It was unexpectedly dark for three o’clock in the afternoon, and Rob wasn’t entirely surprised when it began to rain. He muttered a swear word or two under his breath. This would neatly scupper his plan.
He’d been careful to arrange this viewing of the farm for the middle of the afternoon. He’d checked the forecast several times and firmly suggested to the prospective buyers a day when the BBC were guaranteeing fine weather.
He should have known better. The ghosts which lurked throughout the valley – it had been the site of a particularly bloody battle about eight hundred years ago – seemed to be able to create their own micro-climate. Such was their power that the farm already had a dubious reputation, and one more set of terrified viewers rushing away from the valley would seal its doom irretrievably.
He wasn’t afraid of them himself – over the generations his family had grown used to the sounds of battle surging up and down their fields, and he’d grown up with them – in fact when he was younger he used to play war games both inside and outside the farm. But recently he’d met a comely lass who was rather keen on him and he wanted to move away so they could get married.
If the sale fell through again their future would come to nothing. She knew the farm was haunted, but nothing about the extent of the difficulties the ghosts caused, and quashing her curiosity he’d firmly refused to take her there. Who would want to live in such a dark, dank place, surrounded by the vengeful ghosts of rival Saxon armies?
[The title was picked from a list at a session of the Whitehaven Writers. I liked this beginning. Any suggestions for where it might go next?]