“Stay down,” Sceptre cried, and ducked beneath a reading table.
A flatbed scanner crash-landed onto the table, skittered along and dropped to the floor.
Kevin got to his knees and crawled towards her keeping under the tables. As he crossed an aisle, the drawers of the catalogue filing system shot out and came straight at him. He rolled to one side and they hit the floor alongside him, wood splintering, file cards flying everywhere. Rolling onto his belly, he crawled along under the tables until he was close to Sceptre.
“I’ll bet this is the Reverend Emmet,” she shouted over the noise.
“I’d rather he led us in a chorus of Abide With Me,” wailed Kevin. “At least I know some of the words.”
Sceptre would have laughed if she were not so worried. She looked under the tables, from the scanner to the door and back again.
Raising her voice over the cacophony, she said, “If we can get to the door, and throw that thing through the glass, we can climb out.”
“And get cut to ribbons on the remains of the glass?”
“Do you want to sit here?” Sceptre demanded. “When he’s done with the books, Emmet might start on the furniture.”
“You get to the door,” Kevin said, “I’ll get the scanner.”
Sceptre watched him roll onto his belly and begin to wriggle his way across the floor. The stroboscopic flickering of the lights made it appear as if he were moving in slow motion.
Then the lights dimmed again. But this time it had nothing to do with them being turned off. This time something large blocked them out. Sceptre risked a glance above the table. She ducked back under as a book missed her by millimetres. But what she saw in that split second chilled her to the bone.
An enormous caricature of a man, eight feet high, a massive four or five feet across the shoulders, had appeared. From beneath a dark chaperon hooded cap, his red hair writhed as though it were alive. His bearded chin was elongated and tabbed with a tiny, farcical goatee beard and under a huge, hooked nose projected a hideously curled moustache. His dark eyes gleamed with pure evil, and the mouth split the grotesque features into a malicious grin, like a huge Mr Punch.
“Kevin,” she shouted. “Stay where you are.”
He froze. Sceptre huddled herself into as tiny a ball as she could. A foot appeared at the end of the table. Strapped into a fur boot with ridiculous, pointed toes, it was turned away from her, towards the library door. To her right, a giant hand appeared groping beneath the table, seeking her. Sceptre shrank back from it, trembling at the thought of those long, knobbly fingers grabbing her. Her eyes were fixed on the gnarled hand as it sought her. A rasp of breath reached her left ear. She snapped her head round and stared into the creature’s hideous face. The black diamond eyes boring into her, the crooked nose sniffed her scent, the mouth slavered in anticipation of feasting upon her.
Sceptre screamed. “FISHWICK!”
*****
The butler arrived in the library to find his mistress and her friend under a couple of tables, the Reverend Emmet throwing books off the shelves at a phenomenal rate, and the dull red glow of Loki manifesting.
He flew to Emmet’s side. “Stop it, stop it.”
Emmet paused. “Why? She likes to read, doesn’t she? She stole my beer money, so I’ll give her something to read and plenty of it.”
“She put your money back,” Fishwick argued.
“Yes,” retorted Emmet, “and now she’s sent that big lug down there to steal it again.”
“No she hasn’t,” said Fishwick. “Listen to me. Just calm down and listen. Mr Brennan went down there because you moved their camera.”
“I did not.” Emmet pointed across the library. “I was in the Wagon and Horses with friends, stacking up dominoes to frighten the locals. I heard the crypt door open. I brought a couple of chums to see what was going on.”
“Well, if you didn’t knock the camera, who did?” asked Fishwick.
“Him.”
Fishwick followed the pointing arm to where Loki’s monstrous form bent over the table, face peering from one side, giant hand seeking from the other, and under the table, Her Ladyship cringing in terror.
Filled with alarm, Fishwick said, “I’ve had one run-in with him and I’m not strong enough on my own. Give me a hand will you?”
“Why should I?”
Fishwick thought about it for a moment. “Because beneath it all you’re a thoroughly decent chap?” he suggested.
Emmet considered this briefly. “If I help you, will you get her to leave my beer money alone?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” said Fishwick.
“That’s not much of a promise is it? You’re already dead.”
“Are you gonna give me a hand or not?” Fishwick demanded.
Emmet stopped throwing the books. He nodded and flew off in one direction, Fishwick, instantly grasping the intent, went the other way. They looped around and down until the powerful Loki was between them and The Light. Then they flew in, their speed increasing with every metre.
His fingernails brushing against Sceptre, his hot breath smothering her, Loki did not sense them coming until it was too late. He turned to defend himself. They struck him together, cast him out of the library, through the school floors and into the crypt. His shade changed to a livid red, the colour of fresh blood. He roared at them.
Fishwick flew in. An appendage appeared and swung out from the crimson ball. Fishwick ducked under it. The momentum of his wild swing caused Loki to spin, Reverend Emmet hurtled in, struck the spinning form a glancing blow and increased the rapid rotation. Fishwick shot at it, determined to knock the glowing ball into The Light. Interacting with the material world, Loki flung out another appendage. It slammed into the crypt walls and stopped the uncontrollable spin. As Fishwick struck, so Loki pushed and Fishwick found himself tumbling end over end towards The Light.
Emmet swooped across from the right and prevented Fishwick from falling into oblivion. Together they rounded on Loki, shot at him, as fast and ephemeral as starlight.
The three collided and shot off in different directions, Emmet left, Fishwick right, Loki down. Other spirits scattered away from the conflict. Loki shot back in, aiming straight for Fishwick. The butler stood his ground. If he could time his move just right, Loki would overshoot and fly straight into The Light.
A streak of white came in at an angle. Emmet!
Loki checked his speed. Emmet shot past and Loki batted him at The Light.
“No,” shouted Fishwick.
With a cry, the Reverend Emmet careened on, skittering into The Light. “Get him for me, Fishwick,” he cried and then he was gone forever.
Fishwick felt a moment of sadness, but snapped out of it. Emmet’s action had distracted Loki for long enough. Moving up through the school, followed by the powerful spirit, he hovered in the library, keeping himself between Loki and Madam. His own colour was as livid as Loki’s. “You wanna try it,” he invited, “come on. Make my eternity.”
For a moment, it looked as if Loki would accept the challenge. Then, with a roar, he flew off.
Calming down, Fishwick looked back into the library where Sceptre and Kevin were crawling out from their hiding place. They did so cautiously, peering over the tabletop, making sure it was safe before standing up. When Fishwick opened the door for them, they left, shaken and glad to be out.
He took in the mess on the floor and thought of poor Reverent Emmet. “I’d better get these books picked up.”
*****
When the door handle rattled, Pete was instantly on his guard. He turned it, pushed and the door opened a crack. Seeing no one, he rammed it wide open and rushed into the chapel, fists at the ready. Only to find it empty.
“Wait while I get my hands on you,” he muttered. “Whoever you are.”
He made his way angrily back to the dining room, and found that empty too. His first thoughts were that someone had taken Sceptre and Kevin, but as he turned to go look
ing for them, they walked in. Even in the poor light, they looked ashen.
They spent the next five minutes swapping stories, Pete adamant that whatever had happened had nothing to do with ghosts, Sceptre and Kevin equally determined in their version of the truth.
Eventually Pete said, “All right. Show me these books thrown everywhere.” He pointed at the computer.
Kevin sat at the machine, brought up the footage and rewound it. When it began recording, he and Sceptre were heard to enter the room, then all hell broke loose. So many books flew at them that the camera swung constantly left and right, trying to follow the breaks in the PIR beam, and unable to focus on anything. Kevin cursed and even Sceptre allowed herself a quiet, “damn.” Then, the camera fell over and stopped working.
“I did that,” Kevin said. “And we didn’t hang about to reset it.”
“You’ve proved nothing,” Pete said.
“Pete, we were there. We know what happened,” Sceptre argued.
“Yes, but just admitted you ducked under a table, the pair of you.”
“Fishwick,” Sceptre called, and her butler responded immediately. “Fishwick, who threw all those books around the library?”
“The Reverend Emmet, Madam.”
“Thank you, Fishwick. And who materialised in front of me?”
“Loki, Madam. The Reverend Emmet helped me beat him off, but I’m afraid our friendly vicar has paid for it.”
Sceptre was downcast. “Gone through The Light?”
“Loki threw him through The Light, Milady. I have just finished tidying the library.”
Sceptre groaned. “Oh, no. Why did you do that?”
“It seemed almost sacrilegious to leave the books lying around, Madam.”
Sceptre reported to her colleagues.
“Well at least you have something,” Pete encouraged her. “I’ve seen the books coming off the shelves on Kev’s video, and it they really are tidied away, even I would be hard pressed to explain it.”
Sceptre smiled. “Thank you, Peter. At last we’ve got through to you.”
He grinned. “I didn’t say I couldn’t explain it,” he said. “Only that I’d be hard pressed.”
“And we have no way of proving it,” said Kevin.
Sceptre sighed and Pete smiled. “Never mind, Sceptre. You’ll get there one day, just as sure as I’ll get your knickers …”
“Thank you, Pete. Don’t push any further. I wouldn’t want you guys to look for a new flatmate.”
*****
The night dragged on. Kevin refused to stay awake alone, so Pete and Sceptre took turns on watch, but sleep was almost impossible anyway, thanks to constant interruptions from the computer, and yet, when they followed up the alerts, they found nothing out of place and nothing to see.
Pete passed the time between security rounds with naps and reading his newspaper, Kevin fiddled with java games on his mobile and Sceptre read Pagan Cults of Ancient Britain, making copious notes on her A4 pad.
With the time approaching five a.m., they were tired, ready to call it a night. Kevin made tea for them and while they drank, Sceptre consulted her notes.
“This is fascinating. Norman Trent is not only Ashdale born and an Old Ashdalean, but also an authority on pagan religions.”
“Well qualified for his job, then, innhe?” said Kevin with a yawn. “If he’s looking after a couple of hundred lads, he’d need to know about pagans.”
“Indeed,” said Sceptre, missing the sarcasm. “He’s also an expert on this school and The Old Brewery.”
Pete grinned and Sceptre knew he was going to say something fly.
“Don’t, Pete. Please. You’ll only annoy me.”
“I was just gonna say that maybe he’s looking for a sponsor for the school. We read so much about private investment in hospitals and schools these days, maybe he fancies the Ashdalean should be sponsored by Ashdale Best Bitter.” Pete chuckled.
“You really are irritating when you put your mind to it,” Sceptre observed
“Oh, he doesn’t have to try,” Kevin said. “He’s irritating by nature.”
Pete took it in good part. “Come on then, Sceptre. You’re bursting to tell us what you’ve learned.”
“In 1940, German forces occupied Denmark. The government capitulated in a matter of hours to prevent too much bloodshed, but throughout the war they supported subversive operation against the occupying forces. They sent most of their naval officers to Sweden, and they were extremely helpful to the resistance in helping Jews get there too.”
“Hang on, hang on,” said Kevin. “I thought we were talking about pagan religions? What does tonight and this place have to do with World War Two?”
“I’m simply giving you the background,” said Sceptre. “Anyway, the Danish authorities sent their naval officers to Sweden.”
“Because Sweden was neutral,” Pete said.
Sceptre raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. “Very good. There is a brain somewhere behind the concentration on sex, violence and beer.”
Kevin licked his forefinger and drew an imaginary line in the air. “Sceptre, one, Pete, nil.”
Two pairs of scowling eyes centred on him.
“Some made it to England, however, and one such was Rolf Andersen.”
“Any relation to Hans Christian?” Kevin asked.
Sceptre frowned. “I don’t think so. Rolf Andersen was a merchant, and contrived to arrive in England with some of his money. Enough to establish a small recycling plant here in Ashdale. He, however, is not the focus of our interest. It’s his son, Michael. He attended the Ashdalean for the last three years of his education before going on to the University of Manchester. Several years later, Michael Andersen, became a teacher and housemaster here, and eventually, he was made headmaster. According to the plaque above his sarcophagus in the cellar, he died just over a year ago, but Trent had taken over as headmaster long before that.”
“This is riveting stuff, Sceptre,” Pete said, “but what does it have to do with us?”
“Everything. Andersen studied history at Manchester, and he was a specialist in Norse mythology. His particular area of interest was the god Loki. He wrote several texts on the power of Loki, the tricks he got up to, the way he irritated and annoyed the gods. They were considered fiction, but Andersen always maintained they were factual histories of a real being. Reading between the lines, that’s why he ended up teaching, rather than being recognised as an academic. The opprobrium heaped upon him left him a bitter old man, and Trent does say that Andersen treated the boys, including Trent himself, cruelly. Most masters would give a boy six of the best, but when Andersen caned them, he would give them a dozen strokes, usually on the bare backside.”
Kevin winced. “Ouch.”
“Precisely,” said Sceptre. “In the late sixties Andersen founded a society called the Venerable Disciples of Loki. Its theoretical aim was to promote research into Norse mythology. Its practical aim was more sinister. It was to invest its followers with the power of a Nordic god.”
Pete laughed. “What a lot of twaddle.”
“I quite agree,” Sceptre said much to her companions’ surprise. “But think about it, Pete. Fanaticism of one kind or another does wonders for the ego, as any terrorist would testify. In his book Trent says that there were never more than twenty or thirty members of the VDL and that they were a bunch of fantasists. The ultimate awakening came when they laid claim to three areas of land in Ashdale. This school, The Old Brewery and an area of West Ashdale, at the side of Bower Brook, known as Long Bank.”
Pete nodded. “It’s where the Ashdale Arena stands now. It used to be called Long Bank Lane. There was a hospice on that site, but that was demolished along with a load of houses to make way for the stadium. That would have been just before Andersen died, if you have your timing right. There was a hell of a row about it, too.” After a short pause, he asked, “where’s all this leading?”
“Our two spirits, Loki and Vali,” s
aid Sceptre, and Pete groaned. Ignoring him, she went on, “Loki was the god of evil and mischief, Vali, as I said earlier, was the god of revenge. In mythology, Loki tricked the god Hod into killing his brother Baldur, and Odin created Vali to deal with Baldur, while banishing Loki to the underworld.”
Pete tapped his forehead. “Either I’m losing the plot or you are. Are you trying to say that our man in black is some god from Norse mythology come to life?”
“No, Pete, I’m not,” Sceptre insisted. “I’m saying that we have two spirits calling out the names of these two gods. They are the ghosts of men, but in life they imagined themselves to be the representations of these gods, and that is how they’re manifesting themselves.”
“So Mr Punch,” Kevin said, “the joker in the library is who? Loki or Vali?”
“Loki,” Sceptre said. “The most dangerous of the pair.”
“So what do we do about it?” asked Kevin.
“The first thing we need to do is get back in here, either tonight, or preferably during the day so that we can talk to the movie crew about their experiences. Perhaps we could suggest to them that we may be able to solve their video problems.”
Pete laughed. “Like they don’t have enough experts on site as it is? Sceptre, if I tell Haz Lane that the man in black on Kev’s video is the ghost of a Norse god or even a nutter who thinks he’s a Norse god, she’ll have me certified.”
Sceptre chewed her lip. “Would my influence help? I am a member of the aristocracy after all.”
“I don’t see why it should,” said Kevin. “It doesn’t do you much good with us.”
Sceptre tutted. “We must find a way to bring peace to these spirits, help them through The Light, and that means I must gather together all the information I can. There’s no point getting them away from here, only to have them concentrate their energies somewhere else.”
Pete checked his watch. “It’s five past five and for my money that means we have to find a way of bringing ourselves some peace, by taking our gear down and getting ready to scoot before the cleaners get here. As a means of wasting an entire night, I could have done better at the Rose and Crown.”
A Spookies Compendium Page 44
