This episode contains descriptions of domestic violence and harm to minors, as well as brief references to suicide. We advise extreme caution for children under 13.

The following is from the old nurses story by Elizabeth Gasko. I wished Miss Rosamond and myself well out of that dreadful house forever, but I would not leave her and I dared not take her away, but oh how I watched her and guarded her. We bolted the doors and shut the window shutters fast an hour or more before dark rather than leave them open. Five minutes too late. But my little lady still heard the weird child crying and mourning, and not all we could do or say could keep her from wanting to go to her and let her in from the cruel wind and the snow.

Hi, everyone, I'm Alastair Murden, and this is Haunted Places, Ghost Stories, a Spotify original from podcast. Each week, this series reimagines chilling paranormal tales from history's most sinister storytellers told like you've never heard them before. You can find episodes of ghost stories and all other Spotify originals from podcast for free on Spotify or wherever you listen to podcasts. Today's story begins with an orphan and a young woman coming to a snow swept manor on the moors. I will be telling the story from the point of view of Hester, a young nursemaid.

Hester was hired to care for Rosemonde, the only child of Lord Furnivall, a cousin of Queen Victoria and the Duke of Northumberland. But when Rosamund's parents pass, her uncle becomes the new Lord Furnivall, and the new Duke sends Hester and Rosemonde to live at the Furnival's crumbling ancestral estate. They're Pesta, right to the second floor, and Furnivall worried about Rosewoman safety because at the estate, it's not the low fog or bitter cold you need to be wary of.

It's the ghost cooling from the Morse. We'll need to nurse, maid and her doom charge after this. On February 16th, join PBS for a new series that explores the rich and complex story of the black church and its profound impact on our nation's culture and history. From its early origins to today's Black Lives Matter movement hosted by Henry Louis Gates Jr., the black church features perspectives from Oprah Winfrey, John Legend, Bishop Vashti McKenzie and many more. Tune in or stream the black church.

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I know not where to turn, my lord, so I pray you will listen to me. I am aware you meant well in sending sweet Miss Rosemann to live in her ancestral home after the death of her parents just months ago. She's been in need of stability for this reason and more.

We are both grateful that the title has fallen to you, her uncle, rather than a distant relation. It was kind of you to send her to the hall, a place her mother never got the chance to visit. Rosamond has grown fond of Fernvale House and her great aunt, Miss Furnivall. Truly, she has or she had before these few weeks. I beg of you, my Lord, that you will hear what I am about to tell you.

Your dear niece has not yet lived five winters, and I fear without your help she will not live one more. I will recount each incident as it occurred that Your Lordship might see fit to understand our your niece's predicament. Life isn't easy for an orphan, but you, my lord, ensured that Miss Rosamond is loved and cared for. She adores the fells and moors surrounding her new home. She especially delights in the snow that falls this time of year, covering our world in a blanket of soft white on dark nights, she and I watch it fall together.

It calms her after the nightmares come and they come often. So often they are almost always of the fever that took her beloved father, or they are of her mother's cries as Rosamund's new brother entered the world, only to leave it taking their mother with him. And sometimes she has nightmares of the organ. As best I know, no one living in the manor can play it yet we hear it every night from midnight to four in the morning, playing, playing, always with feverish passion.

I've tried to convince Rosamond that it is merely a kind spirit trying to sing her to sleep. But the melodies are hellish, Mylord, as if graves themselves open wide and called for us to enter them. I asked Dorothy, Miss Furnival's housekeeper, about the organ and she told me your late cousin, Miss Furnival's father, played it at all hours, especially during the night. It seems that he continues the practice, even in death. I understand that such ideas may seem absurd, my Lord, but I beg that you don't disregard them as merely superstition nor blame Dorothy for it.

Her husband, James, did not suddenly learn to play that organ, nor did the chambermaid Bess nor Miss Furnivall. I know this because I lifted the lid to see the keys of the instrument and they are rotted away. I am certain now that we are hearing the notes of music that could only have been played years ago by someone who has already passed. You might try to dismiss these claims as the fantasies of women, but I assure you, sir, it gets worse.

One Sunday, I left Rosamond with Dorothy so Bess and I could attend church. When last I'd seen Rosemann, she was playing with her great aunt, Miss Furnivall, and Miss Furnival's paid companion, Mrs. Stark, in the parlor. When I returned from church, I headed to the drawing room to take up my charge once again. But Rosamond was nowhere to be found. Mrs. Stark said that the child had only crossed the Great Hall to see Dorothy in the dining room, but Dorothy hadn't seen her since the early morning.

All morning we searched the house from top to bottom, all except the East Wing. Now I know when we arrived several weeks ago, we were told to never enter the East Wing. But when Rosemann went missing, I worried her curiosity had gotten the best of her. I dashed up the grand staircase and tried to open the doors to the forbidden part of the house. But the doors were locked tight and no amount of tugging would open them. I called Dorothy for help, but the housekeeper had never been allowed a key.

I became convinced that Rosamond must have found a way inside. She was a clever girl. I begged for answers as to who could open the door. After much prodding, the staff admitted that there was only one key and it belonged to her ladyship Rosamund's great aunt, Miss Furnivall. Oh, the look on Miss Furnival's face, as I demanded the key, she fixed me with such a gaze of anguish and anger that I stepped back, nearly falling against the banister of the staircase landing.

It was there, looking out of the great cathedral windows that I saw a trail of tiny footprints in the new fallen snow. I did not have the time to breathe, let alone dress for the weather. I rushed out into the cold, the winds nearly tearing the skin from my face as I ran. But I could think of nothing but poor Rosamond shivering in that freezing cold. The footprints rounded the east wing of the house and ascended the hill toward the hollygrove, now bedecked in blood red berries.

I knew Rosamond would be tempted to take a bite from that fruit, not understanding the peril inside them. It is a horrible death, messy and torturous, the way that the fruit twists your insides and forces you to purge anything you've ever consumed. And the longer it took to find her, the worse off we would be. As I began to climb the hill, I thought she could be gasping for her last breaths. Alone in the bramble. She could be crumpled on the ground, swiftly buried by the still falling snow.

But thankfully, a shepherd had found my your little darling frost covid and shivering. We took her home and warmed her bit by bit. She slept for days. When her pale blue eyes finally opened. I asked her what had happened. She only wanted to see the snow, she said. And so she paused to look out the window on her way across the Great Hall. But they're standing in the white, she said was a little girl. Rosemann looked up at me with such earnestness as she spoke.

She told me that the little girl had beckoned her to come out and she felt she had to go. I stiffened at her answer. I'd heard of the old Lord Furnivall and his organ, but this was not anything like we'd seen yet at the hall. And it frightened me far more than any music did. Yet I kept pressing her gently and asked.

I tracked you by your footmarks through the snow, but they were only yours to be seen. Don't you think that if a little girl had gone hand in hand with you up the hill, her footprints would have been alongside yours? Rosamond began to cry.

She told me she was telling the truth, that the little girl held her hand tight in hers. Then she took her up the fell path to the holly trees, and there she saw a lady.

Rosenman said the lady was weeping and crying, but when she saw me, she she hushed her, weeping and smiled very proud and grand, and took me on her knees and began to lull me to sleep. And and that's all. But it is true, my dear departed mama knows it is.

Rosamond was rarely a serious child, and the education of her late mother told me she was speaking as she truly believed. That evening I went to her great aunt, Miss Furnivall, hoping she knew something that could explain the child's strange behavior. But she went pale when I explained what Rosamond had told me. She said to keep her from that child, tell her it is a wicked, naughty child and she should not under near it again, it will lure her to her death.

Her words stunned me. I had never seen such vitriol from that moment forward. I assure you, sir, I never left Rosemann again. However, a few days later, she had just had her supper and was scampering up to bed. When she paused once again in the Great Hall, I felt a frigid cold on my neck, then my breath caught in my throat. As she pointed out, the window. Look, hasto look, she cried.

There is my poor little girl out in the snow there.

Just outside the window was a pale child. She was dressed in the long nightgown, far too thin for the bitter cold. Her small hands were pressed against the glass, beating it, her mouth gaping open in the eternal wail that only a child can muster.

Yet even in the deathly stillness of winter, she didn't make a sound. I must go to her, Bozman screamed. Then she ran for the door. Up next, the ghosts come inside the manor. Hi, listeners, Alisdair here with a new series I think you'll really enjoy. They say there's someone for everyone, a soul to share your secrets with, a companion to grow old with, a conspirator to commit crimes with. Starting this February on Spotify, learn about the lethal and legendary lovers who fought the law in the podcast limited series Criminal Couples'.

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Now back to the story. After weeks of organ music and nightmares interfering with Rosemann sleep, my young charged now faced a larger threat to her safety. I barely managed to catch her as she pulled open the door to the Great Hall with a strength she should not have possessed. But even as I held her, it wasn't enough to stop her from struggling in my grasp. Outside, the ghost of that small child kept calling her towards her death. But this was not the end of your niece, Lord Furnivall, though fate seemed to wish it so I screamed for Dorothy to help me, Rosemann sobbed.

I have to open the door for my little girl to come in. She'll die if she is out on the fields all night.

Rosemann kicked and shrieked as she tried to wriggle free. But I was more focused on Dorothy. She had gone stark white and ran from the room, shouting at the rest of the staff.

Shot the back kitchen door fast and bolts it well, her voice lowered to a heavy quiet as she turned to me. Take her to the library on the second floor, the one without windows go. I did not know what to make of her panic, so I followed Dorothy's orders. I carried Rosemann to the library and locked the door. But when I put her down and tried to calm her, she was inconsolable. She screamed and cried, ripping books from their shelves and tearing out the pages.

I took her up again and held her tightly until every part of my body ached. After what must have been an hour or two of struggling, her movement finally slowed as she fell asleep. Sometime later, Dorothy not softly on the door. I let her in and sat down before her, determined to get answers. Tell me what is happening here, I demanded. Who is that child? Why are you also afraid of her? And what is she trying to do to Rosamond?

Dorothy knew more about the Furnivall family than any of the other staff at the hall. She was the only one who could illuminate the darkness we had found since arriving. Dorothy side. I'm not sure about Miss Rosamond Hester, but there is something I should have told you she checked of Rosamond was still asleep and she began her story. The first thing I learned from Dorothy was that Rosamund's great aunt, Miss Furnivall, was known in her youth as Miss Grace.

The second was that Miss Grace had once a sister, Miss Maud. Miss Grace was lovely then, but her sister rivaled her beauty. Their father, whom I believe would have been Rosamund's great great grandfather, was obsessed with music, and when the girls were coming of age, he invited a man from abroad, Antonio, to teach him the organ. Antonio was a rakish, handsome sort with a crown of curls that dipped to his forehead and piercing green eyes.

He stood out amongst the plainer looking people of the village. It was his passion, however, that had earned him much renown. He spoke about music as though notes were an extension of himself. If he was not seated in front of an instrument or singing softly to himself, he was clinking the silverware together to whatever music filled his head. When Antonio wasn't teaching Rosamund's great great grandfather, he was walking abroad in the woods with Miss Maud and then Miss Grace.

The sisters had always sworn to never fall in love with the same man at Antonio's passion for life was infectious. Bit by bit, walk by walk, he seduced them both, but it was Maude who had him first. Maud made a secret trip to the vicar with Antonio and married him. Less than a year later, she gave birth to a little girl in a remote cottage on the fells. They called her Joy, which seemed like more of a wish than a name for Maude's life was a secret to everyone, and this boded well for Antonio.

For a while, Maud had won his hand in marriage. He continued to visit with Miss Grace and publicly courted her more, could say nothing without revealing her own forbidden marriage. But she was far wilier then.

He knew. One day Miss Maud returned to the manor with the little girl in tow, claiming she was a friend's child orphaned by a carriage accident. Even with this lie, Antonio could not take the shame, nor Miss Maud's rage, and he promptly disappeared. Both sisters were devastated. Their rivalry was forgotten, and they cried in each other's arms, recounting all they had lost. But when Miss Maud admitted the little Waifs true parentage, Miss Grace went quiet for weeks after she did not speak to anyone, let alone her sister.

Many of the servants feared she might die of melancholy. All the while, Lord Furnivall grew even colder in Antonios absence. He'd never quite noticed Maude's absences, but he noted each missed session with Antônio. The organ, it appeared, was more valuable to him than his daughters had ever been. With Antônio gone, Lord Furnivall put even more force behind his play. One frigid night, the music stopped. The staff was grateful for the silence until the Lord called the whole household into the Great Hall.

He paced before his line of family and staff. There was tension in the air. Then he paused, raised his cane and hit Miss Maud across the face. She fell to the floor, her hair askew. It seemed he heard of the affair and blamed Miss Maud for Antonios disappearance. He told her she disgraced herself, disgraced their family, and that he wouldn't have her or her bastard daughter in their home. Miss Maud began to weep, but the Lord stood impassive, tapping his cane in the same rhythm.

He used to play that horrible organ. He ordered the staff back to bed and told the groomsmen to ready a carriage to drop Miss Maude off at White Chapel the next morning. The horses were ready at dawn, but when Dorothy went looking for the young miss, her bed was still made. A search was called, Dorothy told me. Then her voice faltered. She watched the flames dance in the fireplace. As she spoke again. We found Miss Maud holding her little one in the Hollygrove, both frozen solid, a serene smile on her face.

Dorothy shivered as she finished her tale. Begging your pardon, but what happened to her? I asked. She killed herself, Miss just walked out into the snow, Dorothy said solemnly, and her little child to Miss Maud had always been proud. Living alone on the Moors must have been hard enough. The dangers of the city would have been too much for a. I was stunned, poor Miss Furnivall. The loss of a sister was a horrible thing to endure and in such an awful way, I knew I could not tell her I knew of her pain, but I suddenly understood her fears.

I look back to Dorothy. What do we do about the girl? Why does she want Rosamond, Dorothy, look down Rosamond, who was still sleeping peacefully, exhausted from her struggle? I don't know, Miss. We've now had a child at Furnivall House since Joy and Rosamund are related, if divided by generational two, maybe the poor thing just wants a playmate. We could only hope that when the storm clears, Bozman will forget. Rosamond did not forget she spent every waking hour begging to see her little girl so she could let her into the house.

Rosemann had not seen the sunlight in two weeks as we hadn't let her near a window, but if you left the room to look in the direction she pointed, she would always see the little girl waiting outside. All hopes of lessons, of playing, of even feeding her were abandoned. She was wasting away before my eyes crying tears of near solid salt as she refused to drink anything at all. Dorothy and I cared for her in shifts, but I knew it couldn't last.

I wrote to you, Lord Furnivall, because I was sure you wouldn't believe this terrible tale if I didn't speak it myself. But as I've waited for your reply, Rosamond only grew worse. I had to try something, even if it destroyed a soul. I knew that I should not tell Miss Furnivall what Dorothy had told me. But at this point, my Lord, I felt I was left with no option. And so it was one night as the snow fell particularly heavy, that I knocked on the door of Miss Furnival's room.

I found her staring out at the falling snow. I did not mean to look out the window to know her eyes were trained on the specter of that little girl. When her ladyship turned to me and I saw the haunted look in her eyes, I nearly lost my resolve. But I thought again of my poor charge and continued. Anyway, my lady, I began, I am here to care for Rosemonde, and I've done my best.

But there are things at work that I cannot handle alone. I explain to Miss Furnivall what I knew that her sister and her daughter were still there at the manor. They are trying desperately to reach Rosamond. We that is Miss Dorothy, and I believe that only you can help miss more than her child. Find peace. There was a moment of silence, the wind cried outside, shaking the windows as I watched the blood drain from Miss Furnival's face. When she spoke, her voice shook.

You cannot ask me, that's difficult. There is no rest for them. I stepped forward finding courage, I did not realize I possessed there is no rest because they have been a secret. My lady, I cannot imagine how difficult it must have been, but I know we can find a way to fix this. I took another step toward her, my voice softer. We must show them that we care if you could allow them both inside, maybe the spirits will be satisfied and Rose will be free.

There was a long pause between us. The fire crackled.

The wind blew. Then she spoke in an almost growl. No. I begged her to reconsider, but she would not be moved. I was at a loss. Tears pooling in my eyes. You must help her, please. She is your family lady. I was then cut short by the strangest sound. Whispers. Hundreds, thousands. They rose like a wave from beneath the house, volume churning around me. It only took one look at Miss Furnivall to see she'd heard them, too.

I didn't think I could be more frightened. But then Miss Furnival's eyes went wide.

Oh, no, no, no, no, she moaned. Then another sound echoed through the open door and down the hall, drawn by a force I didn't understand. I crossed the threshold and stepped onto the landing of the grand staircase. Miss Furnival's room laid to my right, and I could see the old woman crying and rocking out on the floor below. In the Great Hall, a tableau was playing out that will haunt me for the rest of my days.

An old man with wiry tufts of white hair stood before the grand staircase. His hands gripped the head of a heavy metal cane. A silver lion was peeking through his fingers. He approached a little girl and her mother and Miss Furnival's screamed from her room. For father, spare the little innocent child, but the man did not turn.

He did not acknowledge that she'd spoken. Instead, he looked to his left where a vision of beauty appeared beside him. She was in a blue satin robe, her hair artfully pinned. The man brought down his cane on the child as her mother tried to pull the girl away. And all the while, the beautiful woman in blue stood still, impassive, serene. It was then that I recognized the woman's eyes, as they were the same eyes that peered out from my rosemann sweet face.

It was a young Miss Furnivall standing there, watching her own sister suffer. Miss Grace. Grace, I said, turning to Miss Furnivall, cowering in her room. Why would you say to leave only the child? Was your sister not innocent? To the horror dawned on me then Grace claimed to love Maude and Joy, but it appeared she might have loved Antonio more.

Whatever the reason might be, she'd been the one to tell her father about the affair, about who Joy's parents truly were at the bottom of the staircase. The old man then grabbed the trembling child, shoved her out the door and into the snow. I watched as Maude Furnival wavered, deciding between her family and her daughter. Then she walked outside and the spectral Lord Furnivall shut the door. The elder Miss Furnivall cried out once again from her room and crumpled to the floor, muttering, I can't undo what I've done.

They are dead.

They are dead. They are dead. So, your Lordship, I humbly beg no, I demand that you arrange to take your niece, Rosemonde, the rightful heir to the Duke of Northumberland, away from this horrible place.

I can only hope that distance can save Rosewoman from your family secrets in which all of you are to blame.

While Jane Austen is known for her satire and the Bronte sisters for their Gothic drama, Elizabeth Gaskell is known for her depiction of characters across many strata of society.

Although she herself was an upper middle class Victorian woman, married to a reverend and a mother of four, Elizabeth gargles empathy and curiosity extended far past her own social standing. In her writing, she drew from all classes of Victorian society, both rich and poor, and she was not one to shy from critiquing the class and gender disparity she saw around her. The literary establishment's often attempted to discredit gasfields criticism by attacking her gender, claiming her supposedly highly feminine work lacked understanding of the worlds of industry and patriarchy.

She frequently depicted. But her novels and stories are powerful because they explore these worlds with a highly empathetic and critical eye. The true source of terror and the old nurses story isn't the ghosts that lurk outside Furnivall Manor. It's the secrets that hide inside it. The violence of Maude's father has locked her spirits in the estate, preserving her pain for all who enter. But even in death, she and her daughter cannot be silenced. The complicity of one woman in the abuse of another is trapped in the manner along with their spirits.

And the terrible truth of that trauma can haunt immortal soul just as well as any ghost.

Thanks again for tuning in to haunted places, ghost stories, we will be back on Thursday with a new episode. You can find more episodes of Ghost Stories and all other Spotify originals from podcast for free on Spotify. See you on the other side. Haunted Places Ghost Stories is a Spotify original from podcast. It is executive produced by Max Cuddler Sound Design by Russell Nash with production assistance by Ron Shapiro, Carly Madden and Isabel Away. This episode of Haunted Places Ghost Stories was written by Lil Dorita and Jennifer Rachet with writing assistants by Alex Garland, fact checking by Adrianna Romero and research by Mikki Taylor.

I'm Alistair Murden. Listeners, don't forget to check out the new podcast Limited series, Criminal Couples from apocalyptic cult leaders to bank robbing bandits. These couples give new meaning to till death do us part. Enjoy two part episodes every Monday starting February 1st. Follow criminal couples free and exclusively on Spotify.