The Haunting of Seafield House (The Spirit Guide Book 1)

by Caroline Clark

  The car was stable for now, but how was Alissa? Leaves cut out the moon and he could only make out shapes. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he searched for her and his phone. The seat belt was in the way. He couldn’t reach the clasp. Fighting down terror, he methodically searched for the catch.

  Alissa! The thought of her injured threatened to drive him to panic, but that wouldn’t help. Although his chest ached from the seatbelt strain, he managed to cough out, “Babe, are you okay?” So far, he couldn’t hear her moving but it could just be that the compression from the bang had affected his ears. Many a shell blast had given him a permanent ringing, but now they were almost screaming at him. Why was it so dark? Why had the lights gone out? He didn’t know but they had no time to worry about that now. They had to get out of the car.

  At last, he managed to free the seat belt and tipped forward. Reaching for his phone, he pulled it from his pocket and shook it twice. The torch light lit up and he almost let out a wail of grief.

  Alissa was looking at him. Her eyes were glassy. Not the glassy darkness of death. This was the shine of shock, of trauma. He had to act quickly.

  “Hey, baby, how are you?” He spoke gently but as matter of factly as he could.

  Her eyelashes fluttered. She was awake and aware. That was good. For a moment, the woman on the road came to mind, but he pushed the thought away. They had missed her, but it didn’t matter. Even if he had hit her, he could do nothing about it now. Deal with what you can. That was what his training had taught him. Don’t go looking for more trouble. Once he had gotten Alissa out of danger, he would search for the woman.

  He checked Alissa for injuries and a groan nearly escaped him as panic threatened to overwhelm.

  She was leaning back against the seat. Her face looked fine, just pale, but that wasn’t what scared him so.

  A tree branch jutted out of her left shoulder. The gnarled and green wood had pierced straight through her light green top, through flesh, blood, and sinew, and into the car seat.

  Think!

  For a moment, he grasped the branch sticking out from her shoulder.

  Alissa let out a groan of anguish and he pulled his hand away.

  Blood was leaking from the wound, just a trickle. If he pulled the branch clear, he would be able to move her from the car but the wound would bleed much more quickly. If she had severed an artery, she would be dead before he could do anything to stop it.

  First aid kit!

  He sprang from the car and battled the branches of an oak tree. They crumbled easily with each strike. The old and weary tree could topple onto the car any second now. Alissa would be crushed. Each groan and creak of the limbs surrounding him forced a bead of sweat onto his forehead.

  He pulled up the coordinates of where they were on his phone, then dialed for an ambulance as he moved around to the back of the car.

  Mark popped the boot and immediately spotted the first aid kit strapped against the wheel arch.

  “Emergency services, which service please?”

  “Ambulance,” he said as he grabbed the kit. Alissa’s door was buried deep beneath unstable branches. He didn’t want to waste time digging her out or risk disturbing the hovering tree, so he went back to the driver’s side.

  With the phone clamped between his neck and shoulder, he opened the kit and crawled back into the car.

  What now!?

  “Help me?” Alissa pleaded. On her cheeks, the glint of tears mocked his indecisiveness.

  “I’m here, baby. You’ll be out of here any minute.”

  “Ambulance, what’s your emergency?”

  Mark explained as he packed around the wound with gauze.

  “The ambulance is on the way. You need to leave her where she is and go back to the road to help guide the driver to the right spot,” the operator told him.

  Mark recognized the tone, designed to keep him calm and busy. For a moment, he thought about it. But he couldn’t leave her. The tree groaned above him, how long would it hold? Would he get her out before it came crashing down?

  Alissa’s breathing was ragged now. Panicked.

  Hearing her in such pain tore out his heart.

  “I can’t leave her and I have military training. Just get to these coordinates,” he said and dropped the phone back into his pocket.

  “You have to get me out of here.” Alissa grabbed hold of his hand.

  Her grip was weak, her fingers cold.

  “I will, baby, but you must be patient.”

  Leaves rustled overhead and a branch fell, bouncing off the top of the car. They were out of time. He needed to get her out of there, but he’d have to pull the branch from her shoulder to do so. The angle was wrong from the driver’s seat. If he did it from here, he would tear open her wound. If he did that, he doubted he’d be able to stop the bleeding in time.

  She’d bleed out in his arms.

  If he could get in through the passenger door, then it would be a cleaner jerk. The branch would come out at the same angle as it had entered her shoulder and he could staunch the flow more easily. If he could get her from the car, he could possibly even tie off the artery.

  “Just hold still a moment,” he said and pulled her fingers from his.

  Panic gave her strength. Despite her small size, she clung on so desperately that he struggled to free his hand.

  “I will just be a moment,” he whispered against her ear, then gently kissed her hair. The blonde tresses were no longer silky but wet with blood. Had she hurt her head?

  He couldn’t worry about it now, so he left the car and fought his way to the front and through the fallen tree. A large branch was wedged against the door, and he kicked at it to break it free. The tree above them shuddered and rained down sticks and smaller branches. Something groaned and cracked, and still the door was wedged tight. He kicked at the branch with all his might, knowing he had a choice between time and force. Too much time and the tree might collapse on top of them, too much force and he might hasten that outcome. His foot hit the branch and it slid across the door. The tortured metal screamed but the branch fell away.

  He pulled on her door, but the impact had bent the metal. His breathing was ragged, and the fear inside him fought like a wild horse for freedom but he reined it in. Feeling around the door, he found the dent and then kicked the panel to clear the frame.

  Alissa screamed in pain.

  Mark felt as if he had been stabbed in the gut, but he had to keep going. Grasping hold of the door, he pulled with all he had. For a moment, nothing happened and his muscles protested at the effort. Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the darkness as he worked to free the door.

  With one last gargantuan effort, he hauled the door open as far as it would go.

  Alissa’s eyes were drawn down, her mouth grimacing in pain. That was a good sign. If she could feel, then she hadn’t gone into shock yet and there was hope.

  He fought around the door. Before he could lean into the car, a ripping sound dragged his gaze upward. A thick branch tore free from the trunk and fell down, and down. The massive limb smashed through the windscreen and slammed into Alissa’s face with a dull thunk.

  As warm wet splashed his face, Mark screamed, certain he’d never be able to stop.

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  25th April 15 82

  The basement of the cage.

  Derbyshire.

  England.

  3:15 am.

  Alden Carter looked down at his shaking hands. The sight of blood curdled his stomach as it dripped onto the floor. For a moment, his resolve failed, he did not recognize the thin, gnarled fingers. Did not recognize the person he had become. How could he do this, how could he treat another human being in this terrible way and yet he knew he must. If he did not, then the consequences for him would be grave. For a second he imagined a young girl
with a thin face and a long nose. Her brown hair bounced as she ran in circles and she flashed a smile each time she passed. The memory brought him joy and comfort. Brook was not a pretty girl, but she was his daughter, and he loved her more than he could say. He remembered her joy at the silver cross he gave her. The one that he was given from the Bishop, the one that cost him his soul.

  Rubbing his hands through sparse hair, he almost gagged at the feeling of the crusty blood he found there. How many times had he run those blood-soaked fingers through his lank and greasy hair? Too many to count. It had been a long night, and it was not over yet. This must be done, and it was him who had to do it.

  Suddenly, his throat was dry, and fatigue weighed him down like the black specter of death he had become. A candle flickered and cast a grotesque shadow across the wall. Outside, the trees shook their skeletal fingers against the brick and wood house and he closed his eyes for a moment. Seeing Brook once more he strengthened his resolve. The trees trembled, and the wind seemed to whisper through their leaves, tormenting him, telling him that he was wrong but he would not stop. Could not stop. Taking a breath, he felt stronger now, and with a shaky hand, he picked up an old stein and took a drink of bitter ale. It did not quench his thirst, but it gave him a little courage. He must do this. He must go back down to the cage and finish what he had started, for if he did not Brook would not survive and maybe neither would he?

  The kitchen was sparse and dark and yet he knew he was lucky. The house was made of brick as well as wood. It was three stories’ high and was bigger than he needed. This was a luxury few could afford. As was the plentiful supply of food in the pantry and work every day. The Bishop had been kind to him, and he knew he had much to be grateful for. Yet, what price had he paid? As the wind picked up, the trees got angry and seemed to curse him with their branches. Rattling against the walls and making ghostly shadows through the window. Alden turned from them and up to the wall before him. The sight of it almost stopped his heart and yet he knows he must go back down to the cage. If the Bishop found him up here with his job not done, then he would be in trouble... Brook would be in trouble. A shiver ran down his spine as he approached the secret door. Reaching out a shaky hand he touched the wall. It was cold, hard and yet it gave before him. With a push, the catch released and the door swung inward. Before him was a dark empty space. A chasm, an evil pit that he must descend into once more.

  Picking up the oil lamp, he approached the stairs and slowly walked down into the dark. The walls were covered in whitewash, and yet they did not seem light. Nothing about this place seemed light. Shadows chased across the ceiling behind him and then raced in front as if eager to reach the hell below. Cobwebs clawed at his face. These did not bother Alden, he did not fear the spider, no, it was the serpent in God’s clothing who terrified him.

  With each step, the temperature dropped. He had never understood why it was so much colder down here. Cellars were always cool, but this one… with each step, he felt as if he was falling into the lake. That he had broken through the ice and was sinking into the water. Panic clenched his stomach as he wondered if he would drown. The air seemed to stagnate in his lungs, and they ached as he tried to pull in a breath. It was just panic, he shook it off, and was back on the stairs. His feet firm on the stone steps he descended deeper and deeper. He shrugged into his thick, coarse jacket. The material would not protect him, of that he was sure, but he pushed such thoughts to the back of his mind and stepped onto the soft soil of the basement floor.

  There was an old wooden table to his right. Quickly, he put the oil lamp on it. Shadows chased across the room. In front of him, his work area was just touched with the light, he knew he must look confident as he approached the woman shackled to the wall. Ursula Kemp was once a beauty. With red hair and deep green eyes. Her smooth ivory skin was traced with freckles, and she had always worn a smile that had the local men bowing to her every need. Seven years ago she had married the blacksmith, and they had a daughter, Rose. Alden felt his eyes pulled to his right… there in the shadows lay a pile of bones. A small pile, the empty eyes of the skull accused him. Though he could not look away from that blackened, burned, mound… the cause of another stain on his soul. Bile rose in his throat, and the air seemed full of smoke. It was just his imagination, he swallowed, choked down a cough and pulled his eyes away. Blinking back tears, he turned and looked up at Ursula. Chained to the wall she should be beaten, broken, and yet there was defiance in her eyes. They were like a cool stream on a hot summer’s day. Something about them defied the position she was in. How could she not be beaten? How could she not confess?

  “Confess witch,” he said the words with more force than he felt. Fear and anger fired his speech and maybe just a little shame. “Confess, and this will be over.”

  Ursula’s eyes stared back at him cool, calm, unmoving. She looked across at the bones, and he expected her to break. Yet her face was calm… her lips twitched into a smile.

  Alden’s eyes followed hers. The bones were barely visible in the dark, but he could still see them as clear as day. A glint of something sparkled in the lamplight, but he did not see it. All he could see was the bones. Sweat formed on his palms as if his hands remembered putting them there. Remembered how they felt, strangely smooth and powdery beneath his fingers. Ash is like silk on the fingers… a sob almost escaped him, and for a second he wanted to free Ursula, to tell her to run… and yet, if he did then the Bishop may turn him and Brook into a heap of ash like the one he was trying to not look at.

  In his mind, he heard the sound of a screaming child, the sound of the flames. Smelt the burning, an almost tantalizing scent of roasting meat. Shaking his head, he pushed the thoughts away. Now was the time for strength. Biting down on his lip, he fought back the tears and turned to face her once more.

  “You will not break me,” she shouted defiantly. “Unlike you, I have done no wrong. Kill me, and I will haunt you and your family until the end of time.”

  Alden turned as anger overrode his judgment, striding to the table he picked up a knife. It was thin, cruel, and the blade glinted in the lamplight. Controlling the shaking of his hands, he crossed the room and plunged it into her side. For a second it caught… stopped by the thickness of her skin. Controlled by rage, he leaned all his strength against it and it sliced into her. Slick, warm blood poured across his fingers. “Confess, confess NOW,” he screamed spraying her face with spittle.

  A noise from above set his heart beating at such a rate that he thought she must hear it. It pounded in his chest and reminded him of his favorite horse as it galloped across the fields.

  The Bishop was here.

  Without a confession, he was damned, but maybe he was damned anyway. Maybe his actions doomed him to never rest, yet he must save his daughter, he must save his darling Brook.

  As he heard the door above open, panic filled his mind, he must act now, or it would be too late. Then he saw it in her eyes, Ursula knew what was coming. She knew she would die soon and yet she did not fear it. Maybe she thought she would meet her daughter, that they would be together again. He did not know, but the calm serenity in her eyes chilled him to the bone.

  In a fit of rage, he struck her on the temple. The light left her eyes, her head dropped forward, and she was unconscious, but it no longer mattered… he had a plan.

  “You have confessed,” he shouted. “You are a witch. By the power of the church, I sentence you to death, you will be hung by the neck until you die.”

  Before the Bishop reached him, he pulled back his hand and slapped her hard across the face. The slap did not wake her, but the noise resounded across the cellar. As the Bishop stopped behind him, he felt an even deeper chill. This man had no morals, no conscience. Alden knew what he had done was wrong, but he did not care. If it kept his family safe, he would sacrifice any number of innocents, and yet his stomach turned at the thought of what was to come.

  “You have your confession,” the Bishop’s voice was harsh i
n the darkness. “Let us hang her and end this terrible business.”

  Ursula woke to the feel of rough, coarse hemp around her neck. As her eyes came open, she felt the pain in her side and knew it was a mortal wound. The agony of it masked the multiple injuries she had received over the past few days.

  Alden was holding her. Hoisting her up onto a platform which was suspended over the rail of the balcony. The rope tightened as he placed her feet on the smooth wood and fear filled her. This was it, she knew what was coming, and yet she shook the fear away. To her side, the Bishop stood, a lace handkerchief in his hand as he dabbed at the powder on his face. Blond hair covered a plump but handsome visage, with good bones and a wide mouth, but his eyes… they were gray and hard. The color of a gravestone they could cut through granite with just a look. Amusement danced in them, or maybe it was just the lamp flickering. It could not provide nearly enough for her to really tell, and yet she knew.

  Alden moved away from her and turned to the Bishop. There was a hardness to him too. His lips were drawn tight enough to make a thin line, but he could not fool her. Alden was afraid, and she pitied him, pitied the days to come. For her, it was over. Death would be a sweet release, but for Alden, it had only just begun. As he pushed the table, she looked down to the floor below. The lamp did not light more than half way, and it seemed that she would jump into a bottomless pit. If the rope did not stop her… then maybe she could fly. Down deep she hoped she would soar, away from pain, away from fear and safe in the knowledge she held.

  If only.

  The moon came from behind a cloud and shone through the window at her back. Its light cast shadows through the branches of a large, old oak tree. Sketchy fingers coalesced on the far wall, and her heart pounded in her chest.

  Was this a sign?

  A welcome?

  The shadows danced and then formed and appeared to be a finger pointing to her doom.