For Sue Vincent’s photo prompt. I hope she doesn’t find anything like this on her open northern moors.

She had always hated the Victorian Gothic pile with its crenellations, mock Tudor mullions, classical portico, and it’s stone balconies of imitation oak branches. The whole think was fake. And ugly. When a local entrepreneur bought the property to turn it into a theme park she thought it poetic justice. The house was to be a hotel with a haunted suite—naturally—its very own White Lady, and a totally invented history of fictitious gruesome murders and mysterious disappearances.

The idea pleased her so much, she was tempted, for the first time since she had lived in the little northern town, to wander down the oppressive driveway, bordered by impenetrable ranks of rhododendrons, to take a look at the result. It was an uncharacteristically sultry summer evening and the dank rhododendrons hung humid…