It was during the last days of Winter that I decided city life had taken enough from me. Being born a country boy, I like many others moved to Saint Peter Port in search of wealth and power. Yet the years spent as the bookkeeper for one of the minor shipping companies had brought me very little of either. The daily sight of grey streets and grey suits and grey structures seemed to drain what little happiness my wages brought me.
It was for this reason that I jumped upon seeing the advertisement for Whistler Farm. It was located in Torteval, one of the parishes on the opposite side of the island, and seeking a new owner immediately. Thinking it to be some excellent stroke of luck, I penned a letter at the breakfast table and sent it to the address, not expecting to hear back within the next few days.
The reply that afternoon read as follows:
Dear Mr. Fisher,
I hope this letter finds you in good health, and with the eagerness you possessed in your earlier communication to me. I would like to extend an invitation to yourself and your kin to visit at your earliest convenience.
I must also implore you to bring with you on your visit, ten per cent of the asking price for the farm. If you find the property to your standards then I would be all too happy to accept this as a deposit and see the sale finalised as swiftly as possible.
Yours Sincerely,
Mr. Finn O’Kelly
Had I been a wiser man, the speed of his reply and urgency at which he was attempting to sell the property would have made me second guess myself. However in my desire for freedom in the countryside, I had not the wherewithal to think. I checked my calendar and sent another correspondence to him, promising to meet him by the end of the week and with the money he had asked for. The next morning I read his reply while eating my breakfast, in which he told me how he looked forward to our meeting. It is only as I reflect now that I realise how much relief he must have felt.
That Saturday I made my way to Torteval on the train, and then caught a carriage to his farm. It was a large estate quite far from any other houses, just as I had hoped for. Just past it’s front gates stood the farm house, from which an Irishman emerged. He was large, broad-shouldered and with a face covered in a blond beard.
“Mr. Fisher?” he asked me as I descended the cart.
“Yes, I am.”
“A pleasure to meet you dear sir. Mr. O’Kelly, at your service.”
He shook my hand and tried to subtly search me with his eyes; no doubt searching for the deposit which he asked me to bring. I assured him that if the farm were suitable for me then he would see the money soon enough. His eyes lit up at that.
O’Kelly provided me with a pair of boots before taking me on a tour through the farm. Aside from the house itself, there was the shed, barn and stables. In addition to these was the worker’s hut, in which the farmhands who tended to the fields and animals lived.
“Most of the lads will stay with the farm, I should imagine” the owner explained, “Pay them well, treat them fine, and they’ll never complain.”
“And they know what they’re doing?”
“Oh yes. All of them have been working farms for years. Have you ever run a farm?”
“Never myself,” I confessed, “Although I worked on my father’s during my youth and learnt the business.”
“Then you’ll have no issues here. Just give the boys the tools they need, then sit back and let them rake in the profits. It ought to be a crime to earn cash this quickly.”
“So then… I must ask the question, you understand. Why do you wish to sell?”
O’Kelly sighed as he turned from me to gaze out across the fields. The winter’s frost was still yet to fully thaw, but men were busy everywhere preparing the fields for crop.
“I’ve family back home who aren’t likely to see this year’s end,” he explained, “I figure it’s only right for me to return and make the most of what little time I’ve left with them. Reminisce about the old days, settle a few grudges.”
“And that’s why you’re so eager to sell?”
“I’d have been gone already if I could afford it. The farm earns me a lot, as it will do for you, but I’ve a nasty habit of giving my earnings over to the casino or bookies as soon as I get my hands on it. Never was one for saving.”
“I see. And so you’re in want of money quickly.”
“If you’ve got your deposit on you now, I think I know what’s best for both of us. You take the farm off me now, I take the deposit and head home. You send the rest of the farm’s payments to Ireland for me in the coming months.”
“Really? You would be happy to leave me with the farm on the promise that you’d receive your money?”
“You seem to be a man worth trusting. I’ve no doubt you'd do what's right and pay me my dues. And if all this is yours, you’d have profit o'plenty to pay me with. So what do you say lad, have we got a deal?”
The specifics of our arrangement were discussed in the pub nearest to the farm, called The Old Maiden. There O’Kelly sent for a lawyer that he knew, who came to oversee the handover of the lease. Having lived in the city so long, I was surprised by the speed and simplicity of the exchange. One signature and a handshake, and I was now the proud owner of Whistler Farm.
O’Kelly offered me a drink as the lawyer packed up and made to leave. I joined the Irishman at the bar, where he ordered for us both and waited until the barman’s eyes were off us.
“Thanks for buying the farm now, lad. It’s been a big help to me, you know that now?”
“I can imagine so. When do you plan on going back to your family?”
He looked at me funny, taking a sip of his drink before some realisation seemed to strike him.
“Oh, yes. I’ll be on the boat first thing tomorrow. Will you be back in the city this evening?”
“Only for a short while, I hope. Once I’ve sorted some business there I’ll move to the farmhouse.”
“Perhaps we could share a train then,” he said, drinking through about half of his pint in one swig.
“… But, won’t you need to pack? Surely you’ve belongings to collect, and you’ll want to say goodbye to your farmhands-”He scoffed at that, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He spoke again with a cold tone to his voice.
“Nay, lad. There’s no force on Earth that’ll get me to step foot back there again.”
Stunned, I watched him finish what remained of his drink and clasp my shoulder.
“One word of advice. When that woman comes to visit you at night, always do what she tells you.”
O’Kelly’s words to me in that pub stuck in the back of my mind over the next month. As he had said, he took the train to the city and boarded the first boat he found. I settled my business in the city, cleared his old belongings from the farmhouse and replaced them with my own. The winter frost had fully thawed away by the time I took up residence at Whistler Farm.
As the man had predicted, all the farmhands agreed to stay on when I took over. Fergus, the leader of their group, agreed to manage day to day operations while I handled the financials. After my first few nights I found myself quickly beginning to settle into this new life. That was until one Monday evening that I received my first visitor.
I opened the door, finding an older woman hunched over my front steps. She strained her neck to look up at me, revealing a face completely devoid of any beauty. A smile made up of rotten teeth formed across that face, spreading wider than any grimace should.
“Oh, hello there,” I said, stepping back and allowing her in from the rain. Perhaps she was a neighbour, come to greet me. Or simply an old woman caught out in the cold and seeking shelter.
“How good to meet you at last, Mr. Fisher. Won’t you make this old hag a drink? And spare her some bread?”
“Of course,” I told her, “I’m surprised you know my name. Forgive me, but I do not know yours.”
“No offence taken,” she said as she dried her shoes on the welcome mat and made her way into the kitchen. I followed her, putting the kettle on the hob as she settled onto one of the chairs. Before I could ask her name again, she spoke. “Ooh, yes. Not one for decorations, are you Mr. Fisher?”
“I… I haven’t fully moved in yet. Pardon me, but I still don’t know your name.”
“Oh, you may call me Miss Whistler dear. Is it just you, all on your own?”
"Yes, well, aside from the farmhands, that is. Your family name is Whistler, is it? Any relation to the farm?”
“Yes, yes we are,” she said as that smile came across her face again, “We’ve been here so very long.”
We continued to talk as I gave her some bread and cheese. Once the kettle had boiled I poured her some tea, which she accepted gratefully. Every question which I put to her was met with either a one-word reply or cryptic answer, none of which made me any wiser as to who she was.
“So do you live nearby?” I asked for perhaps the third or fourth time as she finished her tea. A chuckle came from her as she placed the mug down and looked at me.
“Indeed I do. However, it is not my residence I have come to discuss with you, Mr. Fisher. It’s your farm I would like for us to discuss.”
“What about it?”
“It’s on my land.”
Confusion came over me as she stared intently. I felt a chill as her once blue eyes, now white due to how clouded they were, locked with mine and seemed to see straight through me into my very soul.
“I believe that you’re mistaken. I purchased the land from Mr. O’Kelly, you see. I saw the legal papers for myself, this land is-”
“The farm is your own, once belonging to Finn O’Kelly and now to you. The land it sits upon however, remains mine. Just as it has always been. And as your farm is on my land, you must pay me for it.”
“But… How can I own the farm and not the land it’s on? That’s absurd.”
“If you enter a house and place your coat upon a coat rack, does the house become your property, Mr. Fisher?”
“No. But if I were to purchase a home with my own money, as I have done, then I would be the rightful owner of it.”
“I apologise for any confusion, Mr. Fisher. I never claimed that you did not own the farm, simply that the farm you own is located on top of the land I own.”
“That’s absurd! I was never informed about any of this!”
“Nor was I informed of the change in ownership. Still, I believe that we can come to an arrangement between us. Every Friday, I claim thirteen percent of the land’s earnings.”
“Thirteen percent!” I exclaimed, “This must be some sort of joke.”
“Then what would you suggest, Mr. Fisher? I am nothing if not fair.”
“I want to see some paperwork. This is ridiculous, expecting me to pay just to live on the land which I have already bought.”
“Well, if you are so unhappy with this arrangement then may I suggest you move your farm somewhere else,” she said, standing up, “Until then, however, I shall be expecting my share of profits. Leave the thirteen percent in a bag on your front step every evening, and I’ll be sure to collect it.”
I followed her to the door, insisting that she stay so that we could discuss this further. The rain outside was harsher now, and the light from the doorway was the only thing illuminating the night time. She walked down the front path until she stood at the very edge of this light, her features becoming unrecognisable.
“Next Friday, Mr. Fisher. I expect to find my pay on the doorstep.”
Before I ever could protest, she took one more step away from the house, vanishing into the night.
Tuesday came, then Wednesday, Thursday and finally Friday. During this time I had asked Fergus and some of the other field hands if he knew of the woman I had encountered, and he simply shrugged and told me they had never met her. I also contacted a friend from the city, who had worked in law but was long since retired. He used his contacts, and assured me that nobody on the island knew anything about a Miss Whistler who owned any land in Torteval.
That Friday evening was quiet. I sat in my kitchen, waiting to hear the sounds of a carriage or footsteps outside, the grumblings of an old woman and then a knock at my door. I prepared myself for an argument with her. Ready to demand some proof that she had any right to my money.
Only she didn’t come. No one came. So when the final light of my candle died I retreated up to my bedroom, satisfied that I had seen the last of her. Peaceful in my bed, I could feel my consciousness fading as the sweet bliss of sleep took me. Just before I fell under its spell, that peace was interrupted.
“What you owe in money, you shall pay with life,” some voice whispered in the darkness.
I cried out, sitting up and looking around the room, sweat dripping from my brow. It was her, I knew that voice was hers. Had she broken in, come to kill me for the debts I did not owe?
To my surprise the first few rays of daylight were coming through my window. I had slept the night away. Slowly as my brain began to reason, I concluded that it must have been a nightmare. Laughing at myself for having been frightened of something so childish, I changed into my clothes and made my way downstairs.
“Mr. Fisher!” cried one of the farmhands as he barged through the door. I looked at him, confused by the dishevelled state he was in. With wide eyes, filled with a kind of terror I had not yet seen in my life, he looked at me.
“What is it? What happened?”
“Come quickly.”
He shot out the door, not waiting for me to follow. I put on my boots and stepped out into the yard, seeing the man making his way towards the barn. There two other men were waiting just before the farm doors, peering inside as though they were some children too scared to enter a dark room.
“Won’t one of you tell me what the matter is?” I asked as I approached them. As I made my way across the yard, I caught a whiff of some unpleasant smell. Not the usual stink of the animals I had learned to live with. This was closer to that of decay.
“Well? I asked, recoiling as I tasted the odour in my mouth. The closer I came to the barn, the stronger it had become. Now standing with the other three, next to the open doors, it was almost unbearable for me.
Without a word, one of the men pointed towards the back corner of the barn. There something had been stacked up, like a Winter stockpile of meat which was now spoiled. I convulsed as I realised that I was almost correct.
My barn, where the cows, pigs and goats had all been sleeping, was now absent of any living animal. All around were patches of red-stained hay, and thin trails leading away from them towards the where this spoiled meat was stored.
Livestock was no longer a fitting name for the animals.