Amanderella and the Mystery of the Moor Chap.5

Chapter 5.

 

Secrets and Curses.

 

“Now,” said Amanderella, placing her tea mug neatly on its saucer, “you wrote to your sister that something on the Moor was frightening away your customers. I have the letter here.”

She drew the folded paper from her pocket and laid it on the table between them. “You wrote,” she continued, tapping the line with one finger, ‘There are strange goings‑on upon the Moors. I shall not describe them here, for the very thought makes my hand tremble.’

She looked up. “Can you tell me now what these strange goings‑on are?”

Botswana took a long sip of tea, glanced nervously around the kitchen, and lowered her voice. “Boggits,” she whispered.

Amanderella blinked. “Boggits?”

Botswana nodded. “Boggits.”

Amanderella repeated the word slowly, as though testing it for loose parts. “Boggits.”

“Yes,” Botswana said, more firmly now, as if saying it aloud made it real. “The spirits the old miners heard. Groaning in the timbers. Whispering in the rock. And now they’re out on the Moor.”

Amanderella raised an eyebrow. “Out on the Moor?”

Botswana leaned closer. “The miners used to leave food for them. Bits of bread. A slice of pie. Anything to keep them happy. They said if you didn’t, the Boggits would bring the roof down on you.”

She swallowed, then added in a whisper, “When the mines closed, the Boggits came up onto the Moor to look for something to eat.”

Amanderella considered this politely.

Botswana pressed on, her voice trembling just a little. “It’s the noises, you see. The Boggits make noises. They always have. The old miners used to talk about them when they came up from the workings. Said you could hear them long before you ever saw them. if you ever did.”

She shivered. “And now the visitors hear them too.”

Amanderella folded her hands. “I see.”

Botswana nodded miserably. “And once people hear Boggits, they don’t stay for breakfast.”

Botswana shivered and took another gulp of tea, as though fortifying herself. “And that’s why people aren’t coming any more,” she finished. “They hear the noises, they think of the old stories, and off they go before I can even offer them a slice of Dundee cake.”

Amanderella considered this calmly. “I see. And how many visitors have actually seen a Boggit?”

“None,” Botswana admitted. “But they’ve all heard something. And once one person hears something, everyone else hears it twice as loudly.”

Amanderella opened her notebook. “Then I shall need to hear these noises for myself.”

Botswana shivered. “You’ll understand once you have heard the noise for yourself.”

“Can you tell me what these Boggits sound like and when you first heard them?” asked Amanderella.

Botswana set her mug down with a tiny clink and folded her hands tightly together, as though steadying herself.

Amanderella waited, giving her space.

“It starts with a sort of… rhythmic pulse,” Botswana went on. “A wuff‑wuff‑wuff. You feel it in your chest more than you hear it in your ears. Like a giant, slow‑beating heart under the ground. Or a heavy machine idling somewhere out on the Moor.”

She swallowed.

“And then when the wind gets up, it makes these high, thin whistles. Like someone drawing a breath through their teeth. Sometimes it rises and falls, like distant singing. Or a long, drawn‑out ‘Sssssssh’.”

Amanderella’s pencil hovered over her notebook.

“There’s more,” Botswana said, lowering her voice. “Sometimes you hear quick, scratchy footsteps, like something small and… well… multi‑legged.”

She shivered and reached for her tea again.

“And then there’s the clacking. It sounds like loose sheet of corrugated iron, or a hanging chain, catching a sudden gust. Clack‑clack‑clack. Just like a Boggit working a pickaxe in the dark.”

Amanderella looked up. “And you’ve heard all this yourself?”

Botswana nodded, eyes wide.

“But the worst,” she whispered, “is the whoof. A heavy, wet whoof, like someone suddenly catching their breath after a sob. It sounds… human. Too human.”

The kitchen seemed to hold its breath.

“And once,” Botswana added, barely audible now, “I heard a long, agonising screech. Wood on wood. Like a giant door opening on a rusted hinge. Or something waking up.”

She sat back, trembling slightly. “That’s what’s scaring them off the Moor. That’s what’s driving my customers away. The Boggits.”

Botswana pushed back her chair, marched to the dresser, and rummaged furiously among the piles of newspapers, recipe cuttings, and old seed catalogues. At last, she emerged triumphant, holding a folded newspaper at arm’s length, as though it might bite.

“This,” she said darkly, “is what started the real trouble.”

She slapped it down on the table. The headline sprawled across the top in enormous, hysterical letters.

MOOR OF MYSTERY: STRANGE NOISES ALARM VISITORS
By T. P. Wibberley (who spoke to several locals)

Visitors to the usually peaceful village of Cudwick‑under‑the‑Moors have been alarmed by reports of strange noises echoing across the high ground. Several travellers claim to have heard “wailing voices”, “underground knocking”, and “a sort of ghostly whispering that definitely wasn’t sheep.”

This reporter attempted to investigate the matter personally but was advised by a respected elder of the village, Mr Filibert Panks (retired), that the Moors were “no place for a man with thin boots.” Mr Panks, who has lived in the village for eighty‑three years and is widely regarded as an authority on local matters, explained that the noises are “the old miners, still grumbling away down there.”

According to Mr Panks, the miners of long ago often spoke of mysterious sounds in the workings, and he believes these “underground voices” have now “come up for a breath of fresh air.”

The local vicar, the Reverend Septimus Nonshine, declined to comment on the matter directly but did remark that “the Moors have always been a place of spiritual resonance, particularly on Thursdays.”

Meanwhile, Mr Roglan Walloper, landlord of the Cudwick Arms, confirmed that several guests had left early after hearing the noises. “Didn’t finish their puddings,” he said gravely. “That tells you everything.”

The Parish Council urges calm, though they advise visitors to “exercise caution” and “avoid unnecessary wandering.”

This reporter recommends stout boots, a firm constitution, and keeping one’s ears covered.

Amanderella read the final line of the report, folded the paper with great care, and placed it on the table as though it were something slightly damp and best handled cautiously.

“Well,” she said at last, “that was… imaginative.”

Botswana let out a strangled squeak. “Imaginative? My dear, it’s a pack of nonsense from start to finish! Filibert Panks hasn’t been further onto the Moor than the bench outside the pub in twenty years. And as for ‘underground voices’—”

Amanderella raised a hand gently. “Botswana, I assure you, I have no intention of believing a word of it.”

Botswana sagged with relief. “Oh, thank goodness. I was afraid you’d think we were all mad.”

Amanderella’s expression remained perfectly composed. “Not at all. I think Mr Wibberley is… enthusiastic. And Mr Panks is… talkative. A dangerous combination.”

She tapped the folded newspaper with one gloved finger. “But this does explain why your guests have been leaving.”

“Leaving?” Botswana cried. “They’ve been fleeing! One lady packed so fast she left her corset behind. I had to post it after her.”

Amanderella allowed herself the smallest of smiles. “Then the situation is clearer than I expected. We have rumours, we have exaggeration, and we have a reporter who appears to have conducted his research entirely from the comfort of a barstool.”

Botswana nodded vigorously. “Exactly!”

Amanderella stood, smoothing her skirt. “In that case, I shall need to speak to the Reverend Nonshine. And Mr Walloper. And Mr Panks.”

Botswana blinked. “All three?”

“Yes,” Amanderella said calmly. “If I am to understand the truth of these noises, I must begin with the people who have been quoted about them.”

She picked up the newspaper, folded it once more with neat precision, and slipped it into her pocket.

“And then,” she added, “I shall go onto the Moor.”

Botswana stared at her. “On purpose?”

“Quite on purpose,” Amanderella replied. “If the Moors are making noises, I should like to hear them for myself.”

Botswana groaned softly into her apron. “Oh dear. I knew you’d say that.”

Amanderella gave her a reassuring nod. “Do not worry. I have dealt with far stranger things than a windy hillside.”

She paused, thoughtful. “Though I must say, this is the first time I have been accused of needing stout boots and a firm constitution by a man who never left the pub.”

Botswana snorted despite herself. “That’s Filibert for you.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “Then I shall begin with him.”