At the murmur of voices he opened his eyes and sat up. He saw a doorway full of light, shadows moving beyond it. He held out his hand to ward them off. Had the Door returned? Were those demons in his view? Or were they angels? That part of him that had died long ago now strained in his chest, as if wanting to break free. To join the angels and to find peace …
A hand closed on his shoulder.
‘Easy, son.’
Adam pushed him gently back onto the ground. Jake looked up into the ceiling, then shifted his view back to the door. A line of crumbling gravestones rolled down to the cemetery gate. Of course, this was the Witchfinder’s tomb. He must have passed out some time after the mysterious creature had rescued the Demon Father. Then Adam had carried him up the stone staircase and out of the cavern. He glanced to his right and saw the rectangular hole in the floor. It hadn’t occurred to him until now that the Door had led into the tomb. It made sense, he guessed: the Elders must have built the mausoleum over the Door in order to hide it from curious eyes.
The Hobarron Elders. The last of them were now clustered around one of the larger gravestones. Dr Holmwood, Joanna Harker, Dr Saxby, Mildred Rice, and Walter Drake, speechless as they stood over the body of Alice Splane. Like Jake, the dead woman had been carried out of the cavern and laid upon the cold earth.
Standing a good distance away from the group, Rachel Saxby and Eddie Rice huddled together.
As Jake’s senses reasserted themselves so the pain made itself felt. His back ached and the hand that had held the gun was so badly bruised he could barely move it.
‘That thing—that creature—it came out of nowhere,’ Jake murmured. ‘What was it?’
Adam let out a long sigh. ‘That was Simon Lydgate.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve known about him for a while now. I helped to keep him hidden from the Elders.’
‘He’s like Pandora,’ Jake said slowly. ‘One of the dark creatures.’
‘Yes, and no. As Pandora told you, the dark creatures are kin to demons but they are not demonic. Simon is … different.’
‘Different how?’
‘I believe that he is half-demon.’
Jake gaped at his father.
‘Even before he came to New Town to live rough, I’d heard stories about the boy. Stories that made me take an interest in him. All the talk was that Simon had been born of a human mother and a demon father. Such beings are very rare and their nature is unpredictable.’
‘He’d changed. His body, his face … ’
‘His demon heritage showing through.’ Adam nodded. ‘I should never have allowed him to roam free.’
‘But he rescued me from Quilp and Mr Pinch,’ Jake said hollowly. ‘That must stand for something.’
‘I’m sorry, Jake, but his demon side has won out. Last night Simon saved the Demon Father.’
Jake focused on Adam. ‘He saved his father, just as I would have saved you. That doesn’t prove he’s evil, in fact I think it shows that there is good in him. I’m going to find him, help him.’
Adam smiled. He leaned forward and ruffled Jake’s hair, just as he had when Jake was a little boy.
‘Dad … ’ Jake took a shuddering breath. ‘What am I?’
Adam Harker held his gaze.
‘You are my son.’
‘I’m not anyone’s son.’
Jake got to his feet. He walked to the mausoleum door and stared out across the village.
‘You’re not my father, Claire wasn’t my mother. I was grown in a laboratory from a dead man’s skin. He is me and I am no one. Josiah Hobarron had a father and a mother; he was born like any other child. When I was facing the Door, when I was fighting the Demon Father, I had his memories. I felt what it was like to be whole. To be real.’
‘You are real, Jake.’
‘But now those memories are fading,’ Jake continued. ‘Josiah’s experiences, his abilities, they’re leaving me and I’m hollow again. What am I ? Do I have my own soul? Am I just an experiment? An empty clone?’
Jake felt his father’s arms around him.
‘Your body is an exact replica of Josiah Hobarron’s, but that does not make you him.’ Adam took his son’s face in his hands. ‘You are my son, Claire’s son. You were shaped by us and by all those who love you. Your spirit is your own.’
The Harkers held each other for a long time.
‘So what now?’ Adam asked.
‘You’re asking me?’ Jake stood back, smiling through the tears.
‘Seems you’re the boss.’
Jake let out a long sigh. ‘In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve been set on fire, had my arm almost ripped out by a witch, struck by dark magic and knocked unconscious by a half-demon creature. I’m tired, hungry, and every muscle in my body aches. I could eat a horse and sleep for a week. But the first thing I’d like to do? See my friends.’
Like a pair of wounded soldiers emerging from the smoke of battle, father and son stepped into the sunlight.
Down at the gate, Jake saw Rachel Saxby smile up at him. She looked tired, careworn, but that smile helped to lift his spirits. The sun was shining, his father was beside him, Rachel and Eddie were safe, and the world had not fallen into darkness. Life was good.
Only one thing could spoil this day, and it was standing right in front of him.
Lined up behind their leader, the Hobarron Elders waited for Jake like a reception party. Dr Holmwood stepped forward, his hand outstretched to Adam. Several minutes passed and finally the doctor lowered his hand.
‘I—I owe you an apology, Adam,’ Holmwood faltered. Standing directly behind the Institute head, Dr Saxby stared at the ground. ‘You were right about everything. Your work, the merits of the experiment, the effectiveness of the Weapon.’ His gaze flickered to Jake. ‘We should never have doubted you.’
Adam spoke through gritted teeth. ‘You imprisoned me. Endangered my son.’ He turned to Saxby. ‘You would have sacrificed your own child. What kind of people are you?’
‘We were wrong,’ Holmwood said. ‘But now we must forget our differences and work together again. I understand that, although Jake destroyed the Door, a powerful demon has escaped. From what we know of this creature he will not sit idle for long. We will need your help, Jake, if we are to find the Demon Father. To that end, I want you to join the Institute. You will be third in command under your father. A senior Hobarron Elder … ’
‘You take my name in vain, sir?’
Adam’s eyes snapped towards his son. Jake’s voice had changed again. It rang in the deep tones of the Witchfinder. Dr Holmwood covered his mouth with his hand.
‘I will not have it, doctor,’ Jake continued. He snapped his fingers and a small blue flame danced between the tips. ‘No doubt you meant it well—this Institute of yours—but I have heard it said that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Hear me now, Elders of Hobarron: this is the end of the road.’ He swept his hand through the air, scoring his message with a line of blue fire. ‘You have become so fearful of evil that you have allowed it to take root in your hearts. Now I look at you and barely know the difference between your Institute and the Crowden Coven. Each so desperate to achieve its goal that human life mattered little. Oh, I do not doubt you wrestled with your conscience but the result was always the same. The innocent suffer by your hand. And so I say again, this is the end. No more Institute, no more Elders. It is finished.’
‘But—but the Demon Father,’ Holmwood flustered.
‘He is my responsibility, and mine alone. I will find him and I will send him back to his infernal kingdom. Rest assured, he shall not escape me.’
The fire in Jake’s eyes died and he walked away from the Elders. Adam caught hold of his son and turned the boy to face him.
‘It’s me, Dad … I guess he’s still with me after all.’ His voice was normal again. Jake gave a grim smile and continued on towards the gate.
Rachel rushed to meet him. She threw her arms around his neck
and held him close. Then she stood back and looked into his eyes.
‘There’s something different about you,’ she said. ‘You’ve changed.’
‘I think we all have.’
‘For better or worse?’
‘Time will tell, I suppose.’
‘Still mysterious.’ Rachel grinned and her beauty shone through the grief and pain. It didn’t take long for the happiness to fade. ‘Do you know what happened to Simon?’
Jake hesitated.
‘That’s a long story, Rachel,’ Adam said. ‘Better told some other day.’
‘He survived and we’ll find him,’ Jake added. He felt a gentle tug at his sleeve and looked down at the boy beside him. ‘Hello, Ed.’
Eddie Rice’s face crumpled. ‘I betrayed you, Jake.’
In a few stuttering sentences he told of how he had made the pact with the Crowden Coven. How he had traded information in order to keep himself safe and how he had endangered the lives of those he loved. By the end of it, the boy’s head was bowed and he could no longer speak. Jake squatted down to Eddie’s level.
‘Fear makes us do terrible things.’ Jake wiped the tears from the kid’s face. ‘I forgive you, Eddie.’
‘Still friends?’ Eddie sniffed.
‘Course.’ Jake jabbed him playfully in the shoulder. ‘Now, I think you should go and talk to your mum. She’s waiting for you.’
Eddie looked back up the hill to where his mother stood a little apart from the rest of the Elders. Her face was pale in the sunshine, her hands pressed together as if in prayer. She took a step forward and held out her arms.
‘She needs you,’ Jake said.
Eddie gave a solemn nod. He ran to his mother and fell into her embrace.
‘And what about me?’ Rachel asked. ‘Any advice as to where I should go?’
‘Your father … ’
Dr Saxby turned and looked down the hill, as if he knew that he had been mentioned. Tears filled Rachel’s eyes and she shook her head. At this distance, the doctor presented a small, sad figure. Again, he lowered his gaze.
Saxby joined the Elders as they lifted the lifeless body of Alice Splane from the ground. Together, they carried the woman down the hill to the cemetery gate. Adam, Jake, and Rachel moved aside to let them pass.
‘I’m sorry for what happened to Alice,’ Adam said.
Without looking up, Joanna murmured, ‘Thank you, brother.’
Neither Dr Holmwood nor Dr Saxby said a word. With stately pace, the group moved on to Alice’s cottage.
Adam Harker winced. His hand went to his wounded shoulder.
‘You all right, Dad?’ Jake asked. He did not like the greyness of his father’s skin and the pain in the man’s eyes.
‘I’m fine.’ Dr Harker put his arms around Rachel and his son, drawing them close. ‘Let’s go home.’
NOW
Strangers at the Grange
No one had lived in the house for over a hundred years. Located at the outskirts of Little Muchly, the Grange was a large, rambling pile, built in the sixteen hundreds by a family whose reputation continued to haunt the village. ‘Them up at the Grange’ were still spoken of in whispered tones by the old timers hereabouts, and even the young people, who claimed not to believe in such nonsense, would shudder at the name of the long-dead family.
Crowden.
Old Mrs Ogleby, who ran the tearoom at the Little Muchly Museum on Wednesday and Thursday afternoons, spun the same tales to any visiting tourist.
‘Right enough, we’ve a pretty village here, but don’t you be deceived. Why, there’s stories about this place that would have you shakin’ clean out’f yer boots!
‘It was them as brought the evil here,’ she would continue, her single tooth clacking in her head. ‘The Crowden family. Worst among them was the youngest son, known as Marcus. Powerful bad, he were, hungry for knowledge that no man ought to have rattlin’ around in his head. Even the other Crowdens were afraid of that one. Witch, you say? To be sure, that’s what they called him—master of witches. Though I did hear that to look at him you’d have thought he was an angel sent from heaven.
‘’istory has it that he left home one night and made his way upcountry. My old grandmother, who heard it from her mother who heard it from hers, told me that young Marcus had learned of a place where a whole army of devils were waitin’ to be released. Thought that, if he could summon some kinda door and set them free, they’d serve him. Make him their king. No one knows how it turned out. Still, there is a legend that one day, yup, one day … ’
Here Mrs Ogleby would pause and pour the visitors their tea—nice and strong, just the way tea ought to be. She’d wait until her audience could stand the suspense no longer …
‘One day Master Crowden will return to Havlock Grange.’ The old lady would give a smile and a wicked wink of the eye. ‘Strangest part of the legend is that they say he will return a changed man. A man with the eyes of a demon … ’
Now, with the strangers up at the Grange, Mrs Ogleby shuddered at her own story. If the gossip was right, there were three of them: a little toad-faced man who went by the name of Grype; an invalid boy who appeared to be in some kind of coma (he had been pushed into the house in a wheelchair on the day the strangers arrived—since then no one had laid eyes on him). All this was strange enough, but it was talk of the third man that made Mrs Ogleby’s blood run cold.
No one knew his name. He was often seen standing in the windows of the old house, looking out across the grounds as if he was master of all he surveyed. He had a face that could shame the angels, so they said. At the bus stop, in the park, chattering away in the tavern, the local girls would talk of the handsome stranger, while that harmless old gossip Mrs Ogleby listened in.
‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’ they would swoon. ‘I’d love to see his eyes. I bet you could just drown in them. But he’s always wearing those dark glasses, even at night. I wonder why … ’
Sitting all alone in her cottage at night, Mrs Ogleby wondered if anyone had ever really listened to her stories.
A man with the face of an angel and the eyes of a demon …
My heartfelt thanks go to Deborah Chaffey, who placed me firmly on the Witchfinder’s path. Thanks also to Jacob Chaffey for his encouraging early review and for lending my hero his name. I’d also like to acknowledge the aid of friendly alchemists Johnny Draper, Claire Wilson, Bryony Bowers, and Graeme Hills who listened patiently to early incantations and helped me conjure a few golden nuggets from a lot of base metal.
Witchfinder found its home through a series of magical links, beginning with the spookily talented Sarah Silverwood. Sarah introduced me to my brilliant agent Veronique Baxter, whose boundless enthusiasm brought Witchfinder to OUP. Stewed in the editorial cauldron of the wonderful Jasmine Richards, the book became infinitely more magical. To all these people, and to countless others who have nurtured my writing, I say—THANK YOU!
About the author
William Hussey has a Masters Degree in Writing from Sheffield Hallam University. His novels are inspired by long walks in the lonely Fenlands of Lincolnshire and by a lifetime devoted to horror stories, folklore, and legends. William lives in Skegness and writes stories about things that go bump in the night …
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