The consequences of reading creepy stories : : The mystery of the missing ladder

How could we resist a trip to our little old home-to-be? It was half term holiday and our anniversary last week. 'A' suggested Paris, which was very sweet of him...We considered it for about a minute, but then the tug of Herefordshire kicked in much too strongly.

It was only the second time we'd been inside the house. This time just the two of us, no estate agent.  Would we still love it? 

We waited to meet a builder there. I was in the little black and white bedroom upstairs measuring for curtains, when I spotted a ladder at the window. I reckoned that he must have arrived already and be checking the roof. I ran downstairs to tell A who was busy discovering a hay loft in the store room at the time. But there was no sign of the builder...or the ladder. We walked around the house together thinking I'd got the wrong window. Still no ladder. No sign of anyone, or anything. Curious. 

We both went back upstairs to look for the mysterious ladder. It was starting to feel a little bit creepy. I'd forgotten which bedroom I'd seen it in. We looked in two and then at each other...no ladder...Had I imagined it? Then into the third, the little black and white room...There it was. We could see it through the tattered lace curtain. Somehow that was worse. Why could we see it upstairs through the window, but not outside? 

Had some horrible event occurred that involved a ladder, long ago. Was someone, or something, trying to warn us about it. I rubbed my eyes hard, then we walked over to the window, pulled aside the mock lace and...? Burst out laughing...There was the ladder, only it wasn't a ladder. Half of the very dirty window was barred with horizontal lines... 

That's what you get from reading a murder mystery  novel about a seance that results in a death in a very old house, too late at night.The night before you're visiting a very old house.   

We do still love the house and we met the next door neighbours who are equally lovely and have offered to chicken sit,  and told us there's probably space in the orchard across the road for bees! 

I asked about my imagined Agatha Christie/Beatrix Potter previous owner. And yes she was a lovely independent lady who'd arrived thirty years ago with her husband, to escape the cold Scottish winters. Outliving him by more than a decade, until a year ago when well into her nineties she moved away. 

I was allowed to keep her standard lamp with it's oversized floral shade. I've brought it home and may up-cycle it...But I'm not quite sure. I may keep it as it is. A contrast to our furniture. Like an old lady standing on the landing observing us. I might keep her light burning exactly as it was for all those thirty years. 

...Oh and the sheep...Did you spot all the sheep? Aren't they gorgeous.We turned a corner and there they were, and I thought...Ooh good, sheep. Sheep = wool = knitting = happiness. Whilst 'A' was thinking...Ooh good, sheep. Sheep = slow roasted lamb = supper = happiness. 

Now we can't stop planning and mentally decorating, and even on the slow drive home we kept stopping; not just for supper but to look at windows and doors on stone buildings. Debating...metal or wood? Grey or blue?  Or maybe even green...