The Lost Village: A Haunting Page-Turner With A Twist You'll Never See Coming! (Ghost Hunters 2)

by Neil Spring

  I wondered: had my father entered Imber after the evacuation? Had he trained there? Was I now following his footsteps?

  I tried to imagine the thousands of waterlogged trenches that would have been dug out here, then pounded by shellfire; the explosions that rocked the villages hidden within the folds of the downs. What I associated most with our trip here were the uncanny stories I had heard at school: stories of witches in the woods, ghostly hellhounds, spirit highwaymen and the like. The sort of unsettling legends that are smiled at and then promptly dismissed. But there was one girl who delighted in repeating these stories long after the others had lost interest. I can see her now: short, stocky, with more of a boy’s physique than a girl’s, and a shock of dark ginger hair that never looked clean. ‘Hellish Dawn’ we used to call her, due to her insistence that an unseen troublesome spirit was scratching blasphemous messages into the surface of her school desk. None of us believed that, not really, but Hellish Dawn had a way of almost convincing you that such an impossible thing really might be true. It was her low voice, her sinister expression and the way she used exact place names and dates to add that extra splash of colour. Now, as I walked the dark lane beside a long row of trees, one of her disquieting tales about Salisbury Plain slid into my mind: a legend she had insisted was authentic. Even now I remember the set, tense look on her face as she warned me of ‘the drummer boy’s horrible revenge’.

  The story went something like this:

  Hundreds of years ago, whilst wandering on the slopes of the downs, a sailor recently returned from the sea heard the patter of a drum coming from the woods:

  Rat ta rat tat. Rat ta rat tat.

  Upon investigating, the sailor encountered a little drummer boy near a lone, crooked signpost. Except it wasn’t a boy, not quite. More shadow than flesh, his shape seemed to flicker as he glided near. But this wasn’t what made the blood in the man’s veins run cold: it was the trickles of blood running from the boy’s eyes and the gaping wound across his throat.

  Rat ta rat tat, went the little boy’s drum.

  Stricken with terror, the sailor collapsed. When he recovered, the drummer boy had vanished.

  Forever haunted by the soft patter of the drum, the sailor eventually publicly confessed that before his last excursion at sea he had abused his son, then murdered him. The sailor’s punishment was just: swift execution by hanging.

  And the little drummer boy drifted with him all the way to the gallows.

  ‘It’s said that on winter nights, that little drummer boy still roams the windswept plain,’ Hellish Dawn had told me, not knowing I had recently visited that very plain.

  A rural legend. I hadn’t thought of it in years, but as I turned and carried on along the country lane I could not suppress an uneasy shiver. The enormous sky was now less orange and pink, more an inky violet. As daylight faded and I made my way along the deserted gravel track, the image of that boy, throat slit, blood running from his eyes, loomed so fearfully in my imagination, so lucidly, that I kept glancing behind me. Silly, of course.

  I arrived at a lonely junction cut by a small, triangular island of rough grass. Alone. Dispirited. I lifted my gaze to a signpost jutting out of the earth like a gnarled sapling. Its three crooked arms pointed the way to destinations that were impossible to make out under clots of moss and flaking paint.

  Which way?

  For a few minutes, I stood in the freezing twilight, waiting to see if a car or carriage might come along. None did.

  Sighing with annoyance, I thought of Harry Price’s collection of Ordnance Survey Maps. I had been stupid not to buy my own and bring it – and, for that matter, more sensible clothes, for the wind had become numbingly cold. What’s more, the light was fading fast, the trees throwing their jagged shadows over the chalky dust. I hadn’t expected to feel so vulnerable, but that was exactly how I did feel: helpless, and increasingly uneasy. I was alone, at night, at risk in the wilderness. In centuries past, solitary travellers like me wandering these tracks would have been easy pickings for the highwaymen.

  I had to get to Westdown Camp. Fast.

  To my left was thick woodland of green and black. To my right, nothing but bleak and stark countryside.

  I looked back at the weather-battered sign, pulled my rough wax coat around me and took the middle road, keeping to its right side along a furrowed bank.

  As I walked, quickly now, I tried to summon an image of a waiting bed, with fluffed pillows and a heavy quilt. Then every hair on my body prickled at the sound of twigs snapping loudly behind me.

  I spun round, tightening my grip on my case as I scanned the dark spaces between the trees for any sign of life. A deer perhaps? A rabbit?

  No.

  There, at the edge of the wall of pine trees, about ten feet away, was the shadowy profile of a frail, emaciated figure. A human figure, hunched close to the exposed roots of trees, as if it had just clawed its way out of the pitch-black dirt.

  I felt my jaw slacken with shock as the figure slowly, and in complete silence, raised itself up and stood, its head moving left to right, left to right.

  It looked like a child. Yes, a little boy.

  An icy chill swept up from the ground and into me. It’s the drummer boy. Any moment now I’ll hear the rat-tat-tat of his drum.

  Unable to rip my gaze away from this astonishing apparition, I took in every detail the shifting twilight would allow. Rags covering his legs, and he seemed to be naked from the waist up. Arms not just thin, but painfully wasted. Belly bloated, as if from starvation. Ribs protruding through stretched skin streaked with dirt. Hair jet black, hanging tangled around a narrow face that was gaunt, sunken, and as white as wax.

  But the worst were his eye sockets: I remember thinking with something close to horror that they were like coal-black pits.

  He looked . . . hopeless. Disorientated.

  My fear was eliminated in an instant, replaced by anger. This was no phantom; it was a young boy, no more than seven or eight. What was he doing out here, and in such a state?

  Taking a cautious step towards him, I said, ‘Hello? Can I help you?’

  Quick as a snake, he shrank back under the cover of the trees and bracken.

  ‘Where are your parents? Do you hear me?’

  No words, only the hint of his bleached white face still visible across from me on the opposite side of the lane. I began looking about in the futile hope that some passer-by was in sight. Someone who might help.

  At that instant, a nesting crow broke free of the trees, flapping furiously, screeching, and the silence all around was punctuated by a distressing shriek – the child’s shriek – so sharp that my heart almost spasmed.

  I ran to him then, going against every impulse to run in the opposite direction and escape this dismal place. I dashed towards the boy – and into the road.

  And that was when I heard the rumble of a motor car bearing down on me as if from out of nowhere.

  Startled, I tripped on the hem of my skirt and fell roughly on my side. Everything stopped. The screech of brakes made me wince and shut my eyes, steeling myself for the worst.

  All that followed, though, was a wave of relief.

  The driver had stopped in time.

  I felt a sudden cold concern for the boy as I remembered his piteous shriek, his widening, fearful eyes.

  My own eyes snapped open and I saw, in my peripheral vision, a bobbing storm lantern held high by an approaching figure, and a handsome black motor car that had drawn up in the road just a metre or so away from where I lay.

  ‘Miss, miss, are you all right?’

  ‘There’s . . . there’s a child,’ I cried, panic shooting through me as the stranger helped me to my feet. ‘We must go to him!’

  The man – tall and attired in a well-tailored dark suit – looked to where I was pointing wildly, the ink-black place between t
he trees where the boy stood. Had stood. For he was gone now, I saw.

  Turning back to me, the man removed his driver’s cap and scratched his bald head.

  ‘I’m telling you, he was right there,’ I insisted.

  A flash of confused alarm in the stranger’s eyes.

  ‘Well? Sir, didn’t you see him? You must have seen him!’

  ‘I saw no one, miss.’ He shook his head to reinforce the point. ‘No one.’

  – 9 –

  IMBER’S PROTECTOR

  I gazed out of the side window of my rescuer’s Bentley and saw in the distance that the vast darkness was punctuated by bright red flags, presumably marking no-go areas where the army fired live rounds of ammunition. The wind was tugging at the car, but it was a sturdy vehicle and I felt quite safe. It almost seemed that my interrupted journey might never have happened, were it not for the guilt that was steadily staining my conscience as we motored across the desolate downs, heading for Westdown Camp.

  We should have searched for the child, I told myself, over and over.

  The well-spoken stranger who had found me in the road had been so concerned by the wretched state of my nerves, so worried he had almost driven right into me, that he was far less interested in entertaining the possibility that a child he hadn’t seen – a helpless child, lost and starving – was roaming the plain.

  ‘We must telephone at once for the police,’ I said to him now, but his eyes refused to meet mine. ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘Miss, you’ve had quite a shock. That’s entirely my fault, but I think perhaps you were mistaken about what you saw,’ he answered.

  I shook my head decisively, struggling to suppress my frustration.

  ‘Even if you’re right, I have lived here my whole life, and I assure you, it’s not uncommon for locals in these parts to allow their children to wander the downs.’

  ‘But the boy looked desperately unwell,’ I insisted, recalling his jutting ribs, his eyes like charcoal. ‘And I heard heavy shellfire across the ranges!’

  My driver shook his head. ‘Doubtful. Artillery fire normally ceases at four o’clock. But even if you did, it’s quite safe for civilians to walk in this area, so long as they don’t stray past the red flags. Most of the ranges nearby are well secured. If a civilian were at risk – a little boy, for example – one of the wardens would have seen him and raised the alarm. Take my word for it, they are extremely vigilant.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I see . . .’

  I straightened up. I had meant to address him formally, but in my agitation, I had quite forgotten the name he had given when he offered to drive me to the camp. Embarrassment warming my cheeks, I slid a sideways glance at him. His eyes were on the road ahead, giving me the opportunity to appraise him. He was bald, with a neat grey beard; his eyes were surrounded by cobwebs of lines. He had to be sixty, at least, and a man of some wealth; his signet ring was almost as impressive as his tailored dark brown tweed suit.

  But that suit, although finely cut, looked a little worn. Frayed at the edges. The car, though handsome, also looked old, as if these were the trappings of a man who had known better times.

  It was no good – a thorough look at him had not dislodged the memory of his name. So I asked, politely, ‘Tell me again, please, who are you?’

  In the manner of a polished gentleman, he replied, ‘My name is Hartwell. Oscar Hartwell.’

  ‘And I’m Sarah Grey,’ I returned; it seemed only proper.

  I saw his eyes flick down to my hand, to the naked ring finger. ‘Miss Grey,’ he said, eyes on the road once more, ‘I’m curious. Why is a proper woman like yourself heading out to Westdown Camp on a Friday evening?’

  My hands clenched in my lap. ‘Official business. I’m helping arrange the Imber Service Day, on Sunday. It’s held every year in the—’

  ‘I know where it’s held,’ he said brusquely, ‘and I know what it is. So, I’m assuming you’re from the War Office, yes? That’s a London accent.’

  It was a rather large assumption, but not necessarily an unhelpful one.

  Well, I could say, I’ve been summoned to investigate – with the greatest psychical researcher in London – a series of unusual happenings right here on Salisbury Plain, in your own little ghost town. As you can appreciate, the army are a little sensitive about opening the village to civilians for a church service until they know exactly what they’re dealing with, so they’ve called in the experts.

  Or maybe I would not say that.

  ‘It’s official business,’ I said, ‘and I’m not at liberty to—’

  He cut me off then, but not with words. Without so much as a warning, Hartwell pulled over to the side of the track and killed the engine.

  ‘Why have we stopped?’

  Silence.

  Outside, the car headlights washed the chalk track ahead a gleaming white.

  ‘Mr Hartwell?’

  Again, he made no reply, his lips pressing tightly together.

  With a spike of nerves in my tummy, I asked cautiously, ‘What’s wrong? Why have we stopped?’

  But instead of answering me, he did something alarming: he killed the headlights, plunging the two of us into darkness.

  The seconds felt like minutes, but eventually Hartwell spoke:

  ‘Official business, eh? The last time officials came here from London, they stole our homes. Our village was signed over for experimental shelling. Left to crumble and rot.’

  I relaxed, but only a little. I had been wondering whether I would have the opportunity to meet a former resident of Imber, and now here it was. I had expected resentment – bitterness, even. I had not expected the stinging hurt I detected in Hartwell’s voice, though. This man was evidently still suffering.

  ‘Imber was its own place,’ he said to me. ‘The loveliest place in the world.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Little Imber on the Down, seven miles from any town.’

  My head jerked. That rhyme. It sounded familiar. Had Vernon mentioned it?

  ‘We used to sing that nursery rhyme to our little ones,’ he added.

  ‘What was life like in Imber?’ I asked, keeping my voice mild. ‘Lonely?’

  He took a moment to think about this, staring into windscreen, as if, within its dark reflection, a picture of the village was blooming in vivid colour.

  ‘My family looked after the villagers for hundreds of years. We drew strength from the land and one another. Seclusion bestows its own rewards, you know. That’s true. We weren’t hampered by pollution. We didn’t suffer strikes or protests or violence. When I think back . . . Oh, how lucky we were. The cricket games on the Barley Ground, the tennis parties at Imber Court . . .’

  ‘Your home?’

  ‘Since I was born, in 1870,’ he said wistfully. ‘One of the finest manor houses in Wiltshire. Now? It’s boarded up, half destroyed by boys playing at being soldiers! We had some grand dances there. My family have farmed Imber for generations. The dances marked the turning of the years for us; by the time they were done, dawn would be breaking over the downs, and my sister and I would do the milking, she in her dress, me in my tails and waistcoat.’ He looked at me with utmost seriousness and said, ‘Happier times. We were quite separate from the rest of the world, but that didn’t mean we were lonely. Only that we depended on one another for everything.’

  This man’s obvious passion for his old home touched me deeply. Indeed, he struck me now as a man of character. Upright and respectable. Attractive? Yes, and it wasn’t just his easy, forthright manner. The grey beard was well groomed, the nose strong. The profile aristocratic.

  ‘I’m not from the government, sir,’ I confessed, ‘but I have read in the newspapers of Salisbury Plain’s ghost village. What happened to the civilians who didn’t want to leave?’

  ‘The poor were paid off. Those of us who had money, who could affo
rd legal assistance to challenge them, we were told we had to leave. Those who persisted in saying no were made to change their minds.’

  ‘You mean through intimidation?’

  ‘No, it went a lot further than that,’ he said, with difficulty. ‘Old Fred Myers left Imber with a broken arm, said something about an accident out in the fields. Now, I’m willing to bet at least half of that statement’s true, and I’m sure you can guess which half.’ He peered at me. ‘You look surprised. You must realise the army is capable of such things.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Well, they had their day. And we will have our day. You understand? We lived to die in that village.’ He nodded with quiet purpose, one hand tightening around the steering wheel. ‘Our campaign is making excellent progress. We will force an inquiry into what they did, and reclaim what is rightfully ours. At the very least, the roads should be reopened, and my own land returned to me. It is my birthright.’

  My curiosity grew. I asked how much of Imber’s property had belonged to him, and was impressed when he reeled off a considerable list, including the village school and many of the farms. Even the old mill.

  ‘The military had its sights on Imber years before the war came.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The village lay in the middle of an immense stretch of land used for practising long-range shooting. And don’t you think it was a huge expense for the government, keeping open these long, exposed roads on the downs? Just for our use?’ His bottom lip protruded and he shook his head. ‘We were in their way. And when war came, it wasn’t just the artillery they needed to test, but their tanks and guns.’

  ‘But didn’t the war effort justify the—’

  ‘Sacrifice?’ he cut in. ‘We were quite prepared to do our bit. But the military assured us – they promised – we could return.’ He paused for a few seconds, gazing down at the steering wheel. ‘Promises should not be broken. When we die, it is the right of my wife and myself that we should be buried in St Giles’ churchyard. Alongside our children.’