Skendleby

by Nick Brown

  SKENDLEBY

  A CHRISTMAS

  HAUNTING

  BY NICK BROWN

  Published by New Generation Publishing in 2013

  Copyright © Nick Brown 2013

  First Edition

  The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual living persons is entirely coincidental

  ISBN: 978-1-910053-20-1

  www.newgeneration-publishing.com

  “The distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly held illusion.”

  Albert Einstein

  About the author

  Nick Brown is a writer, archaeologist and ancient historian He is also the author of The Luck Bringer series, the first of which “Luck Bringer” was published in 2013.

  For Jill

  With love and thanks

  The Cheshire Plain 2500BC

  She regained consciousness: they were dragging her towards the burial chamber, her legs and arms leaking blood from the cutting. In front of the tomb Beautiful Hunter was tied and crouched over a small pit, his shin bones had been broken and he was whimpering. For a moment the part of her mind still her own felt pity. He had been her bed partner at the celebration of her first show of blood and this had pleased her, now he was being sacrificed. In death he’d guard her tomb so she could never escape.

  The people of her tribe huddled under the bare trees watching from a distance. The nearest they dare come to this cursed place. The shaman had to threaten them with eternal darkness beyond the stars to force them to make the long journey. Now they wanted to go home and begin the rites of purification.

  The effect of the drugged drink the shaman tricked her into taking was beginning to wear off and the demonic entity inside her mind was waking. It was agitated; it knew this place and feared it. She tried to think back to the time when this parasite had entered her: she thought it must have been when the blonde strangers visited her village for the midsummer sacrifice. Their wise woman had spoken to her and taught her magic: magic that made the women of her own tribe jealous. Perhaps she had put this thing in her.

  But there was no more time: they’d reached the dark entrance. She felt fear in the men who carried her. For a moment they hesitated but the shaman cursed them and they moved on.

  Inside the mound it was cramped and cold; the thing inside her screamed words of hate and fear. Words that her own lips formed but she couldn’t understand. She looked back at the entrance and saw they’d killed Beautiful Hunter and were burying him in the pit.

  Then there was nothing but pain as the shaman began the ancient ritual, cutting the special bones from her arms and legs. They did this so the demon, now trapped in her body forever, couldn’t pursue them in the afterlife. Finally when the cutting was over they laid her, barely conscious, on the icy stone floor and placed the terrible stones over her. She felt her ribs cracking under the weight.

  But there was worse: the shaman had carved the watcher’s eyes into the stone. The all seeing eyes that would confine her in this dark tomb, hidden in this desolate place for eternity. Then they began sealing the tomb behind them. The eyes tormented the thing inside her and it began a strange chanted curse in its terrible language. Her lips made sounds she couldn’t recognise but she knew it was angry and wanted vengeance.

  She watched as a hand beyond the entrance pushed the final stone into place killing the light and locking in the dark. In the darkness she screamed and the thing inside screamed with her.

  Lindow Moss: The Present Day

  Her own scream shattered the silence: Claire Vanarvi jerked awake with a heart jolting start in the darkness of the tomb. She forced open her eyes and to her relief found she was out of bed and standing by the window, drenched in sweat but shivering: the central heating had long since gone off and the room was cold. She stood taking deep gulps of air as she tried to re-orientate herself. Eventually things came into focus and she recognised the familiar features of her bedroom. Feeling her way back to bed she turned on the bedside light and looked at the alarm clock; it was just past four in the morning. She sat on the bed trying to breathe deeply and evenly but however hard she tried her heart wouldn’t stop pounding.

  So it was back after ten years’ remission: night sensations of the restless dead. This time was different. There was something familiar about the dream; not the ancient ritual and living burial; but the place. She recognised the place. This made it personal like a warning aimed at her. She re-crossed the room to the window, pulled back the curtain and looked out. It was still and dark and beyond the orange glow of the streetlamp the shapes of the trees that fringed the Moss cast moving shadows even though there was no breeze.

  She went back to bed but sleep was no longer possible and anyway she daren’t drift back into the nightmare waiting in the darkness of the tomb. The dream had been too clear, too detailed and the woman frighteningly familiar. She didn’t want to even think about it so got out of bed and padded in bare feet to the bathroom, the soft pile of the carpet feeling strangely comforting. In the bathroom mirror she caught sight of her pale face framed by long dark hair. Her eyes looked startled as they stared back at her. This took her back to the dream; she didn’t want to look through dead people’s eyes again.

  Downstairs she sat at the kitchen table drinking tea and trying not to think. Gradually she recovered her nerve sufficiently to understand it wasn’t a dream, it was real; a fragment of experience so intense that it never faded but lingered on over the centuries corrupting and disturbed; a psychic impression still reverberating and her unconscious was its wavelength.

  By the time she’d poured the last dregs from the teapot into her ‘Occupy the City’ mug, the element that troubled her most had begun to make some sense: the place. It was the archaeological dig she drove past every week, in the grounds of Skendleby Hall. It had received some coverage in the local paper and caused protest from the parishioners of the local church.

  What could have been so powerful to break through the defences she’d built up over ten years living a normal life? Or, and it was this that froze her blood as she sat amongst the domestic debris of her kitchen, what was it that was coming for her?

  She sat on at the table but the violence and horror of the dream wouldn’t recede. It stayed with her because while she’d dreamt she’d felt the girl’s terror; in fact during the dream she was the girl. Now she was calm enough to think, she knew something was summoning her, the dream found her for a purpose, and there would be a reckoning.

  By nine thirty she was emotionally drained but as the morning was in full swing and the sounds from the streets were drifting into the house she felt safe enough to return to bed. When she awoke she’d decide what to do.

  CHAPTER 1

  THE TRENCH: NOVEMBER

  Giles was grinning madly, angular face upturned towards the sun, squinting at Steve and Rose standing on Devil’s Mound. His dishevelled lanky frame animated as he raked nail bitten fingers through his hair in excitement.

  “You’re sure? It’s definitely man made and older than the village? Then it must be some weird type of burial mound, maybe a Cist inhumation. Jeez that’s brilliant; there aren’t meant to be any round here; we’ve got something of interest at last.”

  He’d driven to the Skendleby site to close down this boring, money eating dig. Bu
t Rose suggested that as the strangely brilliant weather continued, there was time to carry out a brief exploration of Devil’s Mound, which lay at the eastern boundary of the village. This had always been considered a natural geological feature formed as the ice sheets receded 10,000 years ago. But her exploratory trench and geophysical survey indicated that the mound might conceal a small stone built chamber. This was the first find of any real interest the excavation had revealed.

  She’d been nagging at Giles and his deputy Steve for weeks to give her a chance to at least dig a trial trench. Behind her back they’d laughed at what they thought was her unhealthy obsession, but as always she persisted, wheedling first one then the other. She knew all the fault lines in their long relationship; all the jealousies and insecurities; and as she constantly assured both of them of her loyalty and friendship in the end she got her way.

  But it was climate change that made it possible. Summer that year had started on time and then it seemed the calendar had stuck on August. So Rose was in luck, as without the extraordinary weather of that late summer, the dig would have long since ended and the mound bulldozed to make way for the pipeline that British Water were going to cut across this stretch of the countryside. There were rumours of a bid for planning permission for some shady commercial development in this part of the green belt.

  The county Archaeological Unit, directed by Giles, and based at the university, had secured enough funding to conduct a rescue dig to investigate the suspected presence of an Iron Age village at a location that the pipeline would cut right through and obliterate. The site lay in a large field between the boundary wall of the Skendleby estate and a curve of the River Bollin, between the villages of Skendleby and Woodford on a patch of ground that, due to local superstition, had not been occupied since records began.

  This was strange as it lay in a belt of rich farmland where any available plots were snapped up by developers for select executive enclaves, several of which scarred the countryside interspersed with footballer’s electric gated mansions. To the south west lay the Edge: a ridge of wooded sandstone cliffs riddled with ancient Bronze Age and nineteenth century copper mines. Air photographs taken during the previous dry summer revealed crop marks suggesting the remains of a small prehistoric village lay beneath the surface of the field. The county Unit had one summer to excavate the feature before the construction work started the following spring.

  The weather had been peculiar, even in a time of global warming, providing perfect conditions as the hot dry weather of July, August and September drifted into a late autumn Indian summer. Then into the warmest November on record, described on MSN as ‘the end of the seasons as we know them’. The skies a deep cerulean blue as one glorious day followed the next. So the dig could continue beyond its anticipated span and the team complete a detailed examination of the early, if unremarkable, Iron Age village of Skendleby. From the excavated evidence their village appeared to have been suddenly abandoned during the fifth century BC, over four hundred years before the Roman invasion of Britain.

  It was the freak weather that gave Rose the opportunity to investigate the mound with which she had become increasingly fascinated since the dig had commenced. At first she hardly noticed it but as summer wore on she came to think of it as her own; some nights it was there in her dreams and gradually it came to obsess her.

  By August she’d made a habit of sitting alone on it to eat her lunch each day and one day as she was peeling an apple the certainty of what it was hit her; it must be a type of barrow burial from a much earlier period. A feature that only she had been talented enough to recognise and which she’d conceal as the credit for this discovery should be hers.

  She wasn’t going to make the mistake of sharing it like she’d shared the best years of her life with that weak pitiful man. So slyly and carefully she’d been badgering Giles to let her conduct the digging of a trial trench to confirm her suspicions. Giles had consistently refused on the grounds that the size of the village and resources available meant there was insufficient time to finish their excavation of the village. She dismissed this; somehow she knew that the good weather would continue as long as she needed because the mound wanted her to find it and would wait for her.

  Eventually she got her way with the trench and began nagging Steve about a full scale excavation. She confided that she knew that he, as the better and more published excavator, must be as frustrated with Giles’s pedestrian supervision of the dig as she was. She told him that as he was intuitive and brilliant he could understand her need to excavate the mound. She reminded him that if there had been any justice in the world he, not Giles, would be Director of the Unit with full time tenure rather than working short term contracts. Rose said Steve could easily persuade Giles to let her have a go at the mound, and if it was a significant feature it might help him advance his chances of a contract extension. She would make sure he was credited with the results. She favoured him with her most sympathetic smile as she said this.

  Rose prided herself on the sympathy she extended to all the diggers, from the trainee undergraduates through to Giles, whom she often reassured by saying that she, unlike the others, appreciated the burdens that came with responsibility. She told him that she often defended him behind his back against the others. She never had an unkind word for anyone on site, rather she encouraged them to confide in her their problems and secrets and as she always said,

  “I’m like your older sister, love, there’s nothing that won’t feel better after a good old bit of goss with Rose.”

  But Steve had been no more willing to indulge her than Giles, he was bored with the site and wanted to be off, which confirmed Rose in her judgment of him as a feckless and selfish waster.

  But eventually her efforts paid off: she was working on the mound end of the trench on what was to have been her last day when Steve suddenly loomed above her brushing his long black hair back over his forehead with a grimy hand.

  “Me and Gi have decided to give you a bit of help so I’m going to put Jan and Leonie on this with you, Rose, the students can tidy up the odds and ends on the village. The forecast’s good for a bit longer so you’ve got a few more days to finish. If the mound’s a natural feature you’ll have at least provided some more data on the village boundary.”

  Jan and Leonie slouched across to join her; they were experienced professional archaeologists who, along with Steve and Rose, provided the core of the excavation team.

  “Here you go, Rose, this can be like a girls’ outing, anything to get away from investigating the village middens.”

  They joined Rose in the trench; despite it being November, like most of the archaeologists, all wore shorts and T shirts. The three of them squatted in the shade of the trench. Jan and Rose lit up.

  “Are you on or off with Steve at the moment, Leonie, because if it’s on we’ll have to alter the way we refer to him.”

  Rose exhaled smoke and winked at Jan.

  “It’s hard to tell with Steve if you’re on or off with him, it depends on who else is on or off with him at the same time, but I think that there’s a strong probability that I’m at the point where on becomes off so call him what you like.”

  Rose produced her special sympathetic smile and placed a supportive hand on Leonie’s shoulder.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, love, and you seemed so happy; but that’s Steve all over isn’t it?”

  “Doesn’t matter, I saw it coming, but you’d better watch what you say in front of Jan, she’s got a higher opinion of him than I have, probably because she sees less of him.”

  “Oh, bless, but she’d like to see more given the chance, isn’t that right Jan, love?” Rose replied, smiling to herself as she got to her feet having finished her smoke.

  “OK back to work, girls.”

  For the next few days the sun continued to shine and the trench progressed during bright but shortening daylight and Rose’s certainty that her mound contained something exceptional grew until she was abl
e to confirm what she had suspected and called Steve over from the main dig.

  “Steve, Steve, I think we’ve found it, come and see.”

  Steve hurried across to the trench where the three women were crouching at the far end nearest to the mound. They were covered in dirt and sweat but clearly exhilarated.

  “There, at the village end of the trench, we’ve got the remains of some type of wall obviously built by the villagers, probably just before it was abandoned. But then look just halfway along, see that patch of darker earth that crosses the trench, it’s the remains of a much earlier ditch. We don’t think it’s connected with the village at all; we think it’s to do with the mound. But here’s what’s really interesting. Inside the mound there are traces of a crude stone wall. If I am right, and I know I am, then the mound is covering a small stone structure that’s much older than the village. We need to investigate further to see if there’s an entrance. You’d better get Giles to come down now because we’re going to unearth the biggest find round here since the body in the peat bog at Lindow.”

  She watched as Steve rang the Archaeology Unit’s headquarters at the university. Within the hour in the fading light Giles arrived at the site.

  With a sparse social life and money problems from a messy and bitter divorce Giles was, for a change, in high spirits and, unusually, offered to buy drinks at the local pub. So at 6pm the early doors regulars at the Hanging Man were surprised to be joined by a group of about thirty scruffy and noisy archaeologists.

  After the Unit’s minibus had driven the students and volunteers back to the city Rose stayed on with Giles and Steve to plan the new phase of the dig. Lingering over a final drink at a dimly lit table in the corner by the fire she stretched her legs towards the hearth and sat back watching the flames’ reflection in her glass.