories!’

The lights were turned off. Suddenly the room was dark and shadowy. I smiled as I listened to the young people’s stories. The stories were full of horror, but they did not frighten me. They were not true.

Then I remembered. I remembered terrible things. These memories were terrible - because they were true!

‘Tell us a ghost story, Father!’ someone cried. ‘You must know one story!’

I stood up, cold and shaking.

‘No, no!’ I shouted. ‘I have no story to tell!’

I hurried from the room, away from them all. I went out into the garden. I stood there in the cold and in the darkness. My heart was beating fast. I was shaking with fear. Will I never forger? Will I never find peace?

How can I find peace? There is only one way. I must write clown my terrible story. All the horror. Everything. Then I will find peace. I turned and walked back into the house.