The Lost Village

by Neil Spring

  I had a sense then of time engulfing me. My surroundings were changing, receding. Price was saying something, but his voice was a blur; the trees and the ruin lost their outlines, becoming ragged dark shapes. Helplessly, I stared at the wheel as it turned, slowly, slowly.

  A sharp pain between my ribs.

  I looked down, with a harsh gasp.

  Blood. A dark, spreading bloodstain, just below my heart.

  An escalating sense of terror.

  ‘Sarah?’

  My head snapped up. Price was next to me, looking at me with concern. I could see him clearly now, could see the trees and the tumbledown mill behind him. The hazy, indistinct atmosphere had restored itself, becoming clean and crisp.

  ‘I knew you weren’t ready for this,’ Price said.

  ‘What, what’s happening to me?’ I asked between steadying breaths.

  His eyes flicked down, past my neckline, and when mine did too I saw there was indeed blood on my blouse. Not the spreading dark stain I had glimpsed in terror just moments before, but a spatter of small scarlet droplets.

  Price produced a handkerchief and dabbed it under my nose. ‘Pause a moment,’ he said, ‘hold your head back. The bleeding will stop soon enough.’

  Finding a tree to lean against, I did as he advised. Price watched me for a little while, his eyes bright. Not so much with concern, I thought, but with wondering interest, as if I were again a fascinating specimen to be scrutinised.

  ‘What is it?’ I snapped. It wasn’t pleasant to have him standing over me like that.

  He glanced away, towards the mill. There was a moment’s calm, and then he stepped forward and pointed at – what?

  ‘Someone’s interfered here,’ Price said.

  Wanting to leave, but strangely fascinated, I followed his pointing finger to the mill and saw what had stolen his attention: the wooden door was hanging open, revealing a rectangle of darkness.

  I glimpsed a flitting movement within. Price saw it too, and I knew exactly what he was going to do, even before he strode forward, his black coat flapping out behind him.

  Years later, when Price was dead and I saw his bulking form looming behind me in the kitchen window, I would remember the glittering excitement in his eyes that dank afternoon in the Imber woods, his dedication to exposing the truth, whatever the cost, even if it meant leaving me behind. Harry Price cast himself into a sea he was convinced he would conquer, only to have his every certainty in a safe, knowable world crushed.

  ‘Come out!’ he shouted into the windless air.

  Two male figures emerged from the low doorway. ‘What are you doing in there?’ Price fumed, storming up to them.

  ‘We came ahead, to get a sense of the place,’ Sidewinder said defensively. He scraped the heavy wooden door closed behind him. ‘No need to overreact, Mr Price.’ He was talking so loudly I could hear him from twenty yards away. I stepped away from the tree I had been leaning against and crept closer. Price’s face was flushed with anger.

  ‘Sarah and I came to secure the damned place – and you’ve already been inside!’

  ‘Please’ – Hartwell held up his hands – ‘do check inside, Mr Price. You will find nothing disturbed. It’s as we found it.’ He shook his head, looking bewildered. Refined in a smart dark suit and tie, he was back to his old, semi-aristocratic appearance, and I noticed he had trimmed his beard for the occasion. ‘The crucifixes inside on the walls, the candles – all is as it was. Otherwise, the mill is a ruin.’

  That was certainly true. Once it had been a vital building in a village on the downs, but decades of dereliction had reduced it to a tumbledown shack of rotten timber and gritstone.

  Quashing the growing unease within me, I tucked the blood-smeared handkerchief up my sleeve and went to stand at Price’s side. Sidewinder looked unsettled already, but when he saw me he grew tense, his eyes hardening behind their perfectly round spectacles.

  ‘It is starting already,’ he said. ‘You can sense it, can’t you?’

  I almost asked, ‘Sense what?’ – but that would have been disingenuous, because I fancied that I could sense something then. Apart from the vague familiarity I could not explain, I felt the presence of many dark and implacable secrets somewhere very close to us. And something else: a solemn sadness – a desolation – that had dwelt in this lonely spot for a very long time.

  The shadows were deepening and spreading now, like ripples in the filthy millpond. Questions came to me unbidden. Why had this mill been abandoned before the rest of the village was evicted? It didn’t appear damaged by fire, or unusable in any way. Had something happened here – something tragic, perhaps – that had caused the villagers to leave it to rot?

  ‘Well, I’m not impressed by your intrusion,’ said Price, his face like granite. ‘I must insist now that you allow us some privacy whilst Sarah and I secure the site.’

  ‘Perhaps you could accompany me to the churchyard,’ Hartwell said to Sidewinder. ‘I’d like to visit my little ones.’

  ‘But of course,’ said the warden respectfully. He nodded to us both, then led Hartwell towards the woods in the direction of Carrion Pit Lane.

  Free to continue with our work, Price stepped up to the mill’s battered entrance, and I followed. The slow creak of the door went before us.

  A startled bird flapped out of the blackness, causing us both to leap back.

  A small smile moved across Price’s lips as he looked at me, as if to say, Well, here we go again.

  And then, side by side, we stepped into the musty darkness.

  *

  Down on our hands and knees, we scoured the filthy floor methodically for trapdoors, finding nothing but rubble and moist earth. After that, Price sketched a floor plan in his notebook, carefully ringing every entrance and exit. He fastened gimlet screw eyes to the walls and used them to thread thin strands of cotton across every doorway. Then we took the rotten staircase that climbed into the webbed shadows.

  I shivered as the floorboards creaked and strained under our weight. Up here, the air was cool, but thick with the earthy smell of damp leaves that had blown in. I wondered whether there were rats. We hadn’t seen any rats; but then again, I thought with a wry smile, we hadn’t seen any phantoms, and of course that didn’t mean there weren’t any.

  Occupied in our task, I soon forgot about my worries. As our torch beams bounced off the crumbling walls and the rotten rafters, setting clouds of swirling dust aglow, I found myself thinking only about the brief and magic frisson of those short hours. Price and myself, a team once again, painstakingly working side by side – securing entranceways and exits, sprinkling starch powder to detect any intruder’s handprints or footprints, placing thermometers as carefully as one might set a trap. A moment made special because it was so rare. There was something about skulking in the decrepit semi-darkness, trying to master the extraordinary. To govern it. Nothing about ordinary life in London even compared to the uniqueness of this endeavour, the dark pull of adventure that made the heart beat that little bit faster.

  Like any other sort of hunt, ghost hunting was all about the thrill of the chase.

  It was what came after the chase one had to worry about.

  Time seemed to accelerate as we worked. By the time we were done, daylight had fled and a brisk wind had sprung up, wailing around the mill.

  Before opening the battered door, Price lit a cigar and stood for a moment, admiring our work, like an artist appraising his masterpiece. In the centre of the floor, a battered oblong table waited for proceedings to begin. Traps littered the mill, inside and out. The finest threads of cotton, barely visible, crossed every glassless window. Flour dusted the floor at every dark entranceway. I felt as I usually felt when preparing a séance room – keyed up. I was also aware that to most people in the outside world the scene must have looked limitlessly eccentric. Some might say silly.<
br />
  But something was wrong. Something was missing.

  ‘Harry, where are the cameras?’ He usually had two or three installed with automatic sensors, mounted on tripods in the corners of the room.

  ‘We’re not using them this time,’ he said, tapping the ash from his cigar. ‘One of the warden’s ridiculous stipulations. Reckons they give off negative energy.’ These words came out sounding not just sceptical but derisory. ‘Well, let’s see, shall we?’

  ‘What about this?’ I said.

  He followed the line of my vision down to the lower portion of the wall.

  ‘The bricks here look uneven, don’t you think, Harry? Discoloured.’

  ‘They look burned to me,’ he said, apparently unconcerned. Just then we heard voices outside. I opened the door and stole a look outside.

  A figure was approaching.

  *

  ‘It’s so good to see you. I thought something had happened to you.’

  ‘Something very nearly did,’ Vernon Wall said, and I could tell immediately that my old friend had something vital to tell me. ‘I did your bit of business. You were right – the place was mostly deserted. And it was a good job you knew where to find the spare key.’

  We stood together in the shadow of the ancient mill as rotted leaves swirled around us on the evening breeze. Vernon breathed out heavily. He looked beaten down, and sallow pouches lay heavily under his eyes. ‘That’s quite a walk,’ he said, looking back at the woods and the way he had come.

  About twenty yards away, Hartwell and Sidewinder conversed in low voices with the commander.

  ‘Left my car down in the village. Had to follow the commander from Westdown Camp. Where’s Harry?’

  Safely out of earshot.

  ‘He’s just making some final checks inside. What’s in the rucksack?’

  ‘Huh?’ He put one hand to the bag’s leather shoulder strap, as if he had forgotten he was wearing it. ‘Sandwiches,’ he said with a grin. ‘Want one?’

  ‘No thanks.’ I nodded at the mill. ‘Step over here.’

  The air became pungent as we walked a few paces to the bank of the pond.

  ‘So?’ I said.

  ‘Harry cares for you a lot.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Listen,’ said Vernon, ‘in his office, I found something interesting in his files. About this village – about you. After I got inside—’

  ‘What files?’ a hard voice interrupted, and we both whirled round to find ourselves confronted by a glaring Price. ‘Well?’ Price repeated, stepping up to Vernon. ‘Got inside where?’

  Vernon gave me a swift look; nervous, I knew. My ‘bit of business’ for him, of course, had been to break into Price’s laboratory:

  ‘The top floor will be locked up, but the main building, the library and the smoking room, they’ll all be open to members. At least they always were, in my day.’

  ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘Initially? A key to the top floor.’

  ‘Sarah . . .’

  ‘Just listen. In the library, there’s a brown leather armchair, to the left of the window. The back chair leg is shorter than the rest. There’s a book wedged underneath; it’s hollow. The spare key is in there.’

  My rationale for sneaking Vernon into Price’s sanctum? Education. Reassurance. I wanted to know whether Price really had done extensive research on Imber and its hauntings before coming here with me, whether he was keeping anything from me. Something about my father’s time here, perhaps?

  ‘I asked you a question,’ Price said, stepping closer to Wall. ‘Got inside where?’

  ‘St Giles’ Church,’ I told Price now. I surprised myself at how easily the lie came. ‘I told Vernon he ought to see where the tragedy happened before coming up here. Important, don’t you think? If he’s to help the army justify to the public their continued presence here.’

  Price’s eyes narrowed and flicked between us curiously. Might he press the matter? No. Even if he suspected a lie, these proud and independent men needed one another now. Vernon was part of the bargain, the reason we had been allowed to do this.

  ‘So, what now, Harry?’ Vernon asked. ‘I’m told we’re to anticipate wonders.’

  Price gave him a searing look. ‘I wouldn’t hold your breath.’

  Just then we were joined by Sidewinder, who sounded more than agitated. ‘Ready now, Mr Price?’

  ‘Quite ready, warden. The mill is sealed so thoroughly that not even a mouse could enter undetected. The question is, are you ready?’

  Instead of answering Price, Sidewinder turned to me and said, ‘If the spirit child should visit us this night, Miss Grey, be prepared.’ His tone wasn’t fanatical now so much as concerned. ‘You could fall prey to the same nausea and disorientation that has affected the others.’

  What he didn’t say was that I was about to fall prey to something far, far worse.

  – 22 –

  INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY

  ‘So, Mr Price, where would you like us to—’

  Sidewinder froze in the flickering candlelight, and I heard his sharp intake of breath.

  Price was standing in the centre of the wrecked mill, next to the battered table and chairs. A length of rope dangled from his right hand. Wearing his black frock coat that fell to his knees, he exuded the sinister presence of a Victorian executioner.

  Sidewinder stood in the doorway, eyes pinned on the dangling rope. ‘Mr Price? Kindly explain the meaning of this?’

  ‘I did tell you the séance would need to be subjected to my usual checks. And as you can see, those checks are impeccably rigorous. Now please’ – Price gestured piously towards a chair at the head of the table – ‘be seated, so that I can bind your hands.’

  The mood became suddenly ominous.

  Sidewinder stepped back uneasily, almost colliding with the imposing figure of Hartwell behind him. Hartwell grabbed hold of Sidewinder’s arm and said sternly, ‘You’re going to go through with this, Sidewinder. Understood? You will follow Mr Price’s instructions to the letter. The honour of my family depends upon it. Or so help me God . . .’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ Sidewinder muttered, but he didn’t sound as though he meant it. He walked stiffly to the rickety chair Price had indicated and sat down.

  At that moment, the commander entered the musty gloom, moving to stand next to Hartwell and Vernon. The spectacle and mystery of the occasion was evident in the expressions on the men’s faces as they took in the sight of the many glowing candles around them.

  ‘You gentlemen wait there,’ Price instructed, then wasted no time in binding Sidewinder’s hands. The chair creaked as he drew the warden’s hands behind his back and tied them together. I sealed the knots methodically, and Price nodded his approval.

  ‘Really, is this necessary?’ Sidewinder said.

  Without hesitating, Price’s eyes dropped to his tatty briefcase, lying flung open on the ground. ‘Sarah, hand me that hammer.’

  I did, and watched as Price nailed a copper staple into the floor. He bound Sidewinder again with a long piece of tape drawn through the copper staple and fastened to the table. Finally, he nodded, apparently satisfied.

  ‘Now, if you should attempt to rise from your chair, we’ll all see the tug on the rope.’

  ‘I won’t rise from my chair,’ said Sidewinder in flat voice.

  At the entrance to the mill, Vernon, Hartwell and the commander were watching us in transfixed silence. Striding over to them, Price scrutinised each man in turn, and – reluctantly – they allowed Price to run his hands swiftly over them. He seemed to take longer with Vernon, much to the journalist’s badly concealed chagrin.

  ‘What’s in the bag?’

  ‘Sandwiches.’

  ‘Empty it.’

  Wall shook his head. Price went
to grab the shoulder strap. Wall stepped back. He glared challengingly at Price, who was glowering suspiciously back at him.

  ‘I still have some self-respect,’ Vernon said cuttingly. Slipping the canvas rucksack off his shoulder, he went swiftly to the door and dropped the bag on the ground outside.

  ‘Satisfied, Harry?’

  Price hesitated and then nodded coldly in dismissal. ‘Take a seat over there for me.’

  Vernon remained where he stood, at the doorway. ‘Actually, I’d prefer to observe than participate.’

  Price returned a disdainful grin. ‘Nerves getting the better of you, Mr Wall?’

  ‘That’s right, actually.’

  I saw the blank honesty on Vernon’s face and felt a flush of admiration. Some people draw their lines and never cross them.

  ‘Fine,’ said Price. ‘Don’t touch anything.’

  Sidewinder was sturdily seated at the head of the oblong table, his whole body lashed with rope. Now the rest of us gathered around, with Hartwell and Price wisely taking their places on either side of the warden, ready to catch him should he attempt an act of forgery.

  I took my place immediately next to Hartwell, fully aware of the poor man’s emotional fragility, and knowing that he would need my support should events become too overwhelming for him.

  Standing immediately opposite me, to Price’s left side, was the commander, an impassive picture of formality in his military uniform. His stoicism was impressive; no amount of training could have prepared him for this.

  ‘What are those for?’ he asked.

  He wasn’t staring at the waiting Ouija board, or at the heart-shaped planchette supported on castors, which was supposed to slide under our fingers to point at letters on the board and spell out words. What had caught his interest were the three small hand mirrors laid out on the surface of the table, their reflective sides facing up, glinting in the flickering light.

  ‘These provide a little extra light by which to observe . . . whatever may occur,’ Price explained. ‘By catching the candlelight at the right angle, you can better illuminate whatever you wish to see.’