The Haunted Garden: Tales of Mystery

It was one of those days I suspect many of us experience from time to time. Nothing particularly wrong, but for some reason one had a feeling of down heartedness. Not exactly depression, more a sense of not belonging.
As I strolled along the country lane, it being a path I had not trodden since my childhood. For some inexplicable reason as I walked under the railway bridge I thought of the old cottage.
My father had stopped there to converse with the very nice young lady, who it appeared from her garden, was a horticultural enthusiast.
Father it appeared, new the lady well, for he related, later that she had been one of his class mates, Candice Bunty, by name.
What a kind soul she was. For on the occasions we stopped, my boredom, waiting for her and father to stop reminiscing about school, was relieved by the glass of home made lemonade she handed to me.
So it was on this day, all those years later to my surprise the house still remained and the garden just as delightful, a mass of flowers.
My memories were brought back to reality when I saw her, about to sit at the same table and chair, just as it had been all those years ago.
I stopped, I instantly recognised her, though of course she was much older. Incredibly she still wore the same old hat and dress I recalled from my childhood.
When we conversed, she instantly recalled me and my father. With a welcoming smile she invited me inside and then, as she sat she told me that in her later years she had taken to writing.
She related, the almost impossibility of getting any writing published if one was not well known, with professional backing.
It was then she commenced to read me a story from the home bound book on the table. It was really entertaining.
The story completed our conversation was interrupted by the passing steam train. At first I thought how unusual an event that was, but then forgot the incident.
Thus, a very pleasant liaison was rekindled and over the weeks I made a conscience decision to walk in that direction.
How pleasant it was, especially on a day when I was feeling rather sorry for myself. To listen to her latest tale, I always left me feeling upbeat.
From time to time she had enquired if I knew where or how she might just get her stories published. It was however with regret then and since, I was unable to offer any hope or help to her in that regard.
My work took me away overseas for some time and thus, when I next arrived at the cottage I found the garden had been converted to lawn.
On this occasion there was a man in the garden. On seeing me standing there, he came over.
I asked of the lady and recalled our meetings and without waiting for a reply, I enquired if she had been successful in her wish to publish her stories.
The man looked at me with nothing less than astonishment.
“You can only be referring to my aunt from that description, the stories you refer to had been lost. It was only now; just before you arrived I discovered them, here, on the table. I had assumed someone had borrowed them and forgotten to return them, until now.
He hesitated then said, “Here my man, you may have them, do what you will, if you can publish them, no doubt mother would be pleased.
He handed the book of handwritten pages to me, it was home bound between coloured cardboard. I took it gladly.
As I left he called, “your story in itself is a mystery. Aunt has been dead these twenty five years. The railway line you refer to, it was dismantled almost as long ago. I have lived here since then, but normally I am away in London working during the week, but this week I am on vacation. He shrugged his shoulders and walked down to the bottom of the garden.