The Haunting of Winter Hill
Eddie Blakemore
Text copyright © 2020 Edward Blakemore
All rights reserved
Cover by the cover collection
For my editorial team Andrea, Lorna and Jo
Table of contents
Prologue
Chapter One - Thursday
Chapter Two - Friday
Chapter Three - Saturday
Chapter Four - Sunday
Chapter Five - Monday
Chapter Six - Tuesday
Chapter Seven - Wednesday
Chapter Eight - Thursday
Chapter Nine - Friday
Chapter Ten - Saturday
Chapter Eleven - Sunday
Prologue
Nearly there.
Roslav guided the big truck down the motorway. The rain, heavier now, spattering the windscreen before being swept away by the big wipers. Off to his left, a couple of miles off the motorway, the huge television mast at Winter Hill shone out, the topmost of its red beacon lights buried in the low cloud that had turned the landscape into premature twilight. It was his “nearly there” sign. When he passed Winter Hill he was about twenty minutes from parking the truck up in the yard at Bolton, and heading home for an Indian takeaway, a few cans of Stella, and a night chilling out on the couch with the wife. The rain had brought about a drop in temperature, and he turned the heater up a notch. He was tired and looking forward to home. He drove on.
Ellie ran. Holding the hood of her duffle coat round her head, but the rain still ran down her face and down her neck. She looked back. He was still chasing her, an ungainly figure in a large waterproof.
“Leave me alone,” she screamed and ran on. At the crossroads she halted. The lane ahead led to the footbridge over the motorway. She crossed over and headed for it. As she reached the bridge she stopped, breathing hard, and looked back. He was still behind her, not as close, but she was exhausted. She ran up the steps and paused, he also paused. She heaved herself up onto the guard rail, the wet steel cold against her hands, and swung her leg over.“Go away,” she shouted,” Or I’ll jump”.
He stopped, holding his hands up. Below on the motorway, a couple of cars saw what she was doing and blasted their horns in warning. Ellie reached down with her foot trying to stand on the outside of the rails, but her wellington boots slid on the wet metal and she started to slip.
“What the fuck!” muttered Roslav. On the bridge ahead, a small figure in a yellow coat seemed to be standing on the OUTSIDE of the bridge rail, Even as he watched, the figure started to fall into the path of the truck. He hit the brakes and the hazards at the same time, glancing in the mirror. The trailer started to veer into the middle lane. There was a sickening impact, the truck’s windscreen turning into a spider web of glass. He twitched the wheel, expertly snapping the trailer back into line. He steered the truck into the hard shoulder and brought it to a halt. Traffic was slowing and stopping, the drivers having seen what had happened. The impatient ones continuing their journeys in the outside lane. Roslav opened the door with shaking hands and jumped down, the rain starting to soak his shirt immediately. A man from a car that had stopped ahead of him had ran back and was staring ashen faced at the front of the truck, Roslav walked round the door and reluctantly followed his gaze. A small figure was pinned to the truck radiator, the top half held to the bottom of the shattered windscreen by the broken windscreen wipers. Was it a dummy? A joke of some kind. As he watched, a bloodied hand slid down, and hung limply on the end of a lifeless arm. No, this was no joke.
In the bushes at the top of the embankment, the figure buried its face in its hands. As more people got out of their cars, it stepped back further into the bushes, and bent over, retching, finally staggering off through the trees glancing back in fear.
Chapter One - Thursday
Nearly there.
He descended the hill and turned south down the valley. Mike Cunningham pulled the Qashqai over to the lay-by at the other side of the road and stopped. He got out, and stretched, easing his sore back. He reached over to the glove compartment, and removed a half eaten packet of Jammy Dodgers, then walked to the edge of the viewing point. The view down the valley was glorious. Winter Hill rose up on the left, topped by its television mast. The three reservoirs stretched south. In the trees to the left of the last one was his new church in the village of Winter Hill. Beyond the last reservoir was the town of Horwich. A little further on was the town of Bolton, where in an earlier life, he had been a young Police officer. In the murk on the horizon lurked the city of Manchester. He had been born just the other side of Bolton, so it felt like coming home in a way. He munched a biscuit and breathed deeply. It was a cool clear day, autumn just giving way to winter, and the only sounds were a buzzard screeching in the sky above, and the muted hum of traffic on the motorway from the other side of the reservoir. He was in good shape for his 34 years, only the slight greying of his sandy hair and a few lines on his face giving his age away. He did, however, have a slightly guarded, brittle quality about him. The mouth smiled readily, the blue eyes less so. He ate another biscuit and got back in the car, eager to reach his new home.
There was not a lot to the village. A tiny village green, with stocks, a pub (The Black Barn), a shop, and surprisingly, a still open primary school. The whole place not so much hemmed in by trees but overrun by them, the November sunlight struggling to penetrate the leafy canopy. Most of the buildings were on one road, with a few situated on the lanes that snaked up to the farms further up on Winter Hill itself. His church (bizarrely called St Michael’s), was at the north end of the village, one of the first buildings he came to, a squat and solid looking old church, parts of which dated from the 17th century. He pulled into the parking space at the side of his vicarage and turned off the engine. The vicarage was a large, rambling Victorian pile with more than a hint of the Addams family about it. Before he even got out of the car, the vicarage door opened, and a young woman appeared. She smiled and waved at him. This would be his verger, Rebecca Flint, whom he had spoken to on the phone a couple of times. She was certainly a pleasant surprise in the flesh, blonde, and pretty, about his own age. He got out of the car and went to shake her hand.
“Hi its Mike isn’t it?” she asked and, surprisingly, gave him a tight, warm hug.
“Yes, you must be Rebecca,” he replied, stepping back,
“Call me Becks if you like, everyone else round here does.”
“Er, okay Becks it is.”
“The kettle’s on, if you fancy a brew before bringing your stuff in,” she suggested.
“Lead on Macduff,” said Mike and followed as she went back inside, consciously glancing away from her backside, encased in tight cargoes. The last female verger he’d worked with looked a bit like Les Dawson. This one was certainly from a different mould.
Over tea in the large, old fashioned vicarage kitchen Mike learned that Rebecca lived in the village, just up the main street. That the church had a dangerously low congregation, due to having been without a permanent vicar for almost 9 months, but reasonably healthy coffers thanks to generous donations from local businessman Malcolm Koenig, whose wife was on the church council.
“Oh, I’ve stocked up on jammy dodgers as well,” said Rebecca.
“What?” said Mike, puzzled.
“Tom told me you were on two packets a day since you stopped smoking,” she smiled.
“You know Tom Holland,” said Mike surprised.
“Yes, we go back years, he’s told me quite a bit about you.”
“Right,” said Mike carefully, “You know I’ve been out of commission, for a while then.”
“He told me you had h
ad a few health issues but you were one of his best friends and if anybody gives you any hassle, I’m to beat them up,” she said, poker faced.
“Great,” laughed Mike, “that should endear me to my new congregation, I must phone Tom, and thank him for that.”
They chatted amiably for an hour or so before Rebecca went home, giving Mike her mobile number and telling him to contact her anytime if he needed anything. The rest of the day, was taken up with unpacking his clothes (the rest of his stuff was coming by courier), glancing at the church accounts (not great but not too bad), and generally settling in. The vicarage was large, old fashioned and cold. It looked like something designed for a seventies sit-com. All well-worn chintz and dark wood in need of polishing. Mike wondered if the church funds would run to a trip to IKEA.
After eating a sandwich and some crisps he had picked up at the motorway services, he took a walk around the village. He decided against wearing his dog collar, (he was not sure he approved of wearing it all the time). He would wear it for the church council tomorrow though. The sun was going down, and the shadows were lengthening as he walked past the Black Barn pub, there were only a couple of people inside so he decided against going in for a pint. He continued down the village street, passing Rebecca’s house. A couple of people said hello to him, but there were few people about. The streetlights started to come on, but these were mostly obscured by low trees giving the village a shadowy, atmospheric look. He looked back down the street towards his church, framed at the end of a leafy tunnel. He headed back, pulled a set of heavy keys from his pocket and walked up to the heavy wooden doors of the church, unlocked them and went inside. It took a few minutes to find the light switch, and turn on the lights, flooding the church with light. He walked up the aisle and sat down in one of the front pews. It was completely silent inside the church the thick walls keeping the outside world at arm’s length. It was peaceful in a way only a church can be. Mike rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired, but enjoying the calm, sat with his thoughts for a while. He shivered, realising how cold it was, and decided to call it a day. Back in the vicarage he made a cup of tea, and decided to turn in early. He phoned Tom on his mobile, but the line was busy so he texted “The Eagle has landed, speak tomorrow”, then went upstairs. He sat on the edge of his bed for a while, sipping tea. He had a bottle of Jamesons in his bag, but decided against a nightcap. He turned out the light and went to bed, but sleep would not come despite his fatigue and he lay awake for hours before finally slipping into an uneasy sleep.
*
Becks made a cup of tea, and started to go through to her lounge.
“Come on you,” she said to Cookie, her Springer. The dog continued to stare at the kitchen door, as she had done most of the evening. “What’s wrong Cookie?” she asked stroking the dogs head. The dog became more and more agitated, whining expectantly. “There’s nobody there, look” she said opening the kitchen door. Cookie ran round the garden excitedly, looking desperately for something or somebody, puzzled at not finding it. Finally she calmed down and came back in. Becks locked the door and made a fuss of the dog. “Ellie’s not coming to play anymore,” she said sadly. “She never came this late anyway” she said more to herself. Picking up her tea she went through to the front room. Eventually, with several glances at the back door. Cookie followed.
Chapter Two - Friday
Friday started well. He felt good, despite his lack of sleep and decided to go for a run. It was cooler and duller than yesterday, but still pleasant. He ran down through the village. On the opposite side of the road, outside the shop, a young girl in a bright yellow duffle coat was standing gazing intently into the shop window. She turned her head as he got nearer, fixing him with a curious gaze. He looked back to check that no traffic was coming then crossed the road. When he looked back she had gone. When he reached the spot where she had been, he noticed water on the pavement. Must have been splashing puddles in her willies, Mike smiled. He ran beyond the village then took a footpath off the road to the right, leading down to the reservoir. He turned right at the water’s edge and followed the path through the trees back towards the village. He came out next to the primary school. The road went left over a causeway separating the bottom two reservoirs. He turned right and headed back to the vicarage. By the time he was through the door, he was panting for breath and sweating heavily. He had only done about three miles. He really needed to get back into shape.
He showered, had some breakfast, and phoned Tom.
“Hi Tom, just checking in, everything’s OK here.”
“Glad to hear it,” replied his friend in his soft scouse accent. “Although if it does kick off, you can always stand behind Becks, she’s as hard as nails, only kidding, she’s a sweetheart really.”
“Where do you two know each other from?” asked Mike.
“Oh we go back years,” replied Tom. “She should have had her own parish years ago, but you know, the wheels of progress grind slowly.” They exchanged small talk for awhile then said goodbye, Tom promising to drop in soon, and see Mike.
The courier arrived at eleven. Mike left his boxes of books and other stuff in one of the vicarage’s many spare rooms but unpacked his CD player and discs and put on some music. Deacon Blue rang through the vicarage, and the place seemed a whole lot less gloomy. He was to meet the church council at two that afternoon, and Becks came round at one to brief him. Unusually, the council met at the vicarage, using the large old dining room. The seldom used church hall had been leased to the rowing club based on the reservoir to store spare canoes of all things. The vicarage also had a disabled access ramp, which one of the council members needed. Becks briefly described the five council members, being oddly reticent about Mrs Worthington, the one in a wheelchair.
“You can get to know her yourself,” she said cryptically.
*
They started to arrive about ten to two, Robin Dacre, the chair, being first, a farmer who had done very well for himself, then handed over the farm to his sons to run. He was a large, tweedy man with boundless energy, and it was obvious that Becks respected him a lot. Stephen Priestley was next, a tall elegant man who looked younger than his sixty years, a retired university lecturer who still did some invigilation. Harold Farnsworth and Sylvia Koenig arrived at the same time. Harold was the church warden, small stocky and quiet with close cropped steel grey hair. Sylvia was something else, somewhere north of five-o, impossibly glamorous, and charming in a slightly old fashioned way. The introductions out of the way, they all drank tea and made small talk awaiting the arrival of Mrs Worthington. She duly arrived at ten past with as much fuss and disruption as humanly possible.
“We are late,” she said pointlessly, “It’s his fault.” She jerked her thumb at the small wiry young man struggling to manoeuvre the heavy wheelchair into the dining room. This would be her son Gareth, a student at the college up near Chorley. He looked a lot younger than his 18 years and sported greasy hair, spots and a woollen tank top. You didn’t see many tank tops these days. It was not a good sign. He flashed a nervous smile around the room and muttered an apology. Mrs Worthington herself was a sharp faced lady in her fifties with a sallow complexion. It was impossible to imagine her face with smile on it. All the members of the council were at least twenty years older than Mike. Oh well here we go.
The meeting went well at first, Robin Dacre welcoming Mike to the parish, explaining some of the history of the area, and outlining areas where he thought things could be improved. The other members put forward their views, surprisingly constructive mostly. Only Mrs Worthington said nothing, a look of quiet distaste on her face. Gareth sat away from the table his back to the wall, picking his spots and gazing out of the window, occasionally taking a blast on an inhaler. It took him a good ten minutes to recover from his exertions with the wheelchair. Mike told them about himself, how he had been sidelined with health issues for almost a year, without going into detail. The meeting seemed to be winding down when Mrs Worthington suddenly s
at forward and stated
“Mr Chairman, may I say something.”
“Of course you can Joan,” said Robin Dacre carefully.
“It’s just that I find the way Mr Cunningham has been parachuted in to our parish, to be a little unusual. As the church council, surely we should have interviewed him before he was appointed.” Dacre looked uncomfortable.
“Well,” said Mike, “the situation was, you needed a vicar, having not had one since January, and I needed a parish, I originally come from Farnworth, the other side of Bolton, so I know the area reasonably well. The Bishop thought it would be a good parish for me and a good solution for you.”
“So you have friends with influence,” sneered Mrs Worthington.
“No Mrs Worthington,” said Mike carefully, “I’m a vicar, I go where I am placed. I would not presume to call the Bishop a friend. I have only met him a couple of times. But he thinks I can perform a service in this parish and, as he’s the Bishop, we should all respect his decision and try to make it work. As a member of the church council you can surely see the sense of not delaying things unnecessarily in order to get a new permanent vicar in place.” Some round the table nodded in agreement, Mrs Worthington did not.
“The point is,” she continued, “We need an older head here, a more experienced man, preferably a family man. This village has an undercurrent of badness that needs to be tackled, what happened with the Parsons girl was the tip of the iceberg.”
Stephen Priestley threw his pen on the desk, several sets of eyes headed for the ceiling.
“Not this nonsense again, Joan,” growled Dacre.” Ellie Parsons death was an accident.”
“You believe that if you want,” spat Mrs Worthington, “That half-wit foster brother of hers had something to do with it.”
The Haunting of Winter Hill Page 1
