The House at the Edge of the Fens
Emily stood in the middle of the overgrown garden, waist-deep in thistles and nettles, staring at the crooked cottage with its peeling sign: “Mosswood, Meadow Lane, No. 1.” The air smelled of peat, damp wood, and… memories.
As a child, she’d spent every summer here with her grandmother, Agatha—a fierce old woman with a silver braid and a voice that could shake the rafters. Agatha baked blackberry pies, brewed herbal tea, could read dreams like newspapers, and whisper away warts. “The old spirits live here,” she’d say. “They won’t harm you if you mean no harm.” Back then, Emily believed her.
Now she was thirty-one. And she was back. After ten years with Gregory, who’d left her for a younger yoga instructor, and a soul-sucking office job, Emily had suddenly realised: if she didn’t walk away now, she never would. So she did—right down the winding country lane.
The house was her grandmother’s. Her mother had wanted to sell it off cheap to the local gamekeeper, but Emily refused. Said she’d handle it herself. “You’ve always been odd,” her mother muttered.
On the first day, Emily just scrubbed the floors. Decades of grime swirled down the drain like the last of her old life. She cleaned the hearth, dusted the old icons, chased away the mice. That night, she wrapped herself in Agatha’s quilt and dreamed of the cottage—warm, alive, as if her grandmother had pulled her close and whispered, “Don’t be afraid. This is where you belong.”
Three weeks in, the delegation arrived: her mother, Aunt Joan, and cousin William.
“We’ve been talking,” her mother began, eyeing the porch like it might bite her. “Since Granny was the family matriarch, the house should be divided fairly.”
“Yeah,” William chimed in, scuffing his boot. “Could turn it into a hunting lodge. Already got quotes.”
Emily wiped her hands on her apron and stepped outside.
“Welcome. But there’ll be no lodge. Granny left the house to me. The will’s in probate.”
“Emily, don’t be daft!” Aunt Joan huffed. “You’re on your own, but William’s got a family! He needs it more!”
“William, unless I’m mistaken, has three loans and child support. That’s his problem. The house is mine. End of discussion.”
“Look at you!” her mother snapped. “Living like some swamp witch, turning on your own flesh and blood!”
“I seem to recall you turning on me first—when you slapped me for sneaking jam tarts,” Emily said flatly. “Now, if you don’t mind, get off my property.”
They left in a huff. William made sure to smash the gate with his bumper on the way out.
That night, just as Emily was settling in, the floorboards creaked. Then again. Like something was moving beneath the house.
She grabbed a torch and pried up a loose plank in the pantry. Underneath—a tin box wrapped in oilcloth. Inside, a bundle of letters. Agatha’s. Some addressed to her.
*”If you’re reading this, you’ve chosen to stay. I always knew you’d come back. This is where your strength lies. Remember: these walls hold your roots, your blood, your truth. You’ve the courage to be yourself—just don’t fear the fens. Or the folk. The folk are worse.”*
The letters were a diary. Agatha wrote of dreams, spirits, the family she tolerated but never loved. And—of a woman named Margaret, whom she’d lived with in the forties. *”We called ourselves sisters. Back then, you had to.”* Emily’s breath caught. Had Granny…?
A week later, a crew arrived: a middle-aged woman with blue hair, a burly bloke in shorts, and two lads.
“Hiya, I’m Claire,” the blue-haired one said. “Restoration specialist. You posted about traditional cladding?”
Emily nodded. She liked them instantly. They lived in tents, sang by the fire. One evening, she read Agatha’s letters aloud. They listened, rapt.
“Blimey,” the burly one said. “It’s like she’s talking through you. Proper spooky.”
“She *is* here,” Claire murmured. “Mosswood’s boundaries are thin.”
Next day, William turned up solo, with a bottle.
“Need to talk,” he mumbled.
Emily let him in. He sat by the hearth, stared at his hands.
“Don’t hate me. Mum egged me on. I don’t even want the place. Just… lost, I s’pose. Job’s rubbish, wife left. You happy, at least?”
She poured tea. William took a sip—then burst into tears.
“I used to come here summers. Granny made scones. Thought she hated me. Now I… never even said goodbye.”
Emily slid him an old photo—William, six years old, sticky with jam.
“She loved everyone. Differently. But you’re the one who’s got to decide: are you my family or a scavenger?”
He left the bottle.
Autumn brought frost. The cottage glowed. Emily baked, hosted neighbours, blogged—*”Starting Over: Nettles and Hearth”*. One comment stood out:
*”Hello. I’m Margaret’s granddaughter. May we visit?”*
They came. A woman in her fifties, sharp-eyed, with her daughter. Brought photos: Agatha and Margaret, arm in arm, grinning by the porch.
“She never forgot your gran,” the woman said. “Said this was her real family.”
Emily clutched the letters. “Nor did she.”
William called in spring. “Need help? I’m a carpenter now. Stay, yeah?”
“Not leaving, Will. My roots are here.”
“Reckon mine too.”
Emily woke to frogs chorusing. The dawn mist glowed. She breathed deep—*alive*, truly.
The cottage stood firm. It knew.
Snow came early. Emily watched it blanket the shed, the well, the gate. The hearth crackled; her rescue cat, a one-eared tom named Ghost, purred on the bench.
Claire visited, shaking snow off her coat. “Found something—your foundation stones are marked. Pagan, maybe. Sacred site.”
Emily recalled Agatha’s words: *”The water remembers. Ask right, it answers.”*
“You sure you want crystal-wavers tramping through?” Claire asked.
“No,” Emily said. “But quiet folk are welcome.”
William hauled firewood in, sheepish. “Missed you.”
“Likewise.”
Her blog drew others—quiet couples seeking simplicity. The village stirred.
One winter’s night, a letter arrived—proper post, handwriting shaky.
*”Dear Emily, I’m Elizabeth. Agatha’s cousin. May I visit?”*
She came—stately, silver-haired, with a worn suitcase and stories. They read Agatha’s letters by the fire. Elizabeth wept.
“You’re her echo.”
“Stay,” Emily said.
By spring, Mosswood thrived. Will built sheds; newcomers planted gardens; Emily taught herb-lore. Elizabeth told tales by the fire.
On the porch at dusk, Emily whispered, “Thank you, Gran.”
The wind rustled the reeds—almost like a laugh. The cottage stood strong. And now, so did she.
