The Haunter (The Sentinels Series Book 2)

by David Longhorn

  ***

  Madam Castanos arrives at Furniss Village station, at the end of the rural branch line. Snow is falling faster now with bigger flakes. The medium can see little of the station's surroundings. She summons a bellman, then gestures at a huge pile of luggage.

  “A taxi is required! It is vital that Madam Castanos travels to the Manor house at once.”

  The bellman, struggling with an impressive array of cases and boxes, looks up at her doubtfully.

  “I'm sorry, ma'am, but there's only one and I don't think old Archie will want to make the journey, not in this weather.”

  The medium dismisses this argument with a regal shake of her head.

  “It is necessary, therefore it will be done! Come!”

  She sweeps majestically ahead as the man staggers after her. Archie, muffled against the cold, is running his engine to stop it freezing up. He sees the medium approaching out of the blizzard, notes the over-burdened bellman, and opens his cab door.

  “Where to, ma'am?” he asks.

  “Furniss Manor,” she replies, squeezing into the old taxi. It rocks on its springs.

  “Oh, I'm not sure about that–” the driver begins.

  “It is a short distance and you will be rewarded with ten English shillings!”

  “Right you are, ma'am,” says Archie, suddenly all business.

  After the luggage is stowed, the cab sets off into the white storm. The bellman stands staring at it, fascinated by the idea of going to the Manor. Eventually, he feels the chill encroaching, shakes his head, and goes back to the warmth of the station office.

  ***

  Bill is in Charlotte's room, standing in front of the window with an antique sword in his hand, when Tony rushes in. Bill turns, smiling wryly, and says,

  “I think Charlie had a nightmare. There's nobody here. No sign of any intruder. They didn't pass me on the stairs, and they certainly didn't jump for it.”

  He nods at the window, which Tony examines and sees is fastened on the inside. He looks out of the window at the blizzard. It obscures everything but a nearby statue, which is gradually vanishing into the white background.

  “They might have dodged into another room? Or gone up to the attic?”

  Bill shrugs.

  “Well, they were very quiet and agile if they did. I heard nothing as I came up, yet she says the bloke was huge.”

  “Did she get a good look at him?” asks Tony, examining the scattered bed-covers.

  Whatever happened, or didn't happen, she really was in a panic, he thinks.

  “No, and that could be significant,” replies Bill. “Lack of sleep, strange bed, the fact that something does seem to be going on here. It all adds up to bad dreams.”

  After a moment's hesitation, Tony nods, then says,

  “We'd better not put it to Charlotte in quite those terms, though.”

  “No,” agrees Bill. “Look, the weather's closing in, that snow's going to block the road if it hasn't already. Why don't I drive to the village for fuel and supplies, and you stay here with the girls?”

  Tony agrees, and Bill heads downstairs. Just as Tony is about to the leave the room, he notices one of Charlotte's shoes beside the bed.

  Where's the other one?

  He looks under the bed before he sees the second shoe in a corner about ten feet away from the first. On impulse, he picks it up, then drops it as something sticky gets onto his fingers. He gets a whiff of a rotting-meat odor he remembers well.

  “Tony? You coming?” says Bill from the doorway.

  “Right, yeah,” he replies, “I just need to wash my hands first.”

  Chapter 8: Closing In

  Charlotte's nose stops bleeding, and Rachel's trying to reassure her that there's no permanent damage.

  “Oh God, I sound like an even bigger idiot, worrying about my looks!”

  Tony pulls a small couch nearer to the library fire.

  “You should get some rest, Charlotte,” he says. “Here, cover yourself with my coat.”

  “Thanks, Tony, you're an angel.”

  Charlotte curls up on the couch while Rachel and Tony fuss over her.

  “I'll be fine as long as you're both here!” she insists. “And look, I know what you're thinking, but I did see something. And I couldn't have imagined that foul stench!”

  “I believe you,” replies Tony. “But now, you have to rest.”

  He draws up another chair to sit next to Rachel. They talk in low voices, glancing at Charlotte until they're sure she's dozing off fitfully.

  “You really believe her?” asks Rachel.

  Tony nods and explains why.

  “That substance, whatever it is, fits her story. She hit whoever or whatever it was in the face. Got quite an arm on her, I reckon. It might have saved her life.”

  “So whatever it was, you think it killed that burglar and maybe the caretaker and his wife?”

  “Why not? That reminds me. Just wait here one minute. I'll be fine, I'm not going far.”

  Rachel times him. It takes just under three minutes for Tony to return with a shotgun and a box of ammunition. He loads the gun, looking dubiously at each cartridge.

  “I figure it’s been here a good while, but better than nothing.”

  “Now what?” Rachel asks.

  They look out at the blizzard, which is quickly fading to gray as the brief winter's day comes to an end.

  “We could call the police,” he says, “but I'm not sure what we'd report. An intruder who vanished? Besides, how could they get here from Newcastle? They'd need a snowplow.”

  “So we wait for Bill to get back?”

  Tony sighs, leans back in his chair.

  “What choice do we have? We're stuck here.” he says.

  “Okay,” she agrees, throwing another log on the fire. “We'll make the best of it.”

  “Hey, can I ask you something?” she murmurs.

  “Of course, what it is?”

  “That letter from London? The one you notably didn't open at lunch …”

  “Oh, that. I took a look at it before I brought the car round. A few days ago, I asked an old friend at the Defense Ministry if he could tell me anything about Bill. You know, his mysterious war work? Rolt's quite a distinctive name, so I thought it shouldn't be too hard to get an idea of what he does for a living. My friend hadn't heard of him, but said he would make a few discreet inquiries, nothing formal.”

  “And?”

  Well, that's the thing,” he whispered, leaning closer. “Nobody's heard of Bill Rolt at all, it seems. So his war work may be classified above Top Secret, the sort of thing only Churchill and the inner cabinet would know about.”

  “Or?”

  “Or he's flat-out lying. That's why I thought letting him go into the village might be better than leaving him here with you.”

  “Great,” she whispers, with another glance at Charlotte. “She really knows how to pick 'em.”

  “There's nothing we can do about it, except simply ask Bill when he comes back. Let's change the subject. What have you been reading?”

  Tony nods at the book on the floor by Rachel's chair.

  “Oh, it's your family history. Quite a colorful family, you Beaumonts.”

  “At this point, you probably know more about them than I do. My father died when I was very young and my mother's family were estranged from his lot.”

  She describes the series of strange deaths and disappearances that seemed to begin with the first Lord Furniss.

  “So, this Isaac Braid character vanished without a trace?” he asks. “And the locked tower was his laboratory?”

  “Yeah. Why? Do you think he's still in there? Must be getting pretty bored by now, huh?”

  She's joking, but his expression is serious as he replies, “That might explain a lot.”

  ***

  Archie's old taxi is struggling with the country road to the Manor, but he reassures his regal passenger.

  “The old girl and me, we've b
een through a lot worse than this, don't you worry! With her snow chains on, she won't let us down.”

  Madam Castanos is barely aware she's being spoken to. She's gazing out into the blizzard, wondering if the forms she sees in the whirling snow are merely figments of her imagination. As a ghost-seer for many years, she is used to catching glimpses of the dead around her. But can there be so many in this desolate landscape? she wonders.

  She gets a good look at one shape and, yes, it is a stray soul. Though she only glimpses the spirit for a moment, it seems it and all the others are being drawn along by no earthly force.

  Whatever it is, it pulls them towards that house. Furniss Manor must be a focus of a tremendous occult force, something diabolical. And it keeps growing stronger.

  Suddenly, something even stranger happens; the medium's awareness dims, and she sees nothing outside, other than the storm.

  They are either all gone, or something has blinded my second sight. Both, equally disturbing. What has changed?

  “Sorry, ma'am, I'll have to pull over to the side of the road for a minute, there's another car coming down toward us. Looks like it's from the Manor. Not much else up there.”

  Madam Castanos gazes out at a snow-covered vehicle nosing by, moving carefully in the dead center of the road. For an instant, she meets the eyes of the driver, and recognizes him. His eyes widen, he gives a slight smile and nods, and is gone.

  “Right, on the last leg now, ma'am.” says Archie. “Soon be indoors getting nice and warm.”

  As if one can ever be truly warm in this damp, gray country, she thinks.

  Suddenly, the medium feels a terrible spasm of pain, like a vicious migraine concentrated right between her eyes. She emits a cry of discomfort and surprise, causing Archie to look round in alarm.

  “You all right, ma'am?”

  “Yes, yes,” she says through her agony. “Keep your eyes on the road!”

  Before she's finished speaking, there's a loud whump and the taxi tilts to one side.

  “Oh bugger,” says Archie. “I think we're in a ditch.”

  “If there is one thing I will never understand about you English,” she replies, clutching her brow. “It is why you need to state the obvious on every occasion.”

  “I'll need to walk back to the village and get a tow-truck, ma'am. You just wait here, try to keep warm.”

  “Again with the obvious,” sighs the medium, half to herself. The pain lifting, but she still can't see the spirits that filled the air just moments earlier.

  That man in the glasses, she thinks. Does he have some great power I have never encountered before?

  Then a more disturbing question strikes her,

  Or is he accompanied, perhaps unwittingly, by someone or something from the occult realm?

  ***

  “A Renaissance alchemist has been killing people for, what, three-hundred and fifty years? Seriously?” asks Rachel.

  “You remember Duncaster?” says Tony. “Saxon warriors killing people for nearly fifteen hundred years?”

  “Yeah, but they were ghosts, there was a curse and stuff ...” Rachel trails off. Okay, I sound ridiculous.

  “What do you know about alchemy?” he asks, staring into the fire.

  “A bit outside my field,” she replies. “It's not been news for a while, now.”

  “Well, from everything I've read, it was the opposite of modern science, which tries to understand the universe by revealing natural laws and formulating theories. Alchemists believed the universe was controlled by spirits of various kinds, good and evil; and that bargaining with them was the way to gain power over nature. For instance, they thought you could turn lead into gold that way.”

  “That sounds a lot like witchcraft,” puts in Charlotte. She's sitting up, looking intently at them. “Speak up, I can't settle and it sounds interesting.”

  “How long have you been listening?” asks Rachel.

  “Since you started rambling on about the Beaumonts. Now, Tony, alchemy?”

  “As I recall the main difference between witches and alchemists is that the latter were well-educated men, not helpless old crones you could accuse of bewitching cattle. But alchemists were still believed to consort with demons.”

  “So it's not surprising Braid was driven out of Scotland?” asks Rachel.

  “No,” replies Tony. “They burned hundreds of witches north of the border. We, English, weren't so fanatical about it. We only hanged a relatively small number of witches.”

  “Good for you! But what were the alchemists trying to achieve if it was worth that much risk?” asked Rachel.

  “Two related things. One was the Philosopher's Stone; it was either a real magical object or a metaphor for great knowledge, and the power that comes with it.”

  Tony pauses, looking troubled.

  “And the other thing?” demands Charlotte.

  “The Elixir of Life. Once they had great power, they'd find this mysterious substance, and live forever.”

  “So what attacked her might have been Braid?” asks Rachel.

  “But it didn't even seem human, not really. That voice, and that stench,” says Charlotte.

  “After three and a half centuries preserved by some kind of evil magic, would anyone still be human?” asks Tony. “What do you think, love?”

  Rachel doesn't reply. She puts her hands to her ears in an instinctive motion.

  “What is it?” Tony gets up to kneel beside her.

  “You know when you're in an airplane and your ears pop? Like that, only I didn't realize there was pressure till it lifted. A pressure on my mind, I mean. That's the best way I can describe it. And now I can hear ...”

  She takes her hands away and stands up, head tilted.

  “What is it?” asks Charlotte. “What can you hear?”

  “Oh God. I can hear them all!”

  ***

  Squinting into the blizzard, Archie staggers down the road towards Furniss Village, staying in the middle of the path for fear of falling into a ditch in the near-whiteout. Despite thick layers of winter clothing, he already feels the bitter cold working its way into his flesh. It occurs to him that he's being foolish and might die out here. But turning back is not an option, especially as it would mean trudging uphill through drifting snow. That would exhaust him in minutes.

  How far am I from the village? No idea. But it can't be long now, surely?

  He thinks he sees the lights of houses, only for them to blink out. Then they reappear, and he realizes that they're the headlights of a car. He starts waving his arms frantically over his head. For a second, he think the driver hasn't seen him, but then the vehicle stops and Archie runs around to the passenger door and climbs in. He recognizes the driver as the man they passed earlier.

  “Thank God,” he says, “I've got a passenger stuck in a ditch up the road ahead. If you can give us a lift up to the Manor that would be marvelous!”

  “Of course,” says the driver. “Happy to oblige.”

  “Out for supplies?”

  “Yes,” says the man. “I think we'll make it back just before dark. You'd be best off staying overnight.”

  “That's very kind, sir. Are you be the new lord of the manor?”

  “No. But rest assured, you'll be very welcomed.”

  ***

  Rachel walks to the window and stands looking out at the last of the winter's day. The noise in her mind is louder, now, a mournful wailing composed of hundreds or thousands of voices. It drowns out the noise of the storm that's still lashing at the house.

  She sees them, the lost ones. Dozens of figures stand in the wedge of yellow light cast by the window, but it's the spectacle in the darkening sky that holds her gaze. Pale shapes rush past in the blizzard, white faces with gaping voids in place of eyes and mouth. They phase in and out of visibility, but are far too many to count. They swirl and spiral around Furniss Manor like debris caught in a hurricane.

  Lost souls, so many lost souls wailing in misery. A
nd all trapped here. For how long?

  “Darling, what is it?” asks Tony. “What are you seeing?”

  She tries to explain to them.

  “It's not a haunted house, it's like a whirlpool drawing in the dead. Something binds them here. Something vile.”

  The sound of collective suffering grows louder, overwhelming her. She shuts her eyes and clamps her hands over her ears.

  “Oh, God, they're in such pain! I can't shut them out! There are too many!”

  Tony and Charlotte are holding her up, leading her to the couch. She can't hear their words, anymore, just the anxiety in their voices. She opens her eyes for a second and sees the room filled with people, all staring at her and gesturing. Two girls rush toward her, mouths open but voices inaudible amid the general clamor. She shuts her eyes again, feels the chill of dead fingers tugging at her.

  “Leave me alone, please leave me alone!”

  She feels herself laid down, a living hand placed on her forehead, but the wailings of the spirits grow even worse.

  I'm losing my mind. They're swamping me, there'll be nothing left of me when they're finished.

  Just when she feels her sanity slipping away, the noise of the spirits starts to decrease. Slowly at first, but then more rapidly, the weeping of the tormented souls diminishes until it fades into the howling of the blizzard. She opens her eyes to see Tony and Rachel looking anxiously down at her. She manages a weak smile.

  “Sorry, guys. Too many ghosts all at once. Whatever Isaac Braid did, it was evil and it affected hundreds, maybe thousands of people, not just the ones who were killed.”

  “I'll get some brandy, good for shock,” says Charlotte.

  “Don't go off on your own!” warns Tony.

  “It's okay,” says Charlotte, picking up the shotgun. “I know how to use this. I'm an English lady, remember, I've shot a lot of pheasants.”

  ***

  Madam Castanos finds it unbearable to sit waiting in a freezing cold taxi for more than a few minutes. Darkness is closing in and it can only get colder. She climbs out, determined to trudge through the snow to the house. At first she makes good progress. Her fine gloves, furs and boots provide excellent insulation, and the effort of plowing through the drifting snow keeps her warm. But it's a hard uphill trek. As she nears the turn-off to Furniss Manor she starts to feel tired, and by the time she sees the gateposts of the estate, she's nearly ready to drop. She forces herself to wade through drifts, along what must be the driveway, though it's hard to tell now. After what seems an eternity, she glimpses a yellow light ahead, and figures it must be her destination.