Benjamin Ford

The Master

of Prophecy

the sequel to

Master of the Scrolls

Copyright © Benjamin Ford 2014

First published 2006

Revised edition published 2014

All rights reserved

Cover illustration copyright by Louis Goss

Novels by Benjamin Ford

Master of the Scrolls

Portrait of Shade

The Master of Prophecy

The Five Tors

Author’s Note

This is the sequel to Master of the Scrolls, so if you have picked up this book because you liked the sound of it but have not yet read its predecessor, might I suggest you do so. I have tried to write this sequel so that you do not have to read Master of the Scrolls. However, in reintroducing characters and themes from the original novel, it has been necessary to include some of the plot twists and secrets which, reading The Master of Prophecy first, might spoil your enjoyment should you go on to read Master of the Scrolls afterwards.

The trilogy will conclude with The Master of Time.

Prelude

He awakens in the darkness and nearly panics, not knowing where he is, and with barely any recollection of who he is.

But then he remembers: he is safe.

The innocence of the girl shall be the perfect protection against discovery until the time is right, and then, with all the playing pieces carefully positioned, he will strike back at those who wronged him.

But he will first have to learn the divine art of patience.

He possessed such virtue once, but not for countless centuries now.

If he might master the art again, then he would finally have his revenge against she who conspired to destroy him.

Prologue

All Souls Day

2001

Friday

November 2nd

Phil McFadyen lay on the bed in the darkened room, listening to the nocturnal noises from within Snowfield House. Even after nearly a decade and a half living in the otherwise charming cottage in Neville Hill he was not yet accustomed to the always ominous creaking and groaning sounds made by the dwelling as it settled into its own night-time slumber.

Last night he had drifted off to a reasonable state of semi-consciousness, but had been awakened in the early hours by the annoying screeching of a couple of fighting cats somewhere outside, and now he was awake there was little chance of getting back to sleep.

Stifling a yawn, he threw back the duvet and slipped from the bed, taking care not to awaken his wife as she slept peacefully beside him. He envied the way she so effortlessly fell asleep night after night.

In the darkness, he found his way to the door and opened it, wincing as it creaked on its ancient hinges. Thankfully, his wife’s slumber remained undisturbed, and he made his way down to the kitchen.

Soft moonlight filtered through the blinds at the window, and bathed in a pallid golden aurora, Phil switched on the kettle, settled onto a stool beside the breakfast bar and peered out into the November gloom. The constant rain of the past fortnight looked unlikely to abate any time soon, and the incessant thrumming of the deluge outside was beginning to eat away at his usual good cheer.

He could not understand why the rain, annoying though it was, should make him feel quite so irritable and depressed. He had after all been born and bred in the Highlands of Scotland, where such inhospitable weather was far from unusual. He should be used to it, and had indeed lived in such desolation until the death of its owner conspired to terminate his employment at Ravenscreag Hall.

Phil had not been the least bit surprised when Mary Turner’s sole heir had sold the rambling gothic mansion as quickly as she could. As a child, Rachel Schofield had hated the mausoleum-like house, and following the death of her mother and subsequent mysterious disappearance of her daughter, Gloria, fourteen years ago, Rachel had made the announcement of her intention to be rid of the loathsome place.

Over the years of his employment at Ravenscreag Hall as gardener and handyman, Phil had grown to love Mary Turner like a mother, and had no desire to remain as caretaker after her death. When Rachel sold the estate he gave the new owners two weeks’ notice and came down south of the border to stay with Louise Barncroft, an old friend of Gloria’s who had been through almost as much as he had.

How could he possibly forget the incidents of 1987? In the hours immediately following Mary Turner’s death, the spirit of an ancient Seer known as Thaumaturgia Anathemas had seemingly possessed Louise.

Phil might not have believed what had happened, even as he bore witness to the bizarre events, but as a child, the spirit of a man called Peter Neville had possessed him, and though Phil’s childhood recollections were vague they had been reawakened when he encountered Gloria Schofield for the first time. Gloria, it seemed, was the catalyst for the whole chain of events that unfolded. For a short time the spirit of Peter Neville’s murdered cousin, Isabella, had possessed her and their purpose was revealed: they were summoned into the present day to protect Gloria from the machinations of an evil warlock, who over the centuries was variously named Sawyl Gwilym, Vilam and latterly Samuel Wylams, and who had been reincarnated.

Gloria’s personal destiny had been fulfilled shortly after the defeat of the Warlock, when she had disappeared outside the church in Ravenscreag on the day of her wedding. She had apparently jilted her fiancé, Allan Barncroft – himself once possessed as a child – and disappeared to live the remainder of her life with another man identified by Louise as James Trevayne – the man whose spirit had possessed Allan.

Louise had originally despised Phil because she believed Gloria was having an affair with him behind Allan’s back, but she changed her opinion of him upon discovering that it was actually Peter and Isabella, rekindling their own doomed romance from beyond the grave through surrogate bodies. When Allan died from a broken heart a year after Gloria’s disappearance, Phil had been there to comfort her; the friendship blossomed into romance, and the pair were married shortly after.

The fact that Louise already had a daughter by a married man simply did not matter to Phil: he had been by Louise’s side when the angry wife confronted her, as he had been by her side at Glory’s birth. He had always been the father Glory might otherwise have never had, and after his marriage to Louise, Phil legally adopted the girl. She felt so much like his natural daughter that most of the time he actually forgot she was not.

When finally fathering a child of their own, some men might have lost interest in a child sired by another. Not so Phil: when Louise gave birth to the twins, Byron and Bryony, he loved all three children equally, and knew that would never change.

He made his cup of tea, and as he sat reminiscing about all the wonderful and equally strange events that had befallen him during his lifetime, Phil’s attention further wandered and instead of peering into the gloomy garden through the window, he focussed on his reflection.

He smiled at himself. He knew how lucky he was to have met and married Louise. They shared secrets they might not have chosen to reveal to anyone else, because nobody else would have believed either of them.

Louise and Phil came to believe that in death Allan and Gloria were reunited, and in some small way it gave them comfort to think that each could attain the happiness life had conspired to rob them of.

At times like this, when his mind was blank and calm, despite his sense of peace Phil felt bereft. His task done, Peter Neville was gone – and Phil felt as though a great chunk was missing from his soul. He had once told Louise this, and she in turn confided that at times she felt the same way following the sudden appearance and almost immediate departure of Thaumaturgia’s spirit. She had scant recollection of her brief possession, but still felt a sudden great emptiness. They both confessed they had no desire to have the invasive spirits inhabit their bodies again, but although Phil knew Louise was sincere in that declaration, he himself was not.

Though recollection remained vague concerning his possession by Peter’s spirit, enough fragmented images remained in his memory to rekindle an obscure desire to be as one with Peter once more.

As he stared at his reflection in the window, Phil’s vision blurred and the image seemed to shift focus. For a moment, it was not his face staring back.

He shook his head fearfully.

No. It was not possible.

The image vanished, and he relaxed a little.

Exhaustion was making him see things that were not there. Stifling a yawn, he drained his cup and slowly made his way back up to the bedroom. A good night’s sleep was what he needed, and he hoped he was now tired enough to be able to ignore the nocturnal sounds of the house.

Louise was still snoring gently as he re-entered the bedroom, and as he slipped once more beneath the bedclothes she snuggled against him. He hugged her comfortingly and closed his eyes, and within seconds was sound asleep, a curious smile on his lips.

*

Matthew Silverthorne parked his red Ford Fiesta on the grass verge opposite the gates that led into the grounds of the house, and reached into the briefcase that was perched on the passenger seat, withdrawing the details of the property he had come to view. Casting a cursory glance at the paperwork in his hand, he then looked up through the rain at the eight-foot high stone walls, overgrown to the point of collapse with vast tendrils of ivy and Virginia creeper, whose leaves had turned red with the onset of autumn and now littered the ground. He smiled, relieved to find himself in the right place.

Four Oaks had not been the easiest place to find. The country lanes around this area of Sussex were notoriously narrow, winding incessantly around the hills, criss-crossing the valleys, and passing through numerous villages until he was hopelessly lost.

For nearly an hour, Matthew had driven endlessly around in circles until he found himself in the village of Neville Hill for the third time. Tired and growing more irritable by the minute, he swallowed his pride and stopped to ask for directions to get to the village of Elendale.

The sad looking man he had spoken to was patient and helpful, pointing out on the map exactly where he was while giving him implicit instructions on which turning to take on leaving the village. Ten minutes later Matthew found himself on the other side of Wicca Hill in Elendale, whereupon, having decided the inhabitants hereabouts to be a friendly bunch, he had stopped once more to ask for directions to get to the house itself.

The old woman he had spoken to on the kerb outside Elendale’s public house, The Green Woman Inn, gave him a rather odd look when asked if she knew how to get to Four Oaks. It was almost as if she had been expecting him to ask that exact question, just not at this particular time. She had though given him the pertinent information, and now, five minutes later, here he was.

Matthew flicked idly through the half dozen sheets of paper, glancing with renewed interest at the photographs of the house now he had finally reached his destination.

The original advertisement in the property section of his local paper in Portsmouth had instantly caught his eye, not least because it was rather odd to find a property so near to London advertised so far away. Curiously drawn to the house, it had almost been as though it called out to him from the smudged black and white photograph. Though not especially beautiful, it was nonetheless a striking house, and possessed an aura that Matthew found impossible to quantify with a description. All he knew, when he flicked open the property guide four days ago and saw the advert, was that he had to visit the house. He had telephoned the Crowborough number, spoken to a man named Max Revenant, and arranged a viewing for today.

Fastening the briefcase and shoving it unceremoniously beneath the passenger seat, Matthew switched off the engine, opened the door and put up his umbrella before stepping out into the rain. Visiting an empty gothic mansion on a cold, wet autumn day would not sit well with his weak chest.

Locking the door, Matthew pocketed the keys and stood beside his car, peering up through the tall wrought iron gates to where he could just make out parts of the house, nestling amongst a copse of trees at the far end of the twisting inclined driveway. Most of the trees were relatively short compared with the two immense old oaks that seemed to stand guard imperiously at the entrance just beyond the gates. From across the road, Matthew could see the gnarled bark of the trunks that were wider than his car and so tall, that even craning his neck backwards he found it difficult to see the tops of the trees. Their branches spread out over the top of the stone wall, dripping large droplets of water to join the incessant rain, blotting out much of the murky grey sky, and he wondered exactly how old the massive oaks were.

He crossed the road, narrowly avoiding a collision with a middle-aged man on a pushbike, who berated him vociferously for failing to observe any oncoming traffic before attempting to cross the road. Matthew chose to ignore him after muttering an insincere apology, deciding it would not do to get further embroiled in an argument with someone who was clearly belligerent and spoiling for a fight. Still cursing about crass stupidity and the rudeness of the youth of today, the middle aged man peddled away furiously, leaving Matthew alone with his thoughts once more.

He rattled the gates, half expecting them to open up invitingly before him, and was a little upset when the heavy chain and padlock remained obstinately secure.

‘Hello,’ called a sibilant male voice from behind, startling him out of his reverie. ‘Are you Matthew Silverthorne?’

Matthew turned to see a slightly overweight, black-haired young man, plodding along the road towards him. He peered past the approaching man, whom he guessed was about thirty, looking for some kind of transport, but there was no car, no bike, nothing. The man seemed to have appeared from nowhere, which Matthew found a little disconcerting, but he put the thought from his mind as the stranger held out a slightly podgy hand.

‘I’m Max Revenant,’ he continued with a smile, ‘from Ashdene Estate Agency. You are Matthew Silverthorne, I take it?’

Matthew nodded, returning the man’s smile.

Dressed impeccably in a black pin-stripe suit, pale lilac shirt and a violently purple tie that whilst hideous seemed to suit him, Max Revenant did not seem unduly bothered by the rain, and when Matthew grasped his hand, he was slightly surprised that Max did not actually appear to be even remotely damp. He reasoned that the estate agent had probably been sheltering beneath some of the plentiful trees. ‘I most certainly am Matthew Silverthorne,’ he said, rather taken with Max’s cheery disposition.

‘I tried to telephone you this morning, Mr Silverthorne,’ Max added, rescuing his hand from Matthew’s lingering grasp. ‘I’m afraid you may have had a wasted journey. Four Oaks has received an offer well in excess of the asking price, which the vendor is on the verge of accepting.’

Matthew’s face fell in an instant. ‘Oh!’ he gasped. His disappointment at this news was all too apparent.

Max continued to smile. ‘All is not lost, however. The vendor has instructed me to show you the house anyway, and you are free to put in an offer. He is unwilling to haggle, and whoever makes the best offer gets the house.’

‘I see.’ Matthew pursed his lips. ‘I may have to pass on this property; you see, the asking price was really my upper limit that I can afford. Selling my house in Portsmouth won’t be a problem, because the property market there is hot at the moment, but I won’t make enough on that sale to match what the other purchaser has offered.’ He turned away from the wrought iron gates with a despondent sigh. It was a terrible shame. Somehow, he felt he had been destined to purchase the house; clearly, he was mistaken in that belief. ‘I’m sorry to have dragged you out here for no reason, Mr Revenant.’

Max’s smile faltered slightly. ‘It seems a shame for you to have travelled all this way and then not see the house up close,’ he said loudly as Matthew began crossing the lane to return to his parked car. ‘Why don’t I show you the house anyway?’

Matthew turned as he reached his Ford Fiesta. Max’s offer was incredibly tempting. The house still called out to him. It was tantalizingly close, but he figured he was more clued up on how the avaricious young estate agent’s mind was working than even Max himself was, and so he reluctantly shook his head as he unlocked and opened the driver’s side door. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary, but thanks anyway. I’m afraid Four Oaks is just not meant to be my home.’

‘But-’

Matthew slammed shut his car door, blocking out Max’s desperate plea. He did not need to hear what the other man was saying, for he could guess the gist of it. Estate agents on the verge of losing a sale were all the same.

In fact, car salesmen were cast from the same mould – that was how three months ago he had come to spend a couple of thousand pounds more on his new car than he had intended. The car salesman had used his glib tongue and – all credit to him – his best sales pitch to lure Matthew into purchasing the Fiesta, which he had to admit he now loved.

He was not about to make the same mistake with Four Oaks, however. There was simply no way he could afford to make the repayments on a mortgage as large as the one he would need in order to match any offer the other purchaser had made. It did occur to Matthew that Max might have invented the other purchaser in order to bump up the price, which would explain his desperation. As such, he half expected to find Max banging on the window, and he was a little disappointed to see the estate agent walking away.

As Max disappeared from view, Matthew sat in his car for several minutes afterwards, staring at the gates of Four Oaks. Part of him wished he had accepted Max’s offer to view the house: he could have easily just walked away from the place afterwards.

No, I couldn’t!

Matthew knew exactly what he was like. He would have fallen even more in love with the place and would have made a ridiculously high offer. He could have acquired the mortgage, he was certain of that, but he would have had no money for the restoration that the house would undoubtedly require, and he would be left with scarcely any money at the end of each month to buy food, much less have a life.

No, I made the right decision. So why do I feel so desolate?

*

Some while later, Max Revenant stood at the bar in The Green Woman Inn, aware that the locals were staring at him. The pub was packed with lunchtime drinkers, and as he was a stranger to the area, he stood out, the unwilling centre of attention. He ignored the stifled sniggers about his out-of-place pinstripe suit, and the unguarded comment about the size of his backside that came from the booth behind him.

‘What can I get you, Sir?’ asked the equally ample middle-aged woman behind the bar. She smiled encouragingly at him, as if to silently tell him to take no notice of the three men that had made the cruel jibes. She wondered perhaps whether she should berate them for their rudeness after he was gone, or whether she should tell them to watch their manners whilst he was still in there.

‘I’m not here to buy a drink; I’m here to meet someone. It’s such a lovely village that I just couldn’t drag myself away quite yet anyway.’

The woman chuckled. ‘Elendale has that effect on strangers. Some hereabouts say it’s the will of the Wood Witch, Elen, ensnaring travellers into remaining so she can devour their souls.’

‘Hey, Chloe, don’t scare the guy with those old folk stories,’ called one of the men who had previously been rude. ‘We don’t want him going back to the city, spreading stories that’ll keep the tourists away.’

‘Right George, like we get loads of tourists round here anyway.’

Max glanced from the woman to the man and back again. ‘Who is this Wood Witch of whom you speak?’ he asked, trying not to appear too interested.

Chloe smiled, flashing her unnaturally white teeth. ‘Pay me no heed, love. She’s long since gone from these parts. She lived in the woods bordering Wicca Hill many centuries ago, so the legend says. Nothing has been seen nor heard of her for… oh, at least six hundred years, maybe more. She’s how the village gained its name, see!’

George rose to his feet and crossed the bar to stand beside Max. ‘I’ve lived in the neighbouring village all my life, and I’ve seen things that’d make your hair go white.’ He indicated his own white hair. ‘This turned white in the blink of an eye more than a decade ago, when I was possessed by an evil spirit.’

Max glanced at Chloe and arched an eyebrow, and the woman shrugged. She had heard George Palmer telling these stories so often that she had long since stopped paying any attention to them, but even now she occasionally wondered whether there was any truth in the wild tales he told.

‘I think you’ve had too much to drink, George,’ Chloe said, pushing a hand through her disarray of blonde curls. She glanced at her husband as he appeared at the end of the bar. ‘Don’t worry, Ainsley, I’m getting rid of him.’

The memory of what had happened to him fourteen years ago was fresh in George’s mind, as though it had happened only yesterday. He drank to alleviate the fear that remained. He drank to quell the nightmares that plagued him constantly, night after night.

He drank to forget.

George could clearly recall the nauseating feeling of not being in control of his own body, of being shoved roughly to the periphery of his own mind, sidelined by an invading consciousness, which had used his body and soul to exact some kind of retribution for events that had happened in an altogether different lifetime.

He had been aware of everything as it happened, but was completely powerless to do anything about it, and in the process, he had inadvertently hurt Louise Barncroft.

Whilst he had never been particularly fond of her because of her disrespect and the contemptuous manner in which she treated him, she had been Gloria Schofield’s best friend for many years. He had been Gloria’s gardener for several years, and liked to think of her as a friend, which was why he felt so wracked with guilt, for Gloria was the intended victim of his invasive spirit.

The spirit was without doubt the vilest man George had come across, and he had been privy to the evil man’s innermost thoughts whilst joined spiritually.

How could anyone despise Gloria with such fervour?

It sickened George that by pretending to be in love with Louise he had allowed the long dead man to get close enough to try to kill Gloria.

Thankfully, the plot had failed, but at what cost? The creature known as Thaumaturgia Anathemas vanquished the invasive spirit and had somehow plucked that essence from his body, and in so doing, prematurely aged his appearance,.

At times, George felt that the essence of the man was still with him, and sometimes he could still feel the icy talons of Thaumaturgia’s preternatural grip within his mind.

He was terrified of the possibility that one or the other of them still had a degree of control over his actions, and his only solace lay in the bottom of a pint glass. It was not a wise course of action, as well he knew. At times, he lost control when under the influence of alcohol, and had almost been barred from The Green Woman Inn on more than one occasion. He had indeed been barred from the public house in Neville Hill for that very reason.

He stared at Chloe behind the bar, aware that she had been talking to him. He had not heard what she was saying, but he could guess.

‘Don’t worry, Chloe, I’m going. I don’t want any trouble.’ With a final glance in Max’s direction, George left the bar, staggering slightly.

‘Poor bloke’s completely drunk,’ muttered Max, glancing at Chloe. ‘What was he going on about?’

Chloe shrugged. ‘None of us really know what happened to him, but something occurred whilst he was Gloria Schofield’s gardener.’

‘Gloria Schofield, the novelist?’

‘Yes. He was her gardener at the time of her disappearance. For a while, we thought he might know something about her disappearance, but he refuses point-blank to talk about her. He used to come here only occasionally before then, but since that time he seems to have developed a drink problem, and it’s getting worse.’

Ainsley Samwell came to stand beside his wife, towering a good foot above her. He was a powerfully built man of six feet six, with brooding green eyes and a sullen mouth that seldom broke into a smile, even though he claimed never to be miserable. ‘That’s enough, Chloe,’ he said, his Cockney accent as pronounced as it had been when he moved to Elendale as a nineteen-year-old with his parents back in 1979. ‘I really don’t think you should be talking to a stranger about our patrons.’

‘He’s not a stranger,’ said an old woman’s voice from one of the other booths beneath the window.

Max turned at the recognisable voice. His face maintained a mask of aloof detachment when the wizened old woman with thinning white hair and rheumy brown eyes, which were so sunken into her craggy old face that they were barely visible, stood up and hobbled over on frail legs that appeared so brittle that they might shatter beneath her slight weight.

‘Hello again,’ he said with a slight smile, standing politely as she approached. He rummaged in his pocket and produced a large bunch of keys, which he held out for her. ‘It all went as you predicted. Four Oaks is yours.’

Ainsley, Chloe and the regulars who heard this, gasped audibly. ‘Elaine, please tell me you’ve not bought Four Oaks?’ spluttered Chloe.

Elaine Oakhurst, the oldest inhabitant of the village at well over ninety, smiled. ‘Oh, but I have, my dear.’

She had lived in the village for as long as anyone could remember, and though she kept to herself most of the time, she had been a regular at The Green Woman Inn for all of the past ten years that Chloe and Ainsley had run it, and they felt they knew her well.

Obviously, they did not.

Everyone in the village knew of the reputation of Four Oaks, even the publicans, which was why they could not believe Elaine had bought it. ‘Why on Earth would you do a thing like that, Elaine?’ Chloe continued. ‘Surely you don’t intend to live there, do you? I mean… with its reputation?’

Elaine Oakhurst offered a thin smile, which revealed a mouth full of perfect white teeth, not one of them false, not one with a filling. ‘Of course I intend to live there, my dear. Why else would one purchase a house?’

‘But Elaine, you already have a perfectly lovely house in the village. Why would you want to buy that accursed place?’

Elaine chuckled. ‘Morbid curiosity, perhaps, or maybe I just want somewhere more secluded to live.’

Max cleared his throat and jangled the keys to gain Elaine’s attention.

She took them from him. ‘Thank you, my son. Were there any problems?’

He shook his head and spoke in a low voice. ‘Matthew was very interested, but he knew he would not be able to outbid the full asking price. Your plan worked, Mother. All we have to do now is wait.’

‘Excellent.’

*

Rachel Schofield frowned as she closed the gate and slowly made her way up the path towards the cottage that once belonged to her daughter. She could not remember leaving her own house, and recalled nothing of her journey here.

She seldom came to Neville Hill anymore. Being in the village always reawakened old wounds. Even fourteen years after her daughter’s disappearance, the pain she felt ran deep. She had a granddaughter she would never get to know, even though she knew Elizabeth had lived a long and healthy life.

Rachel had driven herself half-mad, going over the bizarre events that had unfolded at her ancestral home of Ravenscreag Hall.

Again and again, she saw Gloria walking down the aisle towards Allan Barncroft. She had seldom seen him look as happy as he did at that moment, and it pained her to know in advance that his heart was about to be broken so cruelly.

Again and again, she heard the crash as the church door was thrown open to reveal the man, holding a small child in his arms.

Again and again, she heard him call out to the woman who was his wife.

Even at that moment, Rachel had believed things would turn out differently. Even with all that she had witnessed she just could not bring herself to believe in fate. She could not believe in destiny, because she did not want to lose her daughter.

It was only when Gloria ran to the man and bade everyone a tearful farewell that Rachel realised the events had to happen. Gloria had no choice in the matter; the decision was out of her hands.

Allan came to understand, in time, but could never accept the fact. A year after Gloria’s disappearance, he died of a broken heart. Rachel hoped that in death he had found the happiness he had been denied in life.

Being back at the cottage Allan had once shared with Gloria was difficult for Rachel, but she was godmother to the twins, and she had promised Louise and Phil that she would look after them whilst the couple went away for a long weekend to celebrate their wedding anniversary, which fell on Monday.

Looking a good decade younger than seventy-eight, Rachel had the stamina of someone in her early fifties. She remembered her mother at her age: Mary Turner had been prematurely aged by the death of her husband, Angus. At least, that was what Rachel had always believed. Following the revelation at Ravenscreag shortly after her death that Mary had been harbouring the spirit of Thaumaturgia Anathemas for many years, Rachel now believed that was the true reason that Mary grew old before her time.

Old before her time she might have grown, but Mary had lived to the grand old age of ninety-six, and Rachel hoped to live as long as that herself. She saw no reason why she should not. She had the twins to keep her occupied and saw them often, though she usually made Louise or Phil bring them to her home in the neighbouring village.

Following the sale of Ravenscreag Hall to Lesley and Jack Standish, two of their daughter’s old school friends, Rachel and Jeremy had also decided to sell their London home, and moved to Elendale to be close to Allan, but shortly after they moved into the quaint cottage, Jeremy had died in a tragic car accident. Her friends had rallied round her in her time of need, but Rachel was made of sterner stuff than most and decided not to spend her twilight years in perpetual mourning. So many sad events happened in such a short space of time that she did not have enough tears to go round, but she was glad to have Daniel and Susan Barncroft nearby in Crowborough, and after Allan’s death, Louise and Phil moved into his cottage.

Rachel had initially thrown herself into all sorts of creative pastimes; painting, pottery, needlepoint. Gardening was still therapeutic when the weather was warm, but she was definitely a fair weather gardener.

When Louise asked her to be godmother to the twins, how could she refuse the request?

Byron and Bryony.

The mere mention of their names brought renewed happiness to Rachel’s heart and a smile to her face. They were as close as she would ever get to having grandchildren she could actually lavish her love upon, and she made the most of every precious moment.

On the other side of Wicca Hill to their home, Elendale was close enough for Rachel to be near to her godchildren, but far enough away to be distant from the memories that still ached within her soul.

Today, however, for some reason Rachel had awakened feeling relaxed. She had thought of the twins and the fun they would have over the weekend, and she was imbued with an inner sense of calm that had been absent from her life since before Gloria’s disappearance.

She had telephoned Louise and invited herself over for tea, and said she would take the twins and their elder sister off her hands that evening instead of waiting for Louise and Phil to drop them round on their way to the hotel tomorrow morning.

Rachel was at the little bridge that traversed what had once been the moat surrounding the original Neville Manor before she even realised what she was doing or where she was going, and as she opened the gate, she stepped into the garden with little recollection of her journey.

She sighed as she reached the front door. She had obviously been deep in thought, but could not place her thoughts. She guessed that she had most likely been thinking of Gloria. It was, she felt, as though her daughter watched over her, reassuring her that it was perfectly all right to visit the cottage.

Reaching out, she pulled the handle to ring the old-fashioned bell, which she could hear jangling from somewhere inside, and was startled when the door opened almost immediately.

‘Hello, Rachel,’ Louise said, leaning out to peer up at the rapidly blackening sky. ‘You timed that just right, looks like more rain.’

‘Goodness Louise, you made me jump!’ Rachel gasped, breaking into a smile as Glory, Louise’s thirteen-year-old daughter, appeared in the doorway, rudely pushing her mother aside. ‘She looks more and more like you did at her age each time I see her,’ Rachel sighed, affectionately stroking Glory’s blonde curls.

‘Hello, Aunt Rachel,’ Glory said winsomely, an impish twinkle illuminating her eyes with vibrant life. ‘Have you come to look after us while Mummy and Daddy go off on their naughty weekend away?’

‘Glory!’ squealed Louise in amused mock-horror. ‘What a thing to say.’

Glory turned to face her mother, face filled with sudden innocence. ‘But it’s true though. I’ve heard Daddy saying for ages that you don’t have any privacy with us three kids in the house.’

Rachel glanced reprovingly at the teenager. ‘Listening in on private conversations isn’t polite, child.’

Glory hung her head in mock-shame. ‘Yes, Aunt Rachel. I’ll go to my room immediately.’

Rachel and Louise could both hear the merriment in Glory’s voice as she disappeared into the cottage, but while Rachel smiled in amusement, Louise’s smile had vanished.

As Rachel returned her attention to Louise, she noted the younger woman’s look of disbelief. ‘Whatever is the matter, dear?’

‘I thought I saw a ghost for a minute. When you called Glory child you reminded me of Mrs Turner.’

‘I reminded you of my mother?’ Rachel chortled. ‘Lord, I hope not.’ The thought of turning into her mother appalled her. No matter how much a woman loved her mother, she never wanted to turn into her.

‘And that’s not the only blast from the past I’ve had this morning,’ Louise said in a hushed tone that matched the haunted look in her eyes.

‘Oh? Had an early morning visitor, did we?’

Louise nodded. ‘You could say that.’

Before she could explain what she meant, Phil appeared behind her from the kitchen, and smiled at Rachel. ‘Hello again, Mrs Schofield.’

Rachel felt the blood drain from her face at the voice emanating from Phil’s mouth, for it was not his, yet was instantly recognisable. She had heard it only once before, in this very cottage, but it was a voice she would never forget.

‘Peter Neville,’ she gasped.

Phil bowed low. ‘Indeed yes, Mrs Schofield. I am honoured that you should remember.’

Rachel was not sure whom to look at. Louise was clearly distressed at Peter Neville’s reappearance, and she could understand why. She focussed her gaze upon him. ‘Why are you here once more, Peter? Surely your task was completed years ago?’

‘Alas, I am the bearer of ill tidings. A great evil is returning to this time. I am here to help prepare for the task that lies ahead for you all.’

‘What task? What great evil are you talking about?’

Louise touched Rachel’s arm. ‘Peter seems to think he has been reincarnated.’

‘He?’ A chill of fear swept over Rachel as she shook her head. ‘No, not…’ Her voice trailed off.

Phil nodded and Peter spoke through him once more. ‘Yes, Mrs Schofield. I am afraid it is so.’

‘Sawyl Gwilym!’

Part One

October

2002

Monday

October 21st

Matthew Silverthorne arrived home from his annual October holiday with his on-off boyfriend, hoping as he did every year that he would never again set eyes on Theo, but knowing that in exactly twelve months they would yet again be sharing their villa in Alicante for a month of hell.

When they had originally spilt up after three years as a couple, they had decided not to sell the time-share they had invested in together, hoping they would remain friends, and as such be able to spend four weeks together each year in the villa. After all, they had been friends since their early schooldays, and for those four weeks, they could always do their own thing separately.

Throughout the past two years, there had been times when Matthew felt as though he and Theo might actually get back together permanently. During those quiet moments in the early hours of a Sunday morning, lying in bed after a heavy night out clubbing, and having failed to pull anything with a pulse at the local dive that masqueraded as a gay club, they would actually converse in a civil manner. Those conversations would lead to kissing, which in turn led to the inevitable.

And the inevitable act of passion invariably ended the same way, with Theo slipping from the bed as Matthew slept, leaving him confused and ashamed, and feeling rather dirty and used.

Every time, Matthew vowed it would not happen again – but it always did. He and Theo seemed destined to self-destruct.

Even as he dumped his suitcase in the hallway and slammed the front door behind him, still seething with ill-disguised rage, Matthew knew nothing had changed. He was furious with Theo, but in a week’s time that rage would diminish to mere anger; within a fortnight, they would be best friends again; within a month, they would most likely spend increasingly frequent nights together, and in a year’s time, they would be back to square one after another disastrous holiday in Spain.

Why do you let Theo get to you? he asked himself. Why has he so deeply entrenched himself in your life?

The answer, of course, was obvious: he was hopelessly in love with him, and no matter how badly Theo mistreated him, that fact would never change.

Making his way to the kitchen, Matthew filled the kettle, and as he waited for it to boil he sat at the small table beneath the picture window that overlooked the small, untidy rear garden, and slowly began perusing the pile of mail which his ever-diligent cleaning lady had placed there each morning whilst he was away.

Joyce Lockridge was a godsend.

The myth that all gay men were uber-trendy and lived an ordered life in a spotless house in no way extended to include Matthew: he was a slob when it came to household chores; cleaning and Matthew Silverthorne were words that just did not go together.

Matthew had known Joyce since he was five, and she had offered her cleaning services when Margaret Silverthorne had complained about the lack of cleanliness at her son’s house after Theo had left. She was like an aunt to him; she was a confidante to whom he frequently entrusted secrets he could never divulge to his mother. In that respect, she was actually more like an older sister. They adored one another in a way that could never be anything other than platonic, but in a manner that was also incredibly intimate – far more intimate than any relationship Matthew could ever hope to have with any man.

Joyce had been devastated when her son had walked out on Matthew. She strongly believed he and Theo were made for each other, if only Theo could be made to see it. She felt he was throwing away the best thing that had ever happened in his life, but he was only twenty-one, almost a decade younger than Matthew was, and although the age gap clearly did not affect either of them, it was obvious that Theo was not yet ready to relinquish his grip on the freedom of his youth. If Joyce had had her way, she would have taken Theo to one side and told him not to be such a selfish sod, but Matthew implored her not to interfere in her son’s life, and so she acquiesced.

When Joyce originally offered her services, Matthew was horrified. Even though he had known her almost his entire life, did he really want the mother of his ex-boyfriend prying through his private things? He knew she would not do so intentionally, but as a cleaner, and as a mother, she would be unable to help herself. He had nightmare visions of Joyce parading before his mother the things he might accidentally leave lying around the house.

He need not have worried. Joyce respected his privacy and promised that nothing she saw or heard would find its way back to Margaret; and so far, she seemed to have kept her word.

Theo himself was naturally uncomfortable with his mother being the cleaner of the house where he still occasionally slept with Matthew, and whilst at times this discomfort amused Matthew, sometimes he shared it.

On numerous occasions, Joyce reiterated her steadfast belief that Matthew and her son belonged together, that Matthew should persevere and stick things out, and that eventually Theo would come to his senses.

Part of Matthew’s heart hoped she was right, but his mind had gradually told him something different. He felt he could take only so much, and Theo’s antics on holiday had been the last straw. Matthew was not naïve enough to believe that Theo was not seeing other guys as well as him, but he did not need to see those guys parading naked through his villa, and he certainly did not appreciate the same guys coming on to him.

Matthew had been humiliated by what had occurred, and had flown home halfway through their holiday. There would be no further humiliation. The relationship was dead.

So why do I still pine for him so?

As he slammed the teabag into his mug and poured in the boiling water, Matthew decided he was worth more than that. His heart still belonged to Theo, but Theo’s behaviour in Spain broke his heart, and he realised it really was well and truly over between them. There would be no reconciliation this time; there would be no forgiveness.

When Theo comes home from Alicante, I’m telling him it’s over: friendship, sex, relationship – everything.

Joyce would be terribly upset, but that was just tough.

After making his tea, Matthew settled down to sift through his mail. A few envelopes had been opened – presumably by Joyce – and the enclosed bills paid using the pre-signed cheques he had left for precisely that reason. His mother had tried to persuade him that he would be better off paying his bills by direct debit, but his job as a freelance journalist meant that some months he had no money coming in, and so he preferred to pay all his bills as and when they came in. Besides, he had always felt a strong sense of loyalty to Theo, who worked in a local Post Office, and so he always paid as many bills as possible through them in a vain effort to keep Theo in a job. The mood that currently afflicted him, however, made him ponder the idea of going over to direct debit with subdued seriousness.

He was also a little dismayed to find his second novel had been returned to him, rejected by the fourth publisher to whom he had submitted it. He felt it was far superior to his first effort, which he wrote two years ago, and which itself was probably still languishing on the slush pile of yet another publisher, having been submitted for what felt to Matthew like the millionth time shortly before he set off on holiday.

Even Theo, who was particularly well read, had told him he thought it was rather good and that he should persevere and not give up. He retooled both books slightly each time they came back, and although each rejection caused a slightly elevated level of dejection within him, Matthew had a degree of self-conviction and motivation that had seen him rise to the challenge of writing a novel in the first place. Having been told by the editor of one of the various magazines he wrote for that he should attempt such a feat after she had accepted a couple of his short stories for publication, he had found the challenge initially taxing, but rewarding and fulfilling, even though he had little success placing the novels with an agent or publisher.

Journalism was his main passion. The short stories had been a diversion to get some of his pent-up feelings of despair out of his system, and Beryl Ridley had liked what he had written so much that she commissioned him to write an ongoing story that was serialised each month in the magazine, and which had proved popular with the readers. This led Matthew to the heartfelt assertion that novel writing was the way forward for him.

Publishers clearly did not agree, since his first book had been rejected by every major publishing house he submitted it to, and now the second full length work had been rejected for the fourth time. Perhaps, he mused, it was time to do what all the books said – try an agent.

Still, it was not the end of the world as far as Matthew was concerned. He had journalistic pieces rejected all the time, and they were all invariably picked up at some point after a degree of rewriting. He saw these minor glitches as failed job applications: one did not get every single job one applied for, after all. The people reading the manuscripts at the publishers were obviously not fans of the pseudo-historical novels he wrote, which was fine. When the time was right, his books would land on the desk of the right editor or agent, and that would be that.

Until then, he had his journalism; he had a third serialised story underway at Beryl’s magazine, and he was also about to start work on his fourth novel, having completed the first draft of his third a couple of weeks before heading out to Spain.

I have plenty to keep me occupied and keep my mind off Theo, he thought as he opened his bank statement to find he was down to his last two hundred pounds – without the recently paid bills. ‘It’s time to transfer some money – and sell another piece!’

He opened another envelope, to find a cheque inside – payment for a two-issue article he had sold to a monthly magazine about the history of homosexuality in American Cinema.

‘Well, that’ll keep the wolves from the door for a while,’ he ruminated quietly as he set the cheque to one side and continued opening the mail.

A rather important looking white envelope, with a letter written on yellow legal paper clearly visible through the window, caught his attention.

His first thought was that someone was suing him for libel, and his brain went into overdrive as he opened the envelope, trying to think of any recently published articles that might possibly have been libellous, but he could think of none.

Instead of trying to second-guess the contents of the letter, why not just read it?

The letter inside was indeed from a firm of solicitors based in Crowborough, requesting his presence for the reading of the last will and testament of a woman named Elaine Oakhurst, who had named him as her main beneficiary.

Matthew set down the letter, frowning. He scrabbled around in the recesses of his mind, trying to recall the woman. He drew a blank, coming to the peculiar conclusion that he neither knew Elaine Oakhurst, nor had he even heard of a woman by that name.

In which case, why am I named as her main beneficiary?

It was most perplexing.

Matthew checked in his diary to find he was free on the day the reading of the will had been set for, and so, in spite of his confusion, he decided the best course of action was to go to the office of the solicitors, discover what exactly had been bequeathed to him, and ask questions later.

Friday

October 25th

Matthew parked his car on the grass verge opposite the gates that led into the grounds of the estate, and just sat and stared up through the rusted ironwork at the house, clearly visible through the trees that wore their autumnal foliage.

He could scarcely believe he was here again, barely a year since his last abortive visit, only this time he was not here to look at Four Oaks with a view to purchasing it.

Elaine Oakhurst, it transpired, was the woman who had made the higher offer on the house last year, and for whatever reason, upon her recent death she had bequeathed half her money to various charities, but had left the house and the remainder of her fortune to him.

Matthew’s meeting with the solicitor, who was executor of Elaine’s will, had been curious and brief. When he said he did not know the woman, he had been told he would know her. When he asked how she knew him, he was told he would have to ask a man named Max Revenant. The name had been oddly familiar to Matthew, though he struggled to remember where he had heard it before, and it was only now, seated in his car in front of the gates, that he remembered: Max Revenant was the name of the estate agent who had turned up to show him the house last time.

Matthew hefted the large bunch of keys in his hands. He counted them: there were thirty-three in total. Perhaps there was one for each room? Somehow, he sensed he would be spending the next half hour trying to find the correct key to unlock the gates, and he wished Max were there: he would know which key fitted which lock.

‘Good morning, Mr Silverthorne.’

The muffled sibilant voice from outside the car made Matthew jump, and when he glanced up, he was somewhat perturbed to see Max Revenant peering down at him. He wound down the window, shivering more with a distinct sense of unease than from the sudden blast of cold air that blew in. His eyes watered slightly, stung by the coldness of the wind, which, he noticed, did not seem to affect the estate agent.

‘Hello,’ he said, hesitantly, not really wanting to engage the man in conversation. Now that Max had magically appeared before him, somehow Matthew wished he were not there.

‘I guess you are probably wondering why I’m here?’ Max said, motioning that Matthew should get out of the car. When Matthew made no move to do so, Max stepped back slightly. ‘I can imagine the sorts of things that are going through your mind, Mr Silverthorne, but I can assure you that you have nothing to fear from me. I am here at the behest of Elaine Oakhurst.’

Matthew looked up sharply. ‘That’s the woman who bought this house last year, the one who recently died.’

Max inclined his head slightly. ‘The very same. She was… an acquaintance of mine. She told me some months ago of her intention to leave Four Oaks to you, and she instructed me to come and try to explain things to you when you received your inheritance.’

Matthew finally climbed from the car, slamming the door behind him. ‘Well then, I suggest you start explaining. Why would a woman I’ve never known leave me a house and a large amount of money in her will?’

Max sighed. ‘This will not be easy to explain, and it will be difficult for you to accept. You see, Four Oaks has direct links to your family. Miss Oakhurst intervened last year because you were not ready then to walk the path of your ancestors and discover the truth.’

Matthew seldom swore, but his patience suddenly snapped. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Max, will you stop talking in riddles and just tell me what the bloody hell is going on!’

‘I cannot do that, Mr Silverthorne. Miss Oakhurst did not tell me any more than I have said. It is up to you to discover for yourself the truth to which she referred. All the answers to all of your questions can be found up at the house, so I am led to believe, and any new questions you might have will also be answered in due course.’

‘By whom?’

Max ignored him. ‘And so now, if you’d care to, you may go on up to the house, and I shall bid you farewell.’

‘Now wait just a damn minute,’ Matthew began, before being interrupted by a loud crashing noise from the bushes on the other side of his car. Startled, he turned his attention away from Max to see what had made the noise, but there was nothing there. He turned back to shout at Max, but he was gone. ‘Mr Revenant?’ he called, walking a little way down the lane in the direction the estate agent had taken. He frowned. There was absolutely nowhere the man could be hiding, in much the same way there was no way he could have just appeared from nowhere right at the moment his name was thought of.

Matthew felt a chill down his spine. There was something distinctly odd going on, and he sensed the answers lay up at the house. However, as much as he wanted to go up to the house, equally he was uncertain he wanted to know what was going on.

‘Oh get a grip, Matt!’ he mumbled aloud.

With a final glance down the lane to make absolutely certain Max was indeed gone, and casting a doubtful glance at the bushes on the other side of the car, where he had most definitely heard something moving, he shrugged his shoulders, crossed the road and made his way back up to the gates.

He looked at the padlock, and looked at the keys. Sighing, he selected one at random and was astounded to find he had picked the right key first time.

Pure coincidence, he mused as he pulled the chain from around the gates. They swung open almost noiselessly on their hinges, which almost disappointed Matthew, who had half-expected them to squeal with rust and age.

Feeling slightly more calm and relaxed, he continued up the tree-lined driveway, pulling his collar up around his neck to protect it from the icy blast of wind that seemed to have sprung up from nowhere, making the already chilly morning even colder still.

To Matthew it felt like a wind chill factor of minus two hundred.

Any sense of foreboding he might have felt was replaced with steadily increasing excitement as he drew closer to the house. He stopped at the stone steps that led up to the large oak front door, and dropped the padlock and chain on the bottom step.

The sense of foreboding suddenly returned as he took his first close-up look at the door. ‘I’ve been here before,’ he whispered as recognition washed over him.

It was ridiculous. How could he have been here before? This was his first visit to the house. Naturally, he had seen a couple of photographs in the property guide of his local paper last year, when he had also seen it through the gates from the bottom of the drive. Of course, that had to be why it was so familiar.

He was not convinced by his own explanation.

Selecting a second key at random, he was equally astonished when it fit snugly into the lock of the front door, and was even more surprised when the key actually turned in the lock, and the door swung open beneath his gentle touch.

Taking a deep breath, Matthew took a single step over the threshold into the house, and froze.  A sensation of dread and panic overwhelmed him, and he stumbled backwards, falling down the steps. He scrambled to his feet and ran all the way back down the drive, not bothering to shut the front door, not bothering to pick up the keys from where he had dropped them, not bothering to close the gates behind him.

Once he was back inside the security of his car, with all the doors locked, he gripped the steering wheel tightly until his knuckles shone white, and he rested his forehead on his hands whilst he struggled to bring his breathing under control. His heart hammered so hard within his chest that he could almost hear it.

‘It’s not possible,’ he gasped as he sat there, staring in horror at the house. ‘It’s just not possible!’

Whether it was possible or not, there was no denying the fact that something in his subconscious had recognised the interior of the house, just as the same subconscious recognition of its exterior had jolted him.

He had been here before and something terrible had happened, though he could not remember what, and he could not remember when.

Oddly, he also knew that whatever had happened had not actually happened to him, but that did not alleviate his unease. He was not yet ready to set foot in the building.

Realising he could not leave the house wide open he steeled his resolve, dashing back to slam and lock the door – mentally noting that yet again he had selected the correct key – and then ran back to the car, dragging closed the heavy gates before he even had time to catch his breath.

Then he climbed into the car and drove off at a reckless speed.

*

Louise awoke with a jolt and reached across her still-sleeping husband to lift the clock so that she could read the time, and was shocked to see that it was gone ten in the morning. She could not remember the last time she had slept right through the night without disturbance.

No, actually that’s not true, she thought as she rested her head back on the plump duck-down pillow and stared at the ceiling. She could clearly recall the last time she had had a decent night’s sleep.

Damn you, Peter Neville, why did you reappear in our lives again, only to be silent for the past year?

Until his sudden reappearance in their lives last year, Louise had never suffered insomnia, not even when the children were babies. She would wake at their first cry, change them, feed them, comfort them, and then when they had settled down again, she would return to her own bed and fall into a contented sleep, her current motherly duties done.

She was never tired, never stressed, and never lost her temper with the children. On numerous occasions, her mother had told her that she was a natural at parenting: Louise had much more patience than she had ever had.

But those relaxing times and stress-free sleep-filled nights had ended last year when Peter Neville appeared and spoke through Phil, warning that the accursed Sawyl Gwilym was on his way back.

Annoyingly, Peter had been incredibly vague about when the evil warlock’s reappearance would take place, and about who would be the vessel of his return. He had been completely evasive about how he knew what was going to happen: did spirits perhaps have some way of seeing the future, or perhaps the ability to travel through time?

Anything was possible.

Louise knew very well that time travel itself was indeed possible, but there were consequences. Her own encounter with that enigma had been a traumatic period in all their lives, but even that had little effect upon her sleep.

The terror she felt knowing Sawyl Gwilym could reappear at any given moment kept her awake night after night. Her fear magnified every creaking noise made by the house during nocturnal hours, and made her heart race uncontrollably whilst she at the same time held her breath.

Peter Neville had not even been able to tell her exactly how the Warlock had survived.

Phil had long ago informed Louise of everything that had happened during Gloria’s penultimate visit to Ravenscreag Hall back in the summer of 1987. He had told her how his sister had apparently been the reincarnation of Sawyl Gwilym, and how after Wilma had eventually died, Mary Turner made certain the Warlock’s spirit could never again be reincarnated.

The horrific act Mary Turner had perpetrated appalled Louise, but she had heard enough about Sawyl Gwilym to realise the consequences of any future reincarnation. Her willingness to believe in anything fantastical – which, considering the things she had actually witnessed, was not altogether difficult – helped suppress any doubts she might have harboured surrounding the validity of such an act of barbarism.

However, when Peter had returned, offering no explanation as to how Sawyl Gwilym might have survived his execution, those doubts rekindled in Louise’s mind, festering away like a suppurating wound to her subconscious, gnawing away at her rational thought.

How could anyone be certain that separating a head from a body after death would prevent the soul from reincarnating? Who was to say such a course of action would prevent Sawyl’s spirit from being reborn yet again? Perhaps Wilma’s soul alone would be unable to return, after all, Sawyl’s spirit had merely hitched a lift in her body.

Suddenly those doubts and fears came to the forefront of Louise’s mind. Why should those thoughts suddenly become so clear, at precisely the moment she awoke from her first decent night’s sleep since Peter had returned to prophesise the Warlock’s return?

She had no wish to dwell upon the possibilities. Better to just luxuriate in the afterglow of restful slumber and worry about the reasons for madness later.

Lying beside her, Phil looked so peaceful that Louise did not want to disturb him, so she slipped quietly from the bed, eased her feet into her slippers and grabbed her dressing gown, before silently leaving the room.

The house was peaceful now, as the children were staying with their grandparents in Crowborough for half term to give Phil and her a well deserved rest, but they were due back after dinner.

Until the end of summer term, Glory had been an angelic child, but almost overnight she had become a nightmare, throwing tantrums left right and centre when she could not get her own way. She had never been a spoilt child, but had always somehow managed to twist Phil round her little finger and frequently got away with blue murder, but she had never once shown any tendencies towards temper tantrums before. If Phil told her she could not do something, have something or go somewhere, she had never once disobeyed. Now, she wilfully disobeyed her parents at every opportunity, and Louise found it increasingly difficult not to lose her own temper. She tried to be patient, and was finally able to empathise with her own mother, who frequently reminded her of what a wilful child she herself had been.

The only redeeming quality was that Louise had outgrown her personal tantrums at sixteen and became an angel overnight, so she hoped Glory would follow her example. Another couple of years of bad behaviour might just about be bearable if there was a pleasant mannered young woman waiting for discovery at the end of it.

Louise wondered how Glory had been behaving with her parents. Neither Susan nor Daniel was getting any younger and twelve year old twins and a precocious fourteen year old were a handful for anyone. She was always hesitant about sending the children to stay with her parents, but Susan insisted that she and Daniel looked forward to school holidays because looking after their grandchildren kept them young.

As she put the bread in the toaster and switched on the kettle, Louise could not help but smile. She had warned the children to behave for their grandparents, and had told her mother that if they misbehaved in any way she was to mete out whatever punishment she felt fitted the situation and that if they got completely out of hand she was to telephone immediately and the children would be taken off her hands.

Susan had not called all week, and it had taken all of Louise’s willpower to refrain from calling to make certain all was well.

Phil had admired her restraint, idly commenting that Mrs Barncroft had done an admirable job bringing up his wife, and that even at seventy-eight, she could hold her own against three adolescents.

‘Well, we’ll find out this evening when mother brings the terrors back,’ Louise muttered to herself as she pottered about the kitchen, setting out plates, cups and cutlery as she waited for the toaster to deliver its wares.

She heard a noise behind her and whirled around in sudden dread. Half relieved to find Phil standing in the doorway yawning and stretching, she scowled at him. ‘You made me jump!’ she snapped.

Rubbing his eyes, Phil fixed her with a penetrating stare. ‘For heaven’s sake, darling, just how much longer is this paranoia to continue?’

‘I’m not paranoid, I’m frightened. There’s a big difference.’

Phil came over to stand behind her as she returned her attention to filling the coffee cups with boiling water, and wrapped his arms around her, nuzzling the back of her neck affectionately. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I know you are frightened. I can’t say my own nerves aren’t shot to hell. But it’s a year later, and nothing has happened.’

‘I know, Phil, but Peter didn’t give a timescale. It could have happened any time over the past year, or it might not happen for another ten years. That’s what’s so frustrating.’

‘My dear, I wish I could have been more forthcoming.’

Louise emitted a shriek of alarm and pushed Phil away from her with a little more force than she intended, sending him sprawling. Her nerves were too tightly coiled at that moment and the sudden sound of Peter Neville’s voice whispering in her ear caught her off guard. She squealed again as the toaster delivered its contents.

‘My God, Peter, I wish you’d let me know when you’re going to put in an appearance,’ she cried, setting down the kettle. She hurried over to help her husband to his feet. ‘Nigh on twelve months of silence from you, and then you speak to me out of the blue whilst I’m holding a boiled kettle. Not the most sensible thing to do!’

‘My apologies,’ Peter continued. ‘I could not reveal to you when Sawyl Gwilym was to return for I did not know. He has now done so.’

Louise blanched. ‘He’s back? Where?’

‘Somewhere close by,’ Peter responded, and Louise heard the fear that tinged his voice. ‘But I know not in whose body he has made his return. I shall not know that until he makes his first move.’

‘Then how do you know he has returned?’

Phil looked deep into his wife’s eyes, his own blazing with a fury that was not his. ‘I can sense his malevolence.’

‘I guess that’s a spiritual thing,’ Louise sighed. She made no attempt at pretence when it came to the matters of the spirit world. She could not understand how the spirits were able to take control of the bodies of the living, nor why so many people she knew had been possessed at some point in the past.

Why did Peter choose Phil as his vessel?

How had Sawyl come back, and why?

Louise knew from experience that a spirit hiding within the body of a living person could be clearly seen by another spirit, and now it seemed that a spirit could sense another spirit.

Then again, perhaps it was more to do with the level of malevolence emanating from Sawyl Gwilym in particular.

‘Are you able to tell us then why he has returned?’ she asked, knowing perfectly well from Peter’s previous appearance that he had no intention of revealing how the Warlock had remained alive in spirit form. ‘Is he coming for us?’

‘Perhaps not for you, my dear, but his vengeful spirit will not rest until all those who enabled his defeat are dead.’

‘But Phil said Wilma fell down the stairs. Her death was an accident. And Mary Turner is dead, so who is he going to blame for his defeat?’

‘He holds Phil directly responsible,’ intoned Peter. ‘He wishes Phil dead, and will stop at nothing to exact that revenge. But there is more.’

‘What else?’ sighed Louise in desperation, her sense of unease mounting.

‘He believes he has found another way of attaining his immortality, and again he will stop at nothing to achieve it’

‘How can he be immortal if he is dead?’

‘I know not. That is why we must discover how he has returned to this world.’

Louise was shocked. ‘Then you really don’t know how he’s come back?’

Peter shook his head. ‘If we cannot find the answer to that question then we have no chance of vanquishing him once and for all!’

*

Joyce Lockridge put the key in the lock and opened the front door of Matthew’s house in the centre of Portsmouth, and found herself tutting when she was greeted with dirty clothes strewn over the floor in the hallway, though why she was always surprised by the state of the house was a mystery to her.

Today was the first day she had been over to clean the house since Matthew’s return from his holiday, and in the week since his return, he had obviously done no washing.

She shook her head sadly, sighing deeply as she closed the front door firmly behind her. ‘Oh Matthew, you really are an untidy wretch!’

In spite of her mild annoyance, Joyce could not help chuckling softly to herself as she unbuttoned her coat, slipped it from her shoulders and hung it on the coat hook just inside the front door. ‘If you got your act together with Theo, you might become a tidier person!’

Ever since her son calmly announced over breakfast one morning seven years ago that he was gay, Joyce had worried constantly about him. He was a mere sixteen at the time, and although she had had her suspicions for quite some time, it still came as something of a shock that her only child would never marry and have children to carry on the family line. She was glad her husband was not alive to hear the announcement, for it would surely have finished him off almost as certainly as being struck by the hit and run joy rider had.

Archie Lockridge had been a defiantly old fashioned man, who believed entirely in the sanctity of marriage, frowned heavily upon sex before marriage and single mothers who sponged off the state, and deplored swearing and violence, so there was no way he would have accepted a homosexual son.

Joyce had initially worried about Theo because of his tender years. She felt he was naïve and was terrified older men would prey upon him, out for their own sexual gratification. She worried that he would be used and abused mentally, discarded like a dirty dishrag when the current man of the moment grew tired of him.

She underestimated her son though. Theo was no-one’s plaything. Gay he might be, but he had inherited his father’s morals, and though there would be no marriage, he had told her he did not believe in casual sex and deplored those friends of his who slept around. He was keeping himself for someone special, and that someone special turned out to be Matthew Silverthorne.

Theo had always looked up to Matthew like an older brother, and though their relationship had come as something of a surprise to her, Joyce could think of no better boyfriend for her son. Even though he had been under the legal age of consent at the time, Joyce gave the pair her blessing: better that than drive them apart and away from her by forbidding their romance.

Theo told her they had not consummated their love until his eighteenth birthday, and since her son was not prone to telling lies, and Matthew frequently informed her that he would never do anything to hurt Theo, she saw no reason for disbelief.

The first cracks began to appear three years ago when Theo turned twenty. He began mixing with the wrong crowd when he started visiting the local clubs, and though Joyce was not about to start telling him who he could be friends with, she took an instant dislike to his new group of friends, whom she felt were leading him astray.

Matthew hated nightclubs, but trusted Theo enough to not try to prevent him from going out and enjoying himself. He always maintained that they should both have their own groups of friends and their own interests as well as the things they did together.

The change in Theo’s demeanour was immediate from the moment he met the five lads who would ultimately lead him on a path to self-destruction.

Where once he seldom consumed alcohol, suddenly he started coming home drunk almost every night to her house instead of going home to Matthew.

Then one afternoon she returned home from doing the grocery shopping to find three of the lads wandering naked around her lounge, and the other two and Theo in the kitchen. It was clear to her that they had been entertaining a debauched afternoon of alcohol induced lust, and she was furious more than horrified. She threw the other lads out and berated Theo loudly for nearly an hour. She tried to make him see that he was throwing away something special with Matthew, but he responded that Matthew had become incredibly dull and boring, never going out, always writing his damn books. He told his mother not to interfere, and promptly disappeared for several days.

At first, Joyce thought he had returned to Matthew’s house, until Matthew telephoned to ask if she knew where Theo was. She told him everything that had happened, and he was not the least bit surprised.

Theo’s personality was completely unrecognisable from the youth Matthew had fallen in love with, and whilst he still loved her son desperately, he told Joyce he was uncertain whether it was worth the hassle and heartache to continue with the relationship.

Joyce persuaded him to persevere. All relationships went through rocky periods. Why should theirs be any different? How they dealt with their problems would define their future together.

Theo had come back to him, begging forgiveness, but within days had strayed again. He always went crawling back to Matthew after a bout of infidelity, and Matthew always welcomed him back.

They bought their timeshare in Alicante that same October, and took a month out of their lives to try to salvage their relationship. It was the first of their consecutive October holidays where they split up, only to get back together again a month later, and for Theo to stray yet again soon after.

It reached the point where Joyce sadly told Matthew that she felt he should look out for himself for a change. She did not think her son would ever once again become the nice young man she had nurtured, and felt Matthew deserved so much better. She loved her son, but deplored the way he treated his boyfriend, yet even now, she firmly believed the pair were meant to be together. They were soul mates, and if they could work through their problems, and if Theo could sort himself out, then they could quite easily have a long future together.

She settled down to the task in hand of picking up the detritus of clothing from the hallway floor, and as she made her way through to the kitchen, a sudden noise from upstairs made her jump.

‘Is that you, Matthew?’ she called, pausing at the foot of the stairs, peering up into the semi-gloom.

‘No Mum, it’s me.’

Theo appeared at the top of the stairs, beaming down at his mother with a refreshing smile that had been absent from his face for such a long time. Joyce had forgotten how lovely her son looked when smiling.

Theo was a good-looking lad with cropped blond hair, and blue eyes that had once sparkled with mischief, but which had been oddly blank and expressionless for the past couple of years. He came down the stairs and hugged her warmly. ‘Oh Mum, I’m so sorry for being such an utter shit!’ he cried.

‘Well, I must say, this comes as something of a surprise, Theo,’ Joyce sighed, returning the hug. ‘And a pleasant surprise, too. Matthew told me you’d had another blazing row out in Spain and that he had left you out there. I didn’t expect to find you back here.’

Theo sighed and released his mother from his embrace. ‘Yeah, he left me to stew in my own juices,’ he said with a sad smile. ‘He told me it was over for good this time. Look, Mum, you put your feet up. I was just coming down to sort out all this washing anyway. I’ll stick it in the machine and make some tea, and we can have a nice long chat. We’ve not done that for ages.’

‘I’m supposed to be cleaning, darling. I don’t think Matthew would appreciate me not doing my job.’

Theo chuckled. ‘Don’t worry about that, Mum. I’ll get on with the cleaning.’ He took the pile of dirty laundry from her and carried it through to the kitchen.

‘So, what’s brought about this change in you, Theo?’ Joyce asked as she trailed behind him. ‘Not that I’m complaining, mind. It’s such a pleasure to see my darling Theo again, and not that ruffian he turned into.’

‘I’m glad to be back too,’ Theo muttered as he shoved the laundry into the washing machine.

‘I don’t mean to interfere, darling, but don’t you think it would be better to separate your coloured from your whites?’ She pushed him aside, told him to sit down, and fished the clothes out again.

‘You do that then, Mum, and I’ll make the tea.’

They settled into performing their tasks, surrounded by a sudden awkward silence, but with the washing machine whirling around its first cycle, and with two mugs of steaming tea waiting on the worktop, the pair faced one another again.

‘So, Theo, let’s talk,’ Joyce said. Picking up her mug and making her way into the lounge, she settled onto the sofa and waited for her son to follow.

Theo sat beside her, placing his mug on the coffee table in the centre of the white rug that dominated the middle of the polished wooden floorboards. He took a deep breath. ‘Where do I begin?’

Joyce reclined on the sofa, sipping her tea as she fixed her son with an unwavering stare. ‘Why did you treat Matthew so abominably? He loves you so much, and I thought you loved him.’

‘I did. I still do.’ Theo fumbled for words to convey the turmoil he felt. ‘It was all Carson’s fault.’

‘Is that the dissolute youth who wears makeup?’

Theo nodded. ‘I know it’s selfish, but I felt Matt was neglecting me. We hadn’t been out for almost a year, and I wanted to see what the local clubs were like. Matt wouldn’t go with me though. While he concentrated on his writing, I started going out clubbing to give him some peace, and I was flattered by the attention Carson paid me right from the start.’

‘That’s a pretty lame excuse, darling. You’d been seeing each other long enough by that point to know that clubbing is something Matthew just doesn’t enjoy.’

‘We didn’t have to go clubbing. It would have been nice to go out for a meal, or to the theatre, or even the cinema. I’d have been quite happy doing any of those things, but Matt just wanted to stay in every night doing his writing. I was jealous I guess that he liked his writing more than he liked me. I was bored with the same old routine and wanted something different.’

‘You know how important Matthew’s writing is to him, Theo. He’s trying to get a foot on the first rung of the publishing ladder. It’s not easy! Some sacrifices must be made – by both of you! If it’s any consolation, I do see your side of things. But that was no reason for you to go off the rails like you did.’

‘Carson showed me a lifestyle that was different. I’d never met a drag artiste before. I was… intrigued, I guess. Plied with alcohol I got carried away in the moment. He and his friends showed me an open uninhibited lifestyle, and I was suddenly aware of all the things I was missing out on by being with Matt.’

Joyce shook her head sadly. ‘You had a stable relationship, Theo, with a boyfriend who adores you. How many of your friends would kill to have what you had? And you threw it all back in Matthew’s face like an ungrateful brat, just because he was concentrating on trying to better himself and achieve his ambitions.’

‘I know.’

‘I was ashamed of you, Theo.’

‘I know.’

‘And through it all, Matthew never once gave up hope that it was just you sowing your oats, a phase you would grow out of.’

‘I know.’

‘Stop saying I know like that, Theo. You have no idea the hurt you have caused with your actions. To be perfectly honest with you, I wouldn’t blame Matthew if he stuck to his word and that it was over between you for good!’

Theo sighed. ‘I know,’ he mumbled, not knowing what else to say.

Joyce had not moved from her reclining position, except to take sips of her tea in between speaking. ‘So, what has brought about this change?’

‘Carson, actually.’

Joyce arched an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘Explain!’

‘For some months now I’ve had the really odd feeling that I’ve not always been in control of my actions. I put it down to the drink and… sorry Mum… recreational drugs.’ When Joyce did not flinch at the mention of drugs, Theo realised she had already guessed that, so he continued. ‘Recently, I’ve begun to suspect that Carson has bewitched me in some way, or one of his friends. They’re all an odd bunch. Now, it might be paranoia, because I’ve gone cold turkey on the drink and drugs for the past couple of months, but I’ve been hearing voices in my head, and I’ve found myself in odd places with no recollection of how I got there.’

‘And what’s your explanation for that?’

Theo shrugged. ‘I haven’t any… none that you wouldn’t laugh at anyway.’

‘Try me.’

Theo paused for a second, contemplating his mother’s open face, but then decided to ignore her suggestion. ‘I went to Alicante with Matt, hoping that a break away from this place with my mind clear might allow us to sort out our problems and our feelings for each other. I hadn’t reckoned on Carson being out there, performing in one of the bars. Matt went ballistic when he saw him. He thought I’d only gone with him because I knew Carson was going to be there. He simply didn’t believe me when I said it was as much of a surprise to me as it was to him. I guess I can’t really blame him.’

‘So you had a blazing row?’

Theo nodded. ‘Matt stormed off and returned home early. I tried to reason with him, but he wasn’t interested.’

‘And what of Carson?’

‘I saw him several times trying to seduce complete strangers, and when he had no luck with them, he tried it on again with me. I told him I wasn’t interested and that I never wanted to see him again. He started to threaten me, but the barman threw him out.’

‘And you followed Matthew home?’

Theo shook his head. ‘Not immediately. I sat up all night, chatting to the barman. I told him everything. He told me that years of tending bar had given him a little insight into reading body language. He could tell I loved Matt, and said that Matt’s body language indicated intense love for me, but also a great deal of anger. He said I’d been a fool to let Matt slip through my fingers, and that I should give him a few days to cool down before following him home to try and make peace.’

‘This barman seems to know what he’s talking about,’ murmured Joyce, lost in thought as she contemplated something her sister had told her some years ago; something that had happened to a friend’s brother. Some of what Theo had said caused Joyce to recall the facts as they had been recounted to her, and she was struck by the curious similarities.

‘You don’t think I’ve blown it with Matt, do you?’

Joyce sighed sadly. ‘I really don’t know, darling. I think it’s something you and Matthew are going to have to sort out between yourselves, but I’d like to think there’s more than a chance that you can resolve the situation.’

‘I’m glad you think so, Mum. It gives me a bit of hope. I actually expected to find Matt here when I got home. You don’t know where he is, do you?’

‘He’s inherited a house in some old woman’s will, and he went to look at it early this morning. I doubt he’ll be back till late.’

‘Inherited a house, eh? Sounds intriguing. Was the old woman anyone we know?’

Joyce shrugged. ‘I don’t ask questions. I only know the information he volunteered freely.’

‘So where is this house? Not local, I take it?’

Joyce shook her head. ‘It’s some village called Emmendale I think.’

‘Do you mean Elendale?”

Joyce noted her son’s look of surprise. ‘That’s right. You’ve heard of it?’

‘Yes,’ Theo responded with a frown. ‘That’s the name of the village he went to last year, when he lost that house to a higher bidder. What was the name of it…?’ He looked upwards thoughtfully for a few moments. ‘Four Oaks, or something like that.’

Joyce felt a chill run up her spine. ‘Four Oaks? But that’s the name of the house this old woman’s left him!’

Theo felt the same chill take hold of him. ‘I don’t like the sound of that one little bit.’

‘It does seem rather a bizarre coincidence,’ Joyce muttered absentmindedly. She stared into space, lost in thought, remembering more of what her sister had told her when she and her husband had moved all the way up to Scotland over a decade ago.

At first, Joyce had thought her bohemian sister and brother-in-law were mad to up sticks after a lifetime of City living to buy a rambling old Victorian mansion near the shores of Lock Laggan. The place sounded desolate, cut off from even the village that took its name.

But then her sister had told her something of the history of the old house. It was a history filled with mystery; a house at one time filled with restless spirits that had once seemed doomed never to find peace.

The thought of living in a purportedly haunted house terrified Joyce, but she could tell how excited her sister and brother-in-law were at the prospect, and so she said nothing, except that they need not expect her to visit any time soon.

Nearly fifteen years of living at Ravenscreag Hall, however, had been a decade and a half of peace, filled with not one single ghostly occurrence, which her sister had been sorely disappointed about, but about which Joyce had been openly relieved.

‘Maybe you’ll come and visit now,’ her sister had said only a few weeks earlier when she had been down visiting friends and family.

Joyce’s response had been vague and non-committal. She had heard much about the house that led her to believe fifteen years of silence from its invisible occupants did not necessarily mean they had moved on.

‘You know what?’ Joyce said suddenly, snapping out of her reverie to look directly into Theo’s eyes. ‘I think I’m going to pay Aunt Lesley a visit.’

Theo fixed his mother with a look of mock shock, reaching out a hand to touch her forehead. ‘Are you feeling all right, Mum? How many times have you told Aunt Lesley that you’ll never set foot in that accursed house of hers?’

Joyce chuckled. ‘Well, I can’t go on being terrified of the place forever. Besides, I’ve not seen your Uncle Jack for ages. I missed him when Aunt Lesley came down last month.’

Theo frowned. ‘What are you up to, Mum?’

‘Nothing, darling. Absolutely nothing.’

‘You are up to something, Mum!’ Theo mumbled, clearly unconvinced at his mother’s sincerity.

Joyce was not about to be drawn on the subject. ‘Never mind what I’m up to. What are you going to do about Matthew?’

Theo shrugged. ‘I’m going to wait for him to come home, and then we’ll sit down and talk things through. If he wants to end things, then I guess I’ll have to accept that it’s over and that it’s all my own doing.’

‘Don’t be so defeatist, darling. If something is worth holding onto, never give up without a fight, no matter how much of the mess is your own fault. It takes a big man to stand up and admit his mistakes, offer an apology and beg forgiveness… and it takes an even bigger man to recognise humility and sincerity, accept the apology, and give forgiveness.’

‘So what do you think I should do?’

Joyce grabbed the cordless telephone from its cradle beside the sofa and held it out to her son. ‘He’s probably got his mobile on him. Call him. Talk to him, but don’t lose your temper like you usually do, or you really will lose him. But fight to keep him!’

Theo reached out and took the telephone. ‘Okay. And what are you going to do?’

Joyce smiled as she rose to her feet. ‘I’m going to get on with the cleaning.’

*

From his vantage point, high up in the woods on Serpent’s Crest, Max Revenant had a perfect view of the valley floor laid out below him. In it’s near-naked autumnal glory, gently steaming as the mid-morning sun beat down to melt the early frost that coated the bare branches of the trees, he could see the figure walking slowly towards Wicca Hill on the opposite side of the forest.

Had the morning sky not been quite so cloudless, he might have been able to make out who was walking through the woods, but at this height, facing east, the morning sunlight dazzled his eyes. His mother had warned him to maintain a concealed presence for the time being, so he could not be down in the woods in case he was seen.

He squinted against the bright light, trying to make out the figure below. From build and gait, he deduced the figure to be female, and having come from the direction of Neville Hill, he could think of only one woman who might actually have the audacity to venture into Dead Man’s Wood.

‘I wonder where she’s going?’ he wondered aloud.

She searches for the dwelling place of Sawyl Gwilym.

The reassuringly familiar woman’s voice, whispering in his ear, caused Max to jump, and when he whirled around, almost hyperventilating, his agitation was complete as he discovered he was alone.

‘Mother, where are you hiding?’

Have you forgotten already that I am all around you, my son?

Max sighed and relaxed. ‘No, of course I have not forgotten, Mother.  You merely startled me.’

A gentle breeze caressed his cheek and tousled his hair, almost as though someone brushed him with the tenderness reserved for a maternal touch. He reached out to grasp at the invisible hand as the oddly out of season scent of apple blossom subtly wafted around him.

I did not mean to do so, my son. Remember all that I have told you. I see and hear all things, as I am with you always whilst you reside within these woods.

‘You’ve been gone for so many months that I began to believe you were really dead, or a figment of my imagination.’

My son, I cannot truly die. I am as real today as I was the day I bore you into this cruel world. You did as I asked. I am pleased.

‘I gave Matthew Silverthorne the keys to Four Oaks, but something frightened him away from the house.’

He shall return.

‘How can you be so sure of that?’

It is his destiny.

Clearly, no pertinent information was to be forthcoming, so Max returned his attention to the diminishing figure in the woods below. ‘And what of her? Is it really safe for her to be seeking his lair?’

Do not worry, my son. I shall take care of the matter.

‘When is this prophecy of yours to come true, Mother?’

Soon, my son. The pieces of the jigsaw are falling slowly into place. Destiny shall be fulfilled. The prophecy I foretold Centuries ago is nearly upon us.

*

Louise shivered uneasily, glancing fearfully around as she made her way through the boggy undergrowth that carpeted the floor of the forest.

She was not certain why she had made the astonishingly rash decision to head into Dead Man’s Wood, nor was she sure, as she made her way in the direction of Wicca Hill, why she had felt the sudden compulsion to seek out the secret lair of Sawyl Gwilym.

She had first heard the legend of the warlock from Gloria, shortly before her disappearance, and Louise was glad she had not met the vile man.

She felt sorry for Phil at that time, because Sawyl’s evil spirit had been reincarnated into the innocent body of his sister, but if the death of Wilma McFadyen meant the evil warlock could never again manifest his spirit into the world of the living, then her death was not in vain.

Even Phil agreed with that.

However, it now appeared that Wilma’s death had been in vain. Somehow, the Warlock had found a way to return, determined to wreak his vengeance upon them all. But Louise was equally determined to find a way to defeat him once and for all.

There had to be a way.

She was unsure how such a task could be accomplished, neither was she sure why she so strongly felt the answer lay hidden somewhere in Sawyl’s lair.

Nobody ever ventured up to Wicca Hill – nobody with any sense, anyway.

And now she understood exactly why.

Even in daylight, the woods were foreboding; even semi-naked branches that allowed plenty of light down to the forest floor did little to alleviate the oppressive feelings of doom that beat down upon her with more ferocity that the bright autumnal sun.

Thankfully, the rain had finally abated, but it had turned the fallen leaves into a slimy quagmire underfoot, and several times Louise lost her footing, only to find a handy tree to grab hold of at every opportunity.

Since first stepping into the woods, Louise had fought against an unnatural instinct to panic and retreat as hastily as possible. She was not one to be easily spooked, but the forest was known as Dead Man’s Wood for a reason, and she could almost feel the spirits of poor lost souls, tormented in the agonies of death, warning her on some subconscious level against continuing. Against all her better instincts, Louise ignored common sense and continued onwards, casting constant fearful glances in all directions.

Someone was watching her.

She could feel eyes boring into her from more than one direction.

From up on the slopes of Serpent’s Crest, she felt certain she had seen movement, but from this distance, she could make out nothing as she tried to look without making her observation obvious.

To her left, she thought she caught sight of something moving swiftly through the trees, too close for comfort.

To the right, something disturbed a pair of owls, which took flight in the opposite direction, towards Serpent’s Crest – whatever had spooked the usually nocturnal birds positively freaked Louise, and nearly lost her the steely resolve she so prided herself in.

From behind, a twig snapped as if trodden on. She felt the hairs on the nape of her neck stand up and an icy chill crept up her spine, tingling remorselessly as she fought the urge to scream. She froze in her tracks, hardly daring to breathe, acutely aware that there was someone standing behind her. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as her unease grew. She did not know whether to turn and face whoever was behind her, or whether she should take flight.

Clenching her fists tight, digging her nails into the palms of her hands, Louise slowly turned.

She was half-relieved to discover she was alone, but was unnerved at the same time.

The sensation of being watched was as strong as ever.

Thrusting her hands into the pockets of her parka, silently telling herself to get a grip, she turned once more in the direction of Wicca Hill, and took a deep steadying breath before slowly continuing.

She was glad when, after what seemed an inordinately long time, she finally reached the lower slopes of the hill and was able to get away from the boggy ground.

The feeling that she was being followed did not change as she slowly started climbing the hill, but every time she turned sharply there was no one there, although, from the corner of her eye, she kept imagining she could see movement.

In the end, she convinced herself that was all it was: her imagination. Whose imagination would not run riot in such a creepy place, especially given its local history?

She had always felt it a bit odd that nobody claimed to have located the lair of the legendary Warlock of Wicca Hill, but now she was deep within the woods, she could understand why nobody ventured in there. It was still as much as she could do to keep from turning and fleeing.

However, now she had made it this far, nothing short of seeing the ghost of Sawyl Gwilym himself was going to drive her away.

A blast of icy wind nearly blew her off her feet, and she steadied herself against one of the trees, pulling up the collar of her parka as she regained her footing and set off again.

The further up the slopes of the hill she climbed, the stronger the wind seemed to blow, whipping her blonde curls into a frenzy. She fought a losing struggle to put up the hood of her parka, ultimately allowing the wind to rip her hair at its roots.

A sudden updraft of wind rooted her to the spot, forming a vortex around her. It was as if the wind came from the very ground itself.

It was almost, Louise surmised as she battled valiantly onwards, as though some demonic spirit tried hard to prevent her from reaching the hidden cave, which she could now vaguely make out up ahead.

That thought, more than the wind she fought against, brought Louise to a halt.

Was Sawyl Gwilym himself perhaps trying to prevent her from discovering any secrets he might have left behind within his lair?

‘You don’t frighten me, you evil bastard!’ she shrieked above the roar of the wind as it whistled in her ears. ‘Show yourself, if you dare!’

The wind dropped almost immediately, and in an instant, a warm comforting feeling, like the embrace of an old friend, replaced Louise’s apprehension. She felt oddly calm as she sensed someone else other than herself shifting within her subconscious. She had a peculiar feeling that brought back vague memories of another time and place.

Although she could not clearly recall events that had occurred so long ago at Ravenscreag Hall when she had been possessed by the demanding spirit of the ancient Seer, Thaumaturgia Anathemas, Louise instinctively knew the peculiar sensation she was currently experiencing to be the precursor to being invaded by the spirit of another. Though she had no particular desire to undergo such a violation again, she sensed the spirit was benign, wishing no more than to impart some information that might be of vital importance.

Since the Seer had been the spirit who invaded her body before, it seemed logical to suppose it might be her once more. She closed her eyes. ‘Is that you, Thaumaturgia?’ she whispered softly, trying to relax.

She opened her eyes sharply as a brief wave of dizziness washed over her, accompanied by a stabbing pain just above her eyes.

No, Louise McFadyen, I am not that Seer. My name is Elen.

The young woman’s voice that filled her mind was oddly reassuring to Louise.

‘Elen, as in the mythical wood nymph after whom the village Elendale derives its name?’

Indeed, I see you have knowledge of local myths. I am the guardian of these woods.

‘What do you want of me, Elen?’

I have come to warn you.

‘Yes, I know, Sawyl Gwilym is coming back! Peter Neville has already told us that much.’

Indeed. I have been a part of these woods for countless years and know all that has happened… and more besides. I have come to warn you not to continue up to his lair.

‘Do you know how Sawyl was able to survive execution and return to this world?’

I am unable to answer that question.

‘Unable or unwilling?’

I cannot interfere. It is against our laws.

‘Whose laws?’ asked Louise with a frown. ‘All I want is a simple answer to a simple question!’

Should I answer your question about Sawyl Gwilym, then there shall be no peace for you and your kin. I shall tell you but one thing. No matter how hard it might be for you to accept, everything happens for a reason. Events have been set in motion that can lead to only one outcome. You must allow these events to unfold one by one, and in the end, all will become clear to you.

‘More riddles, Elen?’ sighed Louise, trying not to lose her temper. ‘You’re as bad as Peter Bloody Neville.’

You will seek us out once more soon enough. Just remember what I have said, Louise McFadyen. Everything happens for a reason. Events are preordained and must play out for destiny to fulfil its prophecy.

‘More prophecies?’ gasped Louise. ‘And what will happen if the prophecies fail to come true?’

Then he shall win, and it will be the end of your civilisation.

‘By he, I assume you mean Sawyl Gwilym?’

There was no response. Louise blinked, and she felt that the presence of the Wood Nymph had vanished, leaving her with more questions than she had answers to.

*

Matthew arrived back home to be greeted by the warm smell of freshly laundered clothing and the lingering odour of furniture polish, and he knew instinctively that Joyce had been in to do all the chores he hated.

He closed the front door and threw his keys on the radiator shelf, frowning as he noticed another set of keys. The leather key-fob, embossed with the letter T, indicated that Theo had returned from Alicante.

Matthew sighed despondently. The last thing he wanted after the day he had endured was another blazing row, and in his frame of mind, tired from his long journey, an argument with Theo was all he could envisage.

Does that mean the arguments are all my fault?

The thought flashed through his exhausted mind even as he unbuttoned his jacket and hung it on the rack opposite the radiator.

He shook his head. If he had instigated all the arguments, the reasons were valid. Theo had many redeeming qualities, though, and he wondered whether perhaps it would be worth the effort of trying to keep his mouth shut long enough to hear what Theo had to say for himself. Sometimes, Theo could be the most insufferable young man imaginable, whilst at other times he was loving and affectionate. He was a man possessed of permanent contradictions, and Matthew suddenly found himself curious as to which personality traits would be on display now.

‘Theo, is that you?’ he called, putting as much cheerful cadence into his voice as he could muster. Oddly, it required little effort.

Matthew made his way down the hallway, peering into the candle-lit lounge, where he noticed a log fire blazing away in the fireplace, further warming the room with a welcoming glow. He smiled. Theo must really want a reconciliation: he never lit the fire, partly because he had always claimed he did not know how, but mostly, Matthew knew, because he simply could not be bothered.

Theo, it seemed, was determined to make an effort, and Matthew could not help wondering what had precipitated such an uncharacteristic change. Was it guilt, perhaps? What had Theo done after he had been left in Alicante to necessitate forgiveness?

Don’t start jumping to conclusions, Matthew thought idly. It was possible that being abandoned in Spain had given Theo pause for thought, allowing him the opportunity to ponder what could be done to salvage their volatile relationship.

Matthew was prepared to share the responsibility for the ups and downs of their relationship, providing Theo did the same. What was the point in one of them making sacrifice and compromise, to save what was left of their love, if the other was unprepared to do the same?

It certainly seemed that Theo had made a start.

Matthew turned away from the fire- and candle-illuminated lounge, and found himself face to face with Theo, who stood still and silent in the doorway that led to the kitchen. He held out a single red rose in one hand and a champagne flute in the other, a vague hint of a smile twitching the corners of his lips.

‘Well, I must say, this is most unexpected, Theo,’ Matthew said, stepping forward to take the peace offerings. ‘The lounge looks most romantic.’

Theo’s smile stretched to full-width, and its genuine nature brought vibrant life to his eyes, which sparkled with delight. ‘I can’t take full credit,’ he sighed. ‘Mum helped me with the fire.’

Matthew grinned as he sipped the champagne. ‘Guess I should have sensed Joyce’s hand in things, though somehow I get the impression the idea was all yours.’

Theo nodded. He longed to take Matthew in his arms and kiss away their woes, but he knew that course of action would be premature. They had to talk and work their way through their problems before initiating any physical contact.

Sex would solve nothing.

‘I tried phoning your mobile earlier, because I felt we needed to talk, but it was switched off. I hoped you’d be home sometime today, so I thought I’d make your favourite meal and wait for you.’

‘My God, I can’t remember the last time you cooked!’ gasped Matthew incredulously, almost spilling his champagne.

Theo chuckled. ‘I know. I was clearly out of practice… so I’ve ordered out for a Chinese instead. What I cooked was only fit for the bin.’

Matthew threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Well, it was a lovely gesture, which I fully appreciate. Chinese will be fine, so long as a good chat is still on the cards.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Theo sighed. ‘Mum said you’d gone to Elendale, to that house… Four Oaks?’

Matthew’s smile vanished. ‘I’d rather not talk about that place,’ he muttered. Turning away from Theo, he headed into the lounge, where he slumped onto the sofa. He placed the glass on the coffee table in the centre of the room and laid the rose beside it as Theo trailed behind him, standing uncertainly in the doorway.

‘Did something happen at the house?’ Theo asked, a little hesitantly. When Matthew said he did not wish to speak about something then mentioning the subject matter would invoke anger, but something in Matthew’s demeanour unsettled Theo, and he had to know what had happened.

Matthew glanced up at him, and Theo was shocked to see genuine fear in his eyes.

‘That house gives me the willies,’ Matthew mumbled. ‘Something bad happened there, a long time ago, though I don’t know what, and I don’t know when. And I don’t want to know, either.’ He shivered uneasily. ‘There was… an aura about the place. I didn’t like the way it made me feel. It was almost… almost as though I’d been there before.’

‘Matt, aren’t you even a little curious to know why a complete stranger left you the house you tried to buy a year ago?’

Matthew nodded. ‘Yes, of course I am, but something really bad happened at Four Oaks, and something bad will happen there again. I can tell.’

‘How can you tell?’

Matthew shrugged. ‘Intuition? Instinct? I don’t know, but curiosity killed the cat, and I don’t intent to be that cat!’

‘That’ll never happen, Matt. You don’t like pussy.’

In spite of his unease, Matthew could not help laughing at Theo’s crudeness. ‘Oh Theo, you always could make me laugh!’

‘I know,’ Theo smiled. ‘That’s one of the reasons we’re so good together.’

Matthew fixed Theo with an unflinching stare. ‘And what about all the bad stuff? What about all the fights and the arguments?’

Theo matched Matthew’s uncompromising gaze with one of his own. ‘I could say all relationships have their ups and downs, and that arguments are bound to happen when two people of opposing natures live together and spend so much time in each other’s company. In our case, however, I think it’s only fair to say it’s all been my fault… every step of the way.’

Matthew patted the empty space beside him on the sofa, and Theo sat, a little hesitantly. ‘I must admit, I like this new thoughtful you, Theo, but I can’t help wondering what your motive is, and that can’t be a good sign.’

They sat so close that they could feel the heat radiating from each other, could feel the longing that stirred with each heartbeat, but curiously neither felt any compunction to act upon those feelings. Matthew touched Theo’s hand tenderly, not breaking eye contact. ‘You know how much I love you, Theo.’

Theo nodded. ‘Much more than I deserve. Listen, I know you’re going to suggest we end our relationship for good this time, and though part of me wants to do everything possible to stop that happening, another part of me knows it’s the only way for us to save our friendship.’

‘I’m really sorry, Theo, but you’re right. I don’t want things to end, but I’m so afraid that if we continue like this then we’re going to end up hating each other, and I couldn’t bear that to happen.’

‘Neither could I. Do you think there’s any chance at all of salvaging what we have together?’

Matthew took a deep breath. ‘Tell you what, give me six months. Give me that long with us just being friends again, and we’ll see. I need to get my head together and gather my thoughts. I need to get away from you, from Pompey… from everyone. I need to take stock of my life and decide what’s best for me.’

Theo smiled and patted Matthew’s hand. ‘Don’t worry, I do understand. It’s taken nearly destroying our friendship to make me realise how much I actually love you. I’ve been such an idiot! Carson’s definitely history. He tried to use me out in Alicante, and it opened my eyes to what type of person he really is. I never want to hear from him again, much less set eyes on him, and I told him that out there.’

‘And do you think he’ll be able to abide by your request?’ asked Matthew sagely.

Theo shrugged. ‘Probably not. But I will. I’ll do whatever it takes… I don’t want to lose you. I’ll give you all the space you need.’

‘And if I decide I don’t want our relationship to continue?’

Theo sighed sadly. ‘Then I shall have to just accept the fact that I destroyed our love, and hopefully learn from the experience. If it comes to that, though, I really hope our friendship doesn’t also come to an end.’

Matthew leaned across and kissed Theo. ‘Perhaps there is hope for you yet then.’

The doorbell interrupted their conversation, and when Theo returned from answering it, he carried several containers from the local Chinese takeaway. ‘Dinner is served,’ he muttered with a smile.

They ate the meal in muted contemplation, sharing the remainder of the champagne, each lost in the silence of their own thoughts.

Matthew still could not shake the feeling that Theo was hiding something, though he could not imagine what it might be. One thing he was quietly sure of was that Theo had been honest about his desire for their relationship to continue, and that he had indeed ended the dalliance with Carson.

Theo was uncertain how Matthew would proceed. He could hardly blame him if he decided to terminate the relationship permanently. He had done all he could to convince Matthew of his sincerity. He could not shake the feeling that what had happened to Matthew at Four Oaks involved him too in some way, but it was equally clear Matthew did not intend to talk about it – for the moment at least.

‘So, do you want me to move my stuff out?’ Theo said after the lengthy stilted silence when they finished eating.

Matthew shook his head. ‘No need for that. I’m leaving in the morning. You can stay here whilst I’m gone. This house is as much yours as it is mine. It’s your home.’

‘Thanks, Matt, I appreciate that. So, where are you off to?’

Matthew smiled. ‘I’ve got a great idea for a new novel, so I’m off to do some research, and then I plan to write it over the next six months.’

Sudden intuitive dread filled Theo’s heart. ‘You’re going back there, aren’t you?’

‘To Four Oaks? Yes!’

‘But Matt, you said the house freaked you out!’

‘It’s only a house, when all is said and done. A house cannot harm me, no matter how unsettling I might find it.’

‘Well… if you’re sure.’

‘I am. But I’m not going there right away. First, I’m going to visit my parents.’

Matthew was uncertain why he had made such a statement. Theo knew perfectly well that he did not get along with his father at all, and only saw his mother when she came to visit. The very fact that he decided then and there to see his parents together at their home caught him by surprise, and he could tell from Theo’s body language that he thought it odd too.

Theo remained tight-lipped for a few moments. ‘Is it his birthday or something?’

Matthew snorted derisively before he could stop himself. ‘Do you really think I’d pay the old git a visit just for his birthday?’ He glanced up at Theo again. ‘Please don’t ask why I’m going to see him, because I really don’t know why. I just feel compelled to do so.’

‘Well, if you’re sure. I’m off out shortly,’ Theo muttered, and then when he caught Matthew’s reaction, hastily added, ‘To see Mum. She’s going to see Aunt Lesley in Scotland tomorrow, so I’m going to help her pack.’

‘So, Joyce is finally going up to the haunted house?’ Matthew chuckled mirthlessly. ‘Her and me both,’ he added under his breath.

As softly as he might have spoken, it did not pass unnoticed by Theo. ‘Do you think Four Oaks is haunted then?’

Matthew shrugged. ‘After visiting the place and getting spooked, I stopped off at the local pub for a stiff drink… just the one,’ he added when he saw Theo’s disapproving look. He understood Theo’s loathing for drink drivers, as it had been such a man who had killed his father eight years earlier, ‘Anyway, one drink and two hours later, I left the pub with the impression that something spooky was going on with the place. That, and the fact that I felt the atmosphere in the house the second I set foot there, is what gave me the inspiration for the new novel, and the fact that I was left the house by someone I’ve never met has piqued my curiosity. So, whether the place turns out to be haunted or not, I feel inclined to find out more about it, and how better to do that than by spending time there.’

‘Well, good luck to you. Are you leaving tomorrow morning?’

Matthew nodded.

‘Well, I’m staying with Mum tonight, and then I’m driving her to Euston so she can catch the train up to Scotland.’

‘Why not go the whole hog and drive her all the way up there? You missed your aunt when she was last down here, and you always get on well with your uncle. I’m sure they’d welcome a visit from you, and besides, I’m certain Joyce would love the company on such a long journey.’

Theo pondered the idea for a moment, and decided it was a good one. ‘Well, I’d better go and pack a few more things then,’ he said, wondering whether it was merely a ploy on Matthew’s part to put even more distance between them.

He could not shake the feeling that Matthew had already made up his mind that their relationship was over.

*

It was early evening when Louise finally returned home, to find Phil frantic with worry. He paced the floor in the kitchen, angry at himself for having just shouted at the children for no other reason than they kept pestering him for food. Whirling around as the back door opened, he was relieved to see Louise stepping in out of the rain, which was once again pouring from the swollen, blackened sky.

‘My God, Louise, where have you been?’ he cried, rushing over to help her remove her sodden parka.

Louise pushed her dripping wet hair from where it plastered her face, kicking off her mud-encased boots having left brown splash marks all over the floor. ‘I went for a walk, that’s all. I did tell you.’

‘Darling, you said you’d be about an hour. It’s nearly six o’clock. You’ve been gone almost all day!’

Louise glanced at her husband, a vacant look in her eyes, which remained unfocussed as she responded in a totally disinterested voice. ‘Have I?’

Phil frowned. ‘Are you all right?’

Louise nodded abstractedly. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Are the children back yet?’

‘Yes, your mother brought them back over an hour ago. She said they’d been playing her up all morning, and she’d had enough of them. And they’ve been really annoying me since they’ve been back, too. Maybe you could have a word with them?’

‘Glory listens to you more than she does me, Phil. Anyone would think I was the wicked stepmother.’ Louise took the towel that Phil offered her, drying her hair and face, and then proceeded to remove her drenched trousers. ‘I’m sorry I was so long,’ she continued. ‘I lost all track of time.’

‘Indeed,’ Phil agreed, grabbing a pair of Louise’s trousers from the pile of dried washing that waited patiently on one of the chairs surrounding the circular dining table in the corner. ‘So, where have you been?’

As she finished putting on the dry clothes, Louise found herself unable to meet her husband’s gaze. He would not like her answer, yet she knew she would tell him the truth. She was a hopeless liar, and would never consider lying to Phil anyway.

‘I went to Wicca Hill,’ she said in a softly hollow voice.

‘What in the name of sweet Jesus did you go there for?’ cried Phil, utterly appalled at her sheer recklessness. ‘That’s where Sawyl Gwilym’s lair is.’

Louise nodded. ‘I know. That’s why I went there, to see if I could find his lair, and to see if he left anything behind that might indicate how he survived his executions. I figured that if we could find that out, then it might give us some idea of how to be rid of him once and for all.’

Phil’s heart raced unsteadily in his chest, thumping against his ribcage with anxious relief as Louise told him she had found the lair, but it was nothing more than an empty cave. If Sawyl Gwilym had left anything there centuries ago, then it was long gone.

‘I had a strange experience in the woods before I got to the lair though.’ Louise glanced at Phil earnestly. ‘What does Peter know of the woman, Elen?’

Phil stood rooted to the spot, holding on to the back of the chair as if supporting himself during a brief spell of dizziness, and when he spoke again it was in the voice of Peter Neville.

‘Elen be she who lends her name to the village of Elendale on the other side of Wicca Hill. Legend dictates that she be as old as time itself. Why ask you about this woman?’

‘She invaded my thoughts whilst I was in Dead Man’s Wood. Is she a force of good, or an evil spirit like Sawyl Gwilym?’

‘What does instinct tell you?’

‘No more cryptic answers, Peter. Just tell me!’

‘I suspect she be benign in nature. Legend tells she be a wood nymph, the Green Woman, sister to the Green Man. I have also heard her revered as Mother Nature herself.’

Louise arched an eyebrow. ‘Really? Well, she did describe herself to me as being the guardian of the woods, but Mother Nature herself? That’s stretching credulity a little too far!’

Even considering I am here now having a conversation with a five hundred year old spirit who has possessed my husband, she wryly added mentally.

They were interrupted by the elephantine charge of three pairs of stampeding children’s footfalls coming down the stairs, and by the time Glory, Bryony and Byron appeared in the doorway, shrieking and tugging at one another with wild abandon, Peter had receded once more into Phil’s subconscious.

‘Mummy, mummy,’ squealed twelve-year-old Byron, with an infantile twinkle of mischief in his eyes, ‘I was the only one who behaved for Nana and Gramps.’ He pointed melodramatically at the girls, who were the picture of innocence. ‘Those two were very bossy and naughty!’

‘What has Mummy told you about telling tales?’ remarked Glory icily, glowering at her brother and sister. ‘You two are as bad as each other!’ She whirled around and flounced towards Louise and Phil with all the aggrieved petulance that only a teenager could muster. ‘The twins were abominable all the while we were at Nana’s house,’ she simpered, hoping she convinced as the victim of the piece. ‘They told on me about every little thing I did, which made Nana cross, and then Gramps told me not to contradict him when I told him it wasn’t my fault they were misbehaving.’

Louise struggled not to laugh. She turned to Bryony, who had so far said nothing. ‘All right, young lady,’ she said, knowing she could depend upon the twelve-year-old to tell the truth in a matter-of-fact manner. ‘What do you have to say on the subject?’

Bryony sat down at the table, crossed her arms and legs and, looking for all the world like a mini-adult version of her mother, took a deep breath and slowly proceeded to tell tales on her siblings, but included her own misdeeds from the past week.

When she had finished, Phil was struggling even more than Louise had been to stifle his laughter, Byron was shifting uncomfortably on his feet, Glory was staring at her with such venom that Bryony felt she might just shrivel up and die beneath the withering look, and Louise, finally losing all self control, burst into hysterical laughter.

‘You three really are the limit, you know!’ Louise gasped as she struggled to bring her laughter under control. She wiped her watering eyes. ‘You must learn to behave yourselves when you stay with your grandparents. They love you to bits, but they’re not getting any younger. They’ll end up banning you from staying with them if you behave like that again!’

For a moment, Louise thought Glory was going to say good, but if that thought crossed her daughter’s mind, she wisely chose to keep it to herself. Instead, she surprised everyone by apologising. ‘We didn’t mean to be naughty,’ she said, ‘but Nana doesn’t let us do anything we want to when we stay with her, and we get so bored.’

‘That’s why your father and I have always encouraged you all to have hobbies that you can do at home or away, so that you won’t get bored. It isn’t my fault you choose not to do the things that you enjoy. And if Nana said you couldn’t do something, I’m sure she had a very good reason for saying no. You have to learn that even in the adult world we cannot just go around doing exactly as we please. We too have rules that must be obeyed, and regulations that must be adhered to, and the sooner you learn that rules are made for a good reason, the better, my girl!’

‘Yes, Mother,’ responded Glory contritely in a small, polite voice.

Louise frowned. It was most unlike her eldest daughter to capitulate so quietly: to acquiesce with a riotous argumentative tantrum was more in Glory’s nature. ‘Well, that’s all right then,’ she muttered, deciding she ought to perhaps call her mother, find out just how much her errant daughter really had misbehaved. She felt certain there was far more to it than the fourteen-year-old merely trying to get out of the house in the dead of night, as Bryony had taken such delight in revealing.

‘All right then,’ she continued, ‘as everyone’s now down here, you can all help prepare dinner. Glory, you can peel the potatoes, Byron and Bryony, you can do the other veggies, and Phil, you can decide what we’re having with them.’

Phil chuckled. ‘And what, exactly, are you going to be doing while we’re all slaving away in the kitchen?’

‘I’m going to have a nice long soak in the bath… undisturbed!’

Saturday

October 26th

Matthew stood at the gates of Silverthorne Lodge, high on the slopes of Portsdown Hill on the northern boundary of Portsmouth. He stared in the opposite direction, which commanded impressive views over the city laid out below. Across the Solent he could see the Isle of Wight and the open sea beyond.

He had forgotten just how stunning were the views from this vantage point, which was one of the reasons that his parents had purchased the property fifteen years ago. The house itself was chief amongst the reasons that Matthew had not been back since he had moved out shortly after his eighteenth birthday.

True, he had hated all the constant arguments with his father, which was the other reason he avoided the place, but those arguments, which had often bordered on violence, did not start until after their move to the house.

Silverthorne Lodge, which back then had been named Solent View, had an aura about it to which Matthew had taken an immediate dislike, even at the age of fourteen, when such passionate loathing for the building was put down to his raging teenage hormones by both his parents.

Roger Silverthorne, on the other hand, proclaimed that he felt he belonged in the property, and more than any other dwelling place he had inhabited it felt like home to him, so he refused to budge on the issue of moving again.

The house was immense. Set on three floors, it had eleven bedrooms and five bathrooms. Two separate sitting rooms – one at the front and one at the back, overlooking the gardens – were divided by a kitchen the size of the entire ground floor of Matthew’s current terraced house, and a completely separate dining room, with room enough to seat thirty people, whilst a cavernous ballroom on the west wing opened into an immense conservatory.

The house was far too large for the small family, but the instant Roger saw it advertised in the local paper it called to him. He had to have it. Nowhere else would do.

It cost twice as much as the house they had been living in was on the market for, but Roger had made such a fortune from his antiques businesses around the south coast that the cost was negligible.

Margaret Silverthorne believed her husband to be mad, but she had never once questioned him during their then fifteen-year marriage, and he had certainly never made a bad business decision before, so she saw no reason to question him on that occasion.

Six months after the family had moved in, Matthew sensed the change come over his father. Not once before then had a bad word been spoken between the pair, but suddenly Roger questioned every little thing his son did. They argued almost daily, and the first time Roger raised his hand to strike his son, Matthew had struck first, and it remained debatable, even now, as to which of them was the most shocked.

Margaret remained blithely unaware of the changes that Matthew felt were so glaringly obvious. He was appalled that his mother should be so blindly loyal to her husband as to put the arguments down to teenage angst, blaming him for all the cross words.

Matthew at first believed the house had itself in some way possessed both his parents, blocking all rational thought from their minds.

At about the same time he decided that itself was an irrational thought, the headaches started, accompanied by blackouts. He underwent numerous medical checks over the years, but no doctor could find anything wrong with him, and they put it down to stress and anxiety.

It was also around that time in his life that Matthew came to the stunning conclusion that he was attracted to other boys, and this realisation made him decide that perhaps his father had recognised the fact already and that this was the true nature of his hostility – not to mention the reason for his pent up anxiety.

His father had displayed very little emotion of any description when Matthew sat them down one crisp April morning to make his announcement, though his mother had broken down in tears, claiming to have had an inkling, yet hoping she was wrong.

‘No grandchildren for us then?’ Margaret had sniffled through her tears, which had annoyed Matthew immensely. Was that all his mother thought he was actually for, to provide grandchildren for her?

He wanted to state categorically that he could have married a woman and not wanted to have any children, or that he might even be incapable of fathering a child. He said none of these things, however, not wishing to upset them further.

Matthew decided then and there that he was not going to live under their roof any longer than absolutely necessary. He decided to get a Saturday job – which would get him out of the house on that day each weekend – to go with his morning and evening paper rounds, and started saving every penny he earned.

He left school at sixteen and started doing as many jobs as possible to earn as much money as he could, and two weeks after his eighteenth birthday he announced his intention to purchase a small mid-terrace house in the centre of town. He was just about able to manage without the need for a mortgage due to the trust fund that had been set up for him at birth by his father, which came into his possession on the same birthday.

His father had told him, in no uncertain terms, that if he had known he would turn out queer he would not have set the trust fund up in the first place.

Since then, Matthew had never once returned to Silverthorne Lodge. After that, the headaches abated and to his knowledge he suffered no further blackouts, and so in his own mind the cause of the problem was clear. His mother had made numerous visits to his cosy little house in town, but Roger had never once accompanied her. Father and son had not set eyes on one another since the day Matthew moved out.

Turning his attention away from the awe-inspiring vista laid out below him, Matthew took a deep breath and stepped up to the iron gates that led into the grounds.

He was struck with a curious feeling of deja-vu as he slowly made his way up the steeply inclined tree-lined drive towards the house. He had been unsure why he felt the urge to visit his father after all this time, but suddenly, as the house came into view, reminding him of Four Oaks in both its look and location within the grounds, he suddenly knew why.

He suddenly understood why his father had been so relentless in his pursuit of this house all those years ago, for he found himself in a similar situation with Four Oaks, and it occurred to Matthew that just because his father refused to relinquish Silverthorne Lodge, did not necessarily mean the old man actually liked the house.

Indeed, it seemed increasingly likely that Roger felt the same way about this house as Matthew felt about Four Oaks. Had he not found himself in the curious situation of having decided to spend time alone in a property he had inherited that gave him the creeps, Matthew would not have believed it possible that anyone could willingly remain living somewhere that they did not actually like.

Did the house, then, possess some strange hold over Roger, of which he had no control? Suddenly Matthew was open to the possibility, and he had to know.

He tentatively reached out to push open the iron gates, but even as his hands touched the metal, something in the recess of his mind made him snatch his hand back sharply.

Some subliminal phantom voice warned him of impending danger that awaited him at the house. He stood for a few moments, trembling slightly, feeling clammy and nauseous. In spite of the sunshine which had finally broken through the rain clouds earlier that morning, it was still decidedly chilly, but the hot flush that suffused Matthew with such ravenous ferocity made him suddenly appreciate the suffering of his menopausal cleaner, Joyce. She had moaned recently that her night-sweats were unbearable, and Matthew, being the typical ‘uncaring’ man that he was, had tried to sympathise, but without any frame of reference, could not fully appreciate the enormity of Joyce’s discomfort.

Now he could, and even as he swam against the dizzying tide of nausea, he made a mental note to apologise the next time he saw her.

Clutching hold of the gates tightly, Matthew closed his eyes and willed the nausea to dissipate. It did so gradually, and the kaleidoscope of erratic colours that had clouded his vision began to fade away.

When he opened his eyes and brought his vision back into focus, he saw not Silverthorne Lodge up ahead of him, but rather Four Oaks. It was cleaner, newer, the trees younger and the driveway little more than a dirt track – but it was undeniably Four Oaks.

Clenching his eyes tightly shut again, Matthew counted to ten and reopened them, and was relieved to see the image of Four Oaks had gone, and his parents’ house was once again where it should be, at the top of the tree-lined driveway beyond the gates.

‘What the hell was that?’ he wondered aloud as he fought to control his racing heart. He continued staring at the house for several long minutes, but Four Oaks did not reappear, and as he stood in the autumnal sunshine, the cold began seeping through his coat, and the hot, clammy feeling he had endured vanished abruptly, along with the nausea.

He wondered where the image had come from, and whose voice had warned of impending danger.

The voice in his head had been that of a child. It was difficult to decide whether it was male or female, but there was something oddly familiar about it, as if he had heard the voice somewhere before.

But when?

He could not actually recall having heard voices in his head before, so it had to be someone he knew, or had once known. Maybe being back at this house had reawakened some adolescent memory he had long repressed out of resentment towards his father. Was he perhaps remembering the voice of an old school friend, long since forgotten? An echo from his past, subliminally warning him that his father would not have changed and would undoubtedly be as abhorrent as he recalled.

‘For God’s sake, get a grip, Matt!’ he snapped aloud. ‘You’re twenty-nine… you cannot possibly still be frightened of the old man.’

Indeed, Roger Silverthorne would definitely be an old man by now. How old was he? Matthew found he could not actually remember, but his father had to be approaching sixty, if not older.

No. The time for fear was in the past.

With fresh resolution, Matthew finally pushed open the gates and marched up the steeply inclined driveway towards the house itself.

It was only bricks and mortar, yet it still made Matthew feel distinctly uncomfortable. There was nothing particularly special about its appearance. The portico and the internal walls of the immense vaulted hallway, constructed from much older stone and slate, was oddly not in keeping with the rest of the house, yet curiously still did not look out of place amid the red brick. The white woodwork to Matthew appeared freshly painted, and the driveway newly paved – he recalled his mother mentioning the fact the last time he had seen her. As he approached, he also noticed that the three chimneystacks appeared much shorter than he remembered. He had always thought such elongated chimneys to be impractical in such an elevated, exposed position. Strong winds blowing in off the sea and from every other direction had no doubt finally caused damage that necessitated reducing them radically in height.

The altered roofline was really the only significant difference to the building’s outward appearance, and it did nothing to dispel the unwelcoming aura that permeated still.

It was, Matthew decided as he approached the front door, as if an ancient evil lingered in the vicinity, languishing patiently, awaiting the time to re-emerge.

In his mind’s eye, he fancied he could witness the construction of the house, way back in the late Nineteenth Century. He could see the foundations being dug laboriously by hand. He could see the red bricks being brought in from recently demolished local houses, and the stonework being brought in from out of the area. There was an accident. Two men died during construction, and another man was charged with their murders.

Matthew staggered back beneath the onslaught of confusing images that suddenly filled his mind. Where had these images come from? Whose memories were they? Why had they come to him now, of all times?

It is going to happen again, just as it has happened before!

The child’s voice returned to Matthew’s mind the instant the images vacated the space.

He stopped just short of the house, bent his head and thumped his temple with the heel of his hand in an effort to dislodge the invasive echo.

‘I don’t know who you are, or what you want, but please, leave me alone,’ he whispered.

The dull throbbing vanished instantly, and the interloper in his mind was gone as suddenly as it had appeared. For a moment, Matthew did not move as he cautiously opened his eyes, and found his mother standing in the doorway ten feet away, her eyes fixed upon him, filled with concern.

‘Hello Mum,’ he managed with a weak smile.

‘Darling, are you all right?’ Margaret murmured gently, coming out into the chilly morning sunshine to embrace her son. ‘You looked as though you were about to faint!’

Matthew returned the warm embrace, comforted by his mother’s open affection. ‘I’m fine,’ he muttered. ‘I think it was just the shock of seeing this god-awful place again.’

Margaret held her son at arm’s length, staring searchingly into his watery eyes. ‘You still feel that way about the house, even now?’

Matthew nodded. ‘I was suddenly overwhelmed by images of it being built.’

Margaret arched one of her perfectly plucked eyebrows. ‘Really? And what did you see?’

‘There was an accident. Two men died.’ Matthew gauged his mother’s reaction as he uttered those words. ‘Mum, what’s going on? Something’s not right here, is it?’

Margaret sighed, straightening her grey hair and smoothing down her pinafore dress. ‘Come along inside. There’s something you should see.’

Almost reluctantly, even though he had come here with the intention of spending some time with his parents, Matthew followed his mother inside and closed the front door behind him, cutting off his escape route.

Once inside the house, a mounting sense of panic-stricken unease welled up within Matthew, spreading with such speed that he staggered almost drunkenly and blindly crashed into Margaret, who had paused momentarily directly before him.

They caught hold of one another for support.

‘Matthew, what on earth is wrong? You’ve gone as white as a sheet!’

‘Mum, I feel really, really sick. I need to sit down.’

Matthew allowed his mother to guide him into the front living room, where he sank gratefully onto one of the nineteenth century bold-patterned sofas. He sat quietly, head in his hands between his knees, chest heaving as though from some tremendous exertion as he struggled desperately to breathe, while Margaret disappeared from the room.

She returned a few minutes later with a glass of water, her husband in tow, who remained on the threshold, staring at his son in silent concern.

‘Here darling, sip this,’ Margaret whispered as she pressed the glass into her son’s hands and guided it to his lips.

For nearly five minutes, all three of them were silent, save for Matthew’s laboured breathing, which gradually settled into a gentler rhythm as the panic attack slipped slowly into memory.

He opened his eyes slowly, and the room drifted lazily into focus. The first thing he saw was his mother’s concerned face. The second thing he saw was his father, still and silent in the doorway.

‘Hello, Dad,’ he mumbled. ‘How’ve you been?’

‘Fine, just fine,’ responded Roger in a stilted voice, clearly uncomfortable with his son’s presence, although Matthew felt the awkwardness was more to do with not knowing what to say than his father not wanting him there. Indeed, there was actually a friendly demeanour about the old man, almost as though he had just seen an old friend for the first time in years – yet there remained the uncomfortably awkward silence.

‘So, what happened?’ Roger said after an interminable length of time.

Matthew falteringly recounted the images he had witnessed of Silverthorne Lodge’s construction, of the child’s voice that had recently started to come and go from his mind, and of the oppressive sense of claustrophobia that had overcome him. He glanced at his mother. ‘You said you were going to show me something?’

Margaret nodded. ‘Indeed yes. It was when you mentioned about there having been an accident during the construction of this house that I was reminded of something. Wait here. I’ll fetch the papers.’

Margaret disappeared from the room once more, leaving Matthew alone with his father. They observed one another almost warily, and several times each thought the other was going to say something.

But the stilted silence remained.

‘So, are you just going to stand there, Dad?’ said Matthew when the silence seemed to drag on unnecessarily. He motioned the grey haired older man to come and sit opposite, and slowly, Roger moved to comply. ‘I have to say, you’re looking well. You and Mum have both put on weight, but you’ve not changed much really since I last saw you.’

‘Older, perhaps wiser too,’ Roger mumbled after clearing his throat. ‘Tell me, this child whose voice you hear, do you know who she is?’

Matthew stared hard at his father, frowning. ‘I never said it was a girl. I haven’t been able to tell whether it was male or female.’

‘Oh, my mistake.’ Roger suddenly averted his eyes from his son, but was saved from any awkward questioning as Margaret came bustling into the room again, carrying a large pile of papers.

‘Five years ago,’ she began, sitting on the sofa beside Matthew, ‘your father and I finished paying our mortgage. We were sent the deeds to the house, which we keep locked in the safe. I read them for the first time recently, and they make fascinating reading. We have a potted history of all the people who have lived here since it was built one hundred and fifty-odd years ago. We know all the major alterations that have been made to the structure over the years. There were a couple of newspaper articles in with all the documents, which I thought was odd to begin with.’

Margaret handed Matthew a half-page newspaper clipping, yellowed with age. It related to an accident that had happened during the construction of a house on the upper slopes of Portsdown Hill, where two of the labourers met with untimely deaths after plunging from the nearly-completed roof. There was an artist’s impression of the house, and there was no doubt in Matthew’s mind that the house, unnamed back then, was Silverthorne Lodge.

‘Oh, I see,’ Matthew mumbled. ‘Curious, that I should have imagined the accident when I knew nothing about it.’

‘Indeed,’ replied Margaret.

‘Doesn’t explain why I’ve suddenly become prone to images of houses from the past, or why I’ve been getting voices in my head.’

‘Houses?’ queried Roger, sitting upright. ‘Plural?’

Matthew nodded. ‘I’ve inherited a house called Four Oaks in the East Sussex village of Elendale, and I’ve had visions of that place from years gone by, too!’

‘Four Oaks? Are you kidding me?’

Matthew glanced at his mother, frowning. ‘No, I’m not kidding. It’s the property I went to visit last year, the one I was outbid on.’

‘Ah, I seem to recall you were immensely upset at not getting that house.’

‘Well, the old woman who bought it died recently, and for some inexplicable reason, she left it to me.’

‘Strange. But that’s not the strangest fact.’ Margaret rummaged through the paperwork perched on her lap, extracting a sheet of paper. ‘This is the original purchase order and invoice for some of the building materials. The whole building is constructed from bricks reclaimed from a variety of sources. The stonework at the front and in the hall comes from an old coach house that once stood in the grounds of a property called Four Oaks, in the Sussex village of Elendale.’

Matthew nearly snatched the paper from his mother’s fingers. ‘That’s not possible,’ he gasped.

‘Highly unlikely, admittedly, but as you can see, it’s true.’

Matthew could feel the hot flush creeping up his body from his toes, until it reached his neck. He tried to focus on the paperwork he held in his trembling hands, but suddenly the words were little more than a jumble of unintelligible letters.

He glanced across at his father, who was leaning forward, almost eagerly observing his son in anticipation. Roger’s image began to blur, shift out of focus, and suddenly Matthew’s eyes misted over. ‘It’s going to happen again, isn’t it, Father?’  he whispered. ‘Is there no way of stopping it?’

Roger smiled. ‘You must not go back to that house, my child. Even then you will only delay the inevitable. We must hope he does not find you this time.’

‘What is there to stop him, Father? Has he not found me every time before, no matter where I am? Is there no way of halting the torment?’

‘I am here this time, my child. Perhaps it will be different.’

Margaret rose to her feet, backing away from the centre of the room, horror etched on her face as she listened to her husband and son talking in voices that were not their own. ‘What’s going on?’ she gasped when finally, her back pressed against the wall, she could retreat no further. ‘What’s happened to you two?’

As one, distracted by Margaret’s fear-fuelled whine, Roger and Matthew sank back onto their respective sofas, shaking their heads as if to clear cobwebs from their befuddled minds.

Matthew rubbed a hand across his forehead. ‘It happened again, didn’t it? I blacked out!’ he gasped. He turned to face his mother, and was shocked to see the abject fear etched deep into the creases of her suddenly very old looking face.

Margaret’s voice was quiet when she spoke. ‘You and your father spoke in strange voices!’

‘It’s this damn house,’ Matthew said, having not heard her words. He stood sharply. ‘I’ve always hated it, but never knew why, and I still don’t. Coming back here today was a huge mistake. I should leave.’

Roger stood up. ‘You must not return to Four Oaks, my child!’

‘My child? For god’s sake, Dad, call me Matthew, Matt, or son, but not my child.’

Roger remained silent for a moment, and then repeated his statement, but would not elaborate when Matthew asked why he should stay away from the house he had inherited.

‘If you cannot tell me why, then I see no reason to do as you ask, Dad. It seems to me this house is the problem, not Four Oaks.’

‘But Matthew, remember what you’ve just read… about where the stonework for this house originally came from?’ said Margaret. ‘This house has links with Four Oaks. What happened to you here might happen to you there as well. I don’t pretend to understand what happened to you and your father just now, but I don’t like it. It scared me. It was almost as though you were both possessed. I think your father is right. You should stay away from that house.’

‘On the contrary, Mum, I think Four Oaks is where I’m going to find all the answers to what’s been going on.’

‘I really do think that would be a mistake!’

The veiled threat in Roger’s warning was lost on neither Matthew nor Margaret, who both looked at him apprehensively. Margaret caught her son’s eye, and it was clear to them that they both believed what had taken hold of Roger still had control of him.

‘Well, it’s my mistake to make, isn’t it?’ Matthew snapped. ‘Why break the habit of a lifetime? I never could do anything right. I mean, in your eyes, my entire life has been a constant catalogue of mistakes, so what’s one more?’ He turned to his mother without giving Roger the opportunity to respond. ‘I’ll be in touch, Mum.’

‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right?’ Margaret asked as she embraced her son. ‘Are you certain that house is a safe place to be?’

‘Are you certain this house is a safe place to be?’ Matthew whispered in her ear. ‘Dad’s not exactly himself at the moment.’

Margaret chuckled mirthlessly. ‘Darling, neither were you. Besides, he’s been acting strangely for years. I’m used to it.’

‘Yes, Mum, he’s been acting strangely ever since he first set eyes on this house!’

Margaret held her son at arm’s length. ‘Well just remember that small fact when you go back to Four Oaks.’

Matthew sighed. ‘Fair comment, but you’ve got to admit, it’s all far too much of a coincidence to ignore. Firstly, dad fell in love with this house years ago and forced us to live here, and now we discover it’s partly built using stone salvaged from the old coach house of the property I’ve just inherited. I inherited that property from a woman I’ve never heard of much less met, who originally outbid me for the same house last year… a house I fell in love with the instant I first set eyes upon it in the paper, and fell even more in love with it when I first saw it with my own eyes. Then there’s also the fact that I have had visions where I witnessed both properties in their early years, and both Dad and I seem to have some physical connection to the houses we fell in love with. Whether it’s dangerous or not, it’s far too intriguing to ignore. I have to return to Four Oaks. I have to try and find out what’s going on.’

‘It will be the last thing you do!’ warned Roger ominously from the sofa. ‘He will find you again if you return to that place, and he will kill you, just as before.’

‘God, I’ve had enough of this. I’m off.’ Matthew kissed his mother. ‘I’ll phone you once I get to Four Oaks,’ he added, and then indicated Roger. ‘Keep an eye on him!’

Margaret smiled. ‘We’ve been married a long time, darling. Don’t worry, he won’t harm me.’

As Matthew left the house and made his way down the steep driveway, he hoped his mother was right… and that his father was wrong.

Sunday

October 27th

Joyce awakened to the sound of rain beating down outside, and she turned over in the huge bed with a groan. She had rather hoped Sunday morning would dawn clear and bright after the awful weather of the preceding week had followed Theo and her up to Scotland, ruining their first night at Ravenscreag.

Having found the turnoff for the village easily enough, Theo had driven carefully along the uneven dirt track, its potholes already filled with rainwater, and as the car then meandered its way up the recently shingled driveway to Ravenscreag Hall itself, the heavens opened and released an unrelenting amount of rain.

Lesley was waiting in the huge arched doorway as their car approached, having seen it coming up the driveway from one of the upstairs windows. Joyce and Theo waited in the car for the torrential downpour to abate.

Ravenscreag Hall was even more oppressive up close than in the photos Joyce had seen. As she sat in the passenger seat, staring up at the nonetheless affecting edifice, she felt a twinge of anxiety begin to gnaw at her stomach, and was suddenly reacquainted with her previous fears concerning the stories she had heard.

Even Theo commented on its atmosphere as they waited for the rain to lessen.

When after several long minutes it seemed that was not about to happen anytime soon, Lesley disappeared into the house and returned carrying a large golfing umbrella.

All three were still drenched by the time they had brought the luggage into the impressively oak panelled hallway.

Oppressive atmosphere or not, Joyce and her son could not help but be struck by the splendour of its interior. Having driven all day, they were grateful for the meal Lesley had prepared, once all three had changed out of their wet clothes. Lesley’s stunningly handsome blond-haired husband joined them for the meal, before disappearing once more into his study to continue work on his latest novel.

‘How’s your own novel coming along, Aunt Lesley?’ muttered Theo with a mischievous wink.

Lesley chuckled. ‘Still on the back burner, as well you know, you cheeky sod!’

Theo tutted light-heartedly. ‘Still… after fifteen years?’

Lesley had been working with laborious slowness on her first novel for the past decade and a half, whilst Jack had himself written half a dozen. Joyce had once commented that it was a wonder Lesley had never taken so long to write newspaper and magazine articles during her time as a journalist and editor, and it had developed into a running joke within the family.

‘I might finish it one day, but you know me – I keep coming up with new things to occupy my time… like turning this house into a hotel for ghost hunters.’

They sat and talked for a while about the mysterious history of the house until Theo retired to bed. An hour later fatigue finally caught up with Joyce and she followed him. Having heard so many stories about some of the rooms in the house, she did not relish the prospect of sleeping in a room where she knew someone had died. She was therefore pleased when Lesley informed her that she and Jack occupied the suite of rooms in the east wing where Mary Turner had passed away.

When she had invited herself up to Ravenscreag, Joyce also point-blank refused to go anywhere near the infamous turret room, which Lesley had made very clear was haunted. There was no way she would approach the room in daylight and absolutely no way in hell she was sleeping up there, so it came as a delighted reassurance to find herself placed in the room next to Theo’s, adjacent to the library on the first floor at the front of the house.

There had been little chance of her falling asleep easily on the first night; even though she was exhausted from the long journey, she had thought she would be kept awake by nerves at being in the house, the merest thought of which terrified her still.

However, once under the thick comfort of the eiderdown and blankets, all thoughts of ghosts and wandering nocturnal spirits fled her mind and she felt peace and calm wash over her. She could hear her son in the adjoining room, and a little while later could hear Lesley and Jack going up to their room, but even though she was tired and less unnerved by her surroundings, sleep evaded her for much of the night due to the sound of rain hammering down outside.

It battered against the window and seemed to get heavier as the night wore on, while the wind howled eerily both outside and along the corridor.

Joyce was not certain how long she lay awake, nor what time she eventually fell asleep, but as she awakened with a start once more to the intense sound of the driving rain, she felt as though she had enjoyed less than an hour’s sleep.

Turning and fumbling for the bedside lamp, she snapped it on and squinted in the sudden bright light to look at her watch. It was seven o’clock.

Seven o’clock on a Sunday morning was far too early to be getting up, but having passed the point of being tired she was fully awake in seconds, and found she needed the toilet. She threw on her thick towelling robe, slipped her sock-clad feet into her slippers and left the bedroom, making her way along the shadowy corridor towards one of the bathrooms she knew to be on that floor.

The darkened passage gave Joyce the creeps. She could almost feel the presence of someone standing behind her, watching her every move, but she willed herself into believing it was nothing more than the shadows playing tricks on her overactive imagination. She was half expecting some benign or otherwise spirit to manifest itself before her, to demand perhaps that she leave the house at once.

As far as she was aware though, the spirits that had apparently once wandered the corridors and enjoyed the freedom of the rooms were benign in nature, and she almost wished the spirit of Gloria Schofield might appear to her so she could ask whether the fanciful tales she had heard were actually true or not.

In spite of her unease, Joyce emitted a half-hearted chuckle. Did she really believe it was possible that Gloria had travelled back in time as Lesley had said? Did she truly believe in the tales of ghosts and possession, with which Lesley had again regaled her?

She was uncertain what to believe and what to discard as fantasy, but she felt certain there must be something in much of the tales, for Lesley had never been one to believe in such flights of fancy, and she herself must believe to some degree, she reasoned, otherwise she would most certainly have visited Ravenscreag Hall years ago.

Lost in thought, it was not until she glanced around that Joyce realised she had somehow climbed the stairs to the top floor and was halfway along the corridor.

She froze in her tracks, feeling suddenly sick.

How the hell did I get up here without realising?

She could not fathom what had possessed her to come up to the top floor and walk blindly down this passageway towards the stairs that she knew led up to the turret room.

Was it her imagination, or had she heard a soft footfall from the direction of those stairs?

She tried to turn and retrace her steps, but found her trembling legs rooted to the spot.

She tried to back away, but simply could not move.

She held her breath, hardly daring to make a sound.

There it was again. A definite footstep from up ahead, now accompanied by shallow breathing.

Panic gripped her, but still Joyce could not budge.

As a figure melted away from the shadows and approached her slowly, Joyce opened her mouth to scream, but the scream remained as frozen in her throat as her feet remained frozen to the floor when she recognised the figure.

‘Jack?’ she croaked as the silent figure of her brother-in-law walked slowly towards her. It took a moment for Joyce to realise Jack was naked, and even as she blushed and averted her eyes, she became aware that he did not seem to be awake.

Unable to bring herself to close her eyes, as Jack approached and passed her, she kept them averted.

‘Jack?’ she called again, a little louder this time.

He turned to face her and smiled. His eyes were open, yet curiously unfocussed, and then he spoke, startling her. ‘Good day, gentle lady. Beautiful weather for the time of year, is it not?’ He turned once more from her and continued on his way, as though he had neither seen her nor spoken. Then he rounded the end of the corridor and was gone, descending the stairs.

Joyce remained where she was, heart thumping rapidly in her chest. She forced herself to breathe calmly, but shrieked when another voice behind her told her not to worry about what she had witnessed. Though it felt altogether longer, it took Joyce only a fraction of a second to realise the new voice belonged to her sister.

Lesley placed a hand on her arm. ‘I’m sorry, Joyce, I didn’t mean to startle you.’

Joyce fought the urge to burst into tears, unsure if the urge came from relief, anger or distress. ‘Lesley,’ she gasped, ‘what’s going on? What’s happened to Jack?’

‘Nothing, darling. He sleepwalks, that’s all. Surely you remember that? I guess I’ve taken to following him because I’m paranoid about him having an accident.’

Joyce clutched her hand to her chest in relief and finally burst into tears. ‘I thought he was possessed!’

Had anyone else at any other time made such a statement, Lesley would have laughed, but something in her sister’s demeanour halted the laughter before it even formed in her throat.

It was not the first time Joyce had witnessed Jack’s nocturnal activity. She had visited their London home some years earlier, not long after Theo’s father had died, and Jack had sleepwalked naked into Joyce’s room, climbed into bed with her, told her he loved her, and bade her goodnight. The incident freaked Joyce out at the time, and her screams had brought Lesley running, but had completely failed to rouse Jack.

They had laughed about it afterwards, except Jack, who was mortified, and Lesley found it inconceivable that Joyce should have forgotten.

It was clear her sister had other worries on her mind. ‘Darling, I think we should go down to the kitchen and talk. I think it’s time you told me what’s brought you up here to visit when you’ve been so adamant that nothing would get you to set foot in this house.’

‘What about Jack?’ gasped Joyce as she finally found her voice again.

They heard the sound of a door closing down on the floor below. ‘Sounds like he’s gone to the library. Since we’ve been here, when he sleepwalks, he goes up to the turret room, and down to the library. I’m not sure what’s going on in his mind when he sleepwalks, but it’s probably got something to do with the stories we heard about Gloria Schofield the writer, and what happened to her here.’

Joyce glanced over her shoulder into the shadows, beyond which the stairs for the turret room lay hidden. It was still one place in the house that she had no desire to visit.

‘Come on, Joyce,’ Lesley said in a soft voice. ‘Kitchen! You need to tell me what’s bothering you.’

A little over ten minutes later, the pair sat at the kitchen table, each nursing a steaming mug of tea, enveloped in silence, save for the incessant drumming of the rain outside. Lesley watched her sister intently. Whatever was bothering Joyce clearly was rooted deep within her psyche, and was obviously awkward or embarrassing to talk about. She waited as long as possible for her sister to break the silence, but quickly realised she was going to have to goad her sister into starting the conversation.

She gently placed a hand on Joyce’s arm. ‘Come on, darling, we used to be able to tell each other anything. Tell me what’s wrong.’

Joyce continued staring into the mug of tea on the table. ‘I don’t even know where to begin,’ she muttered. ‘I’m probably imagining things, anyway.’

Lesley chuckled. ‘One thing I do know about you, sis, is that you are not prone to flights of fancy, so I doubt you’re imagining anything.’

‘But what I am thinking is so far fetched.’

This time, Lesley roared with laughter. ‘You are saying that to someone who is opening her house as a hotel to ghost hunters?’

Joyce smiled as she glanced up at her sister. ‘How true,’ she sighed. ‘Tell me about that man whose son was supposed to marry Gloria Schofield.’

Lesley arched an eyebrow inquisitively. ‘Daniel Barncroft? What would you like to know?’

‘He wrote that novel, Into the Light, didn’t he?’

Lesley nodded. ‘And a further three supernatural thrillers after that one. But yes, Into the Light was his first, and in my opinion, his best.’

Joyce stared into Lesley’s eyes. ‘You were friends with them, weren’t you?’

Lesley nodded. ‘I went to school with Gloria, and I am still friends with Louise, Daniel’s daughter.’

Joyce took a deep breath. ‘How much of that novel was really based on fact?’

Doing her best Mister Spock impression, Lesley arched her eyebrow again. ‘The truth?’ she asked, and when Joyce solemnly nodded, she sighed. ‘All of it, actually.’

‘Including the part where the main male character is possessed by the spirit of a dead man?’

Lesley nodded. ‘All of it!’ She spoke softly and shook her sister’s arm gently. ‘Come on, Joyce, out with it. Please? How can I be of any help to you if you don’t tell me what’s bothering you? From your interest in Allan, Daniel’s son, I’d say you believe that someone you know is possessed. Is it Theo?’

Joyce looked up sharply. ‘No! Well… maybe.’ She sighed deeply. ‘I don’t know. The more I think about it all, the more illogical it all seems to me. I can’t make up my mind whether I’m imagining things or not. At first, I thought it was Matthew, Theo’s partner, who was possessed. He’s been acting oddly of late, and it all seems connected to a house he’s inherited from an old woman he didn’t even know.’

Lesley nodded thoughtfully. ‘It always starts with a house. That’s why I bought Ravenscreag from Gloria’s parents, because it’s supposedly haunted. But we’re talking about Matthew, not me. Go on with your story!’

‘Well, I had this really odd feeling that something had changed about Matthew, and I remembered you telling me once that Daniel Barncroft’s novel was based on fact, and that you knew the real people his characters were inspired by. Because of that, and your love for this supposedly haunted house, I figured you might be the best person to come to. I wondered whether you might be able to decide whether he is possessed or not.’

‘I’m not sure I am the best person to make that kind of judgement. Daniel and his wife lived through those events, as did their daughter. Perhaps if I speak to them, they might be willing to have a word with you, though I’m not sure what they could do to help.’

‘The thing is, now I’m not so certain it’s Matthew who’s possessed. Since returning from Spain, Theo’s been acting oddly too. He’s been cleaning and tidying, and all those other things I’ve always had to nag him to do… and he never did them for Matthew before, either!’

Lesley sighed. She knew of her nephew’s volatile relationship with Matthew. ‘Did they have another fight?’

Joyce nodded. ‘A bad one, by all accounts. Theo said he would do anything to make Matthew see just how much he loves him.’

‘Well, there’s your answer to one of the questions. I do believe your Theo is no more possessed than Jack is. Jack sleepwalks, whilst Theo loves Matthew enough to finally realise he has to make certain changes in his lifestyle if he is to prevent the love of his life walking out of his life for good.’

‘And what of Matthew?’

‘Ah, now that’s a different matter altogether. It seems odd to me that a woman he doesn’t know should leave him a house, and equally odd that he should be obsessed by that house. Is this house in a particularly haunted area?’

‘It’s in a village called Elendale.’

Lesley almost dropped her tea in shock. She stared at her sister incredulously. ‘Please tell me that’s some kind of sick joke, sis?’

Joyce shook her head solemnly. ‘It’s no joke, Lesley.’

‘Elendale is adjacent to Neville Hill, where Gloria used to live… where Louise still lives!’ Lesley sat back in her chair, appalled by this turn of events. ‘Well, I think that settles it then. That whole area is an intersection of many ley lines. It’s apparently a very haunted area, with a history of witchcraft… and I’m beginning to think we should have bought a house there rather than up here! One of the hills bordering the valley there is known locally as Wicca Hill, and for good reason! I think it’s highly probable that Matthew has been bewitched by the house, and yes, he might even be possessed!’

‘He’s going there to stay for a few weeks,’ said Joyce with a shiver. ‘Personally, I don’t think it’s a very good idea. I feel something bad is going to happen.’

Lesley clutched her sister’s hands tightly, and when Joyce looked into her face, she was shocked to see the anguish reflected in Lesley’s frown.

‘I fear you may be right, sis,’ Lesley said. ‘I think you and I should visit Louise and her husband, Phil. He was also once possessed. They might be able to shed some light on things!’

Monday

October 28th

Matthew sat in the saloon bar of The Green Woman Inn, staring into the murky depths of his half-pint glass.

He had approached Elendale yesterday morning filled with optimistic excitement, whilst tinged with only a modicum of anxiety. On the journey up from Portsmouth, he had a sudden infusion of inspiration for his new novel, which had forced him to make an unplanned pit stop in Haywards Heath for an hour whilst he jotted down the ideas that continued to come thick and fast.

He decided that staying at Four Oaks was definitely going to be a boon to his writing.

Upon entering Elendale, however, the anxiety suddenly overwhelmed him, and he drove straight past the entrance to Four Oaks, past The Green Woman Inn, and right through to the other side of the village.

Stopping by the village green in neighbouring Neville Hill, he had struggled to calm down and gather the shreds of his resolve. Only after twenty minutes had elapsed did he put the car into gear, drive round the edge of the green, and return to Elendale, where he went no further than the pub, and ended up asking for a room overnight.

He had not slept well, and was jumpy as hell when the twenty-something son of the publican knocked on his door at ten-thirty to offer him a late breakfast. Through the door, Matthew had declined, and in the young man’s response, he felt certain he detected a note of disappointment.

Or was it perhaps just wishful thinking?

The young man, Matthew recalled, was rather good looking.

Having resigned himself to the fact that he could not stay in bed indefinitely, and that he could delay the inevitable only so long, he clambered from beneath the duvet, washed in the small vanity sink beside the door, and dressed in the clothes he had worn yesterday.

So here he was, just half an hour later, sitting at a table in a booth beneath the window, staring into his barely touched lager, wondering whether he should perhaps just go home.

He was still lost in thought when he became acutely aware that a pair of eyes bored right into him. He glanced up, to see a vivacious blonde sitting at the bar, wearing a skirt that was far too short to be appropriate in the summer, much less in the current inclement time of year. She continued to fix him with an unblinking glower, which struck Matthew with a peculiar familiarity. He was quite certain he had not met the young woman before, and yet he felt uncannily that he should know her.

He wanted to speak out, to tell her it was rude to stare, especially in such an openly hostile manner, but something stirred within him, warning him to remain silent.

‘Hi,’ said a male voice from beside him, startling him almost out of his seat, until he realised it was the publican’s son. ‘Sorry,’ the young man continued. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

Matthew felt a glow suffuse his cheeks and he smiled warmly. The young man was as gorgeous as he vaguely recalled from the previous night’s brief glimpse. ‘That’s okay,’ he muttered solicitously, ‘you can startle me anytime!’ His smile faltered when he suddenly realised his playful mental come-on had escaped his mind to find its way onto his lips, and he was momentarily mortified.

However, the sandy-haired youth merely smiled and sat down opposite. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

Matthew chuckled. ‘A rhetorical question, if ever I heard one. It would appear I have no choice in the matter.’

It was the blond youth’s turn to lose his smile now. ‘Oh, I’m truly sorry,’ he blustered, half rising to his feet. ‘If you’d rather be on your own?’

Matthew placed a reassuring hand on his leg to stop him. ‘No, please don’t leave, it’s fine… really.’

The young man flashed his dazzling smile once more and sat again. ‘Good. You have no idea how long I’ve been loitering over in the corner, wondering whether I should disturb you or not. You looked so sad, sat here on your own, and last night you seemed really upset about something.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Liam, by the way, Liam Samwell. My parents run this place.’

Matthew grasped the proffered hand, noticing how beautifully manicured and smooth they were. ‘My name is Matthew Silverthorne,’ he replied, gazing into Liam’s radiant blue eyes, which sparkled with mischievous happiness, and something else that Matthew recognised, but for the moment chose to put aside in his mind. It was obvious that Liam was enamoured with him, and the emotion seemed genuine.

‘Is the lager not to your liking?’ Liam asked, indicating the barely touched drink.

‘I’m sorry; I’ve just been a bit distracted. I had quite a long drive here yesterday, and now that girl over there is giving me the creeps!’ He half inclined his head sideways to where the girl still sat, though she was no longer staring at him and was instead chatting to the woman behind the bar.

Liam glanced over. ‘Oh, take no notice of her. That’s Lucinda, my twin, though you wouldn’t think it to look at us.’ He leaned closer to Matthew. ‘I think she was born with a permanent chip welded onto her shoulder,’ he whispered conspiratorially.

‘Either that, or she’s reliving her teenage years!’ muttered Matthew sarcastically, which made them both laugh uproariously, which in turn earned the pair a withering look of disapproval from Lucinda, and an amused look of curiosity from the woman to whom she was talking.

‘Is that your mother?’ Matthew whispered, noting the startling facial similarity.

Liam nodded. ‘I inherited Mum’s good looks, and Lucinda inherited all of Dad’s bad attitude!’ He grinned at his mother, scowled at Lucinda, and then once again turned his attention to Matthew. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘what’s a good looking guy like you doing in a dump like this? And why are you so sad?’

It felt natural to be chatting to the amiable young man, even though he did not know him, and so Matthew found himself revealing that he was on the verge of splitting from Theo, even though he loved him desperately, and had come to this ‘dump’ to take stock of his life.

‘Ah, so you are gay then!’

‘Do you have a problem with that?’ Matthew snapped defensively, a little louder than he had intended. He was aware of several pairs of eyes as they swivelled around to stare at the man who dared to raise his voice within the peace of the pub. He chose to ignore them all. ‘Sorry,’’ he mumbled sheepishly when he saw the distress in Liam’s eyes. ‘I’m so used to people judging me negatively when they find out I’m gay that I automatically assume everyone is going to be equally prejudicial.’

The distress vanished from Liam’s eyes. ‘So why do you tell people then? Why did you tell me?’

Matthew shrugged. ‘I don’t necessarily tell people, I just choose not to hide the real me, and if someone asks, then I don’t see the point in denying it. As to why I told you about my problems with Theo…’ He shrugged helplessly again. ‘I don’t know. I’m just comfortable sitting here with you, and it just came out.’ He glanced up into Liam’s eyes. ‘Perhaps I recognised a kindred spirit.’

Liam smiled nervously. ‘You think I’m gay, or do you mean I look like I’ve got a broken heart?’

‘I don’t know. You tell me!’

‘Well I can safely say I’ve never been in love before.’ There was a twinkle in Liam’s eyes as he left the statement open, dangling before Matthew in the still air of the pub like a tempting carrot being dangled sadistically just out of reach of a poor starving donkey.

Matthew was not sure what to make of Liam, other than the fact that he was eminently likeable.

Is he interested in me or merely toying with my emotions?

Matthew decided he would quite like to find out the answer. Part of the reason for coming to Elendale was to sort out his feelings towards Theo. Liam might be just the diversion he needed, or perhaps an unwelcome complication, or maybe just a good friend who would be willing to listen should he choose to pour out his innermost feelings.

If Liam required a sounding board for his own problems, Matthew was more than willing to put his own listening skills to good use. As a journalist, he was an excellent listener.

Suddenly aware that Liam was speaking to him, Matthew wryly smiled.

So much for being a good listener!

‘Sorry, what was that?’

Liam chuckled. ‘You were miles away, weren’t you? Wherever you were, I wish I was there too!’ He sighed. ‘I was asking what brought you to Elendale.’

‘I’ve inherited a house in the village, so I thought it would be the ideal place to get away from my life for a while to gather my thoughts.’

‘Must be nice to just drop everything like that. What do you do for a living?’ asked Liam.

‘I’m a freelance journalist, and an unpublished author of two novels.’

‘I’d love to read those someday. I love reading fiction. I read everything, from James Herbert and Stephen King to Jilly Cooper and Danielle Steel. I especially love historical novels, though. The novelist Gloria Schofield used to live near here.’

‘My next novel is going to be a mixture of historical and contemporary,’ Matthew said with a smile, ‘with an added dash of the supernatural.’

Liam’s eyes widened. ‘That sounds like it’ll be right up my alley! What made you think of a mixture like that?’

‘Something about this house I’ve inherited. I’ve been there once already, and it had such an oppressive atmosphere that I ran away like a big girl! I’ll freely admit the place terrified me, yet intrigued me at the same time, so  I decided not to give in to the irrational fears and have come back to spend a little time there.’

‘Only you found you still couldn’t go there, which is why you spent the night here.’

Matthew laughed. ‘That’s very perceptive of you, Liam.’

‘You’re talking about Four Oaks, aren’t you?’

Matthew felt a chill travel the length of his spine at Liam’s softly intoned words. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Intuition! Your own intuition is correct, Matthew. That house has a… reputation. It’s supposed to be haunted. No one will go there, not even in the daytime. Last year one of the villagers bought the place and moved in. She died recently and apparently left the house to someone in her will. No one knows who the mysterious benefactor is.’

‘Well, now you know! Elaine Oakhurst left the house to me, one year after I unsuccessfully tried to purchase it myself!’

‘You’re kidding?’

Matthew shook his head. ‘So as you can imagine, there are lots of questions I seek answers to, and I feel those answers can be found up at that house.’

Liam was silent for a few moments. ‘If you’d like, I could go there with you,’ he suggested in a near whisper. ‘Ghost’s don’t frighten me, and I’ve always wanted to see the inside of Four Oaks. It’s not my property, and I’m not about to go breaking and entering!’

‘That’s good to hear!’

‘Which bit? The breaking and entering bit, or me going with you?’

Matthew’s eyes penetrated Liam’s. ‘All of it,’ he said in a gentle voice.

Liam stood up almost too eagerly. ‘Come on then, let’s go!’

*

With slowly mounting anxiety, Chloe Samwell watched her son from behind the bar as he flirted openly with the stranger.

She had been slightly shocked when he came downstairs earlier announcing that the new guest did not want breakfast. She had caught the way Liam stared at the stranger last night, shortly after his arrival, and she knew there would be trouble. It had happened several times in the past couple of years.

Since coming out to her four years ago, Liam had made no effort to hide his new found confidence, and though she was proud of the fact that he felt it unnecessary to pretend to be anyone other than who he was, she sorely wished he would refrain from latching on to good looking patrons.

Sometimes his flirting was subtle and so innocent that it went unnoticed by anyone other than her. At other times, it was so overt that her husband noticed it and he was not as tolerant as she was.

Ainsley was devoutly religious. Sex before marriage was a bad enough sin – Lucinda would most likely burn in hell for her crime. Homosexuality was the worst sin as far as he was concerned. There was no punishment strong enough for such heinous deviancy. He had wanted to disown Liam. To wash his hands of the abomination was the only way to cleanse the family, kick the filth out into the streets to prevent any further sullying of his already tarnished household.

It had taken a whole week of permanent fighting and screaming and arguing on Chloe’s part to force Ainsley into showing a degree of leniency. She told him that they had recently entered the Twenty-first Century, yet he was still living in the Nineteenth where his prejudice about his son was concerned. Was Liam really any different now that they knew the truth? He was still the same person. He was still their son. If Ainsley kicked Liam out onto the streets then he would have to kick her out too.

Ainsley had enough love for his wife to make a solid effort. He allowed Liam to remain at home, and vaguely accepted the fact that he would never marry, but the truth was swept under the carpet, a taboo subject, discussion about which was totally forbidden within the walls of their home. What Liam did in his own time outside of the home was his own business. Ainsley did not want to know about it, and certainly had no wish to discuss it.

If Liam abided by his father’s rules then he could stay, but he would be out on his ear if he flouted those rules, which was why Chloe was anxious as she watched her son openly flirting with the stranger.

Liam only behaved in such a manner when his father was not around, but Chloe knew Ainsley would be back soon from the Cash and Carry. If he should witness what was going on his temper would flare. Chloe did not like to think of the consequences, and was therefore relieved when Liam and the other young man arose to leave.

‘Lucy, could you mind the bar for a few minutes while I have a few words with your brother? I’m just going to find out who our guest is, and where they are going.’

Lucinda pushed her long blonde hair from her face and scowled. She hated being called Lucy, but knew her mother was not about to stop calling her that any time soon, so she decided to bait her instead. ‘No need for that, Mum. His name is Matthew Silverthorne. He’s the one who’s inherited Four Oaks. That’s where they’re off to!’

Chloe blanched. ‘How do you know they’re going to that accursed place?’

Lucinda snorted her irritation. ‘I could hear their conversation from here. Dad will go spare when he finds out Liam’s fallen in love!’

‘Fallen in love? Don’t be so ridiculous, Lucy. He’s only just met that man. He barely knows anything about… Matthew.’

‘Well he has fallen for him. Can’t you read body language, Mum? Dear God, you’ve been working behind a bar long enough to observe people. Surely you can tell the body language of someone who’s in love?’

During their exchange, Lucinda had not taken her eyes off her brother and his companion, a fact that had not passed by Chloe unnoticed, who did recognise the unpleasant attributes of lust and jealousy when she saw them.

‘Well, I don’t want Liam going up to that house,’ she said as she watched the pair walk towards the door. ‘Liam,’ she called out loudly, ‘could I have a word with you, please?’

‘Later Mum,’ Liam shouted over his shoulder.

Growling her annoyance, Chloe moved towards the entrance and was just about to repeat her request for Lucinda to watch the bar when her daughter dropped off the barstool and began walking towards the door. ‘Lucy, where are you going?’

‘For a walk!’ Lucinda snapped without turning. ‘I’m twenty-two, Mum, and my name is not Lucy. I don’t need permission to go for a bloody walk!’

Lost for words, Chloe watched in silence as her daughter left the pub. She knew there was going to be even more trouble than ever now.

Lucinda was wrong. Chloe could read body language.

Her son’s was clear enough – he was infatuated by the young man, Matthew Silverthorne, though she doubted very much that it was love.

Matthew’s body language was a little more difficult to decipher. She felt he was perhaps flattered by Liam’s attention, but she could tell that he was not necessarily interested – it was as if his affections lay elsewhere.

But then there was Lucinda.

Lucinda could be bossy, rude and aggressive. When she wanted something, the word no was not in her vocabulary and she would not stop until it was hers. When she saw a man she wanted, she would ruthlessly pursue him with relentless ferocity until he capitulated to her will, and she was undeniably infatuated with Matthew too.

If – as Chloe felt was fairly obvious, even to the most naïve onlooker – Matthew was gay, then there was no way Lucinda would be able to get her claws into him, but that would not stop her from trying.

Lucinda’s body language screamed jealousy. She had never been interested in any of the men to whom Liam had shown affection before, and as far as Chloe knew, there had never been a man before who had declined Lucinda’s charms.

‘There’s going to be blood spilt before this day is over,’ Chloe mumbled to herself as she moved back behind the bar.

Lucinda stood in the small car park outside The Green Woman Inn, watching silently as Matthew and Liam climbed into the red car. As they drove off, a wind sprang up from nowhere, whipping her blonde hair around her head like Medusa’s snakes. The pub sign creaked and groaned in the unnatural breeze above her.

‘You cannot escape from me,’ she whispered to nobody in particular as the car disappeared around the bend in the leafy lane. ‘Not again! I know exactly where you are going.’

She started walking. Cutting through the fields on the opposite side of the road, she ignored the muddy quagmire caused by the recent incessant rain, marching as though possessed by some inner fury. She ignored the wind that appeared to follow her, trying to rip her hair out by the roots. She ignored the branches of the overhanging trees at the edge of the fields as they whipped and scratched at her exposed arms and face when she passed by. She ignored the cold rain as it once again started falling, gently at first but with increasing ferocity. Coupled with the wind, it was as though the forces of nature tried to prevent her progress.

Nothing was going to stop Lucinda from reaching her destination, though. She did not even pause to wonder why she chose to walk through the muddy fields. They might have been the most direct route, cutting out the narrow winding country lanes, but it was hardly the most practical route under the extreme elemental conditions.

Yet nothing appeared to slow down her progress, and as she approached the fence on the opposite side of the fields, she saw a flash of red speed past.

‘Yes, I thought so, you are returning home!’

With renewed resolve, Lucinda pressed onwards, scrambling over the fence with ungainly ease in time to see Matthew scramble back into his car a little way along the lane, and then the car disappeared through the gates of Four Oaks.

Lucinda walked towards the gates and paused as the wind dropped suddenly. Halting just outside the boundary of the estate, almost as though some physical energy prevented her from proceeding, she grimaced, moaning softly as if in pain, but the moment passed and she continued onwards through the gates.

‘Can I help you, Miss?’

The sudden strangely high-pitched male voice from behind startled her and brought her to a halt just inside the gates. She turned, to find a rather robust young man with black hair standing a short distance behind her. He was incongruously dressed in an immaculate dark suit, and did not appear unduly affected by the rain.

Lucinda faltered uncertainly. She frowned, and looked around at her surroundings fearfully, uncomfortably aware that she was soaked to the skin. ‘Where am I?’

‘You are trespassing on private property!’

Lucinda stepped back through the gates. ‘I am so sorry, I didn’t realise, Mister…’

‘Revenant. My name is Max Revenant.’

‘Well, I am very sorry, Mister Revenant. I didn’t mean to trespass on your property. To be honest, I don’t even know how I came to be here.’

Max stepped hesitantly closer. ‘Don’t worry, Miss, I won’t tell anyone. It’s not my property though. I am the estate agent who has been dealing with the transferral of deeds from Elaine Oakhurst’s estate to that of Matthew Silverthorne. I am supposed to be meeting him here to sign a few pieces of paperwork.’

‘Oh right,’ muttered Lucinda, clamping a hand suddenly to her forehead.

Max stepped closer in concern. ‘Are you all right, Miss?’ he asked, reaching out as if to touch her shoulder.

‘What?’ Lucinda gasped, shuddering as mental images from some other place distracted her as they flashed into her mind without warning. She did not notice as Max snatched his hand back quickly. ‘Yes, I’m fine, I think. I just have a bit of a headache.’

‘Perhaps you would be better off returning home then, Miss?’ Max suggested helpfully.

‘Yes, I think you might be right.’

Lucinda passed by the young estate agent and started walking down the lane. She halted in her tracks. ‘Hang on a minute, since when do estate agents deal with the estates of dead people?’ she cried, turning to face Max sharply.

She was astonished to discover he was nowhere to be seen.

‘Hello? Mister Revenant?’ she called.

There was no response except for the wind, which returned as suddenly as it had outside the pub.

Lucinda backed away, then turned and ran down the twisting lane, not pausing for breath until she reached The Green Woman Inn.

‘Coward!’ she snapped. ‘You could have taken him with ease.’

Still, there would be plenty of time to deal with the wretched child, who had once more returned to the scene of the crime.

‘Now I know you’ve returned at last, vengeance shall be mine!’

*

Louise was in the back garden cutting back the shrubs, making the most of the brief respite in the rain and lost in the silence of the morning, when the discordant noise of the telephone made her jump. She ran into the cottage, pulling off her gardening gloves as she reached for the telephone.

‘Hello?’ she said, setting down the gloves and secateurs.

‘Hello darling.’

She smiled. ‘Hi Mum, how are you?’

‘I’m very well thanks,’ said Susan on the other end of the line. ‘Is it all right if your father and I pop by later with a couple of visitors?’

‘Yes of course it is. Who are you bringing? Rachel?’

Susan chuckled. ‘No darling, it’s not Rachel. I’m not telling you who it is, either. It’ll be a surprise.’

‘A pleasant one, I hope!’ muttered Louise with a smile. ‘What time are you coming?’

‘May we stay for lunch?’

‘Of course you can. I’ve always got plenty of food in, and the children are at school, so it’ll be peaceful.’

‘Is Phil there?’

‘No, he’s meeting new clients this morning. His landscape gardening business is really taking off in a big way. He’s getting new work all the time. At this rate we’re going to need even more staff.’

‘How many people does he employ now?’

‘Six, at the moment, but with all this extra work I think that’ll have to double.’ Louise frowned. Though her mother liked Phil well enough, she had never shown any interest in his work.

Gardening had always been his forte, and since leaving Scotland, he had gradually established himself as a gardener, first in Neville Hill, before expanding his area and adding staff to help. Word of mouth spread his name rapidly, and Phil McFadyen became the much sought after byword for a well-designed garden. His fees commanded upwards of ten thousand pounds once he established his reputation as an exceptional landscape gardener, and he was frequently turning work down around the county due to time constraints.

Students graduating from University who wanted to achieve his status frequently begged to be given the chance to prove themselves within his company, and he was as selective about whom he took on as an apprentice as he was about which jobs he accepted.

Three of his apprentices worked full time for him at the nursery he owned in nearby Edenbridge, cultivating a huge variety of plants that were hardy to the inclement British weather, including a large number, once prolific in Britain, which had been gradually dying out in the wild over the Centuries.

The fact that Susan had suddenly developed an interest in Phil’s work caused suspicion to rear its head in Louise’s mind. ‘What’s going on, Mum?’ she demanded in as level a voice as she could manage.

‘Nothing,’ Susan retorted, a little too hastily. ‘It’s just a pity Phil won’t be there. I could do with him being around when we arrive.’

Louise arched an eyebrow. ‘Oh. Any particular reason?’ she asked, gripping the telephone receiver tighter.

Susan sighed deeply. ‘It’s probably best not to go into details over the phone, darling. Better to wait until we get there. We’ll aim to be with you around midday, if that’s all right?’

‘Yes, that’ll be fine. I have to admit, you have intrigued me now, Mum.’

Louise did not bother returning to the garden when she hung up. Her mother’s call perplexed her, and she could not begin to wonder who the mysterious visitors were.

Her nerves were beginning to fray, and at midday, she found herself peering eagerly through the front window as she heard a car pull up outside, almost shrieking with delight when she saw Lesley coming up the path ahead of her parents, followed by another woman who so resembled Lesley that she could only be her sister. Louise recalled that she had met Lesley’s sister only once, many years ago, but could not remember her name.

She rushed to open the front door, and she and Lesley embraced warmly. ‘Lesley, I didn’t expect it to be you, coming with Mum and Dad!’ she cried. ‘You’ve already been down once this summer, after all.’

Lesley smiled at her. ‘I know. I hadn’t planned on coming back again this year, but my sister came to see me on a personal matter, which brought me back down.’ She stepped to one side, beckoning forward the other woman. ‘This is Joyce.’

‘Hello Joyce,’ said Louise, smiling warmly as she reached out to briefly hug her. ‘I think we met once, many years ago.’

‘Did we?’ murmured Joyce, pleased at the friendly reception.

‘I came to visit Lesley once when we were teenagers. You were getting ready to go out on a date.’

Joyce smiled apologetically. ‘I’m afraid you have a much better memory than I, my dear. Sorry to say, I don’t recall meeting you.’

‘There’s no reason why you should. I only remember because it was the only time I ever visited your family home, and also the only time I met any of Lesley’s family.’ Louise bent close to Joyce’s ear. ‘I couldn’t remember your name though,’ she whispered, ‘so we’re even!’

Joyce chuckled. ‘That’s all right; I’m hopeless at remembering names and faces anyway.’ As she trailed behind the others into the cottage, she paused to remove her shoes. It was a reflexive move; something she had always done, ever since as a child, when she visited a maiden aunt, her mother insisted she remove her muddy shoes. On each subsequent visit, Joyce automatically removed her shoes, and then found herself doing the same whenever she visited the homes of her friends.

‘This is an absolutely lovely cottage, Louise,’ she said as she followed Lesley – who had only removed her own shoes when she saw her sister doing so – through the living room into the kitchen, where Louise was already busying herself at the sink. ‘It’s deceptively spacious.’

‘Thank you,’ Louise said with an appreciative smile as she finished washing her hands. ‘This house dates back to the Seventeenth Century. It was built on the site of Neville Manor, which was the ancestral home of Isabella Neville, the Sixteenth Century writer.’

‘Didn’t Gloria Schofield live here, before her disappearance?’

Susan glanced up from where she was preparing a pot of tea. ‘Joyce wants to hear about Gloria and Allan, darling.’

Louise dried her hands and glanced from her mother to Joyce, who hovered uncertainly in the doorway. ‘Is there any particular reason you wish to talk about them?’ She tried to avoid talking about such events, even to her parents, having had her brother die at an early age a year after losing her best friend in bizarre circumstances,. Not talking about them made it slightly easier to deal with; not talking about it meant she could pretend Allan and Gloria were merely living far away with no means of communication.

If she started talking about them and events that had occurred all those years ago then she would have to admit that they were gone and would not be coming back.

Peter’s reappearance she could just about deal with; Gloria and Allan’s deaths she could not. It still haunted her, even fifteen years later.

‘I have a strong suspicion that my son’s boyfriend has been possessed by a spirit,’ said Joyce after a few moments. Suddenly feeling rather self-conscious, she realised she had to go through with this now she had come this far. She was only trying to help Matthew, after all, and Theo too, admittedly. She was glad he had not wished to accompany them to the cottage, choosing instead to spend time browsing Crowborough’s shops, and without him around she freely told Louise everything that she had already told Lesley and Susan, and even telling it a third time made it sound no less ridiculous.

‘Why are you telling me all of this?’ asked Louise, having listened intently, whilst at the same time reheating a pot of homemade vegetable soup she had prepared that morning.

‘Lesley told me about what happened to Gloria and your brother, and what happened to you. She felt you might be able to give me guidance on how to find out whether Matthew is possessed or not.’

‘Because I was taken over by the Seer?’

Joyce nodded. ‘But your mother thinks your husband would be a better person to speak to.’

Louise turned to face Susan. ‘You told her about Phil, after I asked you to speak to no-one about it!’

‘Darling, I didn’t think it would matter, with Joyce being the sister of one of your friends who already knew about it all, and under the circumstances, considering what she has just told us, and thinking of what you said Peter Neville told you through Phil, do you not see a possible connection?’

‘What connection?’ asked Joyce with a frown. ‘What are you talking about?’

With a sigh, Louise turned off the heat and stopped stirring the soup. She faced the others and falteringly told the gathered group all about the foretold return of Sawyl Gwilym and about his lair on the slopes of Wicca Hill. ‘The village of Elendale, where this house Four Oaks is situated, is itself located right on the edge of Wicca Hill. It seems likely that Sawyl Gwilym, if he really has found a way to return, will manifest himself near to his lair. Perhaps we could find out some of the history of the house, to see whether it has some direct connection to the warlock at some point in history.’

Joyce was aghast at the sudden implication. She had firmly believed that if Matthew really were possessed, then it would be by a benign spirit. However, now it seemed highly likely that he was under the influence of one of the most evil men imaginable.

‘Peter will be able to tell us,’ Louise said with a reassuring smile, though she was not at all happy that they might have located the vengeful spirit. ‘A possessed person can see any spirits that might be hiding in other people, so we just have to find a way of getting close to this friend of your son’s, and Peter will be able to tell whether he is possessed by Sawyl, or by some other spirit.’

‘So your husband really is possessed then?’ gasped Joyce. ‘Does that not freak you out at all?’

Louise chuckled slightly. ‘I could pretend to be nonchalant about it and say it doesn’t affect me in any way, but I’d be a liar, and a terrible one at that. It scares the hell out of me, because Peter Neville appears completely without warning.’

‘This spirit, Peter Neville, he comes and goes at will?’ queried Joyce. ‘He takes control of your husband as and when he sees fit? Do you not find that rather alarming? What kind of person, whether they are dead or not, chooses without compunction to take over the body of someone else?’

‘He does so to warn of impending danger,’ muttered Louise defensively, though Joyce could tell the same thoughts had clearly gone through her mind, perhaps on more than one occasion.

‘And what of the other spirits I have heard mentioned?’

‘They all have a purpose, I am sure,’ replied Louise. She stared at her mother. ‘It’s really weird, talking about this with other people as though it’s the most natural thing in the world, when really the opposite is true.’

‘I agree, darling,’ sighed Susan, ‘But it would seem these possessions are not merely limited to our area. If Sawyl possesses this man Matthew, you would have thought there would have to be some sort of connection to this area. I know Matthew has just inherited Four Oaks,’ she added hastily, catching Joyce’s eye, ‘but that hardly connects him to the area.’

‘He was here last year,’ Joyce murmured, barely able to face anyone. ‘He came here to view Four Oaks when it was for sale, but he was unsuccessful. The woman who has bequeathed it to him purchased it. Does that not strike you as particularly odd?’

Susan and Louise both agreed there was definitely something peculiar going on, but they could still not decide how Sawyl had managed to return – if indeed Peter’s premonition was true.

‘Lesley, can I ask you something about Ravenscreag?’ Louise asked after they had sat in silence for a few moments.

‘Sure, Lou, what’s on your mind?’

‘Well, has anything… odd… happened recently?’

‘Odd? In what way?’

Louise sighed. ‘In any way? We’re trying to work out how Sawyl Gwilym cheated death.’

‘Surely he has just been reincarnated again?’ said Lesley, interrupting her friend. ‘Didn’t you say that last time his spirit was reincarnated into the body of Phil’s sister?’

Louise nodded. ‘That’s perfectly true, but for his spirit to be reborn, his receptive body must be whole.’

Lesley’s eyes widened in appalled shock at the intimation. ‘Oh my God, I’m not going to like where this story’s going, am I?’

‘Probably not. Mary Turner knew that when Wilma died it would be only a matter of time before Sawyl was reborn again, so she made quite certain he would be unable to do so.’

Lesley held up her hand, silencing Louise. ‘Actually, I don’t need to hear the rest. I can guess what Mary did, but I’d rather remember her as that sweet old lady I met at Rachel and Jeremy’s house than as a butcher.’

‘If it makes you feel any better, it wasn’t actually Mary who… did the deed. She made someone else do it.’

‘Not you!’ gasped Lesley.

Louise shook her head. ‘No, but under the influence of the Seer, I feel I could have done so. The two parts of her body were kept separate. You haven’t unearthed the head?’

‘No! Don’t you think I’d have mentioned such a gruesome discovery?’

‘I guess so, but that was the only explanation I could come up with.’

‘Has it occurred to anyone that perhaps this vile man’s spirit departed that poor girl before her body was cleaved in two?’

Everyone turned to face Joyce, who had been listening intently to the exchange in silence. She glanced from her sister to Louise. ‘Well, you only mentioned the possibility of reincarnation when you spoke of the girl’s body, but up until now we’ve been talking about possession. Perhaps this Sawyl was only possessing the girl, and in the short space of time between her death and actually cutting her body in two, his spirit fled.’

It was such an obvious suggestion that Louise almost laughed. ‘I could kick myself for not thinking of that before,’ she said. ‘If that’s true, then we know how the warlock is able to live again, but to my knowledge, for a spirit to be able to fully possess someone then the new host has to have some direct link to the invasive spirit. The question becomes, does Matthew have a connection to Sawyl? We’re right back where we started again.’

‘Matthew’s actually moved into Four Oaks,’ said Joyce. ‘I’m not only the mother of his boyfriend, but I’m also his cleaning lady. It would seem to me that he might just be in need of my services at this house.’

‘I see… a good plan, sis,’ chuckled Lesley. ‘If you can convince him to let you stay there and clean the house for him, you might be able to dig up some information about the property.’

‘And the woman who bought it last year,’ murmured Louise. ‘I think that place has to be the link, and that she was the catalyst. Yes, I think it’s an excellent plan… if you can pull it off. And I’ve just had a brilliant idea of how we might be able to get Phil close enough to let Peter judge if he’s inhabited by a spirit.’

*

Matthew parked the car outside the stone and redbrick house, and stared up at the imposing double front doors. The black paintwork was dirty and peeling in places, the brickwork grubby, and coated in green algae nearer the ground where there was obviously a problem with rising damp. The steps leading up to the front doors, damaged due to neglect and decades of winter frosts, sprouted weeds through the resulting cracks in the crumbling stone.

The wind, which blew up from the road, whistled past the small car, hurling autumnal leaves around in a mini tornado at the corners of the steps, whilst the drizzle that had started just after they left the pub turned into a downpour, hammering remorselessly against the car roof.

‘Guess we might have to wait out the deluge,’ muttered Matthew, glancing across at Liam, who sat transfixed by the house. ‘Are you all right, mate?’

Liam nodded solemnly. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just – this is the closest I’ve ever been to this house, and I’m suddenly very afraid, and I don’t know why.’

‘That’s probably down to its reputation. It has an aura of decay, don’t you think?’

‘Yes,’ Liam responded in a hoarse whisper, sinking low into the seat.

Matthew sensed that Liam’s apprehension was greater than his own. ‘Listen, you don’t have to come in with me if you really don’t want to.’

‘Something inside me tells me I must go in,’ whispered Liam, casting a brief glance in Matthew’s direction. ‘Besides, what harm can possibly befall us? It’s only a house, when all is said and done.’

‘That’s the spirit!’ cried Matthew enthusiastically, thumping him on the shoulder.

Liam rubbed his shoulder ruefully and returned his gaze to the house.

The pair sat in silence for a while longer, waiting with growing impatience for the rain to cease, and when it became apparent that it was not going to happen any time soon, they agreed to make a dash for the front door. Getting drenched would no more kill them than setting foot inside the house would.

Matthew did not bother pausing to lock the car after he and Liam stepped into the deluge. They slammed the doors and raced for the steps, bounding up them two at a time until they reached the top. Once again, Matthew selected a key at random from the large bunch, and was even more astounded than he had been the first time to discover he had once more selected the correct key.

They dived through the door and into the dry relative warmth of the house, and the door banged shut behind them.

Matthew shook the rain from his hair and shivered slightly, unsure whether it was purely because it was so cold, or whether it was from unease. Pulling off his sodden jacket, he was struck by how chill the atmosphere in the house felt, despite its initial warmth upon their entry.

‘It’s kind of musty in here, don’t you think?’

Liam’s voice seemed loud in the hollow silence, startling Matthew. ‘Yes,’ he responded, ‘but then, I don’t suppose anyone has been living here since Elaine Oakhurst died.’

The pair glanced around themselves curiously. All the doors on the ground floor were closed, adding darkness to the murk that enveloped them. Peering through the gloom, they could just make out the sweeping curves of a grand staircase up ahead.

‘I think the first thing we should do is open all the doors and windows down here. It’s no colder outside than it is in here, but the air’s so stale inside – a bit of fresh air might breathe new life into this house, and give it a whole new atmosphere.’

Liam glanced at his companion. ‘Do you really think fresh air will make this place seem any nicer?’

Matthew chuckled. ‘Probably not, but it’ll help get rid of the musty odour.’ He indicated the left hand side of the hallway. ‘You do that side, and I’ll do this side.’

Tossing his jacket on the floor beside the front door, he opened the door immediately to his right and entered the room without giving Liam the opportunity to object. If they stood there discussing the matter, he felt sure neither of them would move from the hallway. He had no particular desire to be separated from the personable young man, of whom he had grown inordinately fond during the incredibly short space of time they had known one another, but told himself mentally not to be an idiot: no harm would befall either of them whether they were together or not.

Matthew entered the dingy room, finding himself in what appeared to be a study. The drapes clung limply to each side of the two large windows, but the grime-encrusted glass filtered out most of the natural light, affording the room a permanent twilight. He wondered whether the other rooms were as dank and dirty; it was more than a possibility, but at the same time seemed a little odd. The house appeared to have not been lived in for decades rather than months.

He marched over to the nearest window, almost tripping over the curled up edge of the large, ornately patterned Persian rug which dominated the floor, and threw open the window with a resounding crash. Only a little more light drearily filtered into the room from outside, along with the rain that still cascaded down from the bruised sky. The windows would not be open for very long, otherwise the house would develop an indoor swimming pool.

Crossing to the other window, Matthew opened it rather more cautiously, and as he stood there, feeling the spray as it hit his face, cleansing the mustiness from his nostrils, he squinted through the driving rain down the driveway, to the gates and the road beyond.

He could see the figure of a man, standing there, staring up at the house. The man looked vaguely familiar, even from a distance, but when Matthew blinked away a droplet of rain that splashed directly into his eye, the figure had disappeared.

Shrugging, putting it down to a trick of the feeble rain-sodden light, Matthew turned from the window and glanced around the room.

The walls were a faded mustard colour, and there were several darker patches where paintings had obviously been removed at some point. A few bookshelves, overstuffed with reference books, stood between the windows, whilst a sofa of indeterminate colour and age rested against the wall adjacent to the door. The only other furniture in the room was a large oak desk with a leather swivel chair, which faced the side aspect window.

Every surface within the room was coated in a thick layer of dust, further indication that the room had seen no regular use for many years. Elaine Oakhurst had clearly not occupied this study during her brief tenure at Four Oaks.

Leaving the room, Matthew walked down the hallway to the next door, and opened it to find himself in a well-stocked library. He crossed the dusty wooden floor and opened the windows, noting at once that the rain had stopped as suddenly as it had started.

He did not linger to inspect the books. He instead exited the room and made his way to the next, which turned out to be a large sitting room, complete with several overstuffed sofas, a large fireplace, two windows on the right hand side, and a whole wall of French windows that opened out onto a verandah, leading down to the rear gardens.

‘Lovely,’ he whispered as he opened each of the French windows in turn and stepped out onto the verandah. The clean smell of fresh rain lay thick on the air and made a marvellous change to the musty odour that permeated every room within the house.

The paved decking beneath the vaulted colonnade was still damp and slippery with algae where it had not been cleaned for some considerable time, and Matthew trod carefully as he moved further into the fresh air.

The early afternoon sun was low in the sky, now cloudless and blue. It was odd, mused Matthew idly, that the rain stopped so quickly, and now all remaining traces of the weather had vanished from the sky. The only indication that it had been raining was the dampness of the ground and the smell that wafted across the overgrown yet impressive gardens.

Widening stone steps led down from the centre of the verandah onto the lawns, overrun with weeds, which swept down towards what looked like a river, some several hundred metres away, beyond which lay acres of forest that spread outwards in all directions, above which towered an impressive hill.

Matthew shielded his eyes and stared at the foreboding hill. Almost hidden from view by the uppermost branches of the trees, revealed perhaps because nature had denuded them, he could just make out a craggy formation that appeared to be the entrance to a cave. As he caught sight of it, a shadow moved across it.

For a moment, he could have sworn he saw the figure of a man, staring down at him, before disappearing.

Was it yet another trick of the increased light?

It was the second time his attention had been inexplicably drawn towards what at first glance appeared to be a watching figure, and the fact that both figures disappeared disturbed Matthew. Due to his unease surrounding the house, his senses were heightened and he was not sure he could trust what he thought he had seen.

Am I being watched, or is my imagination playing tricks on me?

He blinked and continued staring at the topmost reaches of the hill, but after a few minutes, having witnessed no further indication of movement, he retreated once more into the house.

As he re-entered the sitting room through the French windows, Liam came through the internal door.

‘I’ve opened the windows in the kitchen, dining room, and another sitting room,’ Liam said as he and Matthew met in the centre of the room. ‘Out of them all, only the kitchen can be described as being clean. The others are all caked in dust and grime, almost as though they haven’t been used in decades.’

Matthew nodded. ‘Much like the rest of the house, I expect. Only this room out of the ones I’ve been in is dust free. I guess Elaine Oakhurst only used these two rooms down here.’

‘Yeah, that would make sense if she was living here for less than a year.’

‘Did you know her at all, Liam?’

Liam shrugged. ‘A little, I guess. As far as I’m aware, she lived in Elendale all her life. My parents moved here just before Lucy and I were born, but didn’t have much to do with the villagers until they became the landlords of The Green Woman Inn about ten years ago. I only knew her to look at, and maybe say hello in the pub, but I never really knew her that well. Mum would probably be the best person to ask about her. Mum seems to know everyone in the village, but then I think most of the villagers are regulars at the pub.’

‘So you have lived in Elendale all your life?’

‘Yeah. Mum was a barmaid at the pub, way before she and Dad took it over, and apparently, she went into labour whilst serving the old girl who once lived in this very house. Apparently, she was never the same after that, so I’ve heard it said. She apparently died here in very mysterious circumstances, and her ghost apparently still haunts this house.’

Matthew chuckled. ‘And apparently you only know what you have been told.’

Matthew’s subtle dig went over Liam’s head. ‘Yeah, I’m afraid I’ve never really been interested in local history, even though Mum has tried to ignite my enthusiasm by telling me all the local legends.’

‘Did she tell you anything about that hill?’ asked Matthew, pointing through the French windows.

‘That’s Wicca Hill,’ responded Liam cautiously. ‘The villagers don’t talk about it much. The whole place is supposedly cursed by the spirit of some guy called Sawyl Gwilym, the so-called Warlock of Wicca Hill. They say he murdered loads of people in his time.’

‘When did he live?’

Liam shrugged. ‘Hundreds of years ago, I think. There was also supposed to be a coven of witches who lived in the network of caves up there, which is how the place got its name in the first place.’

‘Seems like a colourful history!’

‘Oh you have no idea! The forest that surrounds Wicca Hill is known locally as Dead Man’s Wood, because some stupid old hag in the Middle Ages dabbled in the black arts when she didn’t know what she was doing, and conjured up loads of dead spirits who were trapped in the woods.’

Matthew chuckled. ‘I thought you said you had no interest in local history?’

‘I don’t really, but locals don’t ever forget about Dead Man’s Wood, because at night you can sometimes hear the wailing of the dead souls coming from the woods. No one is stupid enough to go there at night, and few are brave enough to even venture there in daylight.’

Matthew arched an eyebrow. ‘And have you been brave enough… or foolish enough?’

Liam nodded tremulously, turning quite pale, as though unwilling to recall the events of the past. ‘Just the once, and I nearly shit my pants!’ He suddenly appeared vulnerable and fragile beneath the immense weight of the terror he felt.

Matthew was immediately intrigued, but decided not to press Liam further. He placed a reassuring hand on the terrified young man’s shoulder. ‘Hey mate, it’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.’

‘It’s not really a case of not wanting to talk about it, it’s just that… well, I can’t actually remember what happened. The memory is there, lodged in my brain, but I’m too afraid to reawaken it. Something must have happened to me, or else I saw or heard something, but all I really know is that the place scares the life out of me!’

‘When was this?’

Liam thought for a moment. ‘I was about six at the time. I think it would have been around 1987. I’d not long had my birthday, so it would have been around July.’

‘You were six? What were you doing in the woods?’

‘I used to hang around with a few boys who were slightly older than me – about ten, I’d guess. I don’t know why they let me tag along all the time – thinking back on it all, I must have been a real pain in the arse most of the time. Anyway, one day we were dared to go into the woods by the older brother of one of the boys, and the others were all game for it, so I went with them, even though I knew my parents would flip! So anyway, into the woods we all went, and all I can remember is waking up screaming, with the other boys sitting around, cowering in fear.’

‘Did any of them tell you what happened?’ gasped Matthew.

Liam shook his head. ‘Not one of them ever spoke of the incident. They all swore each other to secrecy, and I wasn’t about to tell anyone I’d been into the haunted woods, so it’s never been discussed since.!

‘And now you’re older, have you thought of asking the others about what happened to you?’

‘One of them committed suicide when he was fifteen, one is in a mental institution, and the other two have moved away, I don’t know where to.’

‘So I guess you wouldn’t be willing to accompany me into the woods tomorrow, then?’

Liam’s eyes widened in appalled horror. ‘Why in God’s name would you want to go into the woods?’

‘If this is to be my new home, then I feel I should explore the good places and the bad! It should help stimulate further ideas for my new novel as well. Besides, just now I was certain I saw movement near the top of the hill.’

Liam backed away from Matthew, clearly terrified. ‘You saw movement? Human movement?’

Matthew followed Liam’s backtracking figure with alarmed curiosity. Never before had he witnessed such abject fear etched so totally upon another person’s face. ‘I’m not certain,’ he responded truthfully. ‘It could have been a man, or it could have been a shadow. I definitely saw a man down by the gates not long after we arrived here, but I blinked and he disappeared. Then, when I was looking up at the hill I was sure I saw the figure of a man, but again, I blinked and he was gone. If it was a man, then clearly someone isn’t afraid of being in the woods!’

‘Well they should be!’ snapped Liam. ‘Only a fool would trespass within Dead Man’s Wood.’

‘Well then, tomorrow I guess that fool will be me.’ Matthew took a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m not going to try and force you to come with me if you really don’t want to, but if we can spend the night in this allegedly haunted house together with nothing bad happening, would you at least consider it?’

‘You want me to spend the night with you?’ The excited gleam that crept into Liam’s eyes vanished with sudden sadness when Matthew idly commented that they would be occupying separate rooms. ‘Well of course, I know that,’ Liam blustered. ‘I meant you want me to spend the night here in Four Oaks with you?’

Matthew smiled. ‘Yes, if you would like to. I’d really rather not spend my first night here alone, and I don’t think you are an axe murderer.’

Liam stifled a chuckle.

‘What are you giggling about?’

Liam shook his head. ‘Nothing. Schoolboy humour!’

Matthew joined in the chuckling. ‘Well, I can probably guess then! Anyway, would you spend the night here in this house with me?’

‘I’d love to, but only if I can come in with you – I don’t want to be in a room on my own!’

‘All right then,’ Matthew agreed, with only marginal resistance. ‘And should I allow you to sleep in the same bed as me, and we make it through the night without disturbance, will you at least consider accompanying me into the woods tomorrow? Facing your innermost demons might yet stir up the memory of what happened to you fifteen years ago.’

Liam agreed with a great deal of reluctance.

‘Excellent,’ Matthew responded with a grin. ‘Right then, seeing as it’s stopped raining, why don’t we go and fetch the provisions I’ve brought with me, have a drink, and then we can take a look around upstairs.’

Half an hour later, the pair sat on the low stone wall on the outer edge of the verandah, staring across the green vista of the gardens towards the darkened trees beyond.

Occasionally, Matthew sensed that Liam was observing him as surreptitiously as possible, which in such close proximity was impossible not to notice. Matthew chose not to return furtive glances at his new friend. He was distracted by images of Four Oaks, which kept intruding into his mind; images of the past, which in turn brought recollections of his weekend visit to his parents’ house.

He thought of the peculiar events that had occurred at Silverthorne Lodge: his father’s warning against returning to this house, and the girl’s voice, which had been haunting his waking thoughts for months now.

‘Something bad happened here,’ Matthew said aloud without thinking. Sensing Liam’s unease at his ill-judged observation, he finally turned to face his companion. ‘My father warned me not to come here,’ he sighed. ‘Somehow he has knowledge of something terrible that happened here, perhaps centuries ago.’

‘I don’t understand,’ whispered Liam, fearfully.

‘Neither do I, but I have to try and find out what happened, and to whom, before Dad goes mad. Our house in Portsmouth is partly made from stone that once stood somewhere in these grounds.’

‘The old coach house!’

Matthew frowned, ‘How do you know that?’

‘I… I don’t know,’ gasped Liam uneasily. ‘It just… sort of popped into my head.’

‘Do you believe in ghosts and spirits, Liam?’

Liam nodded emphatically. ‘Most definitely. You can’t live in this area and not believe in ghosts!’

Matthew took a deep breath. ‘I think someone was murdered in that old coach house, and when the building was demolished and the stone was transported to Portsmouth to help build our family home, I believe the spirit came too!’

‘So your home in Portsmouth is haunted too?’

Matthew shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘I don’t personally recall any ghostly goings on at the house, but Mum and I recently came to the conclusion that Dad started behaving oddly when we moved to the house, and at the weekend, his behaviour was very odd. He spoke in a completely different voice to normal, and that was when he warned me to stay away from Four Oaks.’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘I’m certain it was not my father speaking, and I’m convinced he wasn’t actually talking to me.’

Liam’s eyes widened as he understood perfectly to what Matthew was alluding, and he nearly dropped his mug in shock. ‘Oh my God,’ he gasped, ‘you think you’ve brought a spirit back home!’

‘I really don’t know what to think. I keep getting images of this place from long ago popping into my mind, not to mention the fact that I keep hearing a child’s voice in my head. Do you know of any girl who might have been murdered here?’

Liam pursed his lips for a few moments as he thought hard, but finally shook his head. ‘As I said, I don’t really have a lot of local knowledge… only bits and pieces I’ve overheard through the years which were interesting enough to stay in my mind.’

Matthew wanted to laugh. He found it incredible that anyone could spend their entire life in such a small village, and not only know few of the other inhabitants, but also possess such scant knowledge of the village’s history. ‘I thought she might perhaps have been one of that warlock’s victims?’

‘I wouldn’t know, Matthew. I’m sorry, I really am useless.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Matthew said with a reassuring smile. ‘I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. You can help me unlock the mysteries of this house, if you want to?’

Liam smiled too. ‘I think I’d like that. How are we going to unlock these mysteries?’

‘Well, you can introduce me to people you actually know in Elendale. They might have enough local knowledge to piece together some of the mysteries. Plus, there might be documents hidden somewhere in the house itself.’

‘You mean like the deeds?’

Matthew nodded. ‘Yes, the deeds, and perhaps letters and journals. Who knows?’ He stood up and pointed to the crest of Wicca Hill in the distance. ‘And then there’s that place. The Warlock’s cave. You say it’s supposed to be high up on the hill, facing this direction?’

‘Possibly. I don’t recall it’s exact location. All I know is it’s on Wicca Hill.’

‘Well, I’m absolutely convinced I saw a figure up there earlier, so it’s either a ghost from the past, or someone is staying in that cave.’

‘If they are, then they’re completely mad!’

Matthew glanced at Liam. ‘Then they are completely mad, and tomorrow so will we be – because in the morning, you and I are going up there!’

*

After all the visitors had departed, and Phil had returned home having picked the children up from school, Louise took her husband quietly to one side and informed him of the day’s events.

‘You’re not convinced this Matthew Silverthorne is possessed by Sawyl, are you?’ Phil said when she had finished.

Louise sighed. ‘I don’t know. He’s not the only person who’s appeared to be acting oddly of late, and I can think of someone with a less tenuous link to events of our past who has been behaving strangely.’

‘Glory?’

Louise nodded. ‘I’d have thought Peter would have picked up on Sawyl’s spirit if that were the case, but who’s to say Peter is always with you?’

‘My dear, I have seldom left this place in the past twelve months,’ said Peter Neville, appearing unannounced through Phil once more. ‘I can assure you that, were your daughter under the influence of Sawyl Gwilym, then I would know. Trust me when I say she is not possessed by any wayward spirit.’

‘Hello, Peter, nice of you to drop in again,’ Louise muttered with slightly more sarcasm than she intended. ‘Are you positive about that?’

‘I am, my dear. There is no residual energy permeating your daughter’s aura. It is more difficult for an invasive spirit to hide within the body of a child. Children are too open and honest to make a suitable hiding place, especially as they enter puberty.’

‘All those raging hormones make it difficult for a spirit to gain control?’

‘That is indeed the case. Were Sawyl attempting to hide within Glory, he would be revealed constantly.’

‘I thought perhaps that was why Glory has been acting strangely, because her control over her own body kept slipping?’

Peter shook his head. ‘No. Were she possessed by Sawyl, we would all most assuredly know it!’

‘So why has she been acting so strangely? Until recently she’s been a right little madam, and now all of a sudden she’s as sweet as apple pie, being helpful around the house and not arguing constantly.’

‘Perhaps you should do the mother-daughter talk?’ Phil suggested softly, as he reasserted control over his body. He was proud of the fact that even when Peter was in control, if he wanted to say something he had developed the mental strength to break through that control – although it did occur to him that perhaps Peter allowed him to speak. ‘Maybe there’s something going on in her life right now that she’d like to talk about, but can’t quite bring herself to raise the subject personally.’

‘Like what?’ demanded Louise frostily. ‘She’s fourteen! What could possibly be going on in her life that’s brought about such a radical change to her behaviour?’

Phil arched an eyebrow. ‘Dear lord, Lou, can’t you remember what it was like to be a fourteen year old? Raging hormones and all that!’ He chuckled. ‘It wasn’t that long ago!’

Louise’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, you think she’s discovered boys?’

Phil smiled. ‘Darling, it was only a matter of time, and it would explain a few things. So… don’t you think it’s time to have that mother-daughter chat?’

Louise nodded emphatically, half relieved to find a logical explanation that did not involve spiritual possession, yet half terrified to realise her daughter was blossoming into womanhood. Glory was no longer her little girl. ‘My God, when did she grow up?’ she pondered aloud. She faced Phil. ‘I’ll talk to her after dinner. But what about Matthew Silverthorne? Does Peter think the plan is a good one?’

Phil relaxed and allowed Peter to come forward once again. ‘Indeed I believe it to be a most excellent idea. Sawyl shall not be able to hide from me this time.’

‘And what do we do if it’s not Sawyl?’

‘We wait. The warlock shall reveal himself in due course, but should we catch him off guard then we stand a better chance of defeating his evil.’

‘Have you any idea how we’re going to do that? I mean, if chopping someone’s head off is the only way to prevent reincarnation, I’m not sure I want to be party to that – especially since it appears to have not worked on him on two separate occasions!’

‘I think we should try another method,’ Peter said. ‘The Seer shall know how we might defeat him. We must consult with Thaumaturgia Anathemas!’

‘I am not having that creature back in my body again!’ shrieked Louise. ‘I still have nightmares from the last time!’

‘Fear not, my dear. Here, Thaumaturgia requires no vessel through which to channel her energies. Here is where her power is grounded. She can do so much more here than she could do at Ravenscreag Hall.’

‘Because her lair is within the woods?’

‘Yes, in part, and because of the excess of ley lines hereabouts. But enough, I grow weakened by all this talk. I must conserve my strength.’

Peter vanished once more, and normality resumed at Snowfield House.

Tuesday

October 29th

Lucinda stood in the early morning gloom, shivering as the wind blew icy rain against her already numbed cheeks, unsure what had possessed her to return to Four Oaks.

After sitting alone in her room at The Green Woman Inn for most of the previous evening, refusing her mother’s request for assistance in the bar, she had waited in the dark until long after everyone else had retired to bed and had then left silently via the side staff entrance.

This time she travelled along the grass verge on one side of the narrow twisting lane, aware but unconcerned that any speeding night-time driver might easily kill her.

Upon reaching the gates to Four Oaks, she stood on the grassy bank opposite and remained motionless, staring up at the house, her mind devoid of all thought. She had no idea why she was there, and when the rain started again in the early hours, drenching her within minutes, she longed for the dry warmth and comfort of her bed. Yet something prevented her from turning away, something stopped her moving from her vantage point. She could not will her legs into life. It was almost as though some external force took control of her body.

As oddly disconcerting as it was, she remained curiously unafraid, as though some inner subconscious thought sought to comfort and reassure her.

Soaked to the skin and chilled to the bone, she remained there, unmoving, until the first rays of the dawn crept over the horizon behind her, gradually illuminating the house up ahead. She watched transfixed as her shadow gradually elongated, stretching out across the lane and up the driveway, where it disappeared into lingering gloom.

With the continued onslaught of the driving rain, she reasoned that she should not actually be outdoors, yet still something compelled her to remain where she stood, cold and wet.

She became aware of a presence standing behind her, rustling in the shrubbery bordering the field. She frowned, and then smiled. ‘Ah, so there you are, at last,’ she uttered beneath her breath as a veil slipped away, revealing innermost hidden thoughts that were not her own.

The spirit had awakened in her mind long ago, keeping to the shadows of her subconscious to maintain protection against discovery, emerging only when he had a task to perform, and only then when he felt it was safe to do so. Her innocence had protected him, but the time had come for him to make his move now all the pieces were in position. His patience rewarded, now he could strike back against she who had wronged him.

He needed to assuage this girl’s fears first, though.

I have been with thee for some time, my dear. I have been awaiting just the right time to make my presence known to thee.

‘And that time has arrived at last?’

Indeed it has.

‘What do you want of me?’

I require use of thy physical presence so I might complete my task.

‘What is your task?’

That I cannot answer.

‘Cannot, or will not?’

Thou must judge that for thyself.

‘But you want me to help you?’

That be correct.

‘Okay, so tell me, who are you?’

That I cannot answer.

‘So you want me to help in a task, but you cannot tell me what that task is, and you cannot tell me who you are? Well, be like that then, but don’t expect much cooperation from me if you’re not going to be more forthcoming.’

Thou hast little choice my dear. I can control thy body at will. That be why thou art standing here in the rain. I can make life most unpleasant for thee shouldst thou resist me.

‘Well then, perhaps we can help each other out.’

Explain thyself!

‘Well, clearly there is a connection between you and this house. I want to get closer to the man who lives here. Help me achieve that, and I’ll do anything you ask of me!’

Deal!

Having apparently concluded the conversation with the voice intruding in her mind, Lucinda turned her attention to the equally intrusive presence behind her.

‘You can come out now, Mr Revenant. I know you are hiding in the bushes.’

Max dragged his bulk sheepishly from the hawthorn hedge, smoothing down his black suit, which was as immaculate as ever. ‘How did you know it was me?’

Lucinda smiled benignly. ‘Well, you were lurking around here yesterday, so it was just a lucky guess.’ Her smile faltered slightly as she noticed Max was not even slightly damp. ‘It must be quite sheltered in that hedge.’

‘Yes, I guess you could say that,’ the rotund young man said with a knowing smile. ‘So what are you doing, loitering here at this time of the morning… and in the pouring rain?’ He pushed his hand through his black hair, and satisfied that every aspect of his appearance was immaculate, put his hands in his trouser pockets, adjusted his stance, and fixed Lucinda with an unnervingly unblinking stare of unabashed superiority.

Lucinda was not about to be intimidated by him. ‘I might ask you the same question, Mister Revenant; after all, which of us was hiding in the bushes?’ she snapped.

Max blinked once, but his demeanour did not falter. ‘I suppose that might appear a little odd. Well, if you must know, I am in love with Matthew Silverthorne, and have been ever since I first met him last year.’

‘He’s not interested in you though!’ snorted Lucinda, making no effort to hide her sarcasm. ‘How could anyone be interested in a fat, greasy lump like you?’

Her barbed comments splattered across Max’s emotions like venom, yet he remained impassive. ‘He would show more interest in me than he would in you, my dear, and you know it. I love him from afar, knowing he won’t look at me twice, but you lust after him, believing you can turn him from his destiny. You will ultimately destroy your soul if you continue down this path, and I won’t allow you to take Matty with you!’

Lucinda laughed hollowly. ‘Matty! My God, with just one word you make him sound like a child!’

‘Matty is a child, as well you know! Do not pursue this course of action that you have planned.’

He doth know I be here! Thou must leave this place at once.

Momentarily distracted by the sudden unannounced return of the voice in her mind, Lucinda lost her balance and staggered slightly. She recovered her composure rapidly. ‘Well, we’ll have to let Matty decide then, won’t we? I’m going to get some dry clothes, and then I’m coming back to speak with my brother. He is the one Matthew has ensnared… I must rescue him.’

Realising she was waffling, Lucinda turned and started walking fast down the lane, She paused, intending to throw one final barbed comment in Max’s direction, but when she glanced over her shoulder, he was nowhere to be seen.

‘Where’s he gone?’ she demanded. ‘He keeps disappearing.’

The voice within her head did not respond. It was obviously information she did not need to know - or perhaps the presence in her mind did not know.

Now there’s an interesting notion, she thought. Perhaps this spirit is not all knowing after all! I wish I knew who it is, and why I have been chosen as the vessel of communication.

Her mind filled with thoughts, not all of them her own, Lucinda once more returned to The Green Woman Inn, barely managing to sneak past her parents, who were already up and cleaning the bar.

*

Matthew awoke with a startled gasp, sitting bolt upright in the strange bed, the thick blanket falling away to expose his naked chest. For a moment, he could not remember where he was, but then he recalled the events of the previous day, and knew he was in one of the bedrooms of Four Oaks.

He had not expected to get anything that remotely resembled a decent night’s sleep, but as he sat there, feeling remarkably refreshed and invigorated, he realised he had slept completely undisturbed throughout the entire night.

He could not help chuckling at the irony. That was something he seldom achieved at home, yet here, in a supposedly haunted house that had terrified him for some as yet still unknown reason, he had finally achieved something superior to a mere decent night’s sleep.

A sudden rustling and snorting sound from the end of the bed made Matthew squeal, clutching the blankets to his bare chest. His heart thudded agonizingly against his chest wall, while his throat ached as he held his breath in anticipation, half expecting some horrible apparition to extend its presence upwards.

There was another brief rustle from the floor, and then silence.

Hardly daring to move, Matthew remained where he was for several long drawn out minutes that seemed to last an eternity, before his inner voice of reason told him quite sternly not to be such a big girl’s blouse.

Moving as quietly as he could, he extricated himself from the tangle of bedclothes and crawled down the length of the bed, peering over the end – to find Liam, sprawled out on the floor, a pillow beneath his head, and a couple of blankets covering his body.

Matthew smiled. Clearly, his own sleep had been so deep that he had not heard Liam enter the room at some point during the night, obviously unable to sleep himself. Matthew was quite enchanted by the fact that not only had Liam not awakened him, but that he had also chosen to sleep on the floor instead of climbing into bed with him.

As if sensing that he was being observed, Liam suddenly opened his eyes, and smiled when he saw Matthew’s face peering down at him. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Is it morning already?’

Matthew nodded. ‘I slept like a log.’

‘I didn’t,’ sighed Liam, climbing shakily to his feet. He kept the blanket wrapped around his body. ‘I kept hearing things as I was trying to get to sleep: footsteps, voices, moaning, laughing, screaming; you name it, and last night I heard it! Didn’t you?’

Matthew pursed his lips, and then shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t hear a thing. I think I must have fallen asleep the moment my head touched the pillow.’

‘I guess I must be more attuned to ghosts than you. One came into my room in the night.’

Matthew’s eyes widened as he moaned in excited fear. ‘You saw one? A real ghost?’

‘No, but my door opened and closed of its own accord, and then footsteps came across the floor towards the bed. The air got very cold too. I just grabbed the pillow and blanket, and legged it out of there.’

Matthew found himself shivering with anticipation. ‘I kind of wish you’d woken me up!’

‘You want to see a ghost, don’t you?’ gasped Liam incredulously.

Matthew nodded enthusiastically. ‘I think it’s the fear of the unknown that makes this house so damned creepy; not knowing whether it really is haunted or not. Perhaps I’m mad, but I believe that if I see a ghost, if I prove to myself that they exist, then I won’t be so frightened of them. The fear they hold over me comes from not knowing whether they are real or not.’

‘Trust me, they’re real! Ghosts exist in this house. I’m not sleeping on my own here again.’

Matthew chuckled impishly. ‘Are you sure this isn’t just a crafty ploy to get me to share my bed with you, young man?’

Liam made a face of mock-offence. ‘How could you even suggest such a thing?’ He grinned. ‘The thought had crossed my mind, but I decided against it. We’re getting on so well, I didn’t want to ruin our new friendship.’

‘Very wise. Listen, we can always drag one of the other beds in here, if you’re going to stay.’

A shadow of disappointment flickered briefly across Liam’s eyes. It was an understated display of the young man’s emotions, which did not pass unnoticed by Matthew, who felt marginal sympathy for the lad.

‘I can’t get involved, Liam,’ he said gently. ‘I still love Theo.’ His words took him by surprise. He had come away from Portsmouth to write in peace, and to sort out his feelings for Theo. Unbidden, yet reawakened by the proximity of a devilishly handsome young man who was clearly enamoured with him, his feelings for Theo resurfaced. They were genuine and unfettered by bitter recriminations.

Yes indeed – I love Theo!

Matthew patted Liam’s hand affectionately. ‘I know you’d like there to be more between us, mate, but it can’t happen. I’m so sorry.’

Liam pulled the blanket tighter around his body, smiling through his pain of rejection. He shrugged his shoulders with a sigh. ‘Ah well, I guess I’ll just have to worship you from afar.’

‘Don’t worry; someone else will come along who will love you in return!’

‘I know you’re right, it’s just… I was hoping…’

‘You were hoping I was the one. Liam, mate, you’re young; you’re inexperienced. With time, you will learn to tell the difference between lust and love. Anyway, enough of that, who do you suppose visited your room last night?’

‘How should I know? Elaine Oakhurst, probably!’

Matthew scrambled from the bed, moved to the window, and flung aside the heavy velvet drapes that all but obliterated the light, dismayed at the sight of yet more rain. ‘Well,’ he said with a sigh, ‘it looks like it’s too wet to go traipsing all the way up to the hill today. I suggest we get dressed and have some breakfast, and then thoroughly explore this house.’ He turned to face Liam again. ‘If you still want to spend time with me?’

Liam smiled, ‘Yours isn’t the first knock-back I’ve had, Matt, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. I might be young and inexperienced, but I’m mature enough to maintain a newfound friendship.’

‘Good, because I actually really like you, Liam, and I’d hate to think of our friendship ending over this.’

Liam came to stand beside Matthew, staring out of the window. For some reason, he felt aggrieved at the prospect of not going up to Wicca Hill. He felt certain another day or two would make little difference, and yet he desperately wanted to go there now.

He leaned into the window alcove, pressing his forehead against the cold glass as he squinted into the distance. ‘There’s someone down by the main gate,’ he said, not taking his eyes off the figure, who stood clearly visible on the other side of the gates.

Matthew felt a chill as he slowly started to turn. ‘Is it a fat young man?’ he muttered.

‘No, it’s a woman.’

‘Oh!’ Matthew faced the window quickly, peering out into the deluge. He could see the female figure, but her features were hidden beneath the umbrella she carried to shield herself from the rain.

‘Do you know who she is?’ Liam asked, turning to glance at Matthew, who shrugged. ‘Well, perhaps one of us ought to go and see what she wants?’

‘There’s no need,’ sighed Matthew as another figure joined the woman as the gate. He instantly recognised the second figure, and he felt anger bubble slowly within him. He threw on his trousers and a jumper, and slipped into his shoes as quickly as he could, ignoring Liam’s impassioned plea for an explanation.

He ran from the room, leaving Liam beside the window, listening to Matthew’s footsteps as he hurtled down the stairs, tripping occasionally over the untied laces of his shoes. Upon hearing the front door open, Liam returned his attention to the window, staring down through the driving rain to watch as Matthew raced down the driveway to the gates.

It was then that Liam realised an older man had joined the woman, and was clearly unwilling to set foot in the grounds, even as Matthew opened the gates and beckoned them in.

Cajoled by the woman, who now stood beside Matthew with her back to the house, the man took one faltering step past the boundary of the estate, and then another.

Even from his vantage point at the window, Liam could tell the man really did not want to be there.

Probably heard all the ghost stories, he ruminated wryly as he wondered who the two people were, and whether he would be expected to remain hidden from them, or whether it would be all right to go downstairs and meet them once Matthew brought them up to the house.

He decided that since nothing had happened between Matthew and him, he had no reason to remain secreted upstairs, so he returned to his room, dressed, and then made his way down to the ground floor, where he busied himself in the kitchen, making a pot of tea.

Eventually, he heard footsteps and muted voices, and he poked his head into the hallway. ‘I’ve just made a pot of tea, Matt,’ he called.

‘Thanks, Liam. Could you bring it into the back sitting room, and bring a couple of extra cups for my guests.’

Liam placed the teapot and cups on a tray, along with the bag of sugar, carton of milk and spoons, and lifting it carefully, made his way from the kitchen and into the sitting room facing Wicca Hill.

Sitting in one of the armchairs, Matthew glanced up as Liam entered the room. He smiled, though Liam sensed he was not exactly happy. ‘Thanks, Liam.’

Liam glanced at the man and woman, who sat apart on the sofa. The middle-aged woman gave him a curious look of deflated defeat. He had no idea who she was, but guessed Matthew would introduce her in due course.

The man resembled an older version of Matthew, so Liam correctly guessed he must be his father. Liam knew hardly anything concerning Matthew’s family, but one thing they both knew about each other was their respective fathers’ mutual dislike for their lifestyle choices.

Liam set the tray down on the low table beside the sofa, aware that both newcomers were scrutinizing him carefully.

‘Liam, I’d like you to meet my father, Roger, and Joyce, Theo’s mother.’

Ah, thought Liam at that revelation. That explains the look she gave me. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you both,’ he smiled as he poured them each a cup of tea, passing them the cups with slightly trembling hands.

Roger in particular unnerved him, but he could not say why.

‘Thank you, young man,’ said Joyce as she took the proffered cup.

Roger remained tight lipped and silent, as though not wishing to trust himself to speak.

‘So then, what brings the pair of you to this neck of the woods?’ Matthew muttered, holding tightly onto his own cup. ‘Did you come up here together?’

‘Oh no, dear, I had no idea your father was coming,’ said Joyce hastily. ‘I’ve been staying with a family friend in the neighbouring village.’

At Joyce’s words, Matthew arched an eyebrow. ‘Coincidence?’

Joyce chuckled. ‘Hardly. It’s coincidence that Elendale is the neighbouring village to Neville Hill, where she lives, but it’s you I came to see, Matthew.’

‘Really? Why?’

Joyce sighed. ‘It occurred to me that this big old house you inherited, having probably been empty for months, might be in need of a damn good clean.’ She glanced around and wiped a finger over the surface of the side table. ‘All things considered, it would seem you might not need my help after all!’

Matthew laughed. ‘Joyce, you haven’t seen the other rooms!’

Joyce rubbed her hands together with glee. ‘Thank the stars. I was beginning to think I’d had a wasted journey.’ She indicated Liam, sat on one of the other chairs at right angles to the sofa she shared with Roger. ‘So, who’s your young friend here?’

‘This is Liam Samwell, a local lad. His parents run the local pub, where I stayed when I fist arrived here.’

Joyce arched an eyebrow. ‘You didn’t come straight to the house?’

Matthew shook his head. ‘Can you not feel the strange atmosphere in this house?’ When Joyce indicated that she could not, Matthew sighed. ‘You will, dear, you will – if you stay here long enough.’

‘If it’s that bad, why are you staying?’

Everyone turned to face Roger as he spoke for the first time. He was staring intently at his son, completely ignoring the other pair.

‘Don’t let’s start arguing, Dad,’ Matthew sighed. ‘I think you made your feelings about me coming here perfectly clear back in Pompey.’

‘I thought so, but you chose to ignore my words of warning, and so now here you are, telling us you have first hand experience of the nature of this house.’

Joyce faced Roger on the sofa. ‘Can you sense it too, then? Am I alone in not understanding the nature of the house? Am I the only one who cannot feel this… atmosphere… to which you refer?’

‘This house is cursed,’ intoned Roger, as though Joyce had not spoken. ‘I tried to prevent you coming here, but in disobeying my request, you will have awakened the spirits that reside within the four walls of this dwelling place.’

‘Hang on,’ countered Joyce, frowning. ‘Matthew said the house had an atmosphere, which was why he stayed at the local pub to begin with, but you are saying his presence here has reawakened the spirits. Surely the spirits must have already been awake to give the place the atmosphere that so terrified Matthew?’

‘Very astute, me dear,’ muttered Roger softly. He looked across at her. ‘There are a great number of spirits occupying this house, but there are also those who lay dormant until their kindred spirit returns.’

‘You mean that in coming to this house, Matthew has reawakened another long dormant spirit?’

Roger turned to face Liam, frowning slightly. ‘I don’t know what your connection to my son is, young man, but I would recommend that you not stay here. I fear bad things are about to happen.’

‘Dad, stop it!’ snapped Matthew, rising angrily to his feet. ‘Liam is here as my guest. This is my house, and I decide who stays. Just because you disapprove of my lifestyle, that does not give you the right to try and frighten my friends out of my life.’

Roger fixed Matthew with baleful eyes. ‘I care not about such matters, child. I merely have no wish to witness an innocent hurt when the path of vengeance is followed once more.’

When Roger spoke in the distinctly different yet oddly familiar voice, Joyce shifted away surreptitiously. She glanced in Matthew’s direction, relieved only slightly by his indication that she should not be unduly alarmed.

Liam smiled uneasily at Matthew. ‘Don’t worry, Matt, perhaps your father is right. Maybe it’s best if I do leave. I ought to let Mum know I’m okay, anyway.’

‘Please don’t leave on account of my father,’ Matthew said, seeking to reassure his young friend. ‘That wasn’t him speaking!’

‘Yeah, I kind of guessed that. Look, it’s all right, really, I’ll see you around the village I’m sure, but for the moment, I shall leave you and your… father… to have a little chat.’

Matthew followed Liam from the sitting room, leaving Joyce and Roger alone.

‘Who… who are you?’ Joyce managed to whisper, as Roger turned to regard her curiously.’

‘I am Hrothgar. I have come home to protect my child!’ Roger responded in the same peculiar variant of his own voice.

‘Your child?’ gasped Joyce as she struggled to comprehend what was going on. ‘Am I to understand it that you are a reincarnated spirit, and that the spirit of your child is reincarnated in Matthew?’

‘That is so.’

‘And your child is in danger?’

‘Indeed, the child has been in danger before, but I have never been close enough at hand to help. This time it is different. I can help this time.’

‘But who are you?’

Matthew chose that moment to storm back into the room. ‘For fuck’s sake, Dad, what’s wrong with you?’ He glanced at Joyce apologetically. ‘I’m sorry for my language, Joyce, but really!’ He returned his angry gaze to his father. ‘You really are the absolute limit, Dad! Liam is just a friend, nothing more. Nothing happened between us last night, and nothing is going to happen, either! There was no need for you to frighten him away from here like that.’

‘I’m sorry, son. Believe it or not, I didn’t actually come here to fight with you.’ Roger once more spoke in his normal voice, much to the relief of Joyce.

‘So why did you come here then?’ demanded Matthew tersely.

‘To make certain you are all right. I meant what I said about believing something bad is going to happen. Something has been awakened within the walls of this house, and it’s not good news.’

Matthew sank into the armchair once more. ‘My God, you really are serious, aren’t you?’

Can it be that I have misjudged Dad all these years, wondered Matthew?

Can it be that Roger Silverthorne actually cares enough about Matthew to have made the long journey, just to check he is all right, mused Joyce?

They both pondered the possibility that the spirit Roger carried within him had brought him to Four Oaks.

It was disconcerting to think that a spirit could take control of another person. At times, Matthew felt it was all in his own imagination, which was why he felt the urgent need for proof that ghosts and spirits did exist. If it could explain his father’s constant odd behaviour, then perhaps their father-son relationship might yet be salvaged, and if no proof should be found, then that would indicate to him that for whatever reason, Roger was merely pretending to be possessed from time to time.

Matthew was unsure which of the two was the more preferable scenario.

‘Listen, you two,’ Joyce began, trying to choose her words carefully, ‘I don’t know what’s going on here, and I’m not entirely sure I want to know, either.’ She faced Matthew. ‘If you want me to clean the house for you, I’m still willing to do so, but if there’s any chance I’m going to be in some kind of danger, well then I’m afraid I shall leave you to it. Supernatural shenanigans give me the willies.’

Roger smiled at her. ‘Worry yourself not, gentle lady,’ he intoned once more in the odd voice, ‘you have nought to fear. None of these happenings concerns your good self.’

Joyce rose to her feet, holding up her hand for silence. ‘Enough already,’ she stammered. ‘I think it’s best that I leave you to it.’

She almost ran from the sitting room, with Matthew close on her heels. ‘Joyce, please wait,’ he called after her.

Joyce whirled around, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. ‘Matthew, how can you possibly remain so calm about all this? Your father is possessed by the spirit of some other man, who is here to help protect…’ Her voice trailed off as Matthew laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

‘Did he say who he was, this spirit?’

Flustered by Matthew’s apparent calmness at the situation, it unnerved Joyce more that he should be taking such unnatural events in his stride than it did to hear Roger speak with the strange inflection to his voice. ‘You know?’ she gasped. ‘You know that he is being possessed?’

Matthew patted her hand, offering a vaguely reassuring smile. ‘It’s all right, Joyce, Mum and I know he is possessed by someone else, but we just don’t know who. Apparently, I’m possessed too.’

‘You are possessed?’ gasped Joyce, eyes wide with shock. It had not occurred to her that Matthew might know of this fact.

With a wry smile, Matthew nodded. ‘Apparently it is so, yes.’

Joyce emitted a deep sigh. ‘Well, that explains a few things.’ She caught Matthew’s look of curiosity, and with a soft chuckle, patted his hand. ‘You and I need to have a conversation, Matthew, without your father hanging around!’

‘Hmm,’ Matthew intoned thoughtfully, raising one eyebrow inquisitively. ‘This sounds rather intriguing. Can it be you know more about what is going on than I do? All of a sudden you seem rather unfazed by all this.’

Joyce interrupted him. ‘Oh believe me, Matthew, nothing could be further from the truth. I’m petrified by the prospect of someone I love being possessed, or whatever is really happening, however, more than ever it merely reinforces the fact that you and I need to talk, in private… urgently!’

‘Okay, Joyce. Are you staying in the village?’

Joyce nodded. ‘I am staying with one of my sister’s friends. She’s the mother of Gloria Schofield.’

‘Getaway!’ gasped Matthew incredulously. He leaned in close. ‘Has she said anything about Gloria’s mysterious disappearance?’ he whispered.

‘I can’t comment on that,’ Joyce replied. ‘It’s not my place to do so.’ She fished in her handbag to withdraw a piece of paper and a pen, and after a few moments of thought, wrote down Rachel Schofield’s address. ‘If you go from here to The Green Woman Inn, carry on walking and take the first turning on the left, and her cottage is the last one at the very end of the lane. Come for dinner this evening. Six o’clock. We can talk then.’

Matthew took the paper without even glancing at it, folded it, and put it absentmindedly in his pocket. ‘Are you quite sure it’s okay for you to be inviting me to dinner at someone else’s house, Joyce?’

‘Yes, I’m quite sure. Anyway, I shall be doing the cooking. I’d better go now – I have a lot to get on with today.’ Joyce fixed Matthew with an unwavering stare. ‘Promise me you’ll be there tonight?’

‘Okay, I promise I’ll be there at six o’clock,’ sighed Matthew.

Joyce prodded his chest with her right index finger. ‘Don’t be late!’ She opened the front door and left the house, walking down the driveway without a backwards glance.

Only after she walked through the gates and disappeared from view did Matthew close the front door and return to his father in the sitting room. ‘Well done, Dad,’ he mumbled sarcastically, flouncing down once more onto his chair. ‘How to drive your son’s friends out of his own house in one easy lesson.’

Roger ignored his son’s words. ‘Well then, child, has anything happened since your arrival in this place? Have there been any strange occurrences?’

‘And there you go again, speaking in that bizarre tone of voice. You are the only strange thing that’s happened, Dad. Are you going to explain what’s going on now, or am I to be left in the dark again?’

‘Have you seen any strange people exhibiting strange behaviour?’ intoned Roger, still ignoring Matthew’s questions.

‘Again, only you!’

‘I sensed something in the house as I arrived, It has gone now though. Think, child. Are you certain you have seen nothing odd?’

‘You really are serious, aren’t you?’ whispered Matthew, abandoning levity for dread.

‘Deadly serious! Think, child. Anything?’

‘Well… yes, there is something odd. Last year, when Elaine Oakhurst beat me to the purchase of this house, I met an estate agent called Max Revenant. It was he who gave me the keys to Four Oaks after I inherited the place from Elaine, and both times, he seemed to disappear into thin air the moment I turned my back. Twice yesterday, I was certain I saw him again, once, down by the main gate, and minutes later near the top of that hill!’ He pointed dramatically through the French Windows at Wicca Hill in the distance. ‘There’s definitely something odd about him.’

‘You must stay away from him,’ intoned Roger loudly. When Matthew asked why, he ignored the question. ‘I shall remain here at Four Oaks to protect you, child. I will not lose you again. The cycle of death shall finally end, once and for all.’

Matthew frowned. ‘Dad… whoever you are… stop speaking in riddles and just tell me what the fuck is going on!’

Roger’s head snapped up sharply, fixing Matthew with eyes that blazed with fury. ‘You will watch your language, boy! I will not have you sully the innocence of–’ He stopped mid-sentence and slumped back in the sofa, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead as though dizzy.

When he opened them again, Matthew immediately sensed the change and instinctively knew the spirit had departed and his father had returned. ‘Hi, Dad,’ he said, with an uneasy smile.

Roger glanced around at his surroundings in confusion, finally locking eyes with his son. ‘What happened? Where are we? How did I get here?’

‘Don’t you remember anything, Dad?’

Roger mutely shook his head.

Matthew sighed. ‘We’re at Four Oaks, Dad, the house I inherited in Elendale.’

‘Why am I here?’

‘I think the long journey must have drained you. Perhaps you would like to rest a while in one of the bedrooms, and then after lunch, if you have sufficiently recovered, perhaps we can sit down for a father-son chat?’

‘Is your mother here?’

Smiling with near sadistic pleasure, Matthew shook his head. ‘No, Dad, there’s no one here except you and me. Just the two of us. Father and son, under the same roof with nobody else for company.’

‘Somehow,’ said Roger in a quiet voice, ‘that information does not comfort me!’

‘Well, for whatever reason, you chose to come here, Dad. I didn’t invite you. So once you have rested, we are going to talk, just like two civilised adults.’

Roger nodded slowly. ‘Yes, son, I think it’s about time we did just that.’

Matthew sighed with relief, and smiled a genuinely friendly smile at his father. ‘Come on then, I’ll show you up to one of the spare rooms.’

*

Rachel tied her white hair back in a neat ponytail, checked her appearance in the mirror, and giving herself a subtle nod of approval, opened the bedroom door and made her way down to the kitchen, where the decidedly pleasing aroma of frying sausages and bacon greeted her.

She had to admit that she quite liked having the company of Joyce and her son, even though she did not actually know them. They had only been staying with her for a couple of nights, but already she had grown quite fond of Theo. He was one of the most charming, likeable young men she had encountered, and somehow his vitality had begun to rub off on her.

Since Jeremy’s death, shortly after moving to the cottage, she had not exactly let herself go as such, but saw little necessity for wearing makeup, or dressing as smartly as she once had whilst living in London. It felt more natural in the country to wear jeans, and baggy old shirts and sweaters that had once been Jeremy’s. Theo’s natty dress sense however made her feel decidedly dowdy, and so she suddenly found herself digging in the back of her wardrobe for the smarter clothes she so seldom wore.

She had preconceived notions about Theo before she had agreed to let the young man and his mother stay at her cottage. She was quite freely willing to admit that she had expected him to be a completely lazy layabout, bone-idle to the core.

She could not have been more wrong about anything.

He had cooked both evenings so far, though not always with the desired results, and yesterday he had helped her finish tidying up in the garden, and now, as she glanced around the spotless kitchen, she could tell he had not only cooked a glorious smelling breakfast, but he had also cleaned up after himself as well.

Theo turned as he heard her enter the kitchen. ‘Good morning, Mrs Schofield,’ he said with a cheery grin. ‘I managed not to set light to the frying pan this morning!’

Rachel chuckled at the memory of Theo’s abortive attempt at cooking a traditional English breakfast yesterday morning, which had resulted in flames shooting up from the frying pan, singing his eyebrows. Indeed, his face still glowed a bit, even now. ‘It does help not to get the fat too hot,’ she said.

‘I say, you’re looking pretty snazzy this morning, Mrs Schofield. Are you off out somewhere?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘No, dear, I just feel I’ve been rejuvenated a bit. It must be the company I’ve been keeping. And please, call me Rachel.’

‘Hmm… I’m not sure that’s entirely appropriate. I call all my mum’s friends by their title and surname. I guess it’s something I’ve just carried over from childhood.’

‘Well I’m your friend, so it is entirely appropriate. Besides… I insist!’

‘Okay then, Rachel, thanks for that.’

‘Thanks for what?’

‘For saying you’re my friend.’

‘Well I am! I don’t really know your mother any more than I know you, so I consider you both my friends.’

‘Of course, you do know Aunt Lesley!’

Rachel chuckled. ‘Indeed I do!’ She leaned close to him to whisper conspiratorially in his ear, even though they were alone on the kitchen. ‘Your aunt and uncle once startled my mother when she came to stay with me in London.’

Theo sniggered. ‘Did they give her a strip show by any chance?’

‘They did indeed.’

‘They’re always doing that! Apparently, Uncle Jack sleepwalks in the nude these days. He did that while we were up at your old family home… gave Mum quite a turn!’

Rachel threw back her head, laughing. ‘I bet it did! As I recall, your uncle is quite an arresting sight when he’s naked!’

Theo wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Rachel thumped his shoulder with a squeal of amused disapproval.

‘Actually,’ said Theo, rubbing his shoulder ruefully, ‘Ravenscreag Hall is quite an unnerving place. I can’t believe your mother used to live there on her own.’

‘Not quite on her own,’ Rachel sighed, trembling at memories of Ravenscreag Hall. ‘Mother always had help whilst living there, and I was glad to get away from that house. She loved the place, but I could never see the attraction.’

‘How did your family come to own such a huge house? I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re not exactly a large family, are you?’

‘It’s a long and complicated story, Theo, most of which you probably wouldn’t believe. My great-grandmother, I discovered, was the Nineteenth Century novelist, Ria Neville. She lived at Ravenscreag with her family, and that’s where she wrote all her novels. I guess she loved the peace and quiet of the place.’

‘Writing runs in your family, doesn’t it? Wasn’t your daughter Gloria Schofield, the historical novelist? She disappeared, as I recall. ‘

A wistful look of sadness came into Rachel’s eyes at the mention of her daughter in the same conversation as her great-grandmother. She decided not to burden Theo with that tale, and ignored his unspoken request for information about Gloria’s disappearance. ‘Novel writing is a talent that passed me by,’ she sighed. ‘All my life I wondered how Mother was able to maintain the house on just her pension, but after her death I was made aware that the head of the family receives royalties annually from the continued sales of Ria Neville’s works. Obviously, the money is less than it once was, but the books have been recently reissued so there’s a nice sum coming in to me now that I don’t have the burden of that monstrosity.’

‘Speaking of mothers,’ said Theo, changing the subject completely, ‘do you know where mine has got to? She wasn’t in her room when I took her a cup of tea earlier.’

Rachel shrugged. ‘I expect she’s gone for a walk. Living in the country makes you want to do that… often.’

‘Do you go for long walks, Rachel?

‘Oh yes, every day… for at least two hours.’ As Rachel sat at the small table in the corner of the large kitchen, watching Theo dish up the unhealthy, but delicious smelling fried breakfast, she told him how she had seldom walked anywhere whilst living in London. She wistfully reminisced about all the good times she and Jeremy shared in the capital during their long life together. The only bad times occurred on their occasional visits to Ravenscreag. She had loved her cantankerous old mother dearly, but had always detested the monstrous gothic monolith in the middle of nowhere with a vengeance.

Ravenscreag might have been the place where she grew up, but it had never even remotely felt like a home to her. More than once over the years it crossed her mind that the house was too large for its few occupants, and only once her Mother had told her of the family curse did she understand why the house remained in the family.

The chain of events, set in motion following Gloria’s discovery of a handwritten manuscript written four hundred years earlier, had been the catalyst for her disappearance, and Rachel still missed her daughter terribly. No matter how hard she tried, it remained a daily challenge to get to grips with the notion that, though she would never again see her, Gloria had lived a full and eventful life with her husband and daughter.

She tried not to think of the conundrum, because every time she did so, great waves of dizziness crashed through her mind, but every time she thought of Gloria, she rekindled the ever-burning embers of those memories.

That was why she did not particularly enjoy visiting Louise and Phil in their cottage, which had after all once belonged to Gloria, and why she was so glad to be rid of Ravenscreag finally, and also why she did not really want to discuss the place.

When Lesley appeared with Joyce and Theo on Monday evening, Rachel had initially been decidedly wary. They had originally planned to stay with Susan and Daniel Barncroft, but they – apparently – suggested she might prefer their company. It was only because of her increasing loneliness that Rachel agreed. She had made no mention of Gloria or Ravenscreag, and even though Lesley mentioned that they had all just driven down from Rachel’s former family home in Scotland, nothing more was said about the house and its history, until Theo mentioned it.

Nothing at all was spoken about the events of the past, and Lesley opted to stay with Susan and Daniel, abandoning her sister and nephew with someone who was a total stranger to them, which Rachel thought odd.

Lost in her thoughts, Rachel became aware that Theo was talking to her, having placed a plate of breakfast before her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said winsomely, ‘I didn’t hear a word you said then.’

‘That’s okay, I could tell you were lost in a world of your own. You were thinking of Gloria, weren’t you?’

When Rachel looked up at him sharply, her face distraught, Theo held up his hand.

‘Don’t worry, Rachel, I’m not going to ask lots of questions about her. I understand that you don’t wish to talk about her.’

‘Theo, may I ask you a question, dear?’

Theo sat down beside Rachel and looked into her eyes. ‘You’re wondering what Mother and I are doing here, aren’t you?’

Rachel chuckled softly. ‘You are very perceptive.’

‘That’s one of my more endearing traits, or less endearing, depending on your point of view.’ Theo took a deep breath. ‘Myself, personally, I have come to try and make my peace with Matthew.’

‘Is he the young man who’s inherited the house on the far side of the village? The house you have to travel all the way around that infernal hill to get to?’

‘Four Oaks, that’s the one. Matthew was my boyfriend for several years, and though we’ve had our ups and downs, our relationship has been on a major downer recently, and it’s taken nearly losing him for me to finally realise how beastly I’ve been to him for ages.’ Theo saw the shock in Rachel’s eyes. ‘Oh, you didn’t realise I’m gay. Sorry, I hope it’s not going to be a problem?’

‘Good lord no, I don’t have a problem with that at all. After all the things I have witnessed and experienced in recent years, I have been forced to become very open-minded about a great many things. It’s just… well, to my knowledge I have never met a gay man before. You’re… well, you’re just so normal.’

Theo laughed. ‘Why, thank you, Rachel. I do like to think of myself as normal.’

‘I’m sorry, that sounded rather patronizing, and it wasn’t meant to be. It’s just… well, I had no idea until you told me just then, which leads me to wonder just how many other people I’ve known over the years are gay!’

‘Well, we’re not all incredibly camp.’

Rachel raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed you are not, which is quite a refreshing discovery, actually. So… you’ve been really beastly to Matthew, and you have come to woo him back?’

Theo nodded.

‘So why has your mother come here?’

Theo shrugged. ‘I still don’t know why she visited Aunt Lesley up at Ravenscreag. Mum hates that house as much as you do, and swore she’d never set foot through its door, yet for some reason she broke that vow.’

Rachel sat back in her chair, regarding Theo carefully. ‘And what did you make of my old home?’

‘It’s unnerving, as I said earlier, but it didn’t give me the creeps quite as much as it did Mum. Nothing eventful happened while we were there, unless you count Uncle Jack wandering around naked in the middle of the night. It was really rather disappointing, actually. You know of course that Aunt Lesley and Uncle Jack are planning to turn it into a hotel?’

Rachel chuckled. ‘For ghost hunters, I am led to believe!’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought that was just a joke?’

Theo shook his head solemnly, stating that he hoped some spectral phenomena manifested itself if the plan went ahead, otherwise the Standish’s venture would fail before it got off the ground.

‘Personally, I think they should have bought somewhere down here,’ sighed Rachel.

‘Oh, why so?’

‘This whole area is quite possibly the most haunted area in the country, if you ask me! Four Oaks is allegedly haunted. Spirits manifest themselves regularly at my daughter’s old cottage. The local pub is called The Green Woman for a reason! Not to mention Dead Man’s Wood and Wicca Hill!’

‘Do you believe in ghosts, Rachel?’

In spite of her previous reservations about discussing such matters, Theo’s effortless charm finally disarmed Rachel enough to allow her to talk things through with an outsider. ‘Oh yes, indeed I do. You wouldn’t believe the things I have seen.’ She looked Theo directly in the eye. ‘Would you like to hear my tale?’

‘Oh, yes please, Rachel.’

‘I hope you are open-minded, Theo, because most of what I am about to tell you will sound incredibly far-fetched, but I swear to you, it’s all true… every word of it!’

Theo leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table and propping his chin on his hand. ‘I am totally open-minded, Rachel, and I am all ears!’

*

When Joyce returned to Rachel’s home it was almost lunchtime, and she was somewhat surprised to find the cottage empty. It was not so much the fact that the cottage was empty that took her by surprise, rather the fact that the back door was unlocked.

Honestly, Rachel, you really ought to be more careful, she thought as she returned to the kitchen, having called out and searched every room. Leaving one’s door unlocked was certainly not a viable choice where Joyce lived.

She fleetingly wondered where Rachel and Theo had disappeared to, but the thoughts themselves disappeared as she unpacked the groceries she had purchased at the quaint local shop.

Hunger pains rumbled in her stomach, which she supposed was hardly surprising since she had left the cottage very early that morning without having any breakfast, so she decided to have a spot of lunch, followed by her afternoon nap, before setting about preparing for dinner that evening. Since she had invited Matthew without first consulting Rachel, it would be unfair to expect that Rachel should do anything.

She began to think that perhaps she ought to have asked Rachel out of politeness, but she still felt certain the older woman would not mind the extra company.

‘I wonder where they’ve got to?’ she pondered aloud as she emptied her shopping bags.

Half an hour later, Rachel and Theo came bursting through the door, laughing uproariously.

‘Mum, you’re back,’ gasped Theo, as he fought to catch his breath. ‘Where did you get to so early this morning?’

‘I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a rather long walk,’ Joyce said, without looking her son directly in the eye. She knew he would know she was lying, otherwise. As Rachel dug Theo in the ribs, Joyce noticed the older woman was red in the face and out of breath too.

‘See, I told you everyone goes for walks the instant they get a whiff of the clean country air,’ hissed Rachel in Theo’s ear.

‘Have you two been running?’ asked Joyce.

Rachel nodded. ‘We went for a mid-morning stroll, and on the way back, I bet Theo I could beat him in a race.’

Joyce chuckled. ‘And did you?’

‘She didn’t quite,’ Theo half-whispered, ‘but by God, she’s fit for an older woman!’

‘I’ll try to take that in the spirit it was intended,’ Rachel said with a wry grin. ‘It’s all the clean country air I keep talking about, not to mention the healthy food, and plenty of long walks!’

‘Well, I must admit this area is very picturesque. There seem to be plenty of scenic routes for walking.’

Rachel nodded as she poured a couple of glasses of water, handing one to Theo. ‘Your son really is atypical for someone his age, Joyce. It’s all in the upbringing!’

‘I’d like to think so,’ Joyce muttered solemnly. ‘I had to bring him up pretty much single-handed.’

‘Yes, Theo told me. Such a terrible waste of a young life. My own husband died in a car accident, but at least we had many years of happiness together.’

‘I would think that’s worse,’ Joyce whispered. ‘After all those years together, his death must have been very painful.’

‘It was,’ Rachel agreed. ‘However, when you reach our time of life, death becomes inevitable, so I had kind of started preparing myself for the possibility. It was still a shock to lose him in such a manner, though.’ She could feel her emotions beginning to choke her voice, so she changed the subject, indicating the bag of groceries. ‘Really, Joyce, you didn’t have to buy food. I have plenty.’

Joyce offered her a sheepish look. ‘I do hope you don’t mind, Rachel, but I’ve invited someone over for dinner this evening. It was a spur of the moment thing, so I thought I ought to get some food in myself.’

Theo glanced at his mother, and when she blushed and looked hastily away, he instinctively knew whom she had invited. ‘Your walk this morning didn’t by any chance take you past Four Oaks did it, Mother?’ he said with a touch more anger to his voice than he intended. ‘You promised you wouldn’t interfere between Matt and me.’

Joyce finally looked her son in the eye. ‘Actually, this has nothing to do with you, Theo. I went to see Matthew on a completely different matter, and I bumped into his father.’

Theo snorted contemptuously, hardly able to believe that Roger Silverthorne had dared to leave his home in Portsmouth and bring his poison to Matthew’s new home.

‘Roger is the reason I asked Matthew to come here for dinner.’

‘I don’t understand, Mum.’

‘You will understand a bit more tonight, but perhaps I should tell you a few things first. Promise me you’ll keep an open mind?’ When Theo agreed to do just that, Joyce told him about why she had gone to visit Lesley at Ravenscreag Hall, and why they were now in Elendale. She told him how Roger had that very morning revealed his own inner spirit to her, and how Matthew admitted that he too might also be possessed. ‘So I realise it’s not you who’s possessed, darling.’

Theo glanced at Rachel, who nodded her head slightly, and taking this as affirmation of permission, he gradually told his mother all about the mysterious goings on in Neville Hill and Ravenscreag that had led to the disappearance of Rachel’s daughter.

‘I might have laughed at your statement concerning Matthew, had Rachel not told me all that,’ said Theo, ‘but I get the feeling you know all about Gloria Schofield’s disappearance, anyway.’

Joyce nodded. ‘Lesley intimated as much up at Ravenscreag, and yesterday I was taken to see Louise.’ She glanced sideways at Rachel. ‘It all makes it sound as though I’m prying into your private life, Rachel, but nothing could be further from the truth. I just want to find out what’s going on.’

Rachel took a deep breath. ‘I suppose you have heard the name Sawyl Gwilym?’

Joyce nodded. ‘He’s the cause of all your heartache. Were it not for him and his actions in the past, Gloria would not have… disappeared. But he’s dead, right?’

‘Apparently so… but it seems his spirit has somehow cheated death once again, and is about to make a terrible reappearance. He will no doubt vow vengeance on those who opposed him before, and their relatives.’

‘You and Louise, in other words?’

‘Yes. The trouble is, nobody knows exactly when he’s coming back, nor how, or in whose body.’

Joyce and Theo came to the same conclusion at the same time. ‘Dear God,’ Joyce cried in pure anguish, ‘it’s Matthew! It has to be.’

‘Why not his father?’ Rachel glanced from one to the other. ‘Well, you said Roger Silverthorne has definitely been possessed!’

Joyce shook her head solemnly. ‘I don’t think so. He spoke to me… the spirit that is, not Roger. He said his name is Hrothgar. He spoke of trying to protect his child.’

‘That name means nothing,’ said Rachel sharply. ‘Sawyl Gwilym would say anything to prevent his presence being detected. He has been known by many different names over the Centuries. Hrothgar is an Old English variant of the name Roger. Who’s to say it’s not another name the warlock has used in the past?’

Joyce shook her head slowly and deliberately. ‘He didn’t sound vengeful in any way, especially when he talked about protecting the spirit within Matthew.’

‘So Roger’s spirit is a disciple, sworn to protect Sawyl Gwilym until his rebirth!’

‘I don’t think so, Rachel. He spoke of protecting his child. He said something terrible was going to happen, and that he had no wish for an innocent to be hurt in the pursuit of vengeance.’

‘All right, perhaps this Hrothgar is Sawyl’s father, and he doesn’t want his child to follow the same destructive path of his past.’

Joyce pondered Rachel’s words. There was an undeniable logic, and in a way, anything made sense under the circumstances.

‘Perhaps,’ reasoned Rachel quietly, ‘we should invite Louise and Phil here for dinner tonight. I take it you know about Phil?’

Joyce nodded. ‘His spirit, Peter, can detect other spirits. Ah, I see where you are going. He will be able to tell if Sawyl is hiding within Matthew. Yes, yes… it’s a good plan. Louise already had an idea of how to get Phil and Matthew in the same room together, but this one is just as good.’

‘Oh? What was this other idea?’ asked Rachel.

‘Well, with Phil being in the landscape gardening business, he could have called on Matthew at Four Oaks on the pretext of having heard the place is under new ownership, offering his services.’

‘A sound plan in itself,’ smiled Rachel. ‘Once they have been introduced to one another at the dinner tonight, Phil could offer his services, and if Matthew accepts then it’s the ideal opportunity for Peter Neville to scan Roger as well!’

Theo suddenly burst into laughter. ‘Has anyone realised how bizarre this conversation has become? Here we are, sat here talking about being possessed as though it’s an everyday occurrence!’

‘Unfortunately, for people in my family – which includes Louise and her family – it is an everyday occurrence. I firmly believe it is to do with this area.’

‘But why? What’s so special about this area?’ asked Theo.

‘Aunt Lesley said this area was crisscrossed with ancient ley lines.’

Rachel nodded at Joyce’s words. ‘I’ve heard that as well.’

‘But that doesn’t explain past events at Ravenscreag, or with Matt’s family home in Portsmouth!’ cried Theo.

‘Part of Ravenscreag Hall was constructed from stone which came from this area,’ sighed Rachel, misty eyed as her mind dawdled back fifteen years to when she discovered more facts about her family than she had ever wished to know. ‘From the house that once stood where Louise’s cottage now stands, in fact. Who’s to say something similar isn’t true about Matthew’s family home? I believe the spirits are trapped within the stones, perhaps because of those ley lines you mentioned, Joyce, or maybe the supernatural goings on hereabouts are all down to the evil that Sawyl Gwilym once conjured up within this locale!’

‘Well, whatever the truth is, we really need to find out if either Matt or his father is this Sawyl Gwilym,’ muttered Theo, none too pleased at the prospect that an evil warlock might possess the love of his life. ‘But, if one of them does turn out to be this evil man… what do we do then?’

The trio pondered that question for the remainder of the afternoon, but none of them could come up with an immediate solution.

*

After leaving Four Oaks, Liam waited in the gateway of the field opposite for a while. He did not know why, but for some reason, he half expected Matthew to follow him out. He emitted a slight gasp of excitement when, a few minutes later, he saw someone approaching from up the driveway, but his elation turned into cold disappointment when he realised it was the older woman who had accompanied Matthew’s father.

He ducked out of sight behind the overgrown hawthorn hedge, waiting until she had disappeared from sight around the bend in the road, before standing to stare once more at the house.

He was bitterly upset that Matthew seemed suddenly to have switched his emotions back to the woman’s son. What was his name? It began with a ‘T’.

See, he thought to himself, they can’t be right for each other, because he has a totally unmemorable name. Now us, on the other hand, we have chemistry. We spark with electricity. We are right together, Matty and me. Why can’t he see that? What can I do to make him see the light?

‘I cannot just let him go!’ he muttered aloud.

‘You must.’

The sudden voice from behind was so completely unexpected that Liam physically leapt backwards, spinning round a little too fast and toppling over. He grasped one of the branches of the hedge to steady himself.

In the field on the other side of the gate, a young man, tall but overweight, and slightly older than Liam was, stood scrutinizing him with impenetrably dark eyes. His black hair echoed the impeccably tailored suit he wore, and Liam instinctively knew this was the mysterious man Matthew had mentioned who appeared and disappeared at will. He immediately understood Matthew’s unease around the man, because the muddy field had been empty moments before.

‘You startled me,’ Liam blustered, trying to think fast. The man, he realised, seemed oddly familiar, and it was from more than just Matthew’s vague description of him. ‘Do I know you?’

‘Unlikely, though you may have seen me around these parts before,’ the man said, moving forward and leaning his bulk against the gate.

So, he’s possibly local… which narrows it down a bit.

‘Why must I let Matthew go?’ Liam asked, deciding not to tell the man it was rude to creep around, eavesdropping on people.

‘Because he is not for you. His heart belongs to another.’

‘Just who the hell are you?’

‘Who I am is unimportant. You must desist in your pursuit of Matthew Silverthorne, before more innocent blood is spilt.’

‘More innocent blood?’ gasped Liam incredulously. ‘Whose blood has already been spilt? What’s going on? I really don’t understand.’

The overweight man continued leaning against the gate, which Liam hoped would buckle beneath his bulk. There was something decidedly ominous about him. It was nothing clearly defined that Liam could put a name to, but he had an overwhelming feeling of impending doom when he looked at the man, whose last sentence had done little to help alleviate Liam’s unease.

Liam shifted uncomfortably beneath the man’s unrepentant gaze, He felt like he had been sent to see the headmaster – something that had only happened to him once in his entire life, and it had felt so awful being scrutinized by the headmaster’s withering glare that he had made certain he never again misbehaved at school.

‘Will you stop staring at me!’ he snapped, his irritation starting to outweigh his unease. He found people who stared undeniably rude, as were people who pushed and shoved to get through shop doors or onto a train first. Those who made ill-advised comments about overweight people were rude, and Liam could not stand rudeness of any description. His sister possessed enough for them both. However, even though he had never once made any fatuous comments about overweight people in the past, the very fact that this man was seriously beginning to annoy him, made such an ill-advised comment spring to the tip of Liam’s tongue.

Then his mind transported him back several months. How many was it? Six? Eight? No, it was a whole year ago. It was the day Elaine Oakhurst revealed to the shocked villagers gathered in The Green Woman Inn that she had purchased Four Oaks.

Liam had been sat quietly at the bar, minding his own business. An unguarded comment from George Palmer about the physical appearance of a stranger to the village had made Liam turn to look.

That stranger had been this man… Liam was certain of it.

He had been wearing the same black suit.

With his hair parted in exactly the same place.

In fact, as Liam looked at him, and remembered the events from last year, he suddenly recalled something he had overheard the man mutter to Elaine, in a voice so low it was obvious his words were meant for her ears alone.

Liam did not condone eavesdropping, but it had been an accident, and at the time, he thought he had heard wrong. What he had overheard this man whisper was impossible, so he had dismissed it and forgotten all about it.

But now it all came flooding back, and with some of the things he now knew, he thought perhaps he might have heard correctly after all.

It was odd, he thought, that all the images should come flooding back to him now, almost as though his memory had attained assistance from somewhere.

In spite of Liam’s request, the man continued to stare. ‘Halloween, the Witching Hour, fast approaches. You must stay away from this place!’

‘Yeah, right!’ snorted Liam derisively.

Should I tell him I recognise him?

He decided against it. The man’s aloof, menacing manner was again beginning to unnerve him. There was definitely something not quite right about him.

Next he’ll be telling me to beware the Ides of March, or something!

‘You are beginning to annoy me,’ he said, openly displaying his hostile irritation to mask his unease. ‘I don’t know what your game is, and I don’t really care. Just stay away from me… and stay away from Matty too!’

Liam turned on his heels and started to walk off. Feeling eyes burning into his back, he turned to glower at the rude young man, and was more than a little surprised to find he had disappeared.

Remembering Matthew’s comments about how the overweight man kept disappearing as if into thin air, Liam decided to trail him and find out where he went. He walked swiftly back to the gate and scrambled over it in a decidedly inelegant manner, before making his way into the muddy field. When his feet began sinking into the squelching quagmire, he immediately wished he had not. He found that if he kept moving, he did not sink quite so rapidly, but once into the field, he glanced all around, annoyed that he could not see the man.

Apart from the thorny hedgerow, there was nowhere the man could actually be hiding. It perplexed Liam even more when he glanced down to follow any footprints that would have been left – to discover there were none.

Not a single one, save those he himself had just made.

Not even by the gate, where the man had been standing.

Heaving himself out of the mud and scrambling back over the gate, Liam stood on the grass verge, pondering the possibilities. None seemed remotely logical to him, but under such peculiar circumstances, there could be only one possible explanation.

‘That man has to be a ghost!’

*

Louise was surprised when Rachel telephoned to invite Phil and her over for dinner that evening. Even amongst her closest circle of friends, Rachel was not renowned for having dinner parties at her cottage, especially at such short notice.

Rachel told Louise why she wanted the pair to attend, and Louise agreed with the course of action. She mentioned it to Phil, and Peter’s spirit immediately came to the fore, informing her that it was a perfect opportunity. He would be with them, but would maintain utmost discretion.

Louise asked her parents to come over and baby-sit for them, and after Susan and Daniel arrived at five o’clock, Louise busied herself in the bathroom. She had no idea why she was going overboard on the titivation, but she felt she should make the effort to look her very best for Rachel’s other guests.

Shortly before six, she and Phil walked through the gate and up the path leading to Rachel’s front door, marvelling at how neat and tidy the garden looked now all the dead plants had been pulled up or cut back.

‘I guess she’s had some help recently,’ Louise said.

Earlier that week, Rachel had bemoaned the fact that with all her other hobbies taking up so much of her time, the garden was beginning to get on top of her. Louise had paid little attention, because she and Phil were always offering to help, and Rachel had always declined their offer in the past.

Painting was the latest in a very long line of new pastimes Rachel had embarked upon since Jeremy’s death, and it was gratifying to Louise that the art classes lasted longer than the pottery classes she had taken the previous year.

Louise smiled at the recollection of the lumpy vase Rachel had produced before pronouncing that pottery was far too taxing for her. She was much more adept at the painting in watercolours, and had come on in leaps and bounds since starting the evening classes in the summer – so much so that some of her work was currently on show along with some other paintings by locals, at an art show in the village hall.

The trouble was – and Louise understood more than most how such a thing was possible – that Rachel lost all track of time and often found herself neglecting other tasks. Gardening had gone by the wayside all through the summer months, and Rachel only really tore herself away from her painting in order to baby-sit.

Louise opened the front door, calling Rachel’s name as she and Phil entered the cosy cottage.

Rachel’s voice floated from the rear of the cottage. ‘We’re in the kitchen, dear.’

Louise and Phil crossed the living room, opening the door to admit them to the kitchen, where they found Rachel, Lesley, Joyce and Theo, sitting around the table sipping wine.

‘Hello again,’ Louise said, smiling as she was introduced to Theo. She handed the bottle of wine she had brought to Rachel, who immediately put it in the fridge. ‘Quite a cosy little get-together, Rachel,’ she added.

‘Yes, this is all Joyce’s doing, and there is one final guest yet to arrive.’

Louise arched an eyebrow. ‘Allowing other people to hold parties now are we?’

Rachel wagged her finger. ‘She does have a reason, which is why I specifically asked you and Phil to join us.’

‘I thought you might have some ulterior motive,’ whispered Louise. ‘Is it something we can openly discuss?’

‘Perhaps, but probably best not to. Just ask Phil’s companion to keep an eye on our guests, and then when everyone has gone, we can talk then.’

There was a loud knock at the front door. Rachel turned to the others. ‘That’ll be our final guest. Theo, would you be a dear and let him in?’

‘Sure, Rachel,’ responded Theo, rising to his feet, trying not to appear too eager to get to the door. He knew the final guest was Matthew, but was uncertain how his friend would react upon seeing him.

Matthew was genuinely surprised to see Theo when the door opened, and he could not help grinning. ‘Is your mother behind this?’ he asked, light-heartedly. I should have known she’d have some other motive for coming here!’

Theo chuckled a little hesitantly. ‘I did have some idea that you had been invited to dinner this evening. She’s determined to get us back together!’

‘I know,’ Matthew nodded. ‘And how do you feel about it?’

Theo glanced away bashfully. ‘Quite pleased that she still thinks we’re right for one another, and more than a little uneasy.’

Matthew frowned. ‘Why so?’

‘Considering our turbulent past and my own actions… well, I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me.’

Matthew tilted Theo’s head up until they locked eyes. ‘I don’t think I could ever really hate you, Theo,’ he said in a gentle whisper. ‘I love you as much now as I did the day we got together.’

Theo smiled through gently trickling tears. ‘Really? You mean that?’ When Matthew nodded, Theo’s trickle of tears became a torrent. ‘Oh Matt, you have no idea how good it is to hear that.’

The pair embraced and kissed tenderly.

‘It’s all water under the bridge,’ sighed Matthew when they disentangled themselves. ‘Four Oaks will be a new start for us, away from all the bad memories. I’ve decided to sell the house in Portsmouth.’

‘And what will dear Daddy have to say about that?’ chuckled Theo, remembering the trouble they had with Roger when they had first started living together in Portsmouth. ‘Bet he was thrilled to think we’d all but split up!’

‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t think it fully registered with him. He was too busy fretting about Four Oaks.’ Matthew noted Theo’s curious look, and held up his hand. ‘Don’t even go there!’ he said sharply. ‘Believe me, you don’t want to know the ins and outs of that little melodrama!’

Matthew wondered whether perhaps he ought to try and tell Theo some of the incredible things that had been going on recently, but decided it was better not to involve him for the moment. Theo probably would not believe him, anyway.

‘As to what Dad will say when he finds out that we’re together again, and moving into Four Oaks… well you can witness that when we tell him. He’s at Four Oaks even as we speak.’

Theo pushed Matthew away slightly. ‘I know! So, what’s the old codger doing there?’

Matthew shrugged, unwilling to divulge the truth. ‘With my father, that’s anyone’s guess! He’s probably come to make certain I haven’t been nobbled by the ghosts that supposedly haunt the place.’

‘Is the place really haunted?’ gasped Theo.

Again, Matthew shrugged. ‘Probably.’

‘What’ll your dad do if he gets nobbled by a ghostie?’

Matthew smiled weakly. ‘I don’t think a ghost would dare to nobble Dad!’

Theo laughed, but as they entered the cottage, he did not notice that Matthew failed to share the humour.

*

Roger sat upon the bed Matthew had designated his at Four Oaks, listening intently to the wind as it whistled outside, rustling the few remaining leaves on the trees. The light of the almost full moon cast eerie shadows on the wall beside the bed, while the wind creaked under the eaves, making the house itself sound alive, groaning under some misapprehension concerning its remaining occupant.

At times, as he lay wide-awake in the gloom, he thought he heard footsteps in the rooms below. He presumed it was Matthew returning to the house, having perhaps forgotten something, but the footsteps died away, with no sound of a closing door to signify someone leaving the house once more, so Roger put it down to mental mind-tricks, caused by the dreadful weather.

Matthew had been gone nearly half an hour before Roger decided he no longer wished to lie alone in the gloom, so he eased his aching body from the bed, and switched on the light. He sat there, contemplating how best to spend the remainder of the evening, and decided to avail himself of the library downstairs.

Slipping his feet into his shoes and tying the laces, he moved across the room and opened the door. As he stepped onto the landing, the door banged shut behind him, making him jump.

The landing was plunged immediately into darkness, causing Roger’s heart to palpitate wildly. As he waited for his nerves to calm, his eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, and the landing took on life from the shadows caused by the moonlight that etched faint trails of light from the hallway below. He could just make out the shape of a light switch on the wall ahead, and moved cautiously towards it.

As he reached out, fumbling slightly, his alert ears picked up the sound of whispered voices, coming from the lower level.

He froze, his breath caught in the back of his throat as pinpricks of icy fear trickled down his spine. He fought the instinctive urge to call out; it would be ill advised to alert possible intruders to his presence.

He strained to hear what was being said, hoping to catch brief snatches of conversation to ascertain whether the voices were familiar. Perhaps it was Matthew?

Something instinctively warned Roger it was not so.

The voices stopped their whispering, almost as if the intruders had heard him. Yet he had not moved, had not even made a sound. Even the house itself had become ominously silent as the wind outside dropped.

Roger released his breath as quietly as he could, still straining to hear. The voices were gone, but a vague shuffling sound seemed to be approaching him up the stairs.

The hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle, and as his fumbling fingers finally found the light switch his fear got the better of him, and he snapped on the light.

Blinking rapidly as his eyes grew accustomed to the sudden brightness, he fearfully glanced all around. Hastening over to the top of the stairs, he peered down, half expecting to find an intruder loitering there, but there was no-one; he was quite alone.

‘Hello?’ he called loudly, his heart gradually slowing its thunderous pace. ‘Is anyone down there?’

There was no response, and silence engulfed his senses, interrupted only by the intermittent tapping of a branch on one of the upstairs windows as the wind began to pick up again.

It was only as he stood alone in the impenetrable silence of the cold house, peering down into the hallway below, that Roger realised that the presence in his mind, for so many years a perpetual, unwelcome, yet at times oddly comforting companion, was suddenly gone. It was odd, but as he thought about it, he began to realise the presence had been vacant from his mind since his arrival at Four Oaks.

‘The wandering spirit has finally returned home,’ he whispered quietly to himself, ‘This is where it wanted to be all along!’

It’s ridiculous of course, he reasoned. The entity in my mind that I had no control over spent the best part of the last year trying to prevent Matthew from coming here. Why would it do that if it wanted to be here itself?

Maybe the spirit had for whatever reason not actually wanted Matthew to be here, perhaps realising that by trying to prevent him from coming here, he would actually do precisely that, and in so doing Roger himself would have a legitimate reason for coming, bringing the spirit home.

Well it had worked.

Apparently.

But where was the spirit now? Had it fled his body, to rejoin other spirits wandering within the walls of the house? Were they, perhaps, the whisperings he had heard? Were the mysterious footsteps those of ghosts?

Roger wondered just who exactly the spirit was. In all the time it had shared his mind, rudely shoving him aside mentally from time to time when it wrested control from him, it had never once revealed itself to him properly.

He had the vague impression of a masculine presence, but the name was lost to his subconscious, as were any memories he might have shared. He was aware of interaction with other people whilst under the guidance of the spirit, but could recall nothing of any such experience. The spirit had been ruthlessly secretive about its motives, and the only thing Roger could recall with any certainty was the overriding urge to protect Matthew and prevent him at all costs from coming to Four Oaks.

Roger ruminated as he teetered perilously upon the cusp of recollection.

Something happened in this house!

Half-realised images enshrouded in mists evaporated back into the despairing depths of his bleak subconscious.

Something terrible had occurred, centuries ago; something that drove the invasive spirit away from this place, but subsequently drew it back once more.

Did the spirit once live here? Was the spirit the victim of some foul deed, a murder victim perhaps, or even the perpetrator, returning to the scene of the crime once more?

I have to get to the bottom of this mystery, Roger thought, before the spirit decides to return!

Were there perhaps records, kept by past owners of the house? The deeds to the property would almost certainly contain the names of previous occupants, and maybe those deeds were somewhere in the house.

Making a snap decision, Roger slowly descended the stairs, intent on making a thorough investigation of the house before Matthew returned from the dinner.

Uncertain where best to start, he finally decided the most logical course of action was to begin at the front of the house and work his way around the ground floor in a clockwise rotation, before doing the same upstairs. He did not know how early or late Matthew might return, so he realised by necessity it would have to be a swift search.

The front sitting room revealed nothing, and he had already seen there was nothing of interest in the rear sitting room, so he opened the door to the library and switched on the light.

As he did so, he thought he saw movement in the shadowy corner, but entered the room to find it quite empty; he put it down to over-anticipation in his mind.

Apart from the books.

A closer inspection revealed that the vast majority of the books housed within the impressive library were reference books, many of them general historical or pertaining to local history, all of them quite old with faded spines. Every now and then, an obviously newer book stood out on the shelves, its brightly coloured spine unfaded by sunlight, undiminished by time.

There were a few random scatterings of novels by authors he had not heard of – but then, Roger was not well read when it came to literature. Somewhere in his past, the interest in fiction had somehow passed him by. He had not even read any of his son’s unpublished works, even though Margaret had. His wife informed him that their son was quite an accomplished wordsmith with a fertile imagination.

Roger’s main interest had always been his antique business. He bought cheap and sold at a huge profit. It never ceased to amaze him that so few people had any clue as to the value of items they sold to him. Though quite ruthless and mercenary about his business, he nevertheless liked to think he gave everyone a fair and decent price for their unwanted furniture, ornaments and paintings, whilst at the same time knowing he would easily sell them on at any of the large London auction rooms for much more than he paid.

Wandering around Four Oaks so far had proved to be an eye-opening experience. Matthew was sitting on a veritable goldmine. Inheriting the house alone was profit enough, although taxes to be paid might force him to sell some of the valuables.

Roger decided it would be worth keeping on the right side of his son for the foreseeable future. He could make a sizeable profit for Matthew by selling many of the paintings and much of the furniture, which all seemed to be antique, and he could still maintain a large cut for himself.

Plus, of course, selling the property itself would set Matthew up for life. He could let his friend keep the terrace in Portsmouth and buy a nicer property elsewhere in one of the better parts of the city. A nice payoff like that would certainly get the lad out of Matthew’s life once and for all.

But then again, suggesting he pay off the lad with a house might upset the apple cart and antagonize Matthew. It was obvious there was still some kind of attraction between the pair.

Still, it did not necessarily have to be an obstacle that could not be overcome. All he had to do was find a suitable young lady who was willing to work hard at turning Matthew, and then he would see the error of his deviant ways.

Would that be any more successful than his previous plan? The lad had proven himself unreliable, untrustworthy and unfaithful in the past, and Roger was proud of the way he had manipulated that situation over the years. He had no particular fondness for Theo because of the way he had led his son astray, but when he had met the slut, Carson, at an auction a few years ago, and watched the shallow youth trying to seduce every handsome young man who approached him, he had hatched the plan for getting rid of the troublesome lad. Their types were all the same, as far as Roger was concerned: always leaping in and out of bed with each other, which was how he could be so certain that his son was not gay. It had to be a phase Matthew was going through, because he was not the type of young man who would arbitrarily sleep around.

The passing phase had lasted far too long, and Roger just could not understand why Matthew kept taking the lad back after each cruel betrayal.

In one final last ditch attempt to split them up permanently, Roger paid for Carson to fly to Alicante after Margaret let slip that Matthew and Theo were out there, trying to patch things up.

Finally, his plan appeared to be working when Matthew returned home alone.

But then the infernal lad followed him home, and it now seemed they were once again about to pursue another reconciliation.

No, the only course of action available was to find a nice girl, perhaps someone from the nearby village, who would be willing to put in the effort to convince Matthew that his latent homosexuality was a mere phase, and once he had discovered the pleasures of the female flesh, there would be no more of this incessant depravity.

Of course, he would have to ensure Matthew found out nothing concerning his own involvement in the situation with Carson, or with the new plan, otherwise he could kiss goodbye to any profit he might make from Four Oaks.

‘You’re going to have to be very crafty and clever here,’ he muttered to himself as he perused the books in the library. ‘Not to mention careful.’

Several of the books he flicked through were on local history.

He found one that seemed oddly out of place. It was handwritten in an almost indecipherable scrawl, but it mentioned Four Oaks, and told how smugglers had once used it centuries ago. According to the book, there were hidden passageways that led all the way down to the River Dryad, which ran through the valley, before joining the River Rother, which itself ran down to the coast.

Now there was an interesting notion, mused Roger as he struggled with the handwriting. He wondered whether the secret passageways really existed.

The journal went into detail about how Cecil Wystan, who died in 1540, had been one of the smugglers, and how after his death, his son, James, had discovered the secrets of the house, and set about making certain the property came into the possession of his family.

As far as Roger could tell, the journal did not reveal the secrets themselves, which intrigued him further. Deciding to keep the book to one side and read it in more depth later, he continued his search.

*

Between them, they managed to devour the meal in a fraction of the time it had taken Joyce and Rachel to prepare it, and they all very much appreciated it, so both chefs were grateful.

Rachel enjoyed the entire experience so much that she decided she should entertain more often. There was no excuse really: Louise and Phil were literally down the lane; though they had not come tonight, her oldest friends, Susan and Daniel lived not too far away, and now she had grown so fond of Joyce and Theo, she rather hoped to see much more of them in the future.

Which left Matthew, the new owner of Four Oaks.

Although she had lived in the village a comparatively short period, already Rachel knew much of its history. Four Oaks, it seemed, was steeped in as much historical mystery as Ravenscreag Hall was. It had a chequered past of joy and sorrow, and was allegedly haunted by those spirits who, for whatever reason, chose not to depart.

The house frightened her.

She had stood at its gates, staring up through the trees to the cold edifice on numerous occasions, wondering how Old Woman Wystan, the spinster who had apparently died there a decade or so ago, could possibly bear to live there. Elaine Oakhurst, whom Rachel could not claim to actually know personally, had shocked the entire village last year with her announcement that she had purchased the place – and then stunned the villagers yet again by bequeathing it to a complete stranger when she died.

Rachel had to admit she was unsure about Matthew Silverthorne. Outwardly, he seemed a likeable young man, if somewhat aloof, and throughout dinner it became clear from their body language that he and Theo had a great deal of love for one another.

However, each time she glanced across at him, Rachel was struck by a curious sensation. She felt his eyes upon her constantly, yet whenever she looked in his direction, he was engaged in conversation with Joyce or Theo, or he was concentrating on cutting the somewhat tough meat on his plate. Not once did she actually find him looking in her direction, yet still the curious sensation persisted.

She took Phil into the kitchen with her to help ready the dessert, having told Joyce to continue her chat with the two young men, and as they loaded the plates into the dishwasher, she made him aware of her misgivings concerning Matthew.

‘Does Peter sense anything about him?’ she whispered.

Peter came forward immediately, his voice filled with excitement and sorrow. ‘The young man is neither possessed by the spirit of Sawyl Gwilym, nor is he the warlock’s reincarnation.’

Rachel took a deep breath with relief, clutching a hand to her chest. ‘Thank the lord. I was beginning to fear the worst, with all these weird feelings I’ve been getting. Guess I was letting my imagination run away with me again.’

Peter shook his head. ‘You are not entirely incorrect in your assessment. Matthew Silverthorne is not yet possessed by anyone. However, I do feel most strongly that there is the spirit of another, buried so deep within his subconscious as to be almost invisible and inert.’

Rachel frowned. ‘Who is it, Peter? Is it someone we know?’

Peter stared directly into Rachel’s eyes. ‘As you cannot see me, yet know that I am here, so I cannot see this spirit, yet I know her to be there. She is little more than a child, so very afraid. She knows where she is, understands little of what is going on, and wishes only to be left alone.’

‘A girl?’ gasped Rachel. ‘Who is she?’

‘Have I not already stated I know not her identity? She hides herself well, for she is greatly afeared of someone; alas I know not who. She has been reincarnated within Matthew Silverthorne’s body, and though her memories are perhaps reawakened, she chooses not yet to manifest herself, perhaps through fear of discovery from whomever she hides. She will not come forward willingly. I believe Matthew is aware of her presence, though he has precious little understanding of who she is, and until she is ready to reveal herself to him fully, we must say nothing of this to him.’

Rachel found herself wondering why the girl’s spirit was so frightened, and from whom she was hiding. Could her unknown tormentor be Sawyl Gwilym? It was certainly a possibility, for Isabella Neville and Gloria were unlikely to be the only two people he tormented in his lifetime.

‘Is there any way we might coax her out, to ask her questions?’

Peter’s response was hasty. ‘I believe such action to be ill-advised. Direct confrontation would most likely push her further into hiding. Better to let her know we mean her no harm, and let her come forward of her own free will.’

As she finished loading the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, Rachel sighed. ‘Well, I shall defer to your better judgment. You’re the expert on such matters, after all.’

Joyce chose than moment to come into the kitchen. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?’ she asked. ‘After all, this dinner was of my doing.’

Her presence startled Peter into silence, allowing Phil to return.

‘Thanks, but I think we’ve got it covered,’ Rachel muttered.

Joyce lingered, unwilling to leave until she had asked her question, yet uncertain how best to phrase it. In the end, she just blurted it out. ‘Is my son possessed, or is it Matthew? I could hear some of your conversation from the doorway, so I know you have picked up on something.’

Rachel straightened up and closed the dishwasher, then turned to face her new friend. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not Theo, and as far as Peter can tell, the spirit of a young girl is that which inhabits the body of Matthew, although she is too terrified of someone to make her presence properly known. We don’t think Matthew should be made aware of this fact though.’

Joyce felt she should contradict, recalling as she did Matthew’s recent comments about how he thought he was apparently possessed, and that she knew Roger’s secret too. She had secretly feared that Hrothgar’s progeny might actually be Sawyl Gwilym, but if Matthew’s incumbent spirit were female, then that now seemed unlikely.

‘Are you okay, Joyce?’ asked Rachel, touching her shoulder. ‘You seem lost in thought.’

‘I don’t know whether I should say anything. I promised I wouldn’t, and I don’t usually break my word.’

‘I think we can trust that it will go no further than this room if it is to do with spirits, Joyce.’

‘Mayhap you would wish to converse in private later, when the others are gone,’ said Peter, startling Joyce with his sudden reappearance. He turned to Rachel. ‘I believe this woman may hold some of the answers to our questions.’

‘Very well,’ replied Rachel. ‘Let’s get this evening out of the way, and then we can talk. We should enjoy ourselves; after all, we now know Sawyl Gwilym is not in our midst.’

‘Indeed he is not,’ muttered Peter. ‘But if he is not among our number here tonight, then where is he?’

Liam trampled through fields for several hours before returning to The Green Woman Inn in darkness, totally lost in his thoughts.

Was what he was thinking concerning Max Revenant actually possible? Could the man conceivably be a ghost?

It would certainly explain how he was able to appear and disappear at will; it would easily explain how his entire appearance had changed not one iota since Liam first saw him a year ago; it made a kind of sense out of what he had heard Max whisper to Elaine Oakhurst on that same evening.

‘Matthew was very interested, but he knew he would not be able to outbid the full asking price. Your plan worked, Mother. All we have to do now is wait.’

Last year, Liam convinced himself that he had completely misheard those words. Elaine Oakhurst was over ninety years of age; Max could be no older than thirty at the most. It made no sense at all to Liam back then, but if Max were a ghost, then it actually made perfect sense: Max could have died many years earlier, and Elaine Oakhurst could quite easily be his mother.

But such a notion was patently ridiculous. Elaine Oakhurst had surely been a childless spinster. Not once had Liam heard mention of a husband or children, and he felt certain someone would have made even one single comment at some point about the pillar of their community having lost an offspring.

Elaine and Max seemed well aware of one another’s existence last year, even though he was an outsider to the village. No one in the pub recognised him, which in Liam’s mind added credence to his supposition.

But why would a ghost pretend to be an estate agent?

Last week, Liam would have bashed himself over the head and told himself not to be so downright ridiculous, but events of the past few days had opened his eyes to a whole world of possibilities, and the notion that Max Revenant might actually be a dead man walking was no longer as idiotic as it had once been.

If the man were a ghost though, why had he chosen to masquerade as an estate agent? Why did he linger in the village? Was he perhaps keeping an eye on someone, and if so, who and why?

First thing in the morning, I’m going to ask Matty for the details of the estate agent who originally sold Four Oaks to Elaine, thought Liam as he pushed open the door to the saloon bar. He intended to ask the Estate Agent whether they had anyone by the name of Max Revenant working for them – and indeed whether they had actually handled the original sale of Four Oaks last year.

The fact that it was sold to Elaine Oakhurst under Matthew’s very nose, by someone she claimed to be her son, seemed very odd to Liam – though perhaps no odder than any other recent events.

First though, he had a question to put to his mother.

He was relieved to find his father serving behind the bar, which with any luck meant his mother was hard at work in the upstairs office, struggling to balance the accounts. Liam managed to slip past Ainsley without being spotted, and dashed up the stairs as quietly as he could.

Chloe looked up from the mountain of paperwork, piled high on her desk, as her errant son sauntered through the door. ‘Liam, where the devil have you been? Your father’s in a foul mood because neither you nor your sister showed up to help him.’

Liam collapsed into the armchair in the far corner of the room. ‘He seems to be coping admirably without any help,’ he mumbled in his usual couldn’t care less voice. ‘It’s quiet tonight.’

‘It’s slackened off in the past half hour. It’s been manic all evening. Where have you been?’

Liam shrugged. ‘I went for a walk to clear my head.’

‘Do you know where your sister is?’

‘Nope. I’m not her keeper. She never tells me where she’s going or what she’s up to.’

‘I know you’re both adults, but really, the pair of you could show your father and me some consideration.’

‘Yeah, sorry Mum, but you know how Dad feels about me. He can’t stand the sight of me most of the time. He’d kick me out if it weren’t for you, so to be quite honest, I really don’t see why I should put myself out for him.’

Chloe set down her pen and glared at her son. ‘If not for him, then for me at least!’

Liam held up a hand to silence her. ‘All right, I get the message. You know I’ll help you any time, Mum, but don’t expect me to change my view on Dad until he changes his view on me!’

Chloe knew that scenario was not about to play out any time soon. The constant losing battle she fought daily to maintain some kind of peace between her son and husband was beginning to wear her down, and she had started to lose perspective on what was important in her life. At one point, The Green Woman Inn had been all that mattered, to the extent that she had not been there for her children when they were growing up.

She did not see herself as a bad mother, but perhaps if she had paid them a bit more attention during their childhood, they would have grown up less belligerent and antagonistic.

Hell, perhaps Liam would not have turned out gay!

She felt that situation was all her fault. Was it too late to repent, change her ways, and perhaps change Liam back again?

She told herself not to be foolish as the thought that she was entirely to blame for her son’s shortcomings coursed its way through her tortured mind yet again.

It was not her fault; it was not Ainsley’s fault; it was no one’s fault!

Besides, even if she could change her son, she would not do so. She loved him exactly the way he was, and any changes to him would mean he was not the son she had watched grow up.

No, she thought, even if I’d spent more time with them growing up they would most likely have turned out the same. Nothing would be different, and I wouldn’t want it to be. Good and bad, this is my life, and I’m actually quite happy generally with things the way they are.

‘Mum, you haven’t listened to a word I’ve said, have you?’

Chloe blinked and stared at Liam, half inclined to lie, but she instead sighed. ‘No, I haven’t. I’m sorry, dear, what were you saying?’

‘I was asking about Elaine Oakhurst.’

‘What about her, dear?’

‘Did she have any children when she was younger, do you know?’

Chloe frowned. ‘What an odd question. Why on earth would you want to know that?’

Liam shrugged. ‘Just curious.’

Chloe might have been a near-absent mother, but she could always tell when Liam was keeping something from her, and this was one of those rare occasions, She found herself realising that she actually knew her son quite well after all. Perhaps she had spent enough time with him when he was younger.

Lucinda, though, was another matter altogether.

‘No dear, as far as I can remember, Elaine had no children. I don’t think she was even married. That’s presumably why Four Oaks was left to someone outside her family, though heaven knows why she left it to someone she apparently didn’t know.’

‘How can you be so sure she didn’t know Matthew?’

‘This is a small village, dear. You should know how loose tongues love to gossip! It was round the village within half an hour that she had left the house to Matthew Silverthorne. Nobody in the village had heard of him, so therefore it was logical to assume Elaine didn’t actually know him either. If she did, even as a mere passing acquaintance, then some busybody in the village would have heard his name in passing.’

Small village or not, Liam knew there were events unfolding that nobody had any knowledge of, or if they did, they chose not to acknowledge it. Sweep it under the carpet if it is unpalatable or unbelievable; that was the norm within the village.

‘So you’re absolutely positive Elaine never had any children?’

Chloe nodded. ‘Definitely! Are you going to tell me what led you to ask such a curious question?’

Liam shook his head. ‘Nope. Anyway, you wouldn’t believe me, even if I told you.’ He pushed himself out of the chair. ‘It’s been a long day, so I’m going to bed now. I’m sorry I left you in the lurch today. I’ll make it up to you.’

Chloe smiled. ‘I know you will. Your father and I are having a night off next Wednesday; you and Lucinda are going to hold the fort.’

Liam let out his most theatrical sigh. ‘Oh great. Couldn’t I try to cope on my own, without Lucy’s help?’

Chloe chuckled. ‘You really shouldn’t call her that; you know she hates it! Anyway, if recent events are anything to go by, you’ll most likely be on your own. Are you sure you don’t know where she is?’

‘No idea.’ Liam kissed his mother on the cheek. ‘Goodnight, Mum.’

After closing the door to his room, muffling the sounds from the bar below, Liam sat on the end of his bed for a while in silent contemplation, his mind filled with thoughts and images that made little sense to him. They compelled him into making a rash decision that he hoped he would not regret.

Opening the door once more, he slipped from the pub without anyone noticing, and disappeared into the night.

*

Standing in the shadows, the watchers observed the man with a sense of loathing that they could not comprehend, certain they had been spotted when he had looked in their direction. When he did not attempt to investigate, they realised their mistake, but remained secreted in the shrubbery until he was gone.

The youth wondered fleetingly what the man was doing here.

Concern thyself not with such thoughts. The secrets of this place are of no concern to me, as they are of no concern to thee!

The mental voice, silent for most of the day, startled the youth, who wished there was some way to be forewarned of the spirit’s presence.

And spoil my enjoyment of making thee squirm, my child? Where be the fun in that?’

‘What do you want?’ the youth asked in a soft whisper, lest there be someone nearby who might overhear. A foolish notion: who else would be stealthily watching this god-awful place at close quarters on such a cold night?

I wish thee to do my bidding, my child. Thou shalt relinquish control of thy body to me for one hour.

‘Why? What are you going to do?’

I must make certain the past does not repeat. I must prevent my death again, if I am to be free.

‘So you want revenge for your murder?’

Indeed yes! Vengeance shall be mine, and thou art the instrument of my salvation. Relinquish control of thy body for one hour; allow me to do what I must, and then I shall depart, and thou shalt have what thou doth desire the most.

‘Matty?’

Yes!

The youth’s eyes shone with triumph at the thought. There was no need to contemplate the offer any longer than it took to close their eyelids, and when the youth opened them again, the eyes that stared back in the glass were those of a stranger.

*

Dessert was as much of a delicious success as the main course had been, and after the meal was over, they all remained seated around the dining table, laughing and joking as they consumed yet another bottle of wine.

Matthew knew he had consumed a little too much wine when he stood up to go to the toilet, and almost fell over. Usually, he stopped drinking wine after two glasses; never having been particularly good at holding his drink, he knew two glasses made him merry, three made him dizzy, four made him drunk and five made him sick.

Thus far, he had consumed three larger-than-average-size glasses of wine, and had placed a hand over the glass as Theo prepared to refill it. In the past, Theo would have made some callously caustic comment about letting his hair down and loosening up, if Matthew said he had drunk enough so soon, but in a display of his emotional and mental change, Theo said nothing, merely moving on to refill everyone else’s glasses.

When Matthew stumbled, Theo caught his arm, supporting him. ‘I think we ought to get you home,’ he said with a wry smile and a twinkle in his eyes.

Matthew agreed, and turned to Rachel. ‘I do hope you won’t think us terribly rude if we take our leave of you now?’

Rachel smiled. ‘Not at all. It was a pleasure to meet you, Matthew. I do hope you decide to remain at Four Oaks, and if you do, I hope we see a lot more of you in the future.’

Matthew came over to kiss her on each cheek. ‘Thank you for the wonderful evening, Mrs Schofield. Dinner was delicious. ‘Compliments to the chef,’ he said, glancing at Joyce before returning his attention to Rachel. ‘I believe we shall be seeing quite a lot more of each other.’

Theo kissed Rachel too, and then his mother. ‘I take it you’re staying on with Rachel for a few more days?’

‘Yes. I have no immediate plans for returning to Portsmouth. Rachel has graciously allowed me to stay here indefinitely.’ Joyce turned to Rachel with a sheepish smile. ‘Though I promise not to outstay my welcome!’

Rachel chuckled, maintaining that she did not feel Joyce could ever outstay the welcome of any host. She showed the two young men to the door after they had both relieved themselves, and when they were gone, she returned to her other guests.

‘Okay, cards on the table,’ she said as she took her seat once more beside Joyce. She glanced across the table at Louise and Phil. ‘Did Peter sense anything else from Matthew during the course of the evening?’

Phil admitted that Peter had not; the only thing of which he remained certain was that the spirit hiding within Matthew Silverthorne was that of a young girl, perhaps eleven years of age at the time of her death, and she was confused and truly terrified.

‘Someone has pursued her from her previous life,’ Louise reasoned, ‘perhaps the very person who killed her? Maybe her pursuer is Sawyl Gwilym?’

‘I don’t think so, Louise.’ Rachel turned to Joyce. ‘Joyce, why did Peter Neville believe that you have some answers to this?’

Sighing, Joyce recounted the events that had transpired during her visit to Four Oaks yesterday; about how the mysterious Hrothgar appeared, stating that he was there to protect his child. ‘It would seem to me,’ she concluded, ‘that this child, this girl within Matthew, is Hrothgar’s daughter.’

‘So who exactly is Hrothgar?’

‘I don’t know, Rachel. It’s not a name I’ve encountered before, and to be quite honest with you, I was a little too freaked out at chatting with a spirit to think of asking any questions.’

It was a sentiment with which Rachel could completely empathise. Fifteen years ago, when she had witnessed both Louise and her brother, Allan, being taken over within the space of a day, she had been freaked herself. Since learning of the impending return of Sawyl Gwilym, she frequently found herself wishing for the return of the strange glowing white Seer, Thaumaturgia Anathemas, to reveal more about what was going on.

There had, however, been no sight nor sound of the Seer; she was clearly more respectful of the living than certain other individuals who seemed to think it quite all right to pop up at any given moment, claiming to have an inkling of what was going on, but ultimately revealing nothing. Rachel found Peter Neville’s reticence profoundly annoying, and his constant, quite arbitrary willingness to take control of Phil altogether more alarming, though she decided to keep those worrying thoughts to herself for the moment. Perhaps Peter knew little more than the rest of them; maybe he was hiding something? Rachel was uncertain, but despite everything that had happened fifteen years ago, something troubled her, and the worry would not let go.

‘Does Peter know who Hrothgar is?’ she asked.

‘His spirit is far older than mine,’ Peter said, pushing Phil to one side. ‘He predates my own time by several centuries. He is not an evil man, but evil has pursued him and his progeny.’

‘His daughter, you mean?’

‘Yes, Rachel. This evil means to kill again, to right a terrible wrong from centuries past. It will do no good, for the truth has yet to be revealed.’

‘What truth?’ demanded Rachel. ‘For Heaven’s sake, stop speaking in riddles. If you know what’s going on, just tell us!’

‘I am bound by ancient laws to preserve the flow of time. I may not interfere, though I may interact. I may guide, but not advise. I am a mere observer; a guardian to ensure history follows its proper course, whether that course be good or bad.’

Louise and Rachel glanced at one another. What Peter had just said echoed words spoken by Thaumaturgia at Ravenscreag fifteen years ago. ‘You are not human, are you?’ Louise gasped.

‘I am a spirit entity. I once held corporeal form, but in my own time, we have shed such encumbrances. I am from a time far into your future; I am from a place other than this realm of yours.’

‘You come from the same place as Thaumaturgia Anathemas, don’t you?’ gasped Rachel as a few pieces of the unfolding mystery slowly slipped into place, even though they left her none the wiser. ‘And the same place as Sawyl Gwilym!’

‘Yes.’

‘So, that’s how you have such knowledge about what’s going to happen; you have seen it all before, because to you it is history!’

‘Louise, I fear I have said too much already. It is best that you do not try to understand what I have divulged here today. You must trust that I tell you only what you need to know for your own protection, and that what I choose not to reveal is to protect you also. As Isabella was chosen as protector to your daughter, Rachel, so I have been chosen as protector to you all.’

‘All of us? Just you to protect us all?’

‘Yes, Rachel, just me.’

‘Are we all in imminent danger then?’

‘I cannot answer that, Louise. History must run its course; predestined events, both good and bad, must come to pass, and it is down to we Guardians of Time to ensure nobody interferes in the nature of things.’

‘But Sawyl Gwilym is definitely returning?’ asked Rachel.

‘He will attempt a resurrection of his spirit, yes. However, because he is an anomaly and should not be here, we Guardians cannot tell in whose body he will return. Only by actually seeing an anomalous spirit can we tell that it should not be here.’

‘So how do you know Sawyl Gwilym will return?’ demanded Rachel frostily.

‘He is one of our brethren. When the young woman Wilma died, his spirit should have returned to the place whence it came. It did not. It has therefore been decreed that his spirit lingers still within this realm of yours, awaiting a chance to return to life. That is why I have been sent back, to keep watch.’

‘Surely you should be keeping watch at Ravenscreag, then?’ suggested Rachel. ‘After all, that’s where Wilma was killed, so surely that’s where that vile abomination’s spirit will return?’

Peter nodded. ‘That is so, but I searched Ravenscreag upon my initial return, shortly after Gloria departed for her new life, and found no sign of him. He somehow escaped Ravenscreag Hall.’ He stared hard at Rachel. ‘I think you can guess what that implies!’

Rachel understood his meaning, as did Louise, but neither was willing to believe it could be true.

‘What does it imply?’ asked Joyce quietly, not entirely certain she had a full grasp on the situation.

‘What it means, Joyce,’ sighed Rachel sadly, ‘is that one of us who was up at Ravenscreag for Gloria’s wedding brought Sawyl’s spirit down with us. He could have been in any one of us without our knowledge, and so now, he could be anywhere.’

‘Wouldn’t he still be inside whoever he came down with?’

‘That’s doubtful, Joyce. If he’s from the same realm as Peter, then he would know for sure that someone would be sent after him to defeat him again. He would make haste his departure from that body and escape to another. We interact with so many people on a daily basis, quite often with people we don’t even know, as well as friends and relatives. Like I said – he could be anywhere!’

*

In the dark of night, the incumbent spirit was surprised at the ease with which entry into Four Oaks was gained. The front door was unlocked, presumably so that the new owner could return at a later hour, without the necessity of awakening the old man.

Easy access did not translate into a false sense of security, however, and the spirit made certain the youth kept alert whilst he proceeded with his plan.

The youth’s hand stroked the wall of the hallway with near reverence, almost with a vague familiarity.

It be most agreeable to see my home. The house has changed little since last I did see it.

The youth did not respond. Having surrendered to complete supplication, no freewill remained.

The host could see, smell and hear everything that went on, and could immediately make the spirit aware of what was sensed, but had no way of real communication.

There was movement from above, and the spirit glanced upwards. A slight smile twitched the corners of the host’s mouth.

This be too easy!

The host’s legs carried the incumbent spirit to the kitchen, where a hand firmly grasped one of the large carving knives from the drainer. Glancing at the reflection in the stainless steel blade, grinning in triumph, the face staring back might have been the youth’s, but the spirit saw his own true countenance, as he recalled it from memory, so many centuries ago.

Revenge has been a long time in the making, but shall now be swift and final. There shall be no mistakes this time, Hrothgar. This time thou shalt die afore thou might interfere. This time, I shall live again, and thou shalt not stop me!

Abruptly, the youth turned, propelled from the kitchen by the incumbent spirit, and slowly climbed the stairs.

Roger was making so much noise as he rummaged in the cupboard in Matthew’s room that he almost did not hear the creak of a footstep on the stairs. He froze, horrified that his son should have returned so early to catch him red-handed.

As quietly as he could, he closed the cupboard door, not bothering to make some effort at putting its contents back the way he found them, and crept towards the door. Matthew had yet to appear, so perhaps he had first gone to the bathroom.

‘Saved by the need to pee,’ whispered Roger as he opened the door surreptitiously. Peering through the crack, he could see no one on the landing and so snapped off the bedroom light, slipped from the room, and closed the door silently behind him.

He realised there was someone standing behind him, but by the time he turned to see the blade of the carving knife flashing towards him, it was too late.

Part Two

All Hallow’s Eve

1560

They had been betrothed for three years, and the day of Matilda Wystan and Obadiah Ridley’s wedding had come at last.

It was a day of great merriment for the whole village, not least for Sarah and James Wystan, who had thought their daughter might never marry. A marriage into the Ridley family would finally legitimize their status within the village of Elendale, and rid them of the stigma that tainted them following the trial and execution some twenty years earlier of James’s father, Cecil, a convicted smuggler.

Obadiah’s family lived on the very outskirts of the village, in the impressive house named Four Oaks. His brother and sister-in-law ran the main house, ruling over the elderly widow, Eleanor Ridley, with a rod of iron, while Obadiah chose to live in the coach house near the main gate. Although he loathed Cecily with a vengeance, since his brother Nicholas, the elder by five years, was now the Master of the house, Obadiah chose an easy life. The only reason he remained at the coach house instead of moving far away was to maintain a close watch on his elderly mother, of whom he was inordinately fond.

Not one for taking long walks, something compelled him to take up his mother’s suggestion one morning three years earlier, and in spite of the fear it instilled within him, he found himself walking along the dirt track through Dead Man’s Wood, heading along the valley floor in the general direction of Ashfield, the neighbouring village.

He knew the local tales, which told of the mysterious Witch of the Woods, and he knew of the legendary Warlock of Wicca Hill, both of whom were once rumoured to live within the boundaries of the forest, along with Elen, the mythical wood nymph who allegedly gave Elendale its name.

He had never believed in any of the stories, yet for some reason shied away from the area his entire life. Whether there was any truth to the rumours or not, Dead Man’s Wood was by far the creepiest place he had been through, and could but wonder what had possessed him to make such a journey that day.

When he saw movement coming towards him, his heart quickened its pace with increasing unease, though his rational mind told him nothing bad was going to happen in broad daylight. He was glad it was early winter, for the trees were naked enough to allow light through to the ground, and he was grateful that the day was dry, for the ground was slippery enough beneath his feet.

The young woman who approached along the track from the opposite direction was simply the most heavenly creature he had ever been privileged to set eyes on, and his heart quickened its pace further still with sudden desire.

Her long flaxen hair trailed gently behind her in the mid-morning breeze; her breath, and that of her two spaniels, hung on the air like mists rising from warming frosty ground.

They greeted each other cordially yet warily, and somehow found themselves standing in the middle of Dead Man’s Wood, striking up an initially banal conversation, yet one that increased with laughter as they became comfortable with both one another and their surroundings.

She revealed her name to be Matilda Wystan; that she was native to the village of Ashfield; that she had never before ventured beyond the boundary of her village, and certainly not into the depths of the forbidden woods. Yet she had for some reason felt compelled to do so that very morning, just as Obadiah had, following his mother’s suggestion, and the pair felt it was their destiny to be together.

When Matilda returned home to her parents, she revealed to them the strange events of the day. Both were aghast that she should have put her mortal soul in jeopardy by entering the accursed Dead Man’s Wood. Even in daylight, it was a no-go area as far as they were concerned, and were grateful that she had survived the ordeal.

When she told them the name of the young man whom she had encountered, and the place he lived, their anger diminished.

James Wystan knew the secrets that lay buried away deep within the bowels of Four Oaks, and knew this to be a sign of repentance for the misdeeds of his father.

When Cecil Wystan had been arrested for smuggling, few people within the village were surprised, since smuggling was rumoured to be rife in the locale. The River Dryad ran through the valley, connecting with the tidal river Rother, which wended its way out to the coast. Smugglers, well known for use of the River Rother as their trading route, also used its many tributaries, including the Dryad.

James believed no ill of his father; there had never been any indication that Cecil had killed anyone whilst smuggling, and if no one had been harmed then as far as James was concerned there was no problem. Cecil had been convicted after contraband was discovered secreted within the gardens of the Wystan family home, and was shot dead as he tried to escape the guards who came to take him away.

Justice was served; the guards left the Wystan family alone, though they became pariahs within the village, mostly because Cecil had been foolhardy enough to maintain a list of the other smugglers from the village, which had been discovered about his person after his death, and they had been arrested in his stead.

Life was not the same for the Wystan family after that. For several long years in the wilderness, the other villagers made life hell for them, until Margaret Wystan’s death left only her son, James, his wife, Sarah, and their daughter, Matilda.

Shortly after his mother’s death, James happened upon his father’s secreted journals. At the time of Cecil’s arrest and death, James had cursed the fact that his father was educated well enough to be able to read and write. Upon reading the journals, however, James reappraised his opinion of his father in several ways. He no longer regarded his father as the innocent bystander he had always believed, and in reading Cecil’s documentary evidence of misdeeds as an outlaw – including more than one particularly cold-blooded murder – James grew to dislike the man intensely, and in so doing grew to sympathise with the way the other villagers had viewed him.

At the same time, he grew to admire his father for his ability to write, for in his journals, Cecil made note of the secret passage that led from beneath Four Oaks to the riverbank of the Dryad – the entrance below the waterline could only be navigated by boat during low tide.

Cecil made inventory of many purloined artefacts; various smugglers had kept some, the remainder hidden deep beneath Four Oaks.

In the bowels of that house was secreted a hoard of gold, silver and jewels. Anyone who found them would be immensely wealthy – and in the lifetime of the proper owners, very dead.

James had the secrets of how to find the treasure; all he needed was a way into the house. The secret entrance would be of no use, for its location was not indicated in the journals, and would most likely take months, if not years, to find.

Whatever force had drawn his daughter into Dead Man’s Wood that morning, supernatural or not, James was grateful to it, for it had opened up to him the very opportunity he sought.

By openly encouraging Matilda to court the young man, Obadiah, he might yet gain entry to the house, and so the treasure.

It was the perfect plan and could not fail.

He had reckoned without the desires of the heart.

Though Matilda and Obadiah fell in love and announced their betrothal, neither foresaw the coming of Luke Gaines.

A stranger to the village, he completely bewitched Matilda, though he frightened her at times without her knowing why, and beneath the ignorant noses of her betrothed and their mutual families, she began a clandestine courtship with Luke.

He was the complete opposite of Obadiah. Matilda’s betrothed was slightly built with dark hair and eyes, and short in stature; Luke was tall and muscular, blond-haired with blue eyes. He was powerfully built, and could easily have crushed the life from Obadiah’s body with one hand.

It was not his physical strength alone that so frightened Matilda. Something else unfathomable about him unnerved her whenever she set eyes on him, yet when he touched her as even her betrothed had not touched her, the excitement she felt outweighed her fear; when he pressed his exposed manhood against her wanton nakedness, the thrill she felt intoxicated her and she was submissive to his very will.

She would do anything he asked of her without question.

Which was why, on the day that she and Obadiah intended to marry in Elendale, Matilda and Luke were in the neighbouring village of Ashfield with two villagers witnessing their nuptials.

Nobody from Elendale knew where Matilda was that day; her parents were worried sick, her intended in-laws furious at her non-appearance.

Obadiah was humiliated.

Later in the day, when she hoped the furore might have died down, Matilda paid a visit to her parents’ house to try to explain her decision, to try to make peace with them, for she knew they would be furious.

James Wystan’s fury knew no bounds. Never once in his life before that moment had he raised his hand to a woman, yet he struck out at his daughter, his face puce with unrepressed rage, as he totally disowned her with devastating finality. To humiliate the family in such a public manner was one thing, but to place such an obstacle in his way when he at last had the hidden treasure within his sights was unutterably unforgivable.

In tears, Matilda fled the place she had called home, and with caution in her mind, but hope in her heart, she made her way to Four Oaks, where she hoped Obadiah would be more forthcoming with forgiveness.

Obadiah was even more apoplectic with fury than James had been. With several witnesses to his wrath, he verbally laid into Matilda, sparing her not one harsh word as he told her in no uncertain terms precisely what he thought of her and the unladylike manner with which she had whored herself to the bastard Luke, and he finished with further condemnations towards Luke himself.

As the wronged man, Obadiah felt completely vindicated in stating that should he ever set eyes upon the other man, then he would cheerfully kill him with his bare hands – and if Matilda ever dared to set foot inside the boundary of Four Oaks again, then he simply could not be held accountable for his totally justified actions.

The following morning, Matilda lay dead upon the honeymoon bed she had shared with her new husband at the local inn.

No one appeared to have seen or heard anything during the night. Luke claimed to have stepped from the room for a few minutes during the night, finding his young bride stabbed to death upon his return. His screams roused the other guests, his grief so insurmountable that he was never a suspect.

Sole suspect was Obadiah, missing from Four Oaks, discovered later that morning beneath a tree at the edge of Dead Man’s Wood in an inebriated condition, with no recollection of how he got there, and no idea whether he actually committed the crime.

Secured by the evidence of his outburst to Matilda outside Four Oaks the previous afternoon, his guilt was incontrovertible.

The date for his execution was set – and nothing could save the neck of an innocent man that day.

2002

Violence was unheard of in modern-day Elendale; the yob culture that seemed to have swept aside the last bastion of public decency across the rest of the country had yet to reach the peaceful village. Yet gossip was rife amongst the locals that the father of the newcomer, Matthew Silverthorne, had been knifed at Four Oaks, and that the perpetrator of the terrible crime was one of their own.

Nobody seemed to know whether the man was alive or dead, and nobody actually knew who amongst their number stood accused, yet the village equivalent of Chinese Whispers spread rapidly through the community until everyone at some point had been accused.

Those in the know put the blame squarely upon the house of Four Oaks itself. It was cursed, so they said, and haunted by countless ghosts of those who had lived and died there through the centuries; people consumed with madness by the curse; people scared literally to death by the lingering spirits; people ravaged and doomed by their avarice.

Greed had brought many people past the gates of Four Oaks over the centuries; greed for a fabled treasure that was rumoured to be buried somewhere in the grounds of the house. All those who sought the treasure immediately perished under mysterious circumstances, their spirits cursed to join the legions already lingering there.

That same greed brought no one through the doors of the house itself.

After Old Woman Ridley’s death many years ago the house had lain empty and undisturbed, until Elaine Oakhurst purchased it last year.

If someone from outside of the village had made the purchase and the rash decision to live at the house, the villagers might have accepted it; that one of their own number had done so – and not just anyone, but the oldest and most respected inhabitant of the village – remained inconceivable.

Elaine Oakhurst knew perfectly well about the curse, indeed, she had perpetrated the retelling of the curse whenever possible. When she had made the purchase, the usual village equivalent of Chinese Whispers prevailed, and the villagers unanimously decided that perhaps they did not know Elaine Oakhurst quite as well as they thought.

Was it at all possible that she knew the rumour of treasure to be true, that she had maintained the tale of the curse over the years to ensure nobody bought the house when Old Woman Ridley died intestate? Was it possible the tale of the curse was in fact false, and that during her short time at the house, Elaine Oakhurst actually employed someone to search for the treasure at her behest? Had she perhaps left the house to that very person in her will, to carry on the search for the treasure? Was one of their number privy to this plan, eliminating Matthew Silverthorne’s father because he had uncovered the plan?

Whatever was actually going on up at the house, it was suddenly very clear that the curse really did exist and had indeed struck with impunity once more.

Nobody knew the identity of the attacker, though it had most assuredly not passed unnoticed that The Green Woman Inn had been closed since the incident. A notice pinned to the doors claimed personal problems, and though neither Chloe nor Ainsley would elaborate, it was noted that both of their children were conspicuous by their absence.

The village equivalent of Chinese Whispers struck again, and it did not take very long for these rumours to reach the ears of the landlord and landlady of The Green Woman Inn.

*

Chloe Samwell buckled her seatbelt as Ainsley put the car into gear and drove through the quiet back lanes that would take them to Crowborough. As they left Elendale behind, they both sighed aloud, relieved to be out of the social scrutiny, if only for a short while. They decided to make the most of it, because when they returned to the village later that day, hopefully with their errant child in tow, they knew the barrage of questions would become an onslaught.

When they had visited their daughter yesterday as she languished in the cells at Crowborough Police Station, she had tearfully informed them she could not bear seeing the confusion, anger and pain in their faces, and so did not want to see them again until it was all over.

Chloe was so furious as what her daughter had done that she had no problem adhering to Lucinda’s request. She had busied herself cleaning the pub from top to bottom over the past few days, avoiding the probing questions of the locals by keeping the pub closed, because she could not face the recriminations and accusations with which she was sure they would barrage her. She was certain someone must have witnessed Lucinda being taken away in the police car, and when Ainsley informed her of the rumour he had heard, she feared her supposition was correct.

Ainsley could deal with the questions: he merely denied everything, claiming to know as much as the locals, which amounted to nothing, and which was not altogether far from the truth. What he could not deal with, however, was the unavoidable shame that his daughter had been arrested.

So far, her name had been kept out of the papers, but it was only a matter of time before the truth came out, and he simply was not equipped to deal with that scenario.

Because of their shock at Lucinda’s actions, their preoccupied minds did not immediately register the fact that Liam had not been around since that fateful evening.

Chloe recalled that he had been asking questions about Elaine Oakhurst on the night in question. Why on earth should he have thought Elaine might have had a son? Even in itself, the question had been odd, but coming from Liam, who had never once shown an iota of interest in any of the inhabitants of Elendale, or indeed the history of the village, made it even more curious.

And then Liam had seemingly vanished into thin air.

When he had ventured out yesterday, a couple of villagers commented to Ainsley that they had seen neither of the children around, but he had ignored the questions. Short of asking around the village to find out whether anyone had seen Liam, there seemed little that either he or Chloe could do to ascertain his whereabouts, and Chloe was not yet ready to face the villagers.

Ordinarily, Chloe would not have been unduly concerned about her son. He was an adult after all, and it was not the first time he had disappeared for a few days, and was unlikely to be the last. He had something of a wanderlust, but always came home safe and sound when he was ready; however, with all that had happened, maternal paranoia kicked rational thought into submission and she could not help fearing the worst.

Ainsley acted with a distinct lack of concern, which was not entirely unexpected by Chloe, but then earlier that morning he finally admitted he was actually becoming a little worried about the safety of their wayward son.

‘I expect he’s at Four Oaks!’ he had snapped, the moment of concern apparently gone, to which Chloe had countered with the supposition that that scenario was most unlikely given the circumstances. Neither she nor Ainsley made any effort to contact Matthew at Four Oaks, sensing their questioning about their son would not sit well upon his anguish.

Therefore, they decided it might be prudent to raise the issue with the police upon their next visit with Lucinda, and then that very morning they had received the most unexpected yet welcome phone call.

‘I hope we don’t bump into Matthew,’ Chloe sighed as she twisted her wedding ring nervously around her finger. She was unable to concentrate her thoughts on anything much of note, save the humiliation she would feel if she bumped into Matthew at the hospital, where both Roger and Liam now lay, comatose to the world, one fighting for his very life, the other with nothing very much wrong except several deep lacerations and concussion.

‘Stop worrying about it, dear,’ Ainsley muttered, even though he felt the same shame. ‘We cannot be held accountable for the actions of others, not even our own children. Both are adults, and both are capable of making their own decisions. Their culpability for their actions is entirely their own. Perhaps it’s time we stopped hiding behind worry and faced our fears… and prejudice. This afternoon, once we get home, I think we should open the pub again for business.’

Chloe felt clammy at the mere thought of facing the villagers. ‘I’m not ready for that, Ainsley.’

‘I know,’ Ainsley replied with gentle compassion, ‘and neither am I, but I don’t think we’ll ever be really ready to face them, and the longer we hold off putting our lives back on track, the harder it’s going to be.’

He was correct, of course; Chloe could see that only too well. ‘All right,’ she said tremulously, ‘let’s get this over with, and we’ll face whatever this afternoon brings together.’

*

Joyce stood before the French windows of the rear sitting room, staring up at the imposing edifice that was Wicca Hill. She regarded it solemnly as her eyes searched out the movement she had witnessed at this time yesterday morning. She had already decided to investigate if she saw the movement again, and although something nagging in the recesses of her mind warned that this was perhaps not a wise course of action, she nevertheless felt it was the right thing to do.

As a visitor, she had been in the area only a short length of time, but already knew well enough that anything moving on that particular hill could not possibly be any of the locals – not the sane ones, anyway.

Though consumed with concern for his father as he lay in his hospital bed, Matthew also confided in her that he was concerned for Liam, the young man from the village who had visited the house at the beginning of the week. Of old, Theo would have viewed such concern with petty jealousy, but as a newly reformed character, he knew he had nothing to worry about where the local lad was concerned and therefore worried along with Matthew about his wellbeing.

It was incredible, Joyce thought, how quickly rumours spread within the small community. Many of the rumours were patently ridiculous of course; spreading them was a good way of getting denials, rebuttals and confirmations; an excellent manner in which to surreptitiously obtain the truth about certain events.

It was clear to her that neither Chloe nor Ainsley had made any statements concerning their daughter’s unprovoked attack on Roger, and the villagers were fishing for information. Joyce and Theo, on instruction from Matthew, maintained their own silence about events; he would himself tell the locals what he wanted them to know when he had all the relevant facts.

Unfortunately, neither party involved in the frantic struggle, which Matthew and Theo had arrived at Four Oaks to witness first hand, were in any fit state to say anything: one mentally, the other physically. Until either Lucinda decided to talk, or Roger awakened from his comatose state, nobody would understand what had provoked Lucinda into such a frenzied attack on Roger.

When they had arrived back at Four Oaks following Rachel’s pleasant soiree, having walked off the effects of the wine in the cold evening wind, they had found Lucinda standing over Roger’s prostrate bloodied body at the foot of the stairs, brandishing a knife, clearly intent upon killing him.

Matthew had shouted; Theo had thrown himself at Lucinda, and she had merely dropped the knife where she stood, remaining quiet with acquiescence. She did not struggle as Theo subdued her, restraining her with his belt, whilst Matthew dialled for an ambulance and the police.

From the blood on the landing and on the stairs, it seemed likely that Roger had been attacked first up there, struggling down the stairs in an effort to get away from the knife-wielding maniac. Lucinda had obviously been determined to inflict as much pain upon Roger as possible before dealing the final fatal blow – which Matthew and Theo’s arrival had prevented.

When Matthew and Theo gave their statements to the police, claiming Lucinda had seemed like a woman possessed, they meant it metaphorically, but realised it might also be a literal interpretation of events, though of course they could not divulge that information to the police.

Matthew went with his father to the hospital, spending much of the following day by Roger’s bedside along with Margaret, who had travelled the long distance from Portsmouth by taxi, whilst Theo and Joyce fielded the rumours and questions from the village with the deftness of seasoned pros, revealing nothing.

That night, when Matthew and Margaret returned to Four Oaks, both were pleased at the continued presence of Theo and Joyce Lockridge, who were a constant source of comfort and compassion in their time of need.

Joyce felt great sadness for the parents of the girl, who must surely be wondering where they went wrong, feeling much like pariahs within the community. She could not actually put herself in their position, for she did not know how she would react had the crime been committed by Theo. Her first instinct, she felt, would most likely be to disown him, but then at the end of the day he would still be her son: would she love him any less no matter what he did? She did not know, and prayed he would never place her in such a situation to find out.

Matthew grew concerned when the rumours rapidly spreading throughout the village started to include word that Liam Samwell was apparently missing. He told both Theo and Joyce what he and Liam had talked about a few nights ago, and how they had intended to climb Wicca Hill together to finally lay to rest the ghosts of Liam’s past.

Joyce was a little selfishly pleased that events had prevented Matthew from making that ascent. She had learned enough about Wicca Hill to know it was not a place she wished to visit, and could well understand why the locals avoided it, given its rather colourful history.

However, yesterday morning, when she saw movement up near the crest of the hill, she at first believed it to be merely a trick of the morning light. Whether it was her imagination or not, she was convinced she had seen the figure of a man standing there, looking down at the house before turning and entering the darkened entrance of the cave that was only barely visible through the winter nakedness of the trees.

It occurred to Joyce that that particular spot of Wicca Hill was only visible from one place – Four Oaks. No other property looked out onto the forbidding Dead Man’s Wood, with the even more foreboding tree lined rock escarpment beyond. No one else other than an occupant of this house could possibly see anyone coming and going from the cave, and then only in the winter – and at such a distance, she could not even really be sure she had seen what she thought she had.

She did not want to bother Matthew with the matter, though after what he had said, it occurred to her that Liam might have gone up the hill. If he had indeed gone into that cave, he was far more foolish than any local had any right to admit to.

There was no way Joyce was going up the hill herself – not alone, anyway. Not wishing to add unnecessarily to the burden of Matthew’s own personal concerns, she instead informed Theo about the figure she believed she had seen, and he agreed there was more than a slight possibility that it was Liam, but that it was most likely a trick of the morning light.

He waited beside her, watching the hill so intently that his eyes watered and became unfocussed.

‘Just because it happened yesterday morning, doesn’t mean it will happen today,’ he said to her as he rubbed his fingers against his eyes to clear his vision. ‘If indeed you did actually see anything at all. Not that I doubt you saw something, perhaps just not a person.’

Joyce did not respond as she squinted at the craggy skyline through the trees. She clutched her son’s arm tightly. ‘Look,’ she whispered. ‘Tell me you see it too.’

Theo squinted, wishing they had a pair of binoculars with which to bring the hill closer into their field of vision. He frowned. Slightly blurred against the bare branches of the trees lower down the hill-slopes, he could see movement. Little more than a dark shadow, it was nonetheless moving amongst the trees, whatever it was; moving upwards, heading in the direction of the cave.

It stopped; it turned, and even from this distance, even through the trees, even through his tired, blurry, squinting eyes, Theo quite clearly made out the pale round face of a person. Man or woman, he could not tell, but it was unquestionably human.

‘Tell me you see it,’ Joyce repeated softly.

Theo nodded. ‘I see it, Mum. It’s definitely a person. Could very well be Liam.’

Abruptly the figure moved and was gone, almost as if hiding from their watching, inquisitive eyes.

Joyce and Theo stepped back from the French windows slightly and faced one another. ‘What do you reckon?’ Joyce asked. ‘Do we dare risk going up there to see who it is?’

‘I think we ought to. Whether it’s Liam or not, that person has a perfect vantage point from which to watch the comings and goings of this house, safe in the knowledge that only someone extremely foolish would go up there.’

Joyce gasped as she realised what her son implied with his words. ‘You mean someone’s spying on this house?’

Theo nodded. ‘It’s a likely possibility. That person can easily see when everyone had left the house, and can make their way through the woods to the grounds, and maybe break into the house, and if anyone returns whilst they are in here, they can escape through any of the windows quite easily, and get back up there through the trees.’

‘Why would someone want to spy on the house though?’

Theo shrugged. ‘Why would Lucinda wish to attack Roger? Why would a woman Matthew has never met leave him this house? It seems to me there are a number of unsolved mysteries in this area, and something tells me the answers to some of them lie up in that cave.’

Joyce took a deep steadying breath. ‘So you really think we ought to investigate?’

Theo shrugged again. ‘My instinct for self-preservation tells me to keep the hell away from that godforsaken place, but my instinct for rational thought tells me there is nothing to fear from centuries of superstitious nonsense.’

‘So, your instincts are fighting their own battle? Which of them is winning?’

‘It’s a stalemate. Considering what we know from our dinner with Rachel, self-preservation wins over rational thought, but then curiosity comes into play. I’m curious to see this infamous lair of Sawyl Gwilym for myself, and if we go together and keep our wits about us, I think we’ll be quite safe.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that!’

The sudden strange voice from behind them startled Joyce and Theo, causing both to squeal like little girls, and they whirled around as one to find a slightly overweight young man with black hair standing behind them. He wore an immaculate black suit, and from what Matthew had told them, they both instinctively knew who he was, but it did not prevent Theo from demanding he identify himself and explain how he had gained entry to the house, and what he was doing there.

‘My name is Max Revenant. I am here at the behest of my mother.’

Indeed: Max Revenant, the mysterious estate agent who seemed – according to Matthew – to appear and disappear at will. The fact that he had somehow managed to get inside the house and into the room without them hearing added credence to that statement.

‘So, you are Max Revenant? Matt has mentioned you several times,’ Theo muttered. ‘You say you are here at the behest of your mother?’

His expression neutral, Max nodded. ‘Indeed I am. She has asked that I bring you to her.’

‘You say that in such a manner that implies we should know who she is! What’s her name?’

‘She has had many names, but you might know her as Elaine Oakhurst.’

Joyce choked back a breath of fear. ‘But… Elaine Oakhurst is dead! She died last year, and left this house to Matthew.’

Max nodded. ‘It is true, Elaine Oakhurst is dead, but my mother lives on. She wishes to gather together all parties to set right a tragic wrong.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Theo.

Max smiled slightly. ‘All will become clear to you. Please, you must come with me.’

As Max turned to leave, Theo made a move to grab him, and his hand passed right through the estate agent’s shoulder, causing a scream to well up in Joyce’s throat.

Max turned back to the pair, a look of great sadness on his face. ‘Yes, my friends, I too am dead. I can touch things, but I cannot be touched by anything else. Please, you must not be afraid. Mother and I mean you no harm, but you must come with me right now. Time is of the essence. I have others I must fetch, and so little time to do so. Please, make haste.’

‘Where are we going?’ asked Joyce, feeling more than a little queasy at the thought that she was conversing with an actual ghost. ‘I think you should at least tell us that if you expect us to follow you.’

Max pointed to Wicca Hill. ‘We are most definitely not going up there! That place is to be avoided at all costs, though I fear for some, any warning comes too late.’ He moved his hand lower, until it pointed at Dead Man’s Wood. ‘Mother lives within the forest, which has been her home for countless millennia.’

Theo gasped as he grasped the enormity of what Max meant. ‘Oh my god – Elaine Oakhurst is Elen, isn’t she? You’re telling us that your mother is the deity from whom Elendale gets its very name.’

Max inclined his head. ‘Indeed she is. Now please, we must hurry.’

Theo squeezed Joyce’s hand and smiled at her. ‘Come on, Mum, it’s all right. We’ll be quite safe… I think.’

Joyce returned his smile, though her own indicated a false sense of security, when all she really felt was unrelenting apprehension. ‘I hope you’re right, Theo. I hope you’re right!’

*

Louise glanced over the packet of cornflakes at her eldest daughter, seated opposite. Glory ate her breakfast in silence, not chattering away as she usually did, not listening to her walkman or casually flicking through the various Breakfast TV channels, which were both her irksome usual routine.

Louise simply could not fathom what had come over her daughter in recent weeks. From petulant prepubescent to tiresome teenage tantrums, Glory’s behaviour had grown steadily worse. She was so unruly that Louise frequently despaired that anyone could tame the increasingly wild child. She tried to be tolerant, recalling what she had been like at Glory’s age with more than a degree of shame but little regret. Teenage angst was all about raging hormones and rebelling against parental constraints, which was what Glory had been doing.

Until a little over a week ago.

The overnight change in her daughter continued to unnerve Louise. Peter Neville claimed Glory hid no spirit, but Louise was unconvinced. How else could Glory’s behavioural change be explained? A gradual change over weeks, months or years could be accepted as the natural order of things, but not a literal overnight metamorphosis into an angelic treasure who helped around the house, did not argue, answer back or fight with her siblings, yet was quietly introverted.

Something was wrong, and Louise was ashamed to admit she was not altogether sure how to approach Glory on the subject for fear of returning the girl to her old petulant self.

As anodyne as it was to have peace around the house, it was not worth it if something was upsetting her daughter, and Glory looked anything but happy as she munched her toast.

‘Okay you two,’ Louise said to the twins as they finished their cornflakes, ‘go and get ready for school.’

As Byron and Bryony scampered off up the stairs to change out of their pyjamas into their school uniforms, Louise scooted across the vacated chairs until she was adjacent with her eldest daughter. She touched Glory’s arm gently, making the girl jump.

‘Sorry darling, I didn’t mean to startle you. You were in a world of your own there.’

Glory looked into her mother’s eyes, and Louise was shocked to see the sadness and tears brimming in the corners of her eyes.

‘Oh Glory, whatever is the matter?’ she asked, with genuine maternal concern, which prompted floods of tears. ‘Come on, darling, you can tell me,’ she added gently when Glory remained silent.

‘I can’t tell you, Mummy, you’ll laugh at me, just like everyone else laughed at me.’

Louise patted her daughter’s arm affectionately. ‘I most certainly will not laugh, darling. What’s happened? Has someone been bullying you at school or something? Because if they have, I’m going to have words with the headmaster.’

Glory wiped her eyes. ‘No, it’s nothing like that, Mummy.’

‘Shall I get Daddy to take the twins to school and tell your teacher you’re not feeling well today? Then you and I can have a girly day together, and you can tell me all about it. Whatever is bothering you, I’ll try and help you sort it out.’

Glory seemed to cheer up at the notion, though whether it was from the thought of not going to school, or the thought of spending the day with her mother, remained unclear to Louise for the moment.

‘You’d get Daddy to lie to the school so I can stay home?’

Louise nodded. ‘If it helps get to the bottom of your recent changes, then yes, a white lie will do no harm.’

Glory grinned, a little sadistically Louise thought. ‘All right then. It’ll be fun.’

Louise chuckled. ‘What will? Having your father lie to the headmaster, or spending the day with me?’

‘Both.’

‘And if I get Daddy to do this monumental thing, will you be completely truthful with me and tell me what’s going on?’

Glory nodded solemnly. ‘I will tell you everything.’

‘Okay then, when your father comes down to breakfast I shall give him the happy news. I wonder what’s keeping him anyway? It’s most unlike him to be late getting up.’

‘Shall I take him a cup of tea, Mummy?’

Louise shook her head. ‘No, I’ll go. You finish your breakfast.’

She found Phil, sitting on their bed, eyes fixed on some event in the past, eyes glazed over to all that was happening around him. Louise knew better than to try to wake him from his trance-like state. She thought it must be Peter Neville conversing with him again, though she had not seen him in this kind of trance before.

His lips moved, though no words formed in the air, while his vacant eyes stared straight through her.

Then, with a rattling gasp, Phil came back from wherever he had been.

‘Are you all right?’ whispered Louise from the doorway.

Blinking his eyes rapidly, Phil stared at her, shaking his head. When he spoke, Louise was momentarily startled to hear Peter Neville’s voice. ‘No, I am not, none of us is all right. He has finally returned. He walks among us again. None of us is safe!’

*

He awoke from the darkness once more, and once again his cognitive abilities were impaired for a few short moments, until he realised he had reawakened in the child he had visited once before.

All would proceed smoothly now; the crumbling jigsaw of his life strengthened once more by the fact that history repeated itself. The very nature of this déjà vu gave him the necessary strength.

He had been patient for so many years, and the youth had returned to him. His patience now rewarded by the reawakening of old wounds, those same old wounds gave him power.

As all eyes would be firmly fixed upon those other events, his resurrection would go unnoticed.

By the time the poor pathetic fools realised he had returned it would be far too late.

Nothing would stop him this time.

No one was going to prevent him from becoming the Master of Time.

Nothing and no one would stand in the way of Sawyl Gwilym.

The master had returned at last for his scrolls.

1560

He awakened in shadow, blinking away the last vestiges of sleep as he glanced around, taking in his less than salubrious surroundings.

He was in a muddy ditch, beneath a bush on the edge of Dead Man’s Wood, and he was not alone.

He recognised the man who lay beside him in the ditch as Obadiah Ridley, though he knew not how he came by this realisation, for he was certain he had never before set eyes upon the man.

It was most perplexing, though not as perplexing as the question of how he came to be lying in the ditch himself. He had no recollection of events leading up to this moment of awakening. Enlightenment evaded his cloudy mind, which refused to relinquish its memories.

Who am I?

He was only vaguely aware that he did not belong here, though he had no knowledge of where he was supposed to be, if that was the case.

He shuddered suddenly, as though someone had just walked over his grave. He closed his eyes for a moment, and in his mind’s eye witnessed the murder of a young woman as she slept. She did not cry out at the death stroke; she did not move as her life ebbed away into the bed linen. As she lay dying, her killer wiped clean the blade and then whispered something in her ear, before screaming aloud and fleeing the room.

His eyes opened again, and as the startling images coursed through his diminished field of vision, swamping him with dizziness, he was unsure whose murder he had witnessed. Who was the young woman? Who was the killer? Why had he screamed as he fled the scene of his crime?

Why did I witness those events?

He opened his eyes and looked down at the limp body of Obadiah Ridley, wondering how he knew who the man was.

Obadiah emitted a soft groan from the sodden ground and shifted position slightly, before succumbing to restfulness once more.

I cannot stay here, thought the man. I must find out what’s going on, and why I am here.

He knew where he was now, having recognised the imposing rock face looming upwards behind him as being Wicca Hill, home to the legendary warlock, Sawyl Gwilym. He was in Elendale, and he knew it was 1560, though he had a curious feeling that he did not belong here in either this time or place.

I still don’t know who I am though!

Perhaps if I took a walk I might clear my head and awaken my thoughts and memories?

He did not like to leave the clearly inebriated Obadiah, who in his condition seemed horribly exposed and vulnerable beneath the bush, but then he also had the curious feeling that Obadiah’s fate was already sealed.

He walked along the pathway that bordered the edge of Dead Man’s Wood, sensing he was heading in the direction of the village, though he was reasonably certain he had never been to the village, nor walked this path before.

So why does the area seem so damn familiar, he thought? It’s almost as if I’m sharing someone else’s memories!

That’s ridiculous! How can there be a duality about me, joining my mind to that of another?

Because you are possessed!

The sudden added voice within his mind caused him to cry out, though the sound seemed constricted within his throat, for the cry remained silent.

Who had spoken in his head?

No one; the voice was gone; the presence had disappeared as swiftly as it had come to him: he was alone once more, with only his own jumbled thoughts for company.

As he walked the pathway and drew closer to the village itself, he saw two young people coming towards him. A man and a woman, both in their twenties, both wearing coarse homespun garments that looked decidedly itchy.

He glanced down at what he was wearing, and was surprised to find he was dressed in clothes of his own time: faded denims, sneakers, a check shirt, and a fleecy jacket.

How odd, he thought, that I should know these clothes to be of my own time, yet I don’t know when my own time is!

Never mind the fact that I have somehow managed to travel back in time! How the hell is that possible?

As the young couple approached him, he became a little concerned at what their reactions might be upon seeing him in his anachronistic ensemble.

Should I hide from them, he wondered? Should I duck into the bushes until they have passed?

A silly idea. Surely they would have seen me by now? If I start playing hide and seek, they might find such behaviour a tad suspicious.

The couple approached; he continued walking, head bowed, avoiding eye contact, yet surreptitiously keeping his eyes fixed upon the pair instead of the path ahead, and he was rather perturbed when they passed him by without comment; not to him, not to each other.

He stopped, turned, and looked after them. They appeared completely oblivious to his presence.

It was almost as if he was not there.

It was almost as if he were invisible.

Like a ghost.

Dear God – I’m dead!

2002

Matthew sat beside the hospital bed, clutching onto his father’s hand, tearfully watching Roger’s face, hoping for any sign of awakening.

Roger had lain in a comatose state since being admitted to hospital the night before last with multiple stab wounds and head injuries.

Somehow, Roger had sustained injuries that were not immediately life threatening. The manner in which Lucinda had seemed to frenziedly attack him, as witnessed by Matthew and Theo, seemed to indicate she wanted him dead; the injuries, on the other hand, implied that rational thought had somehow overcome her madness: it was as if her subconscious, realising what she was doing was wrong, had tried to prevent her from killing Roger.

A small mercy, considering he now lay in a coma.

The knife wounds, little more than superficial lacerations, would heal quickly; the concussion – suffered as he tumbled down some of the stairs, the doctor hypothesised – should have induced little more than short-term unconsciousness. A brain scan indicated no internal damage, and though the brain was a curious unpredictable beast, the specialists maintained their assertions that Roger’s condition was not life threatening, and remained cautiously optimistic that he would awaken at any moment.

Being very sensitive and prone to outbursts of histrionics, Matthew was convinced that his father should have awakened by now, that the very fact that he had not bode ill for Roger, and that he could die at any moment.

His mother told him he was not helping either himself or his father by being at the hospital every permissible moment of the day.

Indeed, Margaret found it increasingly odd that Matthew should show such overt concern for his father after the way Roger had treated him over the years, and she wondered whether perhaps they bonded in the short space of time they were together at Four Oaks.

Certainly, as Roger was Matthew’s father, Matthew should assuredly be concerned about his wellbeing – but not to the detriment of his own health.

Margaret tried to get Matthew to take it in turns with her to keep the bedside vigil, but he point-blank refused.

‘I must be here when Daddy awakens,’ he had said in a sad lost voice that was barely audible above the constant quiet noise of the hospital.

How odd, thought Margaret with a slight frown; Matthew has never once called his father Daddy before!

She recalled the last time Matthew had visited Silverthorne Lodge just last week; she thought of the strange voices in which her husband and son had spoken, and how afterwards they appeared to have no recollection of what had happened.

She felt something similar was occurring again. Roger’s comatose condition was his way of protecting himself from harm, or perhaps it was the spirit doing the protecting? Matthew’s invasive spirit was keeping vigil: a daughter keeping watch over her ailing father.

Margaret wanted to say nothing to Matthew about it, for it was clear that much of the time he had no knowledge of the girl’s presence. Only once had he mentioned the fact that he felt the presence of a spirit; moments before the child had taken hold of him at Silverthorne Lodge. He had never mentioned such feelings before, at any point in his life, and as far as she could ascertain from Theo – since Matthew was barely speaking to anyone, not even her – he had made no mention of being possessed since then, though Theo had made mention yesterday evening of the fact that she might wish to speak with Joyce.

When she had asked Theo what he meant by such a statement, he had merely shrugged, made some throwaway comment about not wishing to become further embroiled in the machinations of Roger’s dealings with his son than he already was, and left it at that.

A disquieting statement, it unnerved Margaret immensely, implying as it did that at some point in the past, Roger had interfered in their son’s life in some overtly drastic manner, which if it were true, would mean Matthew had no inkling of it.

Possession or no possession, if he had known of any interference in his life at his father’s behest, there would be no forgiveness forthcoming from Matthew. To try to split up Matthew and Theo by being cold and rude was one thing; to try to split them up by physical interference was another thing altogether, and Margaret could not help but wonder whether there was a ring of truth to Theo’s unsubstantiated rumour-fuelled accusations about her husband.

Would Joyce know?

Both Matthew and Joyce had already gone to bed when Theo had been quietly insistent that Margaret should speak with his mother, and that morning, Margaret had left the house before Joyce awoke. Now Margaret quietly agreed with Theo’s gentle insistence.

She looked across Roger’s gently rising and falling chest to where Matthew sat, clutching tightly onto his father’s hand, almost willing him to awaken.

‘Darling, I’m returning to Four Oaks for the rest of the day. I’ll be back this evening. Do you want me to bring you anything?’

Matthew shook his head, but remained silent, and with a tragic sigh of desperation, Margaret rose to her feet and left the bedside without another word.

As she walked away, Matthew turned his head slightly, following her departure with a sad sigh.

She does not understand. She can never hope to understand, so you must not even try.

Matthew silently agreed with the gentle voice in his head, and returned his attention to his father’s unconscious body, continuing his unblinking vigil.

*

Rachel had been sad to see Joyce and Theo leave her home to go and stay with Matthew and his mother at Four Oaks, but she understood their reasons completely. Matthew especially seemed overtly distraught at what had happened to his father, and considering what little information she had gleaned from Joyce and Theo during their short stay, Rachel found such an emotional display rather odd.

Still, she mused, it takes a great personal tragedy to make us realise just how we really feel about someone, and considering that the man is Matthew’s father, it’s only right and proper that he should be upset.

It was also right and proper that the only two people currently in the area who knew Matthew and his family should be with them and not her.

Rachel had been alone long enough now to have grown accustomed to her own company; no matter how comfortable she had become with Joyce and Theo in the house, she had known they were only temporary house guests and would leave eventually – she just had not expected it to be quite so soon.

She felt desperately sad for Matthew, who had no idea, it seemed, that anything odd was going on in his life, and she could not help wondering whether the attack on Roger had something to do with the visitors from the past.

Rachel could not claim to know Lucinda well; in fact, she barely knew the girl’s parents to speak of, as she was not a regular patron of The Green Woman Inn. However, she had seen Lucinda around the village on numerous occasions and as far as Rachel was concerned, her behaviour was atypical. Perhaps a little brusque with people she did not know, Lucinda had certainly shown no homicidal tendencies that Rachel could recall, and so her attack on Roger Silverthorne was all the more unsettling.

One possible explanation sprang readily to mind, though one that Rachel had no wish to contemplate.

When they discovered in whose body Sawyl Gwilym had manifested himself, Rachel hoped it was neither someone she knew, nor someone she liked. A stranger or someone she disliked would certainly make the situation a little easier to deal with.

She did not like to believe the warlock had taken over Lucinda Samwell, but it seemed increasingly likely.

The one person who would be able to tell if Lucinda was indeed possessed by Sawyl Gwilym was Peter Neville.

Glancing at her watch, Rachel tapped the dial thoughtfully. Louise and Phil should be driving the children to school about now, but they were usually home again by ten o’clock. She decided she would visit them later that morning. If they could find a way to get into the Crowborough Police Station to see Lucinda, Peter would be able to reveal if her worst fears were true, or whether they were completely unfounded.

Until they returned from the school run, however, there was little point in going round to their house, so Rachel pottered around her own, cleaning and tidying, and put her mind into gear to think of a way to persuade the police to let them see Lucinda.

*

Louise waited until Phil had left with the twins, and then she cleared away the breakfast things before settling in the cosy sitting room with her daughter to find out what was going on in Glory’s life. She was fully convinced she was not going to like what she was about to hear, and fully expected her daughter to speak in some other tongue.

She decided she should let Glory talk in her own time, and offered no prompting as they sat in silence together on the sofa. It was clear to Louise that Glory was uncomfortable with what she wanted to tell her and did not know where to begin.

Finally, Glory looked at her, tears welling up in her eyes, and with an anguished cry, Louise leaned over and hugged her tight. ‘Oh, my poor baby, whatever is the matter? Come on, it’s all right, you can tell me. Whatever it is, we’ll get through it together. If you’re in trouble, I won’t be cross, I promise.’ She tilted her daughter’s head, wiping the girl’s tears away with her handkerchief. ‘Are you in trouble at school?’

Glory shook her head.

‘Are you being bullied?’

Again, Glory shook her head, and then took a deep breath. ‘There’s this boy at school, who I really like. He’s new; he only joined a couple of months ago, and I just thought he was gorgeous.’

Louise smiled. ‘Ah, you’re first crush. I begin to understand. Go on.’

Glory told her mother how she had bonded with the boy, whose name was Samuel, and how they became friends very quickly.

At the mention of the boy’s name, Louise felt a sudden chill of dread. Could it be? Was it possible? She warned herself not to jump to conclusions; she had done that before and nearly lost the friendship of her oldest friend. She had vowed never again to jump to conclusions, but had realised on numerous occasions that it was human nature to fear the worst.

She forced herself to abandon the thoughts that were slowly growing within her mind, and concentrated on her daughter’s words.

‘I thought I was doing the right thing, Mother, befriending him, because he didn’t know anyone. I liked him more and more each day, and he seemed to like me a lot too, but then that cow Isobel Fitzwilliam put her oar in, told Sam what a nasty piece of work I was, and he believed her. She told him some of the things I’d done in the past, and he went off me right away.’

‘That’s most unfair, darling,’ gasped Louise, appalled at how cruel children could be when playing with the emotions of others. ‘We should never judge people by past actions alone. If we like them as they are now, then we should see past such things. There are facets to everyone, including our best friends, that we might not like, but we accept those things because we like that person as a whole, and those bad points are part of who they are. The good and the bad counterbalance each other.’ She ruffled her daughter’s blonde curls. ‘Unfortunately, children don’t understand that, and sometimes adults don’t, either. To them, everything is black and white; there are no grey areas in between to some people, and I’m afraid jealousy brings out the very worst in everyone.’

Glory nodded. ‘Isobel was jealous because she fancied Sam too, so she did everything she could to turn him against me. That’s why I have done my best to turn over a new leaf, to show him that I’m not the spiteful girl Isobel made me out to be. I went round to his house recently, to speak to him privately, but when I got there, Isobel was already waiting on the doorstep, and when he opened the door, he kissed her and let her in.’

Louise hugged her daughter again as more tears flowed. ‘Oh, my poor darling,’ she sighed. ‘I know this may sound harsh, but I’m afraid this is something you are going to have to get used to. Boys will toy with your affections, and then toss you aside when they get bored with you or if they find someone they like more. Girls can be just as devious and manipulative, too. It’s up to you, though, to be yourself, to show him how mature you are by feigning indifference around him, even though inside you are nursing a broken heart. You must never let him see how much you are hurting: that would only serve to boost his ego, and don’t let that girl see your pain either, or she will manipulate you further, until you reach the point where you are convinced you cannot cope without him.’

‘But Mummy, how do I cope without him? I love him!’

‘Well darling, you start by telling your best friend everything; your closest and dearest friend is the one person you know will not laugh at you, and will not betray your confidence. You know who your best friend is, don’t you?’

Glory nodded with a quiet smile.

‘Good. The next thing you do not do, is try to make him jealous by hooking up with someone else who you don’t really like. That can only lead to one outcome… more heartache, for you especially. Don’t let him ever see your tears; be happy with yourself for rising above that, and don’t let him bait you with his words and actions. Remember that you wanted to be his friend first off, because he was new to the area, and that your feelings for him began afterwards. He never said he had had feeling for you, did he?’

‘No,’ Glory admitted.

‘So you have actually lost nothing, save his friendship. So, you be brave, you go up to him, even if that cow Isobel is with him, and you tell him that yes, you used to be the way she described you, but that was in the past and he saw the real you when you befriended him. You tell him nothing has changed and you still want to be friends with him, and that he should not allow others to tell him who he can and cannot be friends with. Isobel will no doubt try to bait you through all this if she is with him, but you must rise above all that and ignore her. Once you have told him you want to remain friends, flash him your best smile and walk away. Don’t look back, don’t make any contact with him again after that, other than to say hello if you should see him. No matter how hard it is – and it will be very hard, and no matter how much it hurts – and by God it will hurt terribly; if you see them together you must never give in to your jealousy. He’s your friend, remember, so be happy for him. If you can hold your head up, he might just see you as he originally did, and whether or not his feelings for you increase, I’m sure he’ll once again be your friend, and to be perfectly honest, if he doesn’t still want your friendship, I think that’s his loss rather than yours.’

‘But I don’t want to be just his friend, Mummy.’

‘I know darling, but sometimes certain things are just not meant to be. A harsh fact of life, to be sure, but a truth you will have to learn, I’m afraid. What you must think about is, do you want him in your life, if only as a friend, or do you not want him in your life at all? Once you have made that decision, you will know how to proceed, and nobody can make that decision except you.’

Louise smiled at her daughter. ‘Trust me, I went through a similar experience when I was about your age, and I have been through so much more during my adult life. Indeed, you wouldn’t believe some of the things I have been through!’

Glory sat back with her arms folded. ‘Try me,’ she said. ‘I might be more open minded than you think!’

Louise fixed her daughter with a bemused look. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Let’s just say I read Grandad’s novel, Into the Light, and I have recently read The Master of the Scrolls by Aunt Gloria. You tell me what I mean!’

Louise frowned, uncertain how best to proceed. It was all very well her giving Glory advice on boys, but now she found herself needing advice on how to deal with this unexpected situation. She had never expected her daughter to read and understand Into the Light or The Master of the Scrolls, and yet that seemed to be the implication of Glory’s words. The difficulty was just what exactly Glory thought she knew.

‘I really wouldn’t know where to begin, darling,’ Louise said at length. ‘Besides, you’re only fourteen; I’m not sure you’re yet ready for the heavy burden of the whole truth.’

‘The truth about Aunt Gloria’s disappearance; the truth about Uncle Allan’s death? Two people, both very dear to you, one who disappeared the year before I was born, and one who died a year after that disappearance; events that are described in both Aunt Gloria’s final novel, and Grandad’s first. I’ve heard you and Daddy talking at night, too: I don’t think you realise just how thin the walls of this house are, Mummy!’

Glory arched an eyebrow sagely, and Louise blushed crimson at the veiled intimation.

‘From both those novels, I get the gist of what happened, but I don’t fully believe everything. Since both are works of fiction, with a degree of truth, it’s difficult to decide which parts are the truth, and which are the fiction.’

‘You honestly want me to tell you the whole truth?’

Glory nodded.

Louise chuckled. ‘How did we go from discussing your problems to mine?’ She sighed deeply. ‘Okay, so you think you are ready for the truth do you?’

Glory nodded again.

‘Well, hold on to your hat, darling, because I don’t think you are quite prepared for the entire truth!’

*

Chloe and Ainsley walked into the hospital in Tunbridge Wells, following the signs for the intensive care ward they had been told to come to. They walked rather more speedily than they ought to, nearly crashing into a staff nurse as she rounded the corner.

Chloe apologised profusely, explaining that they were anxious to see their son. ‘He’s Liam Samwell. Apparently he was brought in early this morning.’

‘Do you know which ward he’s in?’ asked the nurse politely, silently cursing the crass stupidity of visiting relatives, always so desperate to see their loved ones that they had no concept of time and place. Patients were in the best place, in safe hands who would look after them, and taking five minutes longer to reach the person they were visiting would have no adverse effect upon visitor or patient; rushing around hospital corridors would lead to further accidents.

‘He’s in intensive care.’

The nurse turned on her heel. ‘Follow me, and kindly don’t run,’ she sniffed haughtily.

They walked behind her, angered at her dawdling pace, but said nothing, and eventually she brought them into intensive care, where she left them with a more sympathetic doctor.

They could see Liam through the window of the door that led to his private room, a tube fixed in his mouth, with a drip attached to his right arm, his left arm encased in plaster, and his head heavily bandaged.

Chloe’s hand flew to her mouth as she stifled a gasp of horror. Ainsley wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder, forcing himself to turn away from his son to face the doctor.

‘What happened to him, Doctor?’

The doctor fixed Ainsley with piercing blue eyes. ‘We’re not entirely sure. The driver of the car that knocked him down said she didn’t have a chance to stop in time, that he just staggered out of the forest right in front of her car. She thought he might have been drunk, but blood tests show no signs of alcohol in his bloodstream. He has a broken arm and a couple of broken ribs, and numerous cuts and bruises all over his body that are not consistent with his being struck by the car. My guess would be that he suffered some other mishap earlier, which was why he was staggering. The head trauma he suffered could be from hitting it on the road, but again, indications show that he suffered multiple blows to the head.’

Ainsley felt his blood boil, and all his momentary concern for Liam evaporated. ‘I bet the idiot was in the woods looking for action. I bet he was attacked by someone offended by his actions, and I can’t say I blame them!’

Chloe shook off her husband’s hand, angrily turning on him. ‘If you really think that’s what your son does, then get out of my sight now, Ainsley! I can assure you that Liam does not go looking for action, as you called it, in the woods!’

The doctor held up his hand, having no desire to be caught in the crossfire of what was clearly an ongoing family argument. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘your son’s injuries would not seem to indicate that he was attacked. It seems more likely that he fell down a rock-face somewhere, and as to what he was actually doing in the forest when he suffered the accident, well that’s really rather irrelevant, and I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your voices down. This is a hospital, after all!’

‘Yes, Doctor. Sorry,’ mumbled Ainsley.

‘Where exactly was he found?’ asked Chloe.

‘Not far from the address on his driving licence,’ said the doctor. ‘Lucky he had it in his wallet, along with his bank cards, otherwise we wouldn’t have known where to contact you.’

‘So he was in the forest near Elendale?’

The doctor nodded.

‘He was in Dead Man’s Wood! My God, why the hell would he go in there?’

Ainsley did not trust himself to respond. ‘Is he going to be all right?’ he asked instead.

‘Well, we’re monitoring his condition, which is stable. So long as he hasn’t suffered brain damage from his head injuries then I see no reason why he shouldn’t make a full recovery.’

‘So in other words, we have to wait until he wakes up?’

The doctor smiled reassuringly, his voice filled with genuine compassion. ‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Samwell. There’s nothing else for it than to be patient. I’m sorry I can’t give you any more information than that.’

‘May we go in to be with him?’ asked Ainsley.

The doctor frowned. ‘Are you certain you wish to be by his bedside, Mr Samwell? Your son requires peace if he is to recover!’

‘Of course I am. He’s my son. I do care what happens to him.’

Chloe emitted a non-committal grunt of disbelief at his statement, but remained otherwise silent, hardly trusting herself to speak. She might have been married to Ainsley for a quarter of a century, but he never ceased to amaze her with his constantly changing demeanour. He seemed to follow his own notion of what he felt to be right or wrong, and this notion changed from day to day depending on whether or not it suited his personal agenda.

Today he wanted outsiders to believe he was a caring father to his son; had he not already shown his true emotions, he might have convinced the doctor.

Still, Chloe was not about to tell her husband that he could not see his son. ‘It’s all right, Doctor, I’ll make sure he behaves himself. May we go in?’

The doctor nodded. ‘Be sure that he causes no trouble, Mrs Samwell, or I shall have you both ejected from the hospital.’ He glowered at Ainsley. ‘And don’t think I won’t!’

Ainsley did not care for the doctor’s tone of voice, but remained silent, knowing instinctively that it was no idle threat. He followed Chloe into the room, remaining at the foot of the bed whilst his wife went to stand beside Liam’s head. He watched as she tearfully stroked their son’s cheek. Years ago, he might have behaved in the same way, back at a time when he could have openly displayed love towards his son.

But not now.

He was horrified to find himself thinking it a pity the apparent fall down a rock face had not ended his torment.

Perhaps when Liam woke up, the concussion might have knocked some sanity into the lad, or maybe he might even have amnesia. How simple it would then be to condition the boy’s mind into normal thoughts and desires, turn him away from the abhorrent aberration that was his lifestyle.

A slight smile twitched at the corner of Ainsley’s mouth as he forgave himself his earlier thoughts.

Ah yes – it was definitely time to start praying.

1560

It’s time to start praying, thought the man as he stood at the rear of the chanting crowd, who were baying for the blood of an innocent man. Unless something was done soon, the poor soul would be executed.

He knew Obadiah to be innocent; in his dreams, he had witnessed the terrible events that led to the poor unfortunate girl’s murder – at the hands of her new husband.

Besides him, there had been no witnesses to the terrible deed, and nothing he could do would prevent the grave injustice.

Having come to the startling realisation that he really might be dead, the man had shouted after the young couple who had ignored him; as if to reiterate his point, no sound had issued forth from his lips. Bending to pick up a stone from the ground, intent upon throwing it after the departing couple, his fingers had passed right through it.

There was then no shred of doubt, no iota of insincerity to his thoughts: he was dead; he would have to deal with it.

It did not answer the question of how he found himself in this other time, centuries before he was born, nor did it explain how he recognised Obadiah.

He had frowned, struggling to recall something on the cusp of his comprehension. He could remember nothing leading up to his death, yet he could picture a house; a stone house, standing in immense grounds, with a great sweeping driveway and huge wrought iron gates: his home.

No, not his home; someone else lived there, someone from this time, perhaps? Was the house in this area, maybe?

He had traipsed the lanes, beneath overhanging tree canopies, for what seemed like hours. Fatigue did not visit him, nor hunger nor thirst.

Maybe being dead was not so bad, after all?

Then he had found himself back beside Obadiah, just as the unfortunate young man was arrested for murder. He had quickly realised the crime of which Obadiah was accused was the one he himself had witnessed, but with no way of communicating with the locals, he decided that if he could do nothing to set right a tragic wrong, then being dead was no blessing in disguise after all.

To right a wrongdoing.

Somehow, the man had a sense that something very like this had happened once before.

Déjà vu.

No – more than once before!

Have I lived yet other lives, farther in the past, he wondered? Am I somehow travelling backwards through time to get to the origin of some other wrongdoing?

Is this what dead people do, he pondered in his perpetual twilight of silence? Do all dead people find themselves trapped in some other time? Is this one final challenge for those with a disreputable streak to pass in order to redeem themselves? If I somehow prevent Obadiah’s execution, will I be granted safe passage to Heaven?

He nodded to himself. Yes indeed, that was the task that lay ahead of him.

For a week, he tried many different ways to try to gain someone’s attention, but it seemed only the cats and dogs he encountered could sense his presence: the cats hissed, the dogs growled, and they all stared right at him every time.

Oh yes, they know I’m here all right! If I could only make them understand.

Now, though, time had finally run out for Obadiah. The gallows had been constructed on the village green; the crowd bayed for his blood.

And on the far side of the village green, one person stood slightly apart from the rest of the crowd, a slight smile on his face – staring right at the man.

The man’s heart leapt into his throat as he realised this other person could see him, but it would do no good, for this other person was Luke, the man who had killed Matilda: he was not about to prevent the execution of Obadiah Ridley.

Obadiah Ridley was doomed – there would be no salvation for the tragic young man.

2002

Having dropped the twins off at school and lied most effectively to the headmaster, Phil drove back towards Neville Hill in contemplative silence. He wondered why exactly Louise had wanted to keep Glory off school when there was clearly nothing wrong with the girl.

It was most unlike Louise, who always insisted the children must be at death’s door before she was even prepared to consider keeping them home from school. Unlike many parents, who were happy to pussyfoot around their own children, succumbing to every false tale of feigned illness just to get out of their most loathed lesson, because they had not bothered to do their homework, Louise was a tough disciplinarian.  At times, Phil felt she was being a little too strict with the children, but it had certainly done them no harm and each excelled in most of their studies, each did their homework with very little persuasion, and so each had plenty of free time in which to occupy themselves with their various hobbies.

The scenario had worked well, even when Glory had started playing them up; children needed to know the difference between right and wrong, and that even in the adult world they could not merely do just as they pleased without serious repercussions sometimes.

Keeping Glory home from school for no good reason was against Louise’s nature, so Phil felt that she must have a very good reason for doing so, especially as it meant he had had to lie – to the esteemed headmaster, no less.

Still, the lie was told now, and believably so; Phil wanted to know what was going on, and so drove rather more quickly than he usually did, recalling Peter Neville’s dire warnings that Sawyl Gwilym walked amongst them once more. Was it possible that Louise thought the vessel to be their daughter?

He shook his head. In such a time of implausibility, it was oddly plausible – except for the fact that Peter Neville would surely have sensed it last year, even though he had no idea when, where, or in whom the warlock would reappear. Now Sawyl Gwilym had returned, and yet still Peter could not tell in whose body the evil man was manifest.

They had all taken it for granted that everything Peter told them was true because he had not been wrong before. Phil began to wonder whether Peter did in fact know the identity of Sawyl Gwilym’s new keeper, maintaining silence for his own purpose.

Pulling over into the entrance to a field, Phil turned off the  car engine and sat in silence for a few moments.

Peter, I would have a word with you.

I am here, Phil McFadyen. What troubles you?

I want to know the truth, however unpleasant it might be.

Have I not always been honest with you, shared my thoughts with you?

Peter frowned, but tried to keep his mind clear of his troubling thoughts as he picked up slight reverberations of unease within Peter Neville.

Yes, you have, but tell me this: would you lie if it suited your purpose?

Why would the telling of a lie suit my purpose?

I don’t know. Perhaps to prevent Louise or myself from getting hurt?

Perhaps.

And if I ask you now for the truth, would you lie if that truth should cause me terrible pain?

I see clearly. You fear Sawyl Gwilym has manifested his spirit within your daughter.

Phil sighed, and spoke aloud. ‘Yes. Is it true? Please, spare me no harsh details, just tell me the truth.’

No, Phil McFadyen, Glory is not the reincarnation of Sawyl Gwilym, neither is she possessed by his spirit nor anyone else’s. Glory is Glory. She follows her own path.

It was a great relief for Phil to learn that, and privy as he was to some of Peter’s innermost thoughts when the spirit chose, he knew it to be the truth.

So, have you yet discovered in whose body Sawyl has returned?

I have not, and such a fact vexes me.

Phil decided that did not sound like good news. Peter had been an almost constant companion his entire life, departing in 1987 for many glorious, wonderfully free and languid years following Sawyl Gwilym’s last defeat.

When that had happened, Phil initially suffered a variety of confused emotions. Lingering memories of Peter’s jostled with his own for many months, leaving Phil bereft without his inner voice whispering comforting words of explanation. The memories were confusing and troubled Phil greatly. He knew them to be Peter Neville’s memories, but he understood none of their meaning now Peter was gone from his mind.

The joy of freedom was short lived, tempered with the anxiety he felt at the lingering memories that gradually faded from his thoughts, remaining as mere spectral echoes in his mind. The loneliness that suddenly swamped Phil drained him emotionally, and he had been very glad at the warm reception generated by his sudden arrival at Louise’s house.

From the very start, the pair had no secrets. Both openly discussed their possessions with each other, but with the passing of the months, the memories began to dissipate until even the sense of loneliness gradually vanished, and Phil was left with just contentment that he had once shared such a close bond with another.

When Peter Neville reappeared last year akin to a blast from the past, his return was like a reunion of old friends - though it also reawakened the sense of unease, in both Phil and Louise.

Phil was perceptive enough to realise Peter Neville was keeping certain facts from him, though, and it troubled him. He managed to keep those fears to himself, for he also instinctively sensed that Peter meant no ill; he was there to help in whatever small way he could when the evil warlock finally returned from beyond the grave. Peter never revealed how he knew the warlock was coming back, and often as Peter slept, Phil learned how to inveigle his curious thoughts into the slumbering spirit’s thoughts in the hope of discovering answers.

No amount of probing over the following months by Phil uncovered anything. Peter seemed unaware of what Phil had managed, but at the same time he was also very adept at keeping the door to his innermost secret thoughts firmly closed.

Then, last week, he had made the startling revelations about where he came from, and the very answers Phil had sought were answered, but they threw up more mysteries in their wake.

The thought that at some point in the future there would exist a race of humans who had shed their physical form to become pure energy, able to travel through time – on the pretext of preserving fractured timelines – and take over other people – on yet another pretext of preserving history – unnerved Phil greatly.

That Sawyl Gwilym was allegedly one of these beings troubled Phil even more. What was to stop him from travelling further back in time to take over someone else in the past?

That Peter still had no idea as to the warlock’s whereabouts troubled Phil still further.

One further thought truly terrified Phil, and he was not quite certain where the thought came from: what if Sawyl Gwilym somehow travelled back in time to take over Peter Neville? Would that mean the spirit he now carried within him was not Peter Neville after all, but Sawyl Gwilym himself? It would explain not only the hidden memories he had failed to access whilst probing the spirit’s mind, but also why ‘Peter Neville’ could not – or would not – explain where the warlock was.

With these thoughts running through his mind, and with Peter Neville suddenly ominously silent, Phil started the engine, put the car into gear and sped off, heading once more for home.

*

Rachel walked the relatively short distance from her cottage in Elendale to Louise and Phil’s house in Neville Hill with remarkable speed for someone of seventy-nine, and in the course of her brisk walk, she completely ignored her surroundings, her mind elsewhere. She instinctively walked the journey on autopilot, not noticing any of the oncoming traffic, yet avoiding it subconsciously. Not even the cheery wave of George Palmer going about his business in his front garden disturbed her mental solitude.

She was thinking of her daughter.

She did not like to dwell long on memories of Gloria, for the joyful scenes she pictured in her mind were tinged with great sadness. She should at least be happy in the knowledge that Gloria had lived a long and prosperous life, yet it pained Rachel enormously that contact with Gloria should have been curtailed, not by a hundred miles, but a hundred years.

She always became inordinately upset whenever she thought of the granddaughter she had never seen grow up. Relatively speaking, Elizabeth would be fifteen now, a year older than Glory.

Following Jeremy’s death, Rachel dwelled upon memories of both her husband and her daughter, before deciding she had to move on. She had started to pack away all of her daughter’s novels, written both under her own name and also the pseudonym, Ria Neville, and whilst sorting them out, Rachel had found herself browsing through the books – many of which had once languished gathering dust upon the shelves of the library at Ravenscreag Hall. Flicking open the cover of Ria Neville’s first novel, she had choked with emotion when she found a hand-written inscription that she had not known was there.

To Mother and Daddy,

You are not forgotten.

I love you both dearly and think of you every day.

All my love,

Gloria.

In that instant, Rachel had decided not to pack away all the things that reminded her of Gloria, surmising that if Gloria had carried on her life thinking of her and Jeremy, then she could carry on thinking of Gloria and Jeremy.

It was difficult not to dwell on those thoughts for long, but as she walked down the winding lanes towards the cottage that had once belonged to Gloria, for some reason Rachel’s thoughts fixed squarely upon her long departed daughter.

She did not know why, but she instinctively believed that Gloria was trying to reach out to her from beyond the grave, perhaps to reassure her – or to warn her? Rachel had seen and experienced enough in the past decade and a half to know that such a thing was not ridiculous and was indeed quite plausible.

Peter Neville had once helped to protect Gloria from Sawyl Gwilym; he might be able to shed some light on the peculiar feelings.

The mere thought of the warlock made Rachel shudder. He was the epitome of evil, and though she had never met him, Rachel was terrified at the prospect of his attempted return.

Perhaps that’s what Gloria wants, she thought solemnly. Maybe the time has finally come for his resurrection. Perhaps Gloria is trying to warn me of this.

Peter Neville would know, and if he did not then there was someone else who surely would, but would Louise be willing to let the Seer back into her life?

Time would tell.

*

Margaret had not walked very far down the corridor of the hospital as she headed for the exit, when she saw Chloe and Ainsley heading towards her, deep in conversation as they followed behind a white-coated doctor. She turned her back to them, and they passed without noticing her.

She wondered what they were doing at the hospital. An uncharacteristically uncharitable part of her brain hoped their daughter had tried to kill herself at the police station where she was being held.

Following her arrival from Portsmouth after hearing the news that her husband had been attacked, and having first visited the hospital to reassure herself that though badly wounded, Roger was in no immediate danger, Margaret had then travelled the relatively short distance to Crowborough to speak to the would-be assassin herself.

The constable on duty would not let her down to the cells to see Lucinda, stating that not even the girl’s parents – seated opposite his reception desk – were permitted to visit at that time.

Margaret had turned, intent on shouting at the couple, but she was appalled at the distress on the woman’s tearstained face, and so she reigned in her own emotions. They had not noticed her at the police station as she walked out without speaking to them, and they had not noticed her now at the hospital, though there was no real reason why they should know who she was.

Margaret could not decide whether she actually wished to speak to the couple or not, but curiosity gained the upper hand; she wanted to know who they were visiting, and she followed them at a discreet distance, somewhat surprised to find herself back in intensive care, just a couple of rooms further on from Roger’s.

She peered cautiously through the window in the door to see the couple still talking animatedly to the doctor, although through the glass she could not hear their words.

On the bed, his head bandaged, face, arms and torso covered in lacerations, lay a young man whom Margaret guessed to be about twenty years of age, and who was clearly their son. By the looks of things, he too had been attacked; perhaps his clearly insane sister had tried to kill him as well?

Margaret was mortified to find herself disappointed that it was not Lucinda in the room.

Matthew’s voice suddenly at her shoulder made her jump. ‘Mum, what are you doing?’

‘Matthew, you startled me. Why aren’t you in with your father?’

‘I decided I need some fresh air. His condition is stable, and hasn’t changed since he was brought in, so I figured stretching my legs outside for five minutes or so wouldn’t hurt. What are you doing, peering in at that window?

He leaned past her to peer through the glass himself, emitting an appalled gasp of shock when he recognised the room’s occupant. ‘My God – Liam!’

Margaret frowned. ‘You know this young man?’

Matthew nodded. ‘Yes, he’s Liam Samwell, Lucinda’s brother. My God, what’s happened to him?’

Margaret shrugged. ‘Looks to me like his sister had a go at him too.’

‘Why on earth would she do that?’

‘Why on earth would she attack your father? The girl is clearly unhinged, and being locked up in a cell is obviously the best place for her to be.’

Matthew pressed his nose up against the window, fogging the glass with his breath. ‘Poor Liam. He certainly doesn’t deserve this.’

‘How do you know him?’

‘We met at the pub run by his parents in Elendale, and we spent the night together at Four Oaks. He’d heard of its reputation and wanted to see if it was really haunted.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Between us, nothing, but something spooked him at the house that night. It was then that we decided to go up to Wicca Hill, to see if we could find the lair of Sawyl Gwilym.’

‘Sawyl Gwilym?’ queried Margaret, pursing her lips. ‘I’m not sure I’ve heard that name before.’

‘Apparently he’s infamous hereabouts. He was a nasty piece of work, by all accounts; led a coven of witches up at Wicca Hill, or something like that.’

‘Why were you going to see if you could find his lair?

Matthew shrugged. ‘Because we were, that’s all. Liam really wanted to see a ghost, and since we didn’t actually see one at the house, we decided the warlock’s lair would be the best place to start.’

Margaret shivered. Not knowing whether or not her son actually recalled any of the events that occurred during his last visit to Silverthorne Lodge, she did not want to bring up the subject of ghostly goings-on and spiritual possessions.

Not wanting to worry his mother about the rumours of Sawyl Gwilym’s return, Matthew made no mention of events that had been going on in the area of which he had been made aware.

Unconsciously, they were both thinking similar thoughts.

What if Liam went up to the lair of the Warlock of Wicca Hill, and frightened by the ghosts for whom he had been searching, fell down the hill? Margaret believed that would explain his condition.

What if he made his way up to the cave, and found the ghost he so desperately wished to see, and what if the spirit that had found him was Sawyl Gwilym? Matthew feared this was the case, and hoped desperately that he was wrong.

Only time would tell.

1560

The baying crowd of onlookers gathered for the execution of Obadiah Ridley shouted and jeered as he was brought onto the gallows. The priest who accompanied him said prayers for his soul, though the crowd uttered no prayers. They wanted his blood; they wanted retribution for the brutality he had committed against the poor young woman, Matilda Wystan.

Obadiah had long since given up protesting his innocence. His words fell on relentlessly deaf ears, and he was found guilty almost before Matilda’s body grew cold. He knew he would be dead before she was buried.

Matilda’s parents, James and Sarah, could not believe Obadiah capable of such a reprehensible act, but his own words had condemned him when he had confronted Matilda when she came to beg forgiveness and understanding at her decision to marry Luke instead of him.

Luke himself made a half-hearted plea for leniency on Obadiah’s behalf, in order to better perpetuate the public belief of his innocence and grief, knowing full well that any decision to execute Obadiah, once made, would not be overturned.

He stood slightly apart from the crowd as the executioner placed the noose around Obadiah’s neck, his attention drawn to a figure standing lonesome at the rear of the crowd. He recognised the figure and grinned, safe in the knowledge that none of the other people gathered could see the man, and he chuckled to himself. He knew the man could do nothing to interfere – and he was relieved.

In a few moments, it would all be over.

Luke’s smile turned into an angry frown as he suddenly caught sight of another figure standing slightly behind the man. He recognised her even before she stepped out of the shadows.

‘Matilda!’

*

The man felt the gentle hand upon his elbow, and cried out in alarm. It was the first time he had felt the physical contact of someone else since awakening in this time. He turned, to find the young flaxen-haired woman whose murder he had witnessed, standing beside him.

‘Matilda?’ he gasped, equally surprised to hear the words as they escaped his lips. He glanced around at the crowd to see if anyone else had suddenly noticed his presence – not to mention that of a dead woman.

‘They cannot see us, Father, nor can they hear our words, not even if we wished them to.’

It took a few moments for the man to register her words. ‘You called me Father. You know who I am?’

Matilda nodded, neither her blonde hair nor her dress moving in the breeze that blew around them. ‘Of course I know you, Father. How could I not know you?’

The man frowned. ‘But I don’t belong in this time. I know that without a shred of doubt, yet I don’t know who I am.’

‘You will remember, in time.’

The man pointed at the gallows, where the priest was saying the final prayer for the condemned man. ‘Obadiah’s innocent. They’re about to execute the wrong man.’

The executioner pulled the lever, the trap door opened, and Obadiah’s body dropped down sharply. Even from such a distance, and over the sound of the cheering crowd, as Obadiah’s body thrashed around madly for a few seconds, Matilda and her companion heard the sickening crack of his neck breaking, before he hung limp and still.

Matilda sighed sadly. ‘I know. Yet again, an innocent life had been wrongly taken. That is why you have been brought here, so you might witness the truth and somehow use that knowledge to prevent this from happening yet again.’

‘It’s happened before?’

‘Yes, Father, it has happened before, and it will happen again, unless someone can use the truth to halt it.’

‘It has not happened to me, but it has happened to you, Hrothgar, and also to Matilda. It always happens to Matilda, and will continue to do so until the truth can be told.’

The sudden voice from behind startled the man, but Matilda had been expecting the newcomer. The man turned to find Obadiah standing there, smiling, his neck intact. ‘You called me Hrothgar. Is that really my name?’

Obadiah came forward from the shadows. ‘It was your name, countless centuries ago, at the time all this started.’

‘All what?’ snapped the man. ‘I don’t understand what’s going on. Why am I here in the past, where people cannot see or hear me? Am I dead, like you?’

Matilda shook her head. ‘No, you are not dead, Father. You have been brought here so you might right the terrible wrong from centuries ago. Each time that certain people are reborn in the same period, events repeat themselves, but so far not all the participants have been reborn together… until your time.’

‘My time?’

Matilda nodded. ‘You are Hrothgar, my father; you are Roger Silverthorne, again my father.’ She pointed to the gallows, where Obadiah’s body still swung obscenely, and to the figure of Luke, who still glowered at the three of them with ill-disguised contempt. ‘Luke is there too, in your time. You must prevent the past from repeating itself, or we are doomed to further centuries of purgatory, Father.’

‘Something bad happened, didn’t it?’ said Obadiah. ‘Something that has caused a great anger to be felt down through the centuries; an anger that cannot let go of this life. I am the innocent bystander in this lifetime; Matilda is the victim.’

‘Each time the past repeats itself, innocent blood is spilt, Father. It must be stopped. He must be stopped!’ Matilda jabbed her finger at Luke.

‘Who’s the innocent blood on my time?’

‘I do not know, Father.’

‘What’s different about my time? Why am I the one to stop it happening again?’

‘It falls to you, purely because you have been reborn in that time, Father. It is the legacy of the curse.’

‘What curse? Matilda, how can I stop it from happening all over again when I don’t know what started it all in the first place.’

Matilda smiled. ‘You must seek out Elen. She will show you everything, and then you will understand.’ She kissed his cheek sadly. ‘Goodbye, Father. It was lovely to meet you again, even briefly. I look forward to meeting you again in your time.’

She started to disappear.

‘Wait,’ called Roger desperately. ‘Who’s Elen? How do I find her?’

But Matilda was gone, and so was Obadiah, along with the rest of the crowd – including Luke.

The world was engulfed in blackness.

And then Roger woke up.

2002

Phil passed Rachel as she walked up the lane towards Snowfield House, and after manoeuvring the car onto the grass verge opposite the small stone bridge that led into the garden, he waited for her to catch up.

He smiled with pleasure as he noted her brisk pace. She could walk a marathon, he marvelled, and still come in ahead of many people half her age. Whatever was her secret, he wished it could be bottled and sold: they would make a fortune. It was almost, he mused mostly to himself – though he sensed Peter take note of his random thought – as if she had taken the elixir of life.

He knew that was highly improbable, though considering past events, not entirely impossible, and so he put it down to good genes, healthy diet, fresh air, and a lifetime of not-over-exerted exercise.

Rachel approached him with a smile, just as the first spots of yet more rain began to fall from the sky, though the few clouds indicated it would remain a mere light shower and not transform into a horrendous downpour.

‘Good morning, Phil,’ Rachel said, once she felt she was within earshot without the necessity to raise her voice.

One thing she found particularly loathsome was people who raised their voices in the tranquillity of the countryside. Such people, she had found, were usually city dwellers who owned weekend homes in the country and who found it necessary to behave as though they were still in the city. Country living required a certain peaceful decorum that most weekend visitors seemed to lack. While most people longed for the weekend to drag on endlessly, Rachel always longed for the Monday morning, when normality descended upon the quiet countryside once more as the city dwellers with their loud voices and louder music, and equally noisy, inappropriately flashy sports cars, returned to where they belonged: as far away from the countryside as possible.

‘Morning, Rachel. How’s things?’ Phil called cheerily.

‘Oh, mustn’t grumble.’

‘So, what brings you this way so early?’

Rachel glanced at her watch. ‘I’d hardly call it early, dear. It’s nearly ten o’clock.’

Phil chuckled. ‘Okay, I’ll rephrase that. To what do we owe this mid-morning visit?’

Rachel’s soft smile faltered slightly; her apprehension at what she wanted to ask of Phil prevented her from coming right out with it. ‘I’ve had a lot on my mind recently, what with one thing and another. All this talk of Sawyl Gwilym has made me think too much of Gloria.’

Phil nodded. ‘She has been on all our minds recently, Rachel. Living in her old house, there are always constant reminders of her, but as you say, with all this talk of Sawyl Gwilym, it’s dragged the past right into focus again.’

‘I have come to have a few words with Peter Neville, if you’ll allow it?’ Rachel sighed, deciding honesty about her visit was the best policy.

Phil nodded. Her request was not entirely unexpected. He had thought it likely that Rachel might seek out Peter to ask if it was possible that Gloria might also be returning to them. Peter had revealed that there was little chance of such a thing happening. Gloria and James Trevayne had passed into the light; they had reached their ultimate destination following their long torturous journey, and both were happy and content in their afterlife.

They would not be returning to this life.

‘Peter will grant you an audience, but we must have a care, for Glory is home from school this morning.’

‘Oh, is the poor child unwell?’

‘No, Louise wants to get to the bottom of her constantly changing behaviour.’

Rachel chuckled. ‘Glory is a teenager, Phil. It’s in their very nature to torture and confuse us adults, especially us parents, with their mood swings and never ending changes in personality.’

‘That’s exactly what I said to Louise, but she’s got it into her head that Glory is possessed… by Sawyl Gwilym, she feared.’

‘That’s an unlikely eventuality, but an understandable concern. So, has Louise uncovered anything?’

Phil shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet. She was going to try to get to the bottom of the mystery while I took the twins to school.’

‘Well, I have a more probable candidate for possession. That’s what I wanted to speak with Peter Neville about.’

Phil was unerringly accurate with his guess of to whom Rachel referred, and when she asked how he had known he had no ready answer. ‘It was a lucky guess.’

‘Phil, we need to get to see her, to see if Peter can tell whether she is hiding Sawyl’s spirit.’

Phil nodded. ‘Come inside, we’ll discuss it with Louise over a coffee and see if we can come up with some kind of plan.’

I

Matthew and Margaret both turned as they heard the sound of several pairs of feet running down the corridor towards them, and they gasped in horror to see two nurses rush into Roger’s room.

With almost as much speed, the pair ran the short distance and threw themselves into the room, half expecting to hear the steady whine of the heart monitor, fully anticipating to witness the nurses trying desperately to revive Roger.

They stopped in their tracks, for the very last thing they expected to see was the two nurses, with startled looks of incomprehension on their faces, struggling to restrain Roger, who struggled desperately to get out of the bed.

He glanced up as he sensed their presence. ‘Margaret, will you kindly tell these two young women to let me go! I don’t know what they think they’re doing, trying to restrain me.’

‘Mr Silverthorne,’ gasped one of the nurses, ‘you have been injured in a stabbing incident, and suffered concussion from a fall down the stairs. I really don’t think it’s wise to try to get out of bed the second you wake up.’

At her words, Roger ceased his struggling, and the nurses cautiously released him, straightening their uniforms as they did so. Roger looked from one to the other, searching for some indication that they were misleading him in a vain attempt to keep him in the bed, but everything about them, from their demeanour to their gentle faces, told him they were telling the truth.

‘A stabbing incident; falling down the stairs – I don’t believe a word of it.’

‘It’s true, Dad. Lucinda Samwell attacked you. Don’t you remember?’

Roger shook his head. ‘I don’t feel like I’ve been stabbed.’ He winced as a wave of pain washed over him, and he clutched his head. ‘Though my head hurts terribly.’

‘That’ll be the concussion,’ said one of the nurses, ‘I can give you something for the pain if you like?’

‘Yes, I think that’ll be a good idea,’ gasped Roger with a grimace. He gradually recalled the young woman lunging towards him with the knife, how he had stepped backwards, feeling the floor vanish beneath his feet as he tumbled down the stairs. As the nurses fussed around him, he glanced at his son with curiosity. ‘I must admit, I’m surprised to see you here, Matthew.’

‘He’s been a constant bedside companion, darling,’ muttered Margaret. ‘He’s been very concerned about you.’

Roger closed his eyes, and he inhaled deeply as in a split second of pure clarity he recalled everything that he had witnessed whilst unconscious.

It had all seemed so real, even though in that dreamscape he had thought himself dead. In a muddle of jumbled thoughts, he wondered whether it was all a hallucination, brought on by the concussion.

No.

He remembered too much, in detail far too vivid to be any dream. He remembered Matilda, Obadiah and Luke with such clarity that it was almost as though they were there in the room once more with him.

Only one of them is here with me, he thought as he opened his eyes and fixed his gaze upon Matthew. In the past he had been unable to fathom his son, but he had a sudden inkling as to why Matthew had been such a disappointment to him. The fact that he was stuck with a female spirit in his mind, as far as Roger was concerned, explained a great deal.

Which is the more dominant, he wondered, Matthew or Matilda? Matilda, obviously, and when all this is over I shall have my son back, finally. We might yet get the big white wedding and grandchildren!

It was a nice thought, but the rational part of Roger’s mind, unencumbered by the effects of painkillers, concussion and the other spirit, told him that was not about to happen, and that he was to remain disappointed.

So, I am Hrothgar, and Matthew is Matilda, and if I don’t stop the past from repeating itself in this time, we are all doomed to relive our lives yet again in the future.

Would that be such a bad thing, he thought? Next time, Matilda might be in a girl’s body again; that would be the right time to set things straight.

He mentally shook his head. No, he had been selected to visit the past to witness the truth, not some future reincarnation. Therefore, whatever power had propelled him back to that time wanted the grave injustice to be set right in this lifetime, not the next.

Lucinda Samwell.

He remembered how she had attacked him at Four Oaks, and yet at the same time he had witnessed her struggle against whatever inner demon had possessed her.

Was that demon Luke? Was it Hrothgar’s turn to be the innocent victim this time around? That was unlikely, since Matilda had made it clear he was the saviour in this lifetime. Had Hrothgar perhaps been a victim before? It was curious, he mused, that Hrothgar was peculiarly quiet within his mind at that moment.

I need to find out who Hrothgar was, he thought to himself, aware that Matthew was saying something to him. He chose to ignore his son as he went through his thoughts.

I must protect Matilda, and I must prevent innocent blood being spilt this time, which means I cannot let Matthew or Margaret know what is going on. They might be safer if they are ignorant of the facts. I must get out of this place and find Elen, whoever she is. She is the key to it all.

‘Did you hear me, Dad? I asked you what exactly happened at the house. Why did Lucinda try to kill you?’

‘She wasn’t trying to kill me, Matt. It was all just a misunderstanding. How is she?’

Matthew stared at his father uncomprehendingly. ‘How can you say she wasn’t trying to kill you? I saw her , and so did Theo.’

‘You are mistaken. I fell down the stairs, that’s all. I would know if she had tried to kill me. Is she all right?’

‘As well as anyone can expect to be, locked up in a police cell.’

Roger pondered this. Perhaps it would be better – not to mention safer – if Lucinda remained locked up for the moment, where she could do no harm to anyone, and where a watchful eye could be kept on her. Better to know exactly where she was without having to worry about her trying to kill again.

Some inner voice informed Roger that this was not the plan. Lucinda’s freedom was required; Lucius needed to have the opportunity to strike again freely if he was to be defeated this time.

Who is Lucius?

The answer was given the very instant the question formed within his mind: Lucius was Luke from his original lifetime.

Roger was about to mentally question further, but the opportunity was taken from him as the spirit took charge.

‘I should like her to be released,’ he said sharply. ‘She is innocent of this crime. I shall have no more innocent people hurt in any way.’

‘What do you mean more innocent people? Dad, what’s going on? Why are you protecting her? I clearly saw–’

‘I care not what you believe you witnessed!’ snapped Roger irritably, cutting him off abruptly. ‘I shall not explain myself to you. Now leave me alone a while, I grow tired.’

One of the nurses ushered Matthew and Margaret rather bossily from the room, closing the door behind them. They were just in time to be greeted by Ainsley and Chloe as they came out of Liam’s room.

‘Seems your daughter has luck in her favour,’ said Matthew with rather more iciness than he intended. ‘Dad’s woken up and says he’s not pressing charges. He wants her released.’

Chloe dried her eyes. ‘Well, that’s good news about one of my children, now we need good news about Liam.’

Matthew’s features softened at the mention of Liam’s name. ‘Yes, we noticed he was in here. What happened?’

‘Nobody seems to know for certain, but it appears that he fell down a rock face somewhere. He was struck down by a car as he stumbled out of Dead Man’s Wood, and was brought here unconscious.’

‘Is he badly hurt?’

Chloe shrugged, ‘The doctors say it’s severe concussion, along with cuts and bruises and a few broken bones, but who knows? We won’t know for certain until he wakes up.’

‘Well let’s hope he wakes up as rapidly as my dad did. He seems none the worse for wear, apart from a broken arm, concussion and a few knife wounds.’

Chloe glanced at Matthew. ‘Be honest with me, did you really see Lucinda stabbing your father?’

Matthew nodded. ‘From the front door it appeared quite frenzied, but I have to admit that his injuries contradicted what I saw, and now Dad’s woken up he won’t talk about it. He just says Lucinda is innocent and that she should be set free.’

Matthew stared at Ainsley, who fixed him with an un-blinking stare. ‘You’re very quiet on the subject, Mr Samwell.’

‘What is there to say on the matter? Lucinda was locked away because of what you told the police, and now your own father contradicts your story. It wouldn’t surprise me if you set upon Liam personally and threw him down the rock face, leaving him for dead. You clearly have it in for my family, and I’d like to know why.’

‘That’s enough, Ainsley!’ snapped Chloe. ‘It’s no use pretending anguish at this late stage. Matthew knows how you feel about Liam, so there’s no point in taking your prejudice out on him.’

Ainsley hissed and stomped off in an overly melodramatic manner that reminded Matthew of a pantomime villain.

‘I’m so sorry about that,’ Chloe muttered. ‘I’m afraid the tension has got to us all. I don’t disbelieve what you told the police, Matthew. As far as I can tell, you have no reason to lie.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Samwell. Something odd is going on around here, and I have a really bad feeling about it. You say Liam was knocked down by a car on the edge of Dead Man’s Wood. Tell me, are there any rock faces on Wicca Hill?’

‘I believe so, though I have never actually been up there myself. Why do you ask?’

‘Because Liam and I had planned to go up there, but Dad’s attack put the kibosh on that. I was just thinking it was possible he went up there himself, anyway.’

‘And someone pushed him?’

‘Perhaps.’ Deep in thought, it seemed likely to Matthew that Liam had indeed gone up to Wicca Hill alone. The place had been calling to him for years, ever since his first ill-considered childhood visit. What if like a sailor drawn by a siren song he was compelled to return to that place on his own after Matthew had abandoned him?

Roger’s insistence that Lucinda was innocent confused Matthew, as did the attack he had witnessed. The results of such a frenzied attack should have resulted in Roger’s death, and yet he was very much alive. It was almost as if someone else had wanted Roger dead, while Lucinda had resisted, trying to save him.

All of which implied yet another spirit, which had perhaps attacked Roger as a diversionary tactic, in the hope of getting Liam up to Wicca Hill alone and defenceless.

‘I think you should remain at your son’s bedside, Mrs Samwell,’ said Matthew suddenly. He turned to his mother. ‘How do you feel about a trip through haunted woods and up to a haunted cave?’

Slightly afraid, Margaret chuckled mirthlessly. ‘Anything for a quiet life.’

*

Glory sat in silence for a long time after her mother finished speaking. She was not exactly sure what to say. Her fourteen-year-old mind struggled to digest and comprehend all the fantastic things she had been told about her Aunt Gloria and Uncle Allan, whom she so longed to have known personally, and about the events at Ravenscreag Hall before her birth. Her mother had also told her about the history of the local area, which had centuries ago been a haven for witches, but which now seemed to be a home for dispossessed spirits.

Louise came back in from the kitchen carrying coffee and biscuits. ‘You’re very quiet, Glory,’ she said as she perched on the edge of the sofa opposite her daughter. ‘Am I to take it you don’t believe the things I have told you? Is the truth too fantastic to credit?’

Glory held up her hand. ‘You’re going to have to give me a minute here, Mummy. You’re asking me to believe in ghosts and witches, warlocks and spirits. You want me to accept that spiritual possession is not only possible, but that it’s rife in your life.’

Her daughter’s reaction was exactly as she had anticipated, precisely the reason Louise had thought long and hard about ever revealing things to her. However, Glory was the one who brought up the subject, asking about the truth in both Gloria’s novels and Daniel’s. Since the girl had already pretty much accepted what she believed to be the truth anyway, that had gone some considerable way to assuage any doubts Louise still held about the validity of telling Glory the whole truth, so the girl’s doubts, though not exactly unexpected, were nonetheless also not entirely anticipated.

‘I did try to warn you, darling. I said I didn’t think you were completely ready for the truth.’

Glory picked up a biscuit and nibbled it thoughtfully in between sips of coffee. She maintained her silence a while longer before trusting herself enough to speak. ‘Look, Mummy, I read grandad’s book, and Aunt Gloria’s just as I said, and I guess I kind of worked out the most fantastic elements were the bits that were true, and it’s not that I doubt you, but how about some kind of proof?’

Louise sighed deeply, knowing precisely what Glory was inferring, though she nevertheless feigned ignorance – after all, was ignorance not supposed to be bliss. ‘What do you mean, sweetheart?’

Glory tilted her head to one side. ‘Come on, Mummy, don’t play coy. I want to hear the truth from your guest, Thelma What’s-her-name.’

My name be Thaumaturgia Anathemas, my child.

Glory knew her mispronunciation of the Seer’s name would prompt her into speaking. She had not anticipated the Seer actually showing herself, and as the ethereal white figure manifested an appearance and floated suddenly out of Louise’s body, hanging like some horrible spectre above her head, Glory gave a shriek and scrambled backwards over the sofa, putting some distance between the spirit and her.

‘Okay, I wasn’t expecting that.’

The ancient visage – oddly female despite the wispy white beard – smiled down at Glory, pink eyes penetrating her very soul, and as the girl blinked, she was astounded to see that the wizened old face had transformed into that of a beautiful young girl, skin unblemished and paler than the purest flawless alabaster. Her hair and flowing white robes seemed to blow on a non-existent breeze, and those eyes, which in the face of the old hag were threatening, now in the features of the girl at once friendly and reassuring, radiated the only colour in her features.

Since the child-like voice had accompanied the ancient face rather menacingly, Glory half expected the old woman’s voice to accompany the girl’s appearance, She was somewhat relieved that it did not, but was more than a little perturbed that each time she blinked the creature shifted appearance.

Be not afeared, my child, I mean no harm to thee or thy mother. I be aware my appearance doth disturb thee, but thou must trust me on this matter.

‘I do,’ whispered Glory. She glanced down at her mother, who appeared to be in a trance, sitting bolt upright on the sofa, unblinking eyes fixed on nothing. ‘Mummy is all right, isn’t she?’

Aye child, she be quite all right. When I take my leave, she shall return to her own state of being.

‘Have you been with her all these years?’

I come and go, for my task be not yet complete.

‘By that, you mean this Sawyl Gwilym person?’

Aye child, he amongst others who linger still.

‘Do you know whose body he inhabits?’

Alas no. He be close by, of that I be certain, but he has grown more devious since last he inhabited this world. He has better learned to hide himself. We must remain patient. He shall reveal himself soon enough.

‘Well we’ll have to hope it’s not too late when he does that.’

He be coming.

‘Sawyl Gwilym is coming here?’ squealed Glory in alarm.

My apologies, child, I meant not to startle thee. Peter Neville be coming.

Glory sighed with relief as she realised the Seer meant her father was approaching. She turned, glancing through the window to see her father and Rachel coming up the path towards the front door. She rushed to open it and threw herself into Phil’s arms.

‘Glory, whatever is the matter?’ gasped Phil as he felt his daughter trembling. He pushed her away slightly and looked into her haunted eyes, which brimmed with apprehension and fear. ‘Louise?’ he shouted, suddenly pushing past his daughter and dashing into the cottage.

Rachel wrapped an arm around Glory’s shoulder. ‘What happened, my dear?’

Glory wiped her eyes. ‘Thaumaturgia.’

Rachel understood the girl’s reaction perfectly. She had witnessed the ghostly apparition of Thaumaturgia Anathemas only once, and had hoped never again to set eyes upon the creature that had instilled such fear within her.

She took hold of Glory’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. ‘Come on, let’s go in and hear what she has to say.’

Although she was clearly still a little apprehensive about returning to the same room as the Seer, Glory’s fear was lessened by the fact that two others accompanied her.

They entered the cottage straight into the sitting room, to find Thaumaturgia still floating above Louise’s body. Phil was speaking to her, though not in his voice. The Seer’s appearance froze Rachel to the spot, whilst her father speaking in someone else’s voice unnerved Glory still further.

‘Is it time?’

Aye, the truth must finally be revealed.

‘Where are the others?’

Some be with Mother; the others shall join them shortly.

Glory nudged Rachel. ‘Is that Peter Neville speaking?’

Rachel nodded, keeping her voice as low as Glory’s. ‘He was my daughter’s guardian angel in the past, and it would seem he is here to protect us all this time.’

‘Does Elen know in whose body Sawyl has manifested himself?’ demanded Peter.

I know not the answer to your question. We shall learn that answer when we visit her.

‘And the other three?’

All be prepared. Mother be ready for them. She shall make them see the error of their ways. It be not good though that Sawyl Gwilym doth remain undetected. His continued freedom shall pose a most serious threat.

‘Indeed, I too am concerned about this. His power grows ever stronger as he remains within this world. Should he remain undetected long enough, he may yet attain the power to free himself from the earthly bonds that bind him.’

That must be prevented at all costs.

Rachel listened to the odd conversation with interest, until she could stand the tension no longer and cleared her throat loudly. ‘This little reunion of yours is all very nice, you two, but perhaps you’d like to bring us into the loop and tell us what the hell is going on?’

Both Thaumaturgia and Peter faced Rachel, fixing her with unblinking eyes for so long that it unnerved her, forcing her to look away. Even when she was looking at her feet, Rachel felt the blazing pink eyes of the Seer boring into her.

‘What of these two?’ questioned Peter.

There be great danger in involving the pair. The child has an entire lifetime ahead of her. To bring her into contact with the others would be foolhardy. The mother of Gloria Schofield must be protected at all costs. She be the mother of the Saviour. No harm must come to her.

‘Now wait just a damn minute,’ Rachel began furiously. ‘I don’t pretend to understand what you’ve been talking about, but you don’t need to protect Glory and me from the truth.’

What wish thee to know? Ask me anything about any subject, save one.

As her thoughts had been on Gloria, and since she knew the Seer had the ability to see into her mind, Rachel instinctively knew Thaumaturgia meant she should ask no questions concerning Gloria, which begged the question of why, exactly, she should have any questions about Gloria in the first place.

Rachel knew her daughter had lived a full and reasonably happy life – as happy as anyone ripped from her own time could hope to be. Gloria had died before Rachel was even born, and had fulfilled most of her personal goals. What more could she possibly want to know?

Unless…

Rachel’s eyes lit up momentarily.

No, old woman, Gloria be not amongst us. Thou must ask nothing of her, for there be nothing I can tell thee. Ask anything else of me.

‘Is Lucinda Samwell possessed by the spirit of Sawyl Gwilym?

Be that what thou wish to know?

‘Oh, wait, I heard you when we came in. You were saying you don’t know where Sawyl is, which means he’s not in Lucinda.’

Thou art correct in that assumption. Lucinda Samwell be not possessed by Sawyl.

‘How do we defeat him if even you, the great all seeing oracle cannot see him?’

Only one might return Sawyl whence he came, and even she knoweth not his location at this time.

‘How can that be? How can he hide so effectively from you?’

Sawyl Gwilym has used the intervening years well to his advantage. He has discovered a means of manipulation in the perception of other spirits so he might hide himself. We must wait for him to make his move afore we might track him down.

‘And what exactly will his move be?’

Thaumaturgia was silent for a moment, allowing Peter to speak. ‘He will surely come for Rachel, the mother of the Saviour. The child would not be safe in her charge alone.’

Then it be decided.

Peter turned to Rachel and Glory, smiling at them, though his smile lacked humour. ‘It seems you are to accompany us after all.’

‘Accompany you to where, exactly?’

To the forest of the dead men; to Elen – my mother.

*

Sometime after Margaret and Matthew left his room as he feigned sleep, Roger opened his eyes and sat up.

Pleased to find no nurses in attendance, he threw aside the sheet, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He lowered himself onto the floor cautiously, hopping from one foot to the other until his feet grew accustomed to the coldness of the tiles, and then slowly walked around the end of the bed, heading towards the door.

He was somewhat relieved to find his legs worked well enough, though he was unamused to discover that his clothes were not in the room, a fact that would make getting out of the hospital unquestioned rather more difficult than he had hoped.

He warily opened the door and peered out into the corridor, relieved that no hospital staff of note saw him. He noticed a middle-aged couple as they exited a nearby room. The blonde woman saw him, and clutched onto the man’s arm, a look of terror on her face. It was clear she somehow knew him. The bearded man turned to face him, muttering something to the woman as he approached slowly, whilst the woman turned and headed speedily in the opposite direction.

Roger retreated into his room and the man followed slowly, closing the door behind him.

‘Mr Silverthorne, my name is Ainsley Samwell. It was my daughter who allegedly attacked you at your son’s house.’

‘Ah, the young woman. I have made certain all charges against her are dropped forthwith.’

Ainsley nodded, regarding the man in the hospital gown with intense curiosity. ‘So I have been told, and though I am most grateful, I cannot help but wonder why you would do such a thing when your own son remains so adamant that he saw Lucinda attacking you. It would mean you are calling him an outright liar.’

Roger smiled in an unfriendly manner. ‘I have my reasons for my actions.’

Ainsley frowned at the sudden difference in Roger’s voice. ‘You’re up to something! Are you planning some kind of revenge against my daughter? I’ll warn you now – lay one finger on Lucinda, no matter what she has done, and I’ll break your other arm!’

‘It is not your daughter you should be concerned about,’ said Roger chillingly.

‘Then who–’

Ainsley had no time to react as Roger swung his arm in plaster upwards, smashing into the side of his head.

As Ainsley crumpled to the floor unconscious, Roger barely registered the pain, for he was no longer in control of his body.

Hrothgar had returned, a man on a mission, and within minutes of purloining Ainsley’s clothes – which though a little on the baggy side, were less conspicuous than the hospital gown – he made good his escape from the hospital.

Hrothgar was not entirely sure where he was, even with access to Roger’s thoughts, but he knew exactly where he needed to go. Roger indicated to him that they should take a taxi – one of the metal and glass horseless carriages that waited nearby – and so the pair marched as one across the car park to the taxi rank.

Chloe had just brought the car around to the front of the hospital to wait for Ainsley, and she saw him in the rear-view mirror, alarmed by the fact that he was wearing her husband’s clothes. Her first instinct was to rush into the hospital to find Ainsley, but if he was hurt then he was already in the best place. She did not think the recently comatose man would have the capacity to kill, and she wanted to know where he was going, and why her daughter had apparently tried to kill him – not to mention why the man himself had exonerated Lucinda.

She watched as he left the car park and climbed into a taxi just beyond, and made a snap decision to follow him in an attempt to get to the bottom of the mystery.

*

Lucinda could not hide her surprise when the policewoman opened the cell door and announced that she was free to go.

Free to go without explanation, after being locked up for what felt like forever? What was going on? It was as unfathomable to the voice in her head as it was to Lucinda.

Lucinda had surrendered control of her body to the spirit willingly for her own selfish reasons, yet she had been unprepared for the savage attack perpetrated at her hand. She had struggled to regain control of her body at the moment of the first knife blow, which had saved Roger’s life, but doomed her own it seemed.

She wanted Matthew to be hers; she wanted him to love her, not loathe her with every fibre of his being. Murder had clearly been the spirit’s intention from the start, and Lucinda sadly realised she should have known that, but her jealousy had blinded her to the fact. The spirit had said he would remove the father from the picture and the child would be grateful. In hindsight, the only way Roger could be removed from the picture was by killing him, and no matter how much his father angered him, there was no way Matthew would be grateful for his murder.

Lucinda had tried to get the spirit to open up to her whilst locked in the cell. She wanted explanations, but none was forthcoming. She refused all visitors, not knowing what she could say to explain her terrible behaviour. She knew her parents must surely be devastated by her actions; no matter how badly she had behaved over the years, they had always been there for her through the troubled times and always maintained that they loved her. They would be so disappointed by this turn of events that Lucinda could see no way they could continue to love her, and she did not want to see that hurt and anger in their eyes.

The spirit told her they must effect their escape from the prison somehow, but Lucinda was not about to make matters worse for herself by having the police pursue her relentlessly. She told the spirit she wanted freedom from his interference, but was coldly rebuked: there would be no freedom for her until the task was done.

Lucinda had demanded to know exactly why the man Roger must die, but the spirit refused to answer. In a petulant fit of anger, Lucinda refused to converse further with the spirit. When he asked a question, she did not respond; when he made a comment, she ignored him.

The spirit grew enraged, tried to wrest control of Lucinda’s body away from her by force, but the young woman somehow found within her the inner strength to combat him. He was forced to sit impatiently on the sidelines of her mind, driving her half-mad with his constant griping about her inadequacy as a host, and her incredible stupidity at being caught and not allowing him full control to complete the task when the accursed child had come into the house.

Finally, as she stood on the pavement outside the police station following her release, Lucinda breathed in the gloriously fragrant damp fresh air. Choked as it was with mid-morning traffic fumes, it was infinitely more preferable to the stark stench of the cells.

She made a mental note never again to do anything that might lead to such an incarceration, but even as the thought entered her mind, so too did the realisation that she would have to revisit the scene of her crime, and face the wrath of whoever was there.

At Four Oaks, and nowhere else, would she finally understand the spirit’s motivation. She could feel the spirit’s mounting excitement and realised this was precisely the course of action he had anticipated.

Four Oaks was where the spirit wished to be.

I must have a care to remain in control at all times, Lucinda thought as she headed towards the bus stop where she knew she could catch a bus to the edge of Elendale. Otherwise, I shall end up back in the cells.

*

The voice inside his head was persistent and annoying. He ignored it as best he could, until he could stand it no longer and opened his eyes. He did not look around him, for the moment he opened his eyes, signifying his docile wakefulness, the owner of the voice continued to speak and distract him with endless questions.

How long hath we lain asleep? What place be this? What happened? Who art the two people for whom you pretended to be asleep?

Ah, so you knew I was only pretending.

Of course. How else might I have heard all that be going on around us, even though I could see nothing?

Enough with the questions. I know who you are, but I don’t know what you want of me.

Thou art the vessel of my vengeance. I have been with thee since thou were newborn, and would hath been thy constant companion thy entire life, had thou not intruded upon mine own home as a child. I must thank thee for thy actions, for they allowed me to remain undetected.

Oh! I thought that was when you originally took me over. Instead, it was the opposite. That was when you left me!

Indeed, and I hath returned to thee now that thou hast returned once more to my lair.

But why? Why now? Why this particular point in time?

Because she be here.

Who do you mean?

She who might destroy me. We must seek her out and destroy her afore she doth discover me.

But who are you referring to?

My sister – mother to my offspring. Long since have I sensed her presence, but be unable to rid myself of her, for she be not in human form. Each time, her human form lives a lifetime and then dies, returning to the earth. She did recently return to that natural state, but she cannot stay away from human existence for long. It be a drug to her, an obsession, and in her moment of formation, she be vulnerable and might be killed.

I don’t pretend to understand anything that you say, but I will not willingly be party to murder.

Then thou shalt unwillingly be party to it!

In the young man’s mind, Sawyl Gwilym exerted his will, grew strong and gained control.

He threw back the bedclothes and stepped onto the tiled floor, not flinching at the coldness. He opened the door and left the room, aware that he was conspicuous in the gown he wore – he could feel from the draught at the rear that it flapped open, revealing his nakedness. Sensing movement from the room immediately to his left as he moved along the corridor, he stepped into the room, closing the door with a soft click.

The doctor glanced up from tending the older bearded man, who lay in his underwear on top of the bed, with a nasty gash on his forehead. The doctor had no chance to react as the young man’s fist slammed into his face, rendering him unconscious with the supernaturally powerful blow.

The young man slipped off the robe and began stripping the doctor of his clothes. The older man on the bed began regaining consciousness, but the young man ignored him, even as he sat up, clutching his head in pain.

Ainsley Samwell’s vision swam before him momentarily before steadying. He saw a doctor lying prostrate beside him on the bed, and he rubbed his aching head, then realised he wore only his underwear. ‘Damn that bloody man, he stole my clothes!’

Ainsley realised there was someone else in the room with him, someone who was systematically yanking off the doctor’s trousers. He gasped as his vision focussed on the young man. ‘My God, what the bloody hell are you doing?’

For the second time that morning, Ainsley Samwell’s reflexes let him down, and the last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was his son’s fist heading straight for his jaw.

*

Joyce and Theo sat upon a fallen tree somewhere in the middle of Dead Man’s Wood, both feeling rather more afraid than they had at the beginning of their trek from Four Oaks.

From the house, Max had led them across the grounds and over the small stream, which they crossed using another fallen tree trunk as a makeshift bridge, and into the boundary edge of the forest that rather ominously bordered the Four Oaks estate.

The prevailing wind and rain of the past few days had once more abated, having ripped all the remaining autumnal foliage from the canopy overhead and carpeted the forest floor in a thick layer of brown and green, whose only purpose seemed to be to hide the fact that the ground beneath was slippery mud that squelched underfoot.

Several times, Joyce slipped, to be caught by Theo, who himself lost his footing more than once, to be caught by nobody.

Max seemed unconcerned by their plight and appeared in no way affected by the condition of the forest floor – but then, reasoned Joyce with a shiver, he’s a ghost, so why should he slip and slide in this quagmire?

Despite the fact that it was midmorning and the sun shone bright in a cloudless blue sky, through the dense canopy of bare branches that seemed to rise endlessly upwards above their heads, precious little light managed to poke through, and what little did manage to filter downwards was immediately eaten by the shadows caused by the branches.

The whole forest had a distinct aura about it. It felt lived in, as though countless spirits dwelled within its boundary, watching their every move. It was not a pleasant sensation, and disturbed Joyce so much that she held tightly onto her son’s hand, relieved, amused and equally alarmed to feel the firm pressure of his own moist, nervous grip.

Joyce was certain something evil dwelled within the borders of the forest. She half expected the eyes she felt upon her to bring forth some wild banshee, crashing through the trees towards them, wailing demonically.

Theo was also aware of the countless eyes watching their slow progress from beyond the shadows. He could almost hear the callous laughter with each stumble that dragged them further behind Max; could almost hear voices and footsteps all around them; could hear rushing rustling sounds from above that sounded much like batwings.

Twisting and turning through the ever-encroaching trees for what seemed to Joyce like hours – though a quick check of Theo’s glow-in-the-dark digital watch showed they left the house less than twenty minutes ago – she lost all sense of direction.

As though sensing they lagged far behind, Max waited for them to catch up.

‘How much further?’ Joyce had asked.

‘Where exactly are you taking us?’ Theo had asked at precisely the same moment.

‘You will wait here,’ Max had said, ignoring their questions. He had indicated the fallen tree, and had then literally vanished into thin air before their very eyes.

With no sense of where exactly they were, Joyce and Theo felt it best to do as Max instructed, and as they sat, Theo placed a protective arm around his mother’s shoulders.

‘I’m beginning to think perhaps we shouldn’t have come,’ whispered Theo.

‘How were you to know he’d abandon us in the middle of the woods?’ whispered back Joyce, who tried hard not to tremble with the fear she felt. She glanced constantly around, trying to make out what lay beyond the shadows, hoping there was nothing just outside of her field of vision that would pounce on them the instant they let down their guard. ‘We are not alone in these woods, Theo.’

Theo nodded, craning his neck backwards sharply to glance behind them as he sensed movement in the trees. He took a deep breath, telling himself mentally to calm down and get a grip. ‘It’s Elen who watches us.’

‘Just who is this mysterious Elen?’ asked Joyce.

I am.

The sudden whispered voice directly ahead of them seemed to come out of nowhere, and startled the pair. They glanced around, trying to see who had spoken, but could see nobody. Theo glanced behind again, even though the voice emanated from completely the opposite direction.

‘Where are you?’ he said in a commanding voice, betraying none of his apprehension.

Elen appeared before them as suddenly as Max had vanished.

Joyce squealed in alarm.

Theo passed out from shock.

*

On the drive back to Four Oaks from Tunbridge Wells, a great chasm of silence separated Matthew from his mother. Neither of them was sure what to say to the other about what was going on.

Eventually, Margaret turned to her son as he waited for the traffic light ahead to turn green. ‘Can you feel her inside you, this girl’s spirit?’

Matthew sighed with relief, glad the silence was finally broken. ‘At times I am aware that there is someone else in here with me, but I have no real knowledge of her, and I have no memory of her either.’

‘I heard you speaking in her voice that last time you visited us at home, so I know she comes and goes from time to time.’

Matthew was astonished that his mother had said nothing about this before, but at the same time could understand her silence. ‘What about Dad? Have you heard him speak in the other voice?’

‘Only once. The pair of you were having a conversation. She is his daughter, I know that much. They were waiting for the return of someone else, so I believe.’

‘Do you reckon that’s why Lucinda attacked Dad?’

‘You think she’s carrying the other spirit they were waiting for?’

Matthew nodded. ‘It’s a possibility.’

‘Do you think it’s this Sawyl Gwilym I keep hearing mentioned?’

The light changed to green and Matthew drove off. He concentrated on his driving, but answered his mother’s question. ‘No, I don’t think it’s him. I have a feeling that the spirit Lucinda carries is working for Sawyl Gwilym, and was trying to get Liam up to Wicca Hill alone.’

‘Oh… so you think the boy is Sawyl Gwilym then?’

Matthew sighed. ‘I really don’t know. I certainly hope not! I’m thinking that perhaps Sawyl attacked Liam at Wicca Hill, causing him to fall down the rock face whilst trying to escape. Which begs the question – did he escape Sawyl’s clutches or not? Of course, this is all pure speculation, because we don’t actually know what really happened to Liam.’

‘So why exactly are we going up to that hill?’

‘Because I think there’s still something up there, or perhaps someone… and I want some answers.’

Margaret could not imagine what kind of person might be loitering atop a supposedly haunted hill; someone with a morbid fascination for supernatural tales and with far too much time on their hands. She did not want to think of what might happen should they actually encounter this person; in fact, she could not really understand why Matthew wanted to go there, and did not really want to go herself. However, she also did not wish to contemplate her son up there alone, perhaps to suffer the same fate that befell poor Liam Samwell, so she avowed to remain by her son’s side no matter what happened.

When they arrived at Four Oaks, the gates were open, and as they drove through, Matthew stopped the car, climbed out and closed them, before jumping back behind the wheel to continue up to the house.

He parked around the side of the house, and as he and Margaret climbed from the car, they both became aware of the plump young man standing several yards away on the grass.

‘Who’s that?’ asked Margaret.

Matthew frowned. ‘It’s Max Revenant, the estate agent who originally showed me the house last year, and who also gave me the keys after Elaine Oakhurst left the place to me in her will.’

‘That’s a very odd situation. It’s very strange that an estate agent – the same estate agent – should have given you the keys. I would have expected the solicitor dealing with the woman’s estate to do that.’

Matthew nodded. ‘I agree. Do me a favour, Mum – don’t take your eyes off Max. There’s something not quite right about him, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.’

Max came towards them, and it came as no surprise to Matthew to see the man’s appearance was exactly as it had been each time they had previously faced one another.

‘Hello again, Mr Silverthorne,’ Max said in his slightly high pitched voice. ‘How is your father?’

Matthew frowned. ‘How do you know about that?’

‘I could be vague, and say I have my sources, or I could lie, and tell you the village is small and gossip is rife, but time is of the essence here, so I shall tell you the truth. I am a ghost, and I was here at Four Oaks when it happened, but I was powerless to interfere.’

‘A ghost?’ gasped Matthew incredulously as all his theories about the man were proved true in one sentence.

Max sighed. ‘I didn’t think you would believe me, but I have no time to prove it to you.’

Matthew waved his hand. ‘On the contrary, I do believe you. It explains a great many things, like how you are able to appear and disappear at will, about how your appearance is always identical each time I see you.’

‘And how you can be walking on wet grass, yet your shoes remain dry,’ added Margaret.

Max smiled. ‘I see nothing escapes your scrutiny, Mrs Silverthorne.’

‘You say you have no time to prove to us that you are a ghost, yet surely all you need do is pass your hand through me,’ said Matthew.

Max sighed, and gripped Matthew tightly around the wrist.

Matthew grimaced in pain at his tight grasp, more than a little shocked and surprised. ‘How are you able to do that?’

‘I shall explain on the way, but we must hurry from this place. We must reach Mother before the others do.’ Max saw another question form on Matthew’s lips, and silenced him. ‘I promise to answer all of your questions on the way, but really, we must leave right now. I promise equally that no harm shall come to either one of you.’

Matthew glanced at his mother, who shrugged. ‘Well, you did say you wanted to go to the hill via the haunted forest,’ she said. ‘What does it matter if we have a guide?’

Matthew turned back to Max. ‘All right, lead on, but while we walk we want answers.’

‘As you wish,’ Max responded. He turned on his heels and led the way across the grass, over the fallen log that traversed the narrow stream, and into the forbidding depths of Dead Man’s Wood itself.

‘So,’ said Matthew as he and his mother struggled to keep up with Max, who moved with such speed through the treacherous undergrowth that neither Matthew nor Margaret were left in any doubt about his supernatural nature, ‘if you really are a ghost, how are you able to touch me? As I understand it, ghosts can only make small objects move, and they can make their presence felt, but surely you shouldn’t be able to grip hold of me like that?’

‘I can touch you because you have the spirit of another inside you. I cannot touch your mother.’ As if to emphasise his spooky constitution, Max suddenly vanished from up ahead, appearing moments later at Margaret’s side. He passed his hand right through hers, eliciting another squeal of alarm from her. ‘I am sorry,’ Max muttered with a wry smile, and promptly vanished again, reappearing once more up ahead to lead the way.

‘In that case, surely you could have helped prevent Lucinda from attacking my father!’ called Matthew.

Max shook his head sadly. ‘I wish I had been permitted to intervene. However, certain events must be allowed to occur. I am not the best person to explain things to you though. Mother will explain everything.’

Stop messing about, Maxim! Just bring them to me.

The sudden female voice floating all around them seemed to be carried on a non-existent breeze, wafting around their faces and their feet, caressing them gently with its tenderness.

The voice was not threatening; indeed, it was altogether comforting – despite the fact that it came from nowhere and yet was everywhere. Matthew frowned. He could swear the voice was familiar.

He was more than certain: he was adamant.

And yet it was just not possible.

‘Whose voice was that?’ he asked.

‘That was my mother. She is most anxious to make the acquaintance of the man who now resides at Four Oaks at last. But we must hurry. Time really is of the essence.’

Max propelled himself along at great speed once more, forcing Matthew and his mother to increase their pace.

They tripped and stumbled their way through the trees, until finally their guide brought them to a halt within a small clearing.

The first thing they saw was Theo, lying prostrate on the damp, leaf-covered ground, with Joyce bent over him. Neither of them moved.

The second thing they saw was the old woman who walked towards them, her smile welcoming. ‘Greetings,’ she said in the same voice that had previously called out to Max. ‘Welcome to my home. I am Maxim’s mother. You may call me Elaine… Elaine Oakhurst.’

At those words, Matthew passed out.

*

Glory froze in her tracks, a few steps ahead of Rachel. She glanced around fearfully, certain she had heard something, less certain of the direction from which it came.

Rachel caught up with the teenager, worried by the look of alarm on her face. ‘Are you all right, dear?’ she asked, peering into the gloom ahead. She did not like the forest; it created its own aura of despair with its permanent shadows, which seemed to move constantly around them. She could not believe how densely packed the trees had become such a short distance in; there seemed barely enough room to squeeze through, with twigs and branches scratching at their arms and faces, snagging their hair and clothing like grasping fingers. Yet, as she turned to look behind them, the way they had come seemed blocked somehow by even more densely constricted trees and enshrouded in darker shadows than those that lay ahead. There was definitely no going back.

In the years she had been living in the area, Rachel had heard tales of the supernatural noises that emanated from deep within the forest, and though she had never personally witnessed such sounds the few times she had passed by the forest, she felt there was enough truth to the rumours to keep her out of Dead Man’s Wood.

But, here she was, having allowed both Glory and herself to be brought into the forest by two spirits, who were bringing up the rear like cowards. They surely had more of an idea of what lay ahead, surmised Rachel a little bitterly, so perhaps they were being wisely cautious – which did not bode will for Glory or for her.

‘Did you hear that noise, Aunt Rachel?’ whispered Glory fearfully, her eyes wide with terror. ‘It was like someone squealing.

Rachel shook her head. ‘I didn’t hear it, but that doesn’t mean you imagined it! These woods are haunted, after all.’ She leaned close to Glory’s ear. ‘Between you and me, I’m not so sure it was a good idea, coming here.’

Glory gripped the old woman’s hand firmly. ‘Let’s be brave together, Aunt Rachel.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Rachel chuckled. She turned to Louise and Phil as they caught up. ‘How much further must we go?’

Louise shrugged. ‘I have no idea. Thaumaturgia is no longer with me. She departed not long after we entered the woods.’

This news did not especially please Rachel, who wanted to know how they were expected to know when they had reached their destination.

‘We shall be made aware of that fact,’ responded Peter Neville.

‘Well, at least you are still with us, Peter,’ sighed Rachel. ‘We must be grateful for small mercies. So, where has Thaumaturgia gone?’

‘She has come home. She has come to be reunited with her mother at last.’

‘But we were brought here supposedly for our own protection. How can we be protected if Thaumaturgia is not with us?’

Through Phil, Peter smiled. ‘Have no fear, we are protected within these woods by a force more powerful that the Seer.’

‘You mean Elen?’ said Louise. ‘Elen is Thaumaturgia’s mother, isn’t she?’ She remembered that much at least from her joining with the Seer. Thaumaturgia had shared many thoughts and memories with Louise; a whole other lifetimes worth of images, sounds and smells within the space of a few minutes. She knew that Thaumaturgia had been with her constantly since Ravenscreag, remaining unobtrusively in the background of her mind until needed.

Thaumaturgia had wanted to leave her body before, when she had taken her earlier ill-advised walk through these very woods, but something had stopped her. Louise recalled the old woman who appeared before her, whose voice had resounded within her mind, and she realised now that the old woman was Elen.

Elen swiftly and silently had instructed her daughter to remain with Louise a little while longer, for the time had not been right for her departure.

Now, however, Thaumaturgia was gone from her thoughts; her mind was her own – and the consequence was not lost on Louise. The time to which Elen had referred had come at last, and mother and daughter were reunited somewhere in these woods, a formidable force to defeat the encroaching evil.

‘It’s Sawyl Gwilym, isn’t it?’ Louise added. ‘We’re here to try and defeat him!’

Peter Neville nodded reluctantly. ‘He is part of the reason we are here. All shall be explained to you in time, but for the moment, we must keep moving. We have a way yet to go afore we reach our final destination. We have nought to fear within these woods; we are under Elen’s protection. She shall let us know when we have reached our goal.’

He walked past Rachel and Glory, smiling his reassurance. ‘If it would make you more comfortable, I shall take the lead.’

‘Thank you, Peter, that would indeed make us feel better,’ replied Rachel.

Louise fell into step beside her daughter and Rachel as they trailed behind Peter Neville, wondering when Phil would be allowed to return to them. She did not like the manner in which Peter so arbitrarily took control of her husband’s body and refused to relinquish that control at times when it was inappropriate for him to remain.

‘Louise, have you any idea what’s really going on?’

Rachel’s soft voice interrupted Louise’s thoughts, and she shook her head. ‘Yet again, I have been allowed only partial information. She keeps most of her thoughts secret, choosing to show me only that which she feels I need to know. I do have a greater knowledge of the poor woman’s history now though, and increasingly I have a great sympathy for her. I’m actually not all that sure she knows everything herself, but Peter on the other hand…’ She lapsed into silence for a moment.

‘You do not trust Peter Neville?’

Louise shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Rachel. Something isn’t quite right, but I cannot put my finger on it. All I know for certain is that there is far more at stake right here and now than merely the return of Sawyl Gwilym.’ She faced Rachel for a moment. ‘The only person who might tell us everything is Elen, so we must do as Peter Neville asks, and follow him.’

‘You are certain it’s safe in here?’

‘We’re safer in here than we would be had we remained at Four Oaks.’

‘Why so?’

Louise sighed. ‘Because Sawyl Gwilym is there!’

*

Lucinda stepped off the bus at the stop on the eastern-most border of the village, staring ahead to where Wicca Hill dominated the skyline. It was good to be home; freedom smelled sweet, and it was a scent she had no intention of forgetting in a hurry.

The first thing she wanted to do was take a shower. She had not washed properly whilst locked up, and she reeked of stale sweat, and there was nothing more unappealing to Lucinda than smelling like her father.

She fleetingly wondered whether he would be pleased to see her, but then rational thought kicked in. Why should he be pleased to see her? Just because she had been exonerated from the crime did not necessarily mean her father would suddenly sweep her into his arms and bestow his love upon her. She might be the favoured child, but Ainsley seldom showed affection, so why should now be any different?

The sudden overwhelming desire to return to Four Oaks superseded her first thoughts of a refreshing shower. She knew it was foolish, but that was where all the answers lay. She had to find out what was going on, and Four Oaks was the place to go.

She could feel the spirit within her hyperventilating with excitement. He wanted her to return to Four Oaks, and though she did not know his motivation, she sensed it was not for a good purpose.

Lucinda’s indecisiveness rooted her to the spot. Should she go on to Four Oaks, risk perpetrating some other equally heinous crime unwillingly at the behest of her spirit, or should she return home to The Green Woman Inn, have her refreshing shower and try to put all the unpleasantness behind her? She was always a risk taker, living dangerously. She liked to walk on the wild side, skirt the edge of danger, but something warned her to play it safe this time: there was more at stake than just her own personal safety.

She realised she was standing in the middle of the road only when the driver of the approaching car blasted his horn. She hastily moved to one side, and the taxi passed by. As it did so, the occupant in the rear peered out at her, a mixture of anger and fear on his features.

As Lucinda gazed at the receding face of Roger Silverthorne, she gasped once, twice, and then slumped to her knees. When she regained her balance and stood up again, her pose defiantly masculine, the smile on her face was cold and menacing.

‘So… we begin again!’

*

Having passed the young woman who attacked him, Roger knew at once that she had seen and recognised him. Sensing time was running out, he instructed the driver to drive faster. There was much to be done before the day was through, and if all went to plan, by nightfall it would all finally be over.

Roger could not wait to finally be permanently rid of Hrothgar’s spirit, for Hrothgar had shared all his memories of the things that had happened whilst he controlled his host body. It totally unnerved Roger to think that Hrothgar had been in control of his life for much of the time he and his family lived at Silverthorne Lodge, as it also unnerved him that until Hrothgar had released the memories, he could recall none of the events.

Hrothgar explained that the truth had been secluded from him for his own protection, and that it was for the protection of his child that the truth was now revealed to him.

By my child, mused Roger, did Hrothgar refer to Matthew or Matilda – or both?

From the instant he saw the young woman Lucinda through Roger’s eyes, and the spirit she nurtured, Hrothgar sidelined his host’s mind and took control. Roger knew the ancient spirit did not intend to relinquish control until his task was done, and though he was not privy to the information, Roger knew it was not going to be pleasant, so he shut his eyes to everything around him and allowed Hrothgar complete control.

The taxi deposited Hrothgar at the gates of Four Oaks as per his instructions, having paid for the expensive journey using money he found inside the purloined jacket he wore.

Hrothgar felt no pity for the man at the hospital; his situation necessitated drastic measures – and striking the man was less than he would have done had he been in his own lifetime. He wished he were back then now, but knew that was an impossible dream. When his task was over he would have his freedom; that was the best he could hope for.

He knew what had to be done, and yet still did not know whether it would actually work or not.

He recalled the moment his host had spoken with Obadiah and Matilda.

Matilda; his daughter by another name. He smiled sadly at the memory, at all his memories. She had been taken from him so young. She would never live a proper life all the while he was alive. There was naturally only one course of action.

He had to die.

What had she said to Roger?

You must seek out Elen. She will show you everything, and then you will understand.

Hrothgar smiled. Roger had been confused because he had no idea who Elen was.

Hrothgar knew precisely who Elen was; it was just a matter of finding her. He pushed open the gates and walked with renewed purpose up the sloping drive, unaware of the car that pulled up just beyond the gates.

Chloe sat behind the wheel of her car, watching Roger’s figure disappear towards the house. She was in two minds about following, for it meant entering someone else’s property without permission, something she had not done since her rebellious teenage years.

What the hell, she thought. I won’t be the first person in the family to be arrested for trespassing on this property, and I might be able to find out from Mr Silverthorne exactly what happened that night!

Turning off the engine, she scrambled from the car, not bothering to lock the door in her haste. She did not want to let Roger out of her sight.

As she disappeared through the gates, Chloe did not see her daughter as she came running down the lane.

Having ducked into some bushes when he recognised the approaching car as that of his host’s mother, Luke followed as best he could whilst at the same time trying to remain out of sight.

It annoyed him immensely to see her disappear into the grounds of Four Oaks. Nothing was ever easy; someone always tried to get in the way of his plans, but he always managed to deal with them in the past, though Matthew and the other boy had thwarted his previous attempt.

He had recognised Maud of course, as he always did. It could have been perfect; he would have rid himself of Hrothgar and settled his score with Maud, and he would have finally passed on, but the other boy prevented that from happening. The boy was stronger and smarter than Obadiah had been.

For too many centuries, Luke had waited patiently for this opportunity, only for it to be stolen from him, but now he had an unexpected second opportunity.

This wretched woman was in the way. She threatened his plan, but he could deal with her more effectively than he could the boy. Yes, this woman would suffer the same fate as Obadiah. He had been an obstacle five centuries ago, but had been swiftly removed with astonishing ease, as would this woman, should she obstruct him.

Luke sensed his host’s distress, and smiled cruelly. What did it matter that the woman was her mother? He secured his control over Lucinda’s body, banishing her to the murky depths of her own dark subconscious, restraining her using her own despair and mental bonds that only he could release.

No my dear, you shall not interfere again. This time nothing shall prevent me from achieving my goals. You had best pray that your mother does not interfere, for should she do so, there shall be no salvation for her soul. Nothing must prevent the executions this time.

Nothing!

*

Matthew awakened in the middle of the forest, lying on his back and staring up through the canopy of trees. Very little blue sky was visible, even though the branches were denuded of their leaves. He could hear muffled voices from nearby, but could not hear what was being said, and when he tried to move, his head began to throb and his vision blurred. Ceasing his attempt to sit up diminished the dizziness, so he lay where he was, his breathing shallow and controlled as he gathered his thoughts.

He could not recall what had happened. Why he lay upon a carpet of damp leaves was a mystery to him; he could feel the dampness had penetrated his clothes so he must have been lying there awhile. The sensation was uncomfortable, but oddly he did not feel cold.

Where exactly am I?

We be within the forest of the dead men.

The girl’s voice startled him with its proximity, so close it sounded almost as if it were actually inside his head.

Hang on, I didn’t speak, so how could that voice have been responding to my question?

I be within thy mind, but I be no figment of thy imagination, Matthew Silverthorne.

Matthew struggled to sit up once more, but even though he fought against the swamping dizziness, he could not move a muscle.

And he could not speak!

Suddenly very afraid, Matthew began to panic. His heartbeat increased rapidly, his breath coming in short erratic bursts.

Thou must calm thyself, Matthew Silverthorne. Thou hast no reason to fear me. All shall be explained and understood in the fullness of time. Thou must relax.

Difficult as it was to do so, Matthew thought it best to try and do as the voice asked.

Who are you?

Thou might call me Matilda; others have called me Maud. It matters not which thou doth prefer, it be all the same to me.

What are you?

I be the sleeping spirit that has dwelled within thee since before thou were born. Thou hast been my protector, but now the time has come for me to face mine enemy.

Your enemy? Who’s that then?

I cannot fully explain. Elen shall show thee everything when the others arrive. Until then, it be best thou doth relax.

Easy for you to say, you don’t have a strange voice in your head… and I cannot move!

Indeed it be easy for me to say, for I have been trapped in the body of one person after another for near two thousand years. I be trapped by a curse, with but a single hope for release. Trust when I tell thee I know how thou dost feel, for each person who has played host to me across the centuries has felt the same. Now, do as I bid thee… relax.

*

Joyce bent over her son, intending to soothe his furrowed brow. His eyes were open, but he was not looking in her direction and he seemed as incapable of movement as she was.

Unnerved by the fact that she could not move, Joyce was relieved that her son appeared physically unharmed. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the feet of someone else lying on the ground, but because she could not move, she could not see who it was.

She heard muffled voices from nearby, but could not make out what they said. The voices did not sound threatening, and though she remained immobile, Joyce was certain there was no immediate danger.

She tried to call out, but found she could not. Some extraordinary force held her, and as she knelt there, bowed as if in prayer over Theo’s immobile body, Joyce tried to recall what had happened.

When no memories came to her, she realised she would have to wait, until whatever force held her was released.

*

Theo was aware that his mother knelt over him; though she was outside his field of vision he could smell her distinctive perfume, and, sure it was her, the very presence of his mother relieved some of the anxiety he felt at being unable to move or speak.

He could not recall how he came to be lying on the floor of the forest – indeed, he could not actually recall entering the forest in the first place.

Straining his eyes – which seemed to be the only part of his body he could move – he noticed a pair of feet right at the periphery of his vision, and although he could not see the rest of the body they were attached to, he recognised them as belonging to Matthew.

Matthew’s here in the forest too! What’s going on?

Theo heard voices from nearby. He could not understand the muffled words, but the tone of the voices seemed agitated rather than threatening.

Theo knew that if he were patient, all would be revealed.

*

Margaret stood slightly apart from the others within the clearing. She recognised the stationary figures, but not the two who moved around, talking amongst themselves, and while they were unknown to her, she felt she should be able to place them.

Not being able to speak or move was decidedly uncomfortable. She wanted to rush over to Matthew to ensure he was all right. His eyes were open yet remained unblinking, his body as immobile as Joyce and Theo.

Because of the positions of the others, Margaret realised she alone could see what was going on, so made certain to maintain constant vigilance over the old woman and young man who moved around, unaffected by whatever force bound the others into immobile silence.

It seemed likely to Margaret that they were in some way responsible. They did not appear to be doing anything other than walk around the clearing, speaking to one another in hushed whispers. It annoyed Margaret that she could not hear their words, and it frustrated her that she could not call out, make them aware that she could see them.

She held her breath as they paused in their pacing. They slowly turned as one, facing her direction. At first Margaret thought perhaps they had read her thoughts, but a moment later she realised someone stood behind her; the odd couple were looking at whoever it was.

The old woman smiled and spoke aloud. Margaret heard her words clearly, as did Matthew, Theo and Joyce.

‘The others are here at last. I free you from your bonds, and return to you your memories.’

Margaret ran to Matthew’s side as he struggled to sit up, while Joyce helped Theo to rise.

‘Are you all right?’ the two mother’s asked their respective sons at the same time.

‘Yes,’ responded Matthew and Theo in unison.

The four glanced at one another, and then at the old woman who stood beside Max Revenant.

‘That woman is not human,’ gasped Theo.

‘No, she’s a ghost,’ replied Matthew, ‘just like Max. She’s Elaine Oakhurst!’

Theo shook his head wildly. ‘No, she’s not human in any way, shape or form. She’s…’ He shrugged helplessly, and turned to Joyce. ‘I don’t know what she is, but you saw it too, didn’t you, Mum?’

Joyce nodded, blanching at the recollection. ‘Indeed I did.’

‘What did you see?’ gasped Margaret.

They were interrupted by the appearance of Max in their midst. ‘Enough of this! All shall be explained shortly, but please, do not let my mother’s appearance alarm you. She means you no harm; indeed, it is her intention to set right a great wrongdoing from the past. Now… the others are here.’

*

With Peter leading the way, Louise, Rachel and Glory continued their seemingly endless trek into the depths of Dead Man’s Wood. Glory had tripped over countless times and was covered from head to foot in mud and leaves, and looked for all the world reminiscent to the colourful sign depicting the Green Woman that swung on its rusted hinges outside the pub.

Close to tears, the girl was unamused at her present condition, voicing her opinion that she wished she had taken her chances face to face with the notorious Sawyl Gwilym.

Though they offered only silent comfort in their hugs, Louise and Rachel were of similar minds, for despite his reassurances that they were safer in the forest, the fact that Peter Neville was leading them into forbidden territory without telling them what lay ahead alarmed them both.

They knew better than to question Peter though, for he was unlikely to offer any explanation at this late stage. Louise knew it would be foolish to attempt to retrace their steps too, since the forest seemed to close in around them the deeper they went. She had long since lost all sense of direction, and she recalled her previous visit with rather more clarity than she wished. She had become lost in the forest on that occasion, and had been lucky enough to get out only because of the help she received.

Sudden illumination defined Louise’s thoughts: Peter was taking them to see the old woman she had encountered that last time. What was her name?

‘Elen,’ she said aloud. Of course – how could she have forgotten? ‘He’s taking us to see Elen.’

‘Very perceptive of you, my dear.’

Louise glanced up at the sudden female voice, somewhat amazed to find they were in a clearing deep within the forest, and yet the overhanging canopy of the trees still blocked out most of the natural light. To her, the clearing seemed a similar size to the sitting room of her cottage, its edge lined with fallen trunks and stumps of chopped down trees, almost as though strategically placed for seating.

Huddled together in a group on the far side of the clearing she saw Matthew, Theo and Joyce, and another woman whom she did not know. Standing apart from them were two other figures: a rather overweight young man with black hair, wearing an incongruously immaculate black suit and shiny patent leather shoes, and the woman who had spoken; the woman she had met in these woods before: Elen – Elaine Oakhurst.

Elaine spread her arms. ‘Welcome, all of you. Please be seated.’

A hand touched Louise’s arm, making her jump, and when she looked up, she saw Phil had been returned to her. Peter Neville had departed once more, having delivered them safely.

‘Are you all right, Phil?’ she asked quietly.

‘Yes, I’m fine. Peter informed me that there are several spirits here amongst us, but would not elaborate. He said everything would be made clear to us.’

‘As indeed it shall,’ said Elaine imperiously. ‘If you will allow me to, I shall tell you everything; prepare you all for what is to come.’

‘That sounds rather ominous,’ said Rachel. ‘I take it we are not going to like what we’re about to hear?’

Elaine smiled ‘Perhaps not, however, necessity dictates that you understand what is going on – all of you.’

Matthew’s forthright voice carried from the distance. ‘I suggest we all do as Elaine says. I for one wish to know why the woman who outbid me for Four Oaks last year, subsequently left me the house in her will, and how she is now able to stand before us, apparently still alive.’

‘And I want to hear her explain her earlier appearance to Mum and me,’ said Theo.

‘Yes, just how did she appear to you both? You never did say.’

‘Something like this!’

The commanding tone in Elaine’s voice brought everyone’s attention to bear upon her, and they watched spellbound, bemused and horrified as she transformed her appearance before their very eyes.

Elaine’s mouth opened wide, stretching from a smile into an ever-expanding grimace. Tendrils of leaves spewed forth from the gaping maw in the middle of what had once been her face. Her outstretched arms changed colour, becoming brown with a subtle green mottled bark-like texture; her gnarled old fingers twisted, elongated along with her arms, becoming ever-multiplying branches. Her torso expanded, shredding her clothing until it hung in tatters upon the gnarled bark that replaced her body. Her legs continued the transformation, stretching downwards, fusing together to continue the trunk down to the forest floor; her toes spilt apart, forming root-like protuberances that burrowed down into the earth. Her eyes receded into what had once been her head; her hair twisted, hardening, stretching upwards and outwards to form more branches, which rapidly budded, until eventually, in the centre of the clearing, incongruous amid all the naked winter trees, there stood a fully grown oak tree, resplendent with mid-summer foliage of lush green.

What you see before you in my intermediate stage. I am like this when resting between my human lives.

Elaine’s voice floated around the shocked group, who backed away slightly during the transformation, which had taken mere seconds.

‘What the hell are you, exactly?’ gasped Louise, choking back her fear and nausea. ‘You’re definitely not human.’

There was a rumbling from the very bowels of the earth, and amid much creaking, the transformation reversed itself rather more slowly. The woman who eventually stood before them was very different from Elaine Oakhurst, yet undeniably the same individual.

She was much younger, indeterminate of age, her skin mostly human in appearance with a subtle bark-like texture, save for mossy growths that helped preserve her feminine modesty. Her brown eyes seemed a touch too large for her oddly beautiful face, whilst her hair appeared to be comprised of vines, ivy and other tendrils, and her slender arms tipped with elegantly proportioned fingers reminiscent of twigs. Her long legs that had looked like root structures firmly rooted into the earth came out of the ground with ease, sinking back into it again as she walked slowly towards the gathered group.

‘This is my true appearance,’ she said, the metamorphosis complete. She smiled at their unease. ‘I am Elen, though I have assumed many names over the centuries.’

‘You’re a wood nymph!’ gasped Glory.

Elen bowed her head. ‘Indeed I am. The young lady is quite correct: I am what you mortals might call a wood nymph. There are many of my kind spread across the world; wood, water, earth and fire nymphs. We are everywhere, and we are for all time. We preserve nature when it is endangered so that life will go on.’

‘Why have none of your kind ever been seen?’

Elen turned to Joyce. ‘A disbeliever!’ She smiled. ‘That is good. It is best not to take everything you are told purely on face value. Your questioning nature makes humanity so unique. To answer your question, we have been seen, countless times across the millennia. How else do you explain stories of fairy folk, the Lady of the Lake from your Arthurian legends, the tales of the Green Man… the Green Woman, the naming of the village Elendale? I could go on. People have a knack of explaining many of the things they witness yet cannot understand, blithely ignoring the rest until such tales pass on into myth and legend. My kind has certainly not been forgotten by man, but over time our existence has been explained away as fables, relegated to fairy stories, remembered as fantasy rather than forgotten.’

She indicated the tree stumps. ‘Please be seated. There are things I must tell you all.’

Everyone did as Elen requested, and once they were all seated, she recounted tales from long ago.

The Nature of Time

My sisters and I are the children of time and nature. Mankind euphemistically calls our parents Father Time and Mother Nature. One cannot exist without the other. Nature is required to allow life to develop, while time progresses the growth, but ultimately destroys life. Nature finds her way to replenish the land, and the cycle of life goes on. Although time destroys life at the end of its cycle, time is required for life to grow, otherwise everything would exist in one moment and would go nowhere.

All but one of Mother Nature’s children are female; only the one child follows in the path of his father.

Our parents exist at the opposite ends of our reality; Mother Nature lives at the perpetual dawn, sending out her loving tendrils of life; Father Time lives in the eternal twilight, when he drowns all life in his ebb and flow.

In between are the maidens. Some, like myself, maintain the order of things in your world. We are charged with preserving the timelines, to ensure no one corrupts the order of nature; we are empowered with gifts from our father to ensure the flow of time is not altered, and if it is, we have the power to intervene. Other than that, we must never interfere.

It is a lonely existence, and from time to time, one or other of the daughters of nature ventures forth into the world of man to live a lifetime in human form. Upon our human death, we revert to our natural state and the cycle begins anew.

We exist outside of time, and though some of us choose to live within the world of man, others of our number have been exiled from our land, and further more have been selected to watch over the exiled.

I was chosen to watch over this area, for it is weakened by a convergence of ley lines, which allows the other realms to break through from time to time.

Sometimes, those of us chosen to watch over an exile or weakened area bear fruits of our loins. I have lived amongst man in this area for many hundreds of years, and have borne countless such fruits; Maxim here being one, while two others known to some of you are Thaumaturgia Anathemas and Isabella Neville.

One of my sisters, Gwenllian Lacustrina, who has her own eternal task, is the water nymph known mostly as The Lady of the Lake. She is the mother of Peter Neville.

It is because of our bloodline that Peter and Isabella are able to come and go as they please from this world, interacting with suitable host bodies, though they only do so under the gravest of circumstances.

I have mentioned that we maidens of nature have but a single brother, who follows the path of his father. He too has gone by many names since his exile from our realm. You will know him as Sawyl Gwilym.

In my own realm, before I came into the world of man, he was not only my brother, but also my lover – though through no choice of mine. He violated me, and the result of his violation was my daughter, Thaumaturgia, who is imbued with more gifts than Isabella, Maxim or any of my other children, because her father is not human.

Time destroys life because of its very nature. If he were to recover his memories, Sawyl will destroy life because it would amuse him.

In our own realm, he perpetrated unspeakable acts against the common people of Albion, what you might call an alternate version of your own reality. His plan was to rule over that land from the capital city of Avalon.

He escaped to the world of man with a barrier placed around his memories. His memories remain locked deep within his subconscious, and it is said only a return to Avalon may release them. The rulers felt he would be no threat here, but they reckoned without the appearance of Merlin.

Merlin too resided once within the walls of Avalon, but he grew tired of that existence, choosing to live in the world of man. He believed he might help mankind achieve greatness.

Instead, he almost caused its downfall.

Following his escape to the wastelands of this world, Sawyl encountered Merlin. Merlin believed they could make a great team, teaching mankind how to better itself, but he quickly realised that although Sawyl’s memory had been erased, his inherent evil remained as strong as ever.

By the time he realised this, it was too late. The seeds for the possibilities of time travel and eternal life had already been planted within Sawyl’s mind, and now he has those thoughts, he will not rest until the quest is completed and the secrets are his.

It was decided that Merlin should not remain in the world of man, and so Nimue, Maiden of Fire, was despatched to return him to Avalon, where he would be imprisoned forever for his misdemeanour.

When it became clear that Sawyl would settle in this weakened area, I agreed to follow and watch over him. It was here that I was reunited eventually with my daughter, who was banished from Avalon by those who feared that her visions were a sign that she would follow her father’s path..

I bore my son Maxim before my departure. He eventually accompanied me into this world, but his ability to travel naturally through time made him a danger when Sawyl returned from a long period abroad, and so I sent him to the future where he would remain safe from harm, only for his physical form to die at the hands of another enemy.

While Sawyl continued his quest for immortality, my daughter, my sister and I maintained a close watch on him, making certain any progress he made was blocked.

We thought the barriers placed around his memories would hold forever, but we were wrong. Thaumaturgia foresaw a time when those barriers would break down, and Sawyl would discover his true identity, abandoning his quest for the secrets of alchemy when he realises he already possesses the ability to travel through time and has an immortal soul. Thaumaturgia had shared several of her visions with me, and all came true; I therefore knew this one would come true too, so between us, we had no choice but to bend the rules of our existence.

My sister and I manipulated time to our advantage, taking the places of Margaret and Elizabeth Ashton so that we might be provided with two offspring, Isabella and Peter Neville, whose sole task in that life and the next was to defeat Sawyl Gwilym before his memories returned.

Many years into her life, Isabella was granted the complex formulae with which to create the elixir of life and the secrets of alchemy that would permit time travel. In so doing, we set in motion the chain of events that led to Sawyl’s execution, and the meeting of Gloria Schofield and James Trevayne – who are so integral to everything that happens hereafter.

Unfortunately, I miscalculated, or so I thought. Sawyl’s spirit escaped and has now returned to continue his quest.

I realise now that this is the order of things; this is how events were supposed to evolve. It is now that Sawyl’s memories are to return to him, and it is now that he must finally be defeated.

He cannot be killed, though, for his soul is immortal. He must be returned to Avalon, to be secured within the same crystal prison that holds Merlin – which with the benefit of hindsight is what should have been done in the first place.

This I must do before he realises his soul is immortal, and before he discovers he has the power to manipulate time, for if that happens the barriers placed within his mind will break down completely.

Time is running out, and soon he will remember everything, and when that happens it will be the end of life as you know it.

2002

In the hallway of Four Oaks, Hrothgar peered at his reflection in the mirror adjacent to the front door. He at first admired the physique of his host, and was lost in the symmetry of his finely chiselled features, but Roger’s appearance quickly bored him, and he found himself longing for a time long ago, when he was still within his own body; a time long before the unpleasantness; a time before the killing started.

Hrothgar defiantly missed his own time, his own friends… his own daughter.

Oh, how he missed her terribly; her life wasted so tragically, cut short whilst still in childhood by a man they had not known. He had been an outsider, a stranger to the village from distant shores, with the sole intention – it had seemed to him at the time – of ending Hrothgar’s bloodline.

Hrothgar had retaliated the only way any parent would, his vengeance swift and merciless – for which he still paid the ultimate price.

This life of hatred must cease, he thought sadly. One way or another it ends this night, and we shall be free. No more innocent blood shall be spilled.

He moved away from the mirror and roamed the empty house, not entirely certain what he sought.

He had learned much during the countless centuries when he could not make his presence felt, teaching himself new skills, progressing his intellect one step further each time his child was reborn. Once a savage, he was now cultured enough to enable the reading of literature. He knew that what he did all those years ago was wrong; a mistake he hoped to set right. In the past, he had been unable to interfere, nothing more than an observer with no real presence, and during each lifetime of his daughter’s reincarnation he was forced to watch helplessly, while history was endlessly re-enacted.

This time was different, as was promised; this time he had presence, and through that presence, he now had substance – and with that substance he would act to prevent the great misdeed from being repeated. Blood would be spilled this night for sure, but not the blood of an innocent bystander, and not the blood of his beloved daughter.

This time the blood spilled would be his – there was no escaping that destiny and he welcomed the sweet scent of oblivion as it approached.

*

Chloe stood on the threshold of the house, unsure whether she should enter. It was not the same as breaking and entering, after all; the door was open and she had no intention of stealing anything. All she wanted was the chance to talk to Roger. Her mind would not be put at ease until she knew what really happened the night of the attack.

If Lucinda had been involved, then so be it; her daughter was an adult, and as far as Chloe was concerned, she could not be held accountable for the actions of another adult. If Lucinda were guilty, they would get through it as a family; if she was innocent then the situation threw up more questions.

If, as she had come to understand it, Roger himself told the police of Lucinda’s innocence, then he was either lying for some reason, or his son had lied in his implication of Lucinda. Whatever the truth, one of the Silverthorne men was lying, and Chloe wanted to know why.

Peering through the door, she saw Roger come out of a room towards the end of the expansive entrance hall. He seemed to be searching for something. Chloe cleared her throat loudly. ‘Mr Silverthorne, might I have a word please?’ Her voice carried effortlessly down the hallway, and Roger turned to face her, apparently not startled by her sudden voice.

Chloe frowned. There was something peculiar about the man’s movements, which appeared jerky, almost as though he were not quite fully in control of his body. Whoever had attacked him must have done some serious damage besides the broken arm.

Hrothgar regarded the woman standing in the doorway quizzically. With the lunchtime sun behind her, he could not make out who she was. Uncertain whether or not he should know her, he allowed Roger a degree of control. ‘May I help you, Miss?’

Chloe took a step into the house, but remained by the door. ‘My name is Chloe Samwell. I’m Lucinda’s mother.’

Hrothgar inwardly smiled. A fortuitous stroke of good fortune: this woman might lead the way to Lucinda, whom he knew to be close by. It was possible the mother knew the facts, was indeed assisting her daughter, though more likely that she knew nothing and was an innocent bystander. Whether she was able to help or not, Hrothgar sadly decided he should not after all involve the woman.

‘Ah, the mother of my would-be attacker!’

Chloe gasped. ‘Then she did attack you? But if that’s the case, why did you tell the police she was innocent?’

‘Because it suits my purpose to not have her locked away in a police cell.’

Chloe frowned, demanding to know what he meant. It was such an obscure thing to say that it sounded outwardly like a thinly veiled threat.

‘I doubt you would believe me if I told you the truth,’ sighed Roger.

‘Try me! You sounded like you were planning some kind of revenge against my daughter. I would advise against such a course of action, Mr Silverthorne. There is no wrath more vengeful than a parent seeking retribution for the killing of their child.’

Hrothgar decided to take matters into his own hands. ‘A fact I know only too well, my dear. Why not come in? Let us sit and converse like civilised people. A drink, perhaps?’

A little warily, Chloe accepted the invitation and followed Roger into the kitchen.

Hrothgar moved so swiftly to deal her a blow from Roger’s plaster cast that she had no time to react. He carried her inert body into the rear sitting room and laid her down upon the sofa, making sure her wound was not bleeding. ‘I am sorry, my dear, but it is best this way.’

As he turned, he saw movement from the corner of his eye through the French windows, and moved to the glass, peering out cautiously, surprised to see Lucinda marching across the lawn in the direction of Dead Man’s Wood.

‘Most odd,’ he mumbled with a slight frown. ‘I would have thought his first goal would be to finish me off. I wonder where he is going?’

Too late, he realised his error. He should not have come into the house; he should have gone straight for the forest, to her. He knew that was where Lucinda was heading.

‘Worry not, Maud, Daddy is coming.’

Having stopped by the front door of Four Oaks whilst he decided what course of action to take, Lucinda sensed doubt and confusion in Luke’s mind. He wanted to finish Roger off, but also wanted to make haste his departure to the woods.

It was not so much a crisis of conscience, but rather a questioning of priority. Luke could not decide whom he wanted dead first. In the end, he decided he wanted Hrothgar to know he had killed his daughter, not the other way around, so he turned away from the front door and walked around the side of the house, across the lawns, heading for Dead Man’s Wood.

Luke knew his task was not to be an easy one, for she would be there. It was all her fault. Had she not interfered all those many centuries ago, none of this would have happened in the first place.

A difficult task did not make it impossible. He merely had to lure the girl away, and then he would strike. He had done it before so many times, but this time Hrothgar would be there to see it.

He was not about to let that damned Wood Witch stop him.

Rachel and Louise stared incredulously at Elen as she reached the end of her tale. Just when they had thought events in their lives could get no more fantastic, now this wood nymph had pulled another proverbial rabbit out of the hat.

How could it be possible for this woman – this creature – to manipulate time and events of the past to bring into existence Isabella and Peter Neville for her own selfish use? It was also therefore surely because of this creature that Gloria had been possessed by Isabella; that Gloria had gone back in time and met James Trevayne, and abandoned them all.

This creature, thought Rachel bitterly, robbed me of my daughter, yet if it had not been for her, my family would not exist. She played God, and I don’t know whether to thank her or curse her.

Louise thought of nothing but the horrifying fact that Sawyl Gwilym could not be killed, and not only that, but he already possessed the secrets he had spent a thousand years in search of. All that prevented him from achieving his warped goal of world domination was a thin piece of mental elastic that held his memories in check; a thin piece of mental elastic that must surely, after more than a thousand years, be frayed or stretched to breaking point.

Who was to say the evil man had not already regained those memories?

As Sawyl Gwilym, he had wanted to dominate this world; as the child of Mother Nature and Father Time, he had wanted to dominate the alternate reality, which Elen had called Albion.

If he regained the memories of his former life, and retained the memories of his latter life, would domination of one world be enough for him? If so, which would he choose?

Louise seriously doubted one or the other would be enough for Sawyl Gwilym. He would want to enslave them both.

At all costs, for all their sakes, he must be stopped – and Elen had said only by returning him to Avalon, to be entombed within a crystal prison alongside Merlin, could he finally be stopped.

In which case, as she saw it there was only one solution.

Joyce and Theo sat spellbound; neither had been able to take their eyes off Elen, even though they knew that to stare was rude. They had learned some startling facts over the course of the past week, and witnessed a few unexplained events, but nothing could have prepared them for Elaine Oakhurst. Was she an old woman, a ghost, a tree, or a curiously young looking hybrid of the old woman and the tree, with vines for hair and bark for clothing? Was Max really her son, had he really been born centuries ago, and been sent through time to avoid contact with the mysterious Sawyl Gwilym that everyone kept mentioning? And if he was a ghost, when and how had he died?

It was all just too much to take in, and had they not already been seated, they would have both needed to sit down.

Matthew and Margaret glanced at one another. Considering what Elen had just told them all about her children, they wondered whether the spirit that hid in Matthew was one too, or perhaps Hrothgar was one.

Matthew became convinced that Sawyl Gwilym sired Hrothgar at some point in the past. It made sense of why Lucinda’s spirit was so intent upon killing him: to prevent Sawyl’s heir from obtaining his father’s powers. Sawyl already had one child that they knew of, Thaumaturgia Anathemas, whose powers were immense. If Sawyl Gwilym had the potential to be as powerful as Elen claimed, how dangerous might any other progeny become?

Similar thoughts went through Phil’s mind as he thought of the Seer and her powers. Thankfully, her propensity was not for evil; she inherited her mother’s good nature. Who was to say that any other offspring of Sawyl’s would be good? They could easily be more evil and dangerous than the warlock himself.

It was lucky for them all that Sawyl had no memory of his true identity; if he had, none of them would be safe. He would show his evil in its truest manifestation. He could conceivably go back in time, wipe them all from existence in one fell swoop.

It was luckier still that there were watchers such as Elen to ensure history remained uncorrupted. Peter and Isabella were two more such watchers. Phil wondered whether they knew their birthright, that they had been conceived with the sole intention of defeating Sawyl Gwilym.

Phil also wondered what would happen if someone altered the past, even by only one tiny fact. What effect would such an event have on the present?

He shook his head. It did not bear thinking about.

There was no other option. Sawyl Gwilym had to be stopped, and only Elen could do it – they had no choice but to trust the strange creature.

‘Sorry if I’m speaking out of turn, but how do we know you are to be trusted?’

Every head turned to face Glory, who alone amongst them possessed the childlike innocence to ask the question of the wood nymph that no one else dared ask.

‘I mean, you’ve proved you’re incredibly powerful, and you’ve just told us that you manipulated time to get the desired effect. That doesn’t sound very trustworthy to me.’

With a noise that sounded like a cross between a banshee wail and a rumble of thunder, Elen transformed into the tree again and suddenly sank into the ground, reappearing almost instantly right beside Glory, startling the girl. ‘I am able to move anywhere that there is flora on this planet, and, should I choose, to any point in history whilst in my natural state. If I were not to be trusted, I would go back to the beginning of man’s existence and alter the path of his evolution. I am not evil child. True, I manipulated certain events in the past, but I have not changed history. The timeline that exists is as it should be, and I manipulated future events from my own perspective, not past events. I have always been a part of the history of this land. However, perhaps you wish further proof?’

Once more, with the sound of thunder coming from beneath the earth, Elen sank into the ground, returning after a slightly longer absence. Everyone gathered within the clearing could see she was not alone upon her return; she had someone enfolded within the branches where once her arms had been, and as she unfolded them to release her charge, Rachel gave a squeal, clasping both hands over her mouth.

Louise was equally stunned. ‘My God, Gloria – is that really you?’

The middle-aged woman with greying hair turned to face them, smiling with recognition.

She was older than they recalled – as they must appear older to her – but she was undeniably Gloria Schofield.

She rushed into her mother’s arms. ‘Mother, darling Mummy… I thought never to set eyes upon you again.’

Tearfully, Rachel embraced her daughter. ‘Likewise Gloria; it’s been so long.’

‘You are looking well, Mother. Tell me, how many years has it been?’

‘A little over fifteen years since the day you were supposed to marry Allan; fifteen years since you left us.’

Gloria smiled. ‘Yes, I remember that day so clearly, it’s like it was yesterday.’

‘How long has it been for you?’

Gloria chuckled. ‘It’s doubtful you would believe me. I am dead.’

‘What?’ gasped Louise, coming forward to stand beside Rachel. She wrapped a protective arm around the old woman’s shoulders. ‘What do you mean, you’re dead?’

‘I mean precisely what I say. I am dead. I lived a long and fulfilling life, and was happy right to the end, despite a few unpleasant experiences. When I died, I was reunited with James, who turned out to share the same spirit as Allan. The two men in my life were one person really, so we were destined all along to be together, and we live on together in Avalon.’

‘What?’ cried Louise.

Elen’s voice floated out from her tree form. ‘Did I not tell you they are integral to everything that happens after the moment of their deaths? You still have no idea how integral!’

‘Indeed,’ sighed Gloria. ‘It’s too much to go into here and now, but you must listen to Elen. She will not harm you in any way. Listen to what she has to say, and trust her. She is the key to preventing Sawyl Gwilym from escaping again. He will come here, and you must be ready for him.’

‘Just a minute, Gloria,’ said Louise. ‘If you’re dead, why do you look like this?’ She waved her hands in front of Gloria’s face. ‘Why don’t you look like you did the day you died, or as we last saw you?’

‘You see me as I would be had I remained in this time. Time has no linear meaning in Avalon. Avalon itself exists outside of time, and I have no physical body there. We are all spirits in that citadel. Elen was able to bring me here to this time only because in a linear sense I should still be alive here. I died an old woman, and I was born in 1957, so if I had remained in my original timeline, I would still be alive now, and this is how I would look.’

‘Oh, I understand… I think.’

‘I’m glad I was given this opportunity to see you both again, but it’s time for me to return.’ Gloria hugged Louise, and then kissed and hugged her mother. ‘It isn’t easy, being parted from you, but we shall all be reunited again one day. Daddy looks forward to that day, Mother.’

Rachel burst into tears. ‘Jeremy is with you?’

Gloria nodded. ‘He is, and Allan looks forward to seeing you, Louise. But I must go now. I’m sorry that this can be but a brief visit. Just remember – trust Elen. She alone can bring about the final defeat of Sawyl Gwilym.’

Gloria stepped backwards into the welcoming embrace of Elen, still in her tree form; amid more rumbling they vanished once more into the ground, and when she returned, Elen was alone.

‘Well?’ said Elen as she transformed into her young nymph figure.

Rachel nodded slowly. ‘We can trust her, Glory.’

*

When he passed in the taxi, Hrothgar had recognised the spirit within Lucinda, which he could see as clearly as he saw the host, and had followed Luke into the forest. Trailing behind as he threaded his way through the densely packed trees, he stepped over fallen tree trunks, while carefully avoiding the roots that seemed almost to spring out of the ground to trip him up. He nevertheless lost his footing several times in the twilight beneath the canopy of branches that stretched ever upwards, slipping on the slimy leaves, sodden with weeks of rain. He was covered in mud within minutes of entering the woods, and his mind was drawn back to memories of his first life.

Such conditions were not uncommon in his time; he was used to the damp and the grime. Sticky mud, which picked up leaves each time he fell, was a perfect camouflage, and the figure ahead of him seemed not to notice his presence.

He could not be certain, for he had no ability to enter another mind, but he felt certain Luke’s thoughts were so focussed on the way ahead that he did not sense the spirit trailing him.

‘You will not kill my daughter again – not this time,’ Hrothgar whispered under his breath. Maintaining a stealthy silence as he continued his pursuit, he reached into the pocket of the jacket he wore, careful not to cut himself as he caressed the cold steel of the knife, the perfect instrument with which to exact his revenge on the man who had killed his daughter so many times. In the past, he had been unable to intervene, unable to do anything except helplessly watch the endless slaughter; but now he had substance, now he had strength – now he had both the overpowering anger and the means to ensure his poor child would never suffer again.

*

Luke was alert as he made his way swiftly through the trees. He had so far avoided any mishap but remained wary, for the Witch of the Woods had many spies. The animals of the forest were her eyes and ears, but he knew it was not the living he should be careful of.

Spirits dwelled within the boundary of the woods; it was not without reason that they were named Dead Man’s Wood.

Already, he had seen shifting shapeless figures, moving amongst the trees. He could hear breathing from all around him, could hear twigs snap underfoot ahead of him, the scraping of clothing against bark behind him.

The spirits of the dead were all around him, and Luke was aware that every one of them could see him through Lucinda’s body, and any one of them could report his progress to Elen.

One deciding factor did not go against him; the spirits trapped within the woods owed no allegiance to the Witch of the Woods. It was most likely she who ripped them from their resting place, summoning them to do her bidding before being cast adrift.

They were all souls out of place, out of time. They should be enjoying their afterlife, but instead were trapped in the ether, which Luke hoped meant that they might be willing to assist him instead of warning Elen about him.

He could see he was approaching the clearing up ahead, and slowed his pace. Crouching low, he maintained a discreet distance, peering through the branches of a young sapling.

He could see them all, sitting around the edge of the clearing, watching her as she held court. He saw Matilda, directly opposite, and his blood boiled. He would need all the help he could get if he were to be rid of her here and now, surrounded as she was by those who would help protect her.

He would invite the lurking spirits to assist him.

His attention focussed upon Elen. He recognised her at once. He had fully expected her to appear old and wizened; he did not expect her to appear exactly as she had the last time he had seen her, a little over a thousand years ago.

In an instant, his mind returned him to that time, and he was an observer, witnessing events as they occurred.

AD 843

Lucia watched the approaching man from her hiding place high up in the canopy of the trees. She pulled her legs tighter to her chest and held her breath lest he should hear her.

Her father had told her many tales of how the Danish overlords of the north ate little children who misbehaved, but she did not believe him, recognising them as tales told by parents to keep order amid the chaos.

She had never set eyes upon any of the Danes, but some inner instinct told her this approaching man was one of them. He did not look especially fearsome with his soft features and delicate straw coloured hair, and looked in no way threatening with his less than robust frame.

Lucia found his fair hair and complexion fascinating. He was certainly no local, and her thirteen-year-old mind kicked into overdrive as she wondered what he was doing so far from his kin.

There had been peace in the village for as long as Lucia could remember. She knew it had not always been thus; her father had told her often enough how the enemy had tortured and raped the women of the settlement when she was but a babe in arms. That last great battle in the lands around Elendale had resulted in the death of Lucia’s mother and aunt. Her father always spared her the gory details, but her imagination was vivid enough to produce disturbing images in her mind, and on many a night the girl found herself unable to sleep.

Too late, the villagers called upon the assistance of the Great Wood Witch Elen, who had supposedly used her powers once to repel the hordes, and for over a decade, Elendale lived in seclusion and peace.

Elen was their saviour, but as Lucia grew older and was told the stories of her mother’s death, the girl grew more resentful of the Wood Witch. She blamed the settlement’s saviour for her mother’s death. Why, if she were all seeing and all powerful, had she not intervened to save the womenfolk those many years ago?

A man called Vilam led the Danish horde that decimated the settlement before Elen’s intervention. It was he, so Lucia’s father said, who killed her mother with his bare hands.

Lucia wished him dead.

It was claimed amongst the remaining Elders of the village that Vilam did not depart when Elen repelled the invaders, that the Wood Witch herself protected him, granting him safe haven within the locality.

At times, Lucia wished to see both Vilam and Elen pay with their lives for their part in her beloved mother’s slaughter. Her father warned that no harm must ever come to the Wood Witch; whatever her reasons for not intervening sooner, she was the saviour of their village. She was their protector, and had acted thus for as long as anyone would recall, and would remain protector of Elendale for as long as she remained alive.

Elen, then, could live, but if she ever found out where Vilam himself hid, Lucia vowed to seek him out, hunt him down, and destroy him.

He could be anywhere.

It was well known to the village Elders that Vilam was native to their lands, and though he was not one of the Danish hordes, he had led the raiding party on their settlement and was guilty of mass murder.

One day his crimes would find a fitting punishment.

The fact that he was native to the Wessex lands made it possible for him to blend in. He could be living in any of the neighbouring settlements without their knowledge. Only one person might know his whereabouts, and one day, once she finally mustered enough courage, Lucia decided she would approach the Wood Witch to seek her help in finding Vilam.

Lucia’s anger and hatred was not levelled at just Vilam, however. She loathed all Danes; she wished to see them all dead. They were all guilty as far as she was concerned, and if she ever met one, she would be swift in delivering the death blow.

The man passed by beneath her hiding place, apparently unaware of her presence, and she let out her breath as quietly as she could. There was little doubt in Lucia’s mind that he was one of the Danish Horde, for he walked with the arrogant swagger of an invader who believed himself to be superior to those he subjugated. As she watched him walk in the general direction of the village, Lucia felt her blood begin to boil with her mounting anger.

How dare he come strolling into their lands as though it were his right to be there? What did he want? Was he perhaps a scout, searching out their defences before returning to report his findings to some encroaching army?

He was a danger to the village, of that Lucia was certain. In exactly what way he was dangerous was still a mystery to her, but she knew she must warn her father: she had no desire to become an orphan right now.

Once the man had disappeared around the curve of the track, Lucia carefully scrambled down from the tree. As she landed with a soft thud, she heard footsteps approaching, and before she could move, the man came back around the curve of the trees.

He stopped and smiled at her, which caught her off guard. ‘Good morrow, child. Be not afeared, I shall harm thee not.’

His gentle voice bore a heavy accent, but Lucia understood him well enough. She did not trust herself to say anything, so remained silent, regarding him with the wary eyes of a bird watching an approaching cat.

‘My name be Mads,’ the man added in his gentle voice. ‘What be thine?’

Lucia did not respond, nor did she take her eyes off him as she sidled around him.

‘Dost thou understand my words?’ The man frowned, placing a hand upon his breast. ‘Mads,’ he intoned slowly. ‘My name be Mads.’

Some inner voice stirred within her, telling her she should take the man to her father, and though she remained reluctant to engage the stranger in conversation, something compelled Lucia to respond. ‘Why dost thou come to our land?’

Mads sighed with relief. ‘Praise the Gods, I have found a friendly native. Please, I would speak with the Elders of thy village.’

‘What wish thee to say to mine Elders? Thou art one of the barbarian horde; thy words be poison to us.’

There was venom in the very words Lucia spoke. She cared not whether they were true; all that mattered was that she let no outsider into the village. Nobody would again have the chance to destroy the last remnants of her happiness.

Mads spread his hands wide. ‘I bear thee no malice, child. I be unarmed, and come to thee in peace, with no ill will intended to thy people. All I ask be that thou grant me an audience with thy village Elders.’

‘Canst thou truly be trusted?’ Lucia was not naïve enough to give in to his desperate ploy. True, he did not wear the armour of his barbarian brothers, but he could still be hiding a weapon.

‘Wouldst thou prefer me naked?’ Mads suggested with a smile. ‘Then thou canst be certain I be unarmed.’

Lucia thought for a moment or two. It would certainly prove his innocence, but would at the same time prove her to be over-zealous and mistrustful to the Elders. They would not view her in good light should she treat a visitor to their lands with such disrespect, no matter what her personal feelings.

He had approached her, and had not come stealthily. The village Elders were wise. Were he a threat, they would know how best to deal with him.

Elen would allow him to do no harm to the inhabitants of Elendale. She would rise up and strike him down before he could deliver the first blow: Elen would not revisit the sins of the past in repeating her mistakes.

Lucia shook her head sullenly. ‘That be not necessary. Thou shalt walk afore me; thou shalt tread where I tell thee to tread, turn when I tell thee to turn, and halt when I tell thee to halt.’

Mads bowed low. ‘It would seem I be at thy mercy, child.’

‘My name be Lucia!’

Mads’ face changed imperceptibly at the mention of her name. He fought to recall some long ago buried memory, and struggled to dredge up images of the past.

He knew that name, or one like it.

He knew this child, he was certain.

He just could not remember.

*

Mads stood before the Chief Elder and the five other counselling village Elders whose word was law within the settlement, his soul laid bare before them as he claimed sanctuary.

He told how he had been conscripted into the raiding parties from his homeland some ten years earlier, and how he unwillingly fought the heathens of this island for fear that if he did not, his own kin would turn upon him and most assuredly kill him.

Many in the raiding parties were evil men, bent only on rape, torture and murder, intent on pillaging whatever treasures the poor heathens tried to hide from them.

As his kinsmen fought on further north, so he had decided to return south, to the coast, away from the marauders. He wished to repent for his sins, seek solace in the forgiveness of those he had wronged – and should they decide me must be executed, then that was his punishment and he would make no attempt at defence or escape.

Standing before the Elders, he spread his arms wide. ‘I throw myself upon thy mercy. Do with me what ye will, but if ye wish my death, then make it swift.’

The Chief Elder motioned for the two men guarding the door to the chamber. ‘We shall deliberate. Thou shalt remain free to wander amongst the dwellings of our village, but thou wouldst do well to attempt no escape.’ He waved one of his severely arthritic hands at one of the guards. ‘Roache, mayhap thou wouldst have thy daughter tend the needs of our guest, since she brought him to us.’

The powerfully built man, his body and arms covered in almost as much coarse black hair as his head and face, bowed low. ‘As thou wish, Lord Edmund,’ he mumbled. He grabbed Mads roughly by the arm, manhandling him from the council chamber, leaving the six Elders to deliberate upon his fate.

As they left the large stone hut, bending low to duck beneath the low hanging thatched eaves, Mads fought his desire to shrug off Roache’s tight grip. It angered him that he sought sanctuary, only to be treated with such contempt – though he was not particularly surprised by his treatment at the hands of the heathens. He knew they would do the right thing. He had faith in the deity they worshipped, which had saved the settlement from his kin ten tears ago.

He had not been a member of that particular raiding party, but he had heard mutterings amongst the survivors, who told of the wise woman of the settlement known locally as Elendale; they told of how she had worshipped the trees, and how the trees rose up like nature’s vast army to strike the raiding party dead. Only a handful fled the scene of carnage, claiming they had been spared to deliver a stark warning to those who might attempt a second attack upon the settlement.

If this woman truly existed and was indeed wise, then the Elders of the settlement would surely seek her counsel. She would know he posed no threat to them and they would grant him sanctuary.

Outside in the cold wind of the late-autumn afternoon, Mads pulled his furs around himself for warmth when Roache let him go.

‘Be thou hungered?’ Roache asked in a gruff, friendless voice.

‘Aye, that I be.’

Roache set off across the grassy knoll, passing numerous ramshackle huts that looked to Mads like they would blow down in a strong gust of winter wind, heading towards a more robust stone hut on the outskirts where the forest encroached, nestling beneath the shadow of the hill that dominated the skyline.

‘Thou wouldst do well to avoid the Forest of the Dead Men,’ Roache said, with a malicious gleam in his eye. ‘It be said the Great Elen herself dwells therein, awaiting the unwary and the unwise who venture into her domain. It be said she doth eat men who have evil in their hearts.’

‘Be this Elen the Wise Woman I hath heard talk of?’

Roache turned to face Mads. ‘She be our protector. None may stand up to the might and power of the Great Elen. Thou hast been warned.’

‘How many times must I tell thee, I mean ye no harm? I seek sanctuary from my kinsmen, for they would certainly strike me dead for my desertion.’

‘I sense thou speaketh the truth. The Elders shall consult with Elen. Be warned; from the Great Elen thou cannot hide behind lies and deceit.’

‘Then it be as well that I speak the truth.’

They drew close to the stone hut, which Mads deduced was Roache’s home, and the wooden door opened to reveal Lucia. She wore her usual frown of disdain, directed squarely at Mads. ‘Why hast thou brought this barbarian to our home, Father?’

‘Lord Edmund, he doth wish it, daughter.’

Lucia chuckled, but there was no humour in the brief sound. ‘Father, I cannot countenance such abhorrence amongst us. I care not if Lord Edmund doth wish it or not, this man be not welcome here. Men of his kind did kill Mother.’

‘That be not known, daughter. He did not attack our settlement and take thy mother from us. Hold thee everyone not of our land accountable for such deeds?’

‘Yes!’ The venom in Lucia’s tone disturbed Roache. He had known his daughter to possess an intense dislike towards the barbarian hordes who held supremacy to the north, but this vitriol seemed directed at Mads personally. The anger and animosity was palpable, as thick upon the air as the heavy clouds above in the darkening sky seemed laden with rain.

Indeed, as the venom spat from the mouth of the child, so the rain spat from the sky, increasing in its own fury with each passing second until all three were drenched.

‘Intend thee to make us remain outside, daughter?’ Roache demanded. ‘I shall remind thee that the home be mine as well as thine, and we must obey the commands of Lord Edmund whilst he doth remain our Chief Elder. Whatever thy feelings towards this man’s kinfolk, he be our guest and we should afford him the courtesy that we bestow upon all such guests.’

Lucia pushed her dark hair from her eyes, focussing upon Mads with ill-suppressed hatred. ‘Very well, Father. We shall await the verdict of the Great Elen.’ With great reluctance, Lucia stepped aside to allow Mads entry to their home. As her father moved to follow, she restrained him. ‘Be warned, Father, I shall watch our visitor as a hawk would watch a rabbit. Should he show any sign of treachery, he shall hath no time to act upon it. This I avow.’

‘Daughter, whence cometh thy hatred for this man? He hast done nothing to thee, nor I, nor yet our village, but I sense thy anger be directed at him alone.’

‘He shall destroy us all should he gain such chance. I have seen it afore.’

Roache released his daughter’s grip upon his arm, frowning as he stared into Lucia’s eyes. Something was amiss; his daughter’s countenance returned his stare, yet her eyes were shadowed with an anger and hatred not her own; her voice issued forth from her lips, but the words were not hers.

‘Where hast thou seen it afore, daughter? What dost thou mean by such a statement?’

Lucia tapped the side of her head. ‘I have seen it within my mind. I cannot explain, for I understand not the meaning of my visions, but I know this Mads to be a danger.’

‘Be thou touched by the curse of visions?’ gasped Roache, clearly shocked. When Lucia nodded, he hugged her. ‘Thou must seek out Elen to explain thy visions, for only the Great Elen herself in our lifetime doth have the gift of sight. It be said such visions curse mortal man, but bless those above us.’

‘I be not cursed, Father, and I think not that I be blessed either. Mayhap I should do as thou suggest and visit with the Great Elen.’

‘Then do so now, daughter, afore thy actions condemn an innocent man.’

Pushing Mads ahead of him, Roache entered the hut and closed the door in his daughter’s face, leaving her standing in the autumn downpour getting steadily wetter.

Pulling her clothing tighter around her in a vain effort to maintain warmth, Lucia made her way around the side of the hut she shared with her father, and after pausing momentarily to gain a little confidence, she plunged into the forbidding darkness of the Forest of the Dead Men.

The deeper Lucia went into the forest, the denser the canopy overhead became, enshrouding her in darker shadows. The trees encroached closer and closer together, making progress slow and difficult. The fallen leaves and the rainwater that collected in puddles on the forest floor made the ground slimy and slippery, and several times, Lucia lost her footing.

She cursed her father for suggesting – nay, ordering – that she seek counsel from the Wood Witch, Elen, and she cursed herself for abiding by his request.

Lucia was not especially frightened, though she maintained an apprehensive visage of false calm, not knowing what to expect of Elen. She had no knowledge of the Wood Witch’s appearance, though she had a vague idea she might be a wizened old hag, and she did not know how well she would be received. Visitors were rare; nobody was brave enough to venture into the Forest of the Dead Men, and though they claimed to seek counsel from their great protector when it was deemed necessary, Lucia held a strong belief that the Elders in fact did not meet with her.

But I am going to meet with Elen, Lucia thought to herself, with a little burst of pleasure that masked some of her apprehension.

The trees ahead began thinning out at last, and she found herself in a small clearing, not much smaller than the hut she and her father shared. Around its edge, a few tree stumps and fallen tree trunks seemed to be arranged like seating in a meeting hall.

Mayhap the Elders do meet with Elen after all, mused Lucia.

She glanced around with interest. Up above, the canopy of the trees was so dense that it shielded the ground from the elements with great effectiveness. At the far end, a pile of rocks seemed arranged in the semblance of some kind of altar – for worshippers to pray to their deity perhaps, or for sacrificial offerings to appease her.

Lucia was suddenly not so sure coming here was such a good idea. She personally did not see Elen as a deity; she was not convinced that Elen was anything other than an old woman who lived in the forest. Now, however, it seemed to Lucia that Elen was revered more than she had anticipated, and she had brought no offerings of any kind. How might she appease the wrath of the Wood Witch without an offering? What kind of offerings did the Elders bring? Fruit? Food? Animals for sacrifice? There were no signs of any a animal bones littering the ground, no trace of blood on the stone altar – which, though reassuring, did not rule out the possibility of sacrifice.

In the centre of the clearing stood a mighty oak of impressive height, and as she peered upwards, Lucia suddenly realised this tree was fully clothed in leaves, whilst those all around had lost most of theirs; immodestly nude protectors of the Great Elen in all her glory.

Lucia faced the central tree warily. ‘Elen, if thou art here, I come seeking audience with thee, oh great mistress of the forest.’

Laughter reverberated all around the clearing. ‘Thou wish to counsel with the Great Elen?’ The voice was more startling than the laughter, for it did indeed emanate from the mighty oak.

Lucia was not about to display her unease, though. ‘I do. I am Lucia, daughter of Roache. We live in your protected settlement of Elendale. I have come seeking thy counsel, for a stranger has come amongst us. He be one of the barbarian horde, claiming sanctuary, but I trust him not. He be familiar to me, though I know not why. I wish thee to explain my visions, Great Elen.’

From deep down within the bowels of the earth, a sudden rumbling startled Lucia further, forcing her several steps backwards as she watched the astonishing transformation of the mighty oak into a young woman.

Vaguely human in appearance, she was nonetheless beautiful, in spite of the odd texture of her face, the largeness of her eyes, and the tendrils that grew from her head in place of hair. Exposed to the elements, much of her body had the same texture as her face, with odd mossy growths maintaining her modesty, and though she was almost nude, the coldness seemed not to affect her.

‘Elen?’ gasped Lucia.

The mysterious woman inclined her head, blinking her large owl-like eyes. ‘That be my name.’

She did not smile at Lucia, who felt vaguely threatened by this obviously powerful creature. Had she not witnessed firsthand the transformation, Lucia would not have thought such a thing possible.

Elen walked around the girl slowly, scrutinizing her carefully from every angle. ‘I know who thou art,’ she said as she reached her starting point before Lucia once more. She stared hard into the girl’s eyes, and although Lucia wanted desperately to look away, she could not. Elen reached out, caressing Lucia’s face with exquisite tenderness. ‘I sense thy confusion, child, for thou know not who thou truly art!’

‘Elen, I understand not thy words.’

‘My child, thy visions be not mere waking dreams. They be memories from a time long ago. Thou hast lived afore, Lucia, daughter of Roache. Thou hast lived afore, and died in terrible confusion. Thou believeth this man Mads to be a danger to thy kinfolk, but he be no threat to ye. However, there be one amongst ye who be a danger. Thou must protect Mads from the danger, Lucia. Thou must trust my words and see that he doth come to no harm whilst in thy charge.’

‘Great Elen, how can he be no threat? I have seen with mine own eyes within my mind the great evil he brings. He be the destroyer of innocents.’

‘Lucia, thou hast witnessed memories of a great tragedy, the tragedy of a misunderstanding. I cannot interfere, but I might tell thee that thou hast it within thy power to prevent it happening again. Thou canst set right this terrible wrong, here and now, if thou wouldst open thine eyes to the truth. Be not swayed by the great anger and hatred that fills thee from beyond the grave.’

‘I understand not…’

‘Thou need not understand what meaning my words hold. Thou must heed my words of warning and protect Mads at all costs from the great anger that pursues him. Break the cycle, Lucia, daughter of Roache. End the madness, lest all should happen over.’

‘I shall do what I must, Great Elen,’ muttered Lucia softly.

Elen nodded. ‘I know thou shalt do just that,’ she said, and amid a great rumbling, returned to her previous state.

Sensing the meeting to be over, Lucia turned and made her way slowly from the forest, unsure whether she was heading in the right direction. Some inexplicable sixth sense guided her through the trees and she found herself on the forest edge mere feet from her point of entry.

The rain had ceased and the sun hung low in the west, spreading golden fingers out across the lands in search of the shadows of dusk. Lucia was surprised to find she had spent so long in the forest, and as she made her way to the stone hut, she thought on Elen’s words.

It seemed inconceivable to her that Mads was no threat, and that he himself was in danger.

Why doth Elen wish me to protect him?

Lucia entered the hut to find Mads lying on the bed of straw in the far corner, but of her father there was no sign. She moved quietly over to the bed, staring down dispassionately at the sleeping man.

Suddenly, neither her thoughts nor her actions were her own as the anger she had distilled towards all barbarians allowed her companion spirit to gain strength and come forward at last, his own hatred and anger towards this one person stronger than hers.

Shoving Lucia roughly to one side within her mind, Lucius looked down upon the sleeping man. ‘I see thee hiding there, Maud. Thou canst pretend all thou want, but I know it to be thee, and I shall have my vengeance, wretched child, afore thee doth awaken.’

He glanced around and spied the pile of logs in another corner of the room. He hefted one as he picked it up, smiling as he brought it down hard upon the head of the sleeping Dane, shattering his skull with a sickening crack from the blunt force of the blow.

But one blow was not enough. More frenzied blows rained down upon the dead man.

He did not hear as Roache entered the hut, shouting at his daughter to stop.

He did not see as Roache threw himself across the room.

He did not feel as Roache’s body collided with that of Lucia, nor feel the sickening impact as the girl’s head cracked against the rock hearth in the centre of the room.

And he did not feel the life-force ebb from Lucia’s body.

Everything went black, and when he woke up he was elsewhere, with no recollection of whom he was, and no recollection of where he was, only knowing that the body was not his and that something bad was going to happen – again.

2002

The group that gathered around Elen in her clearing were silent, for once staring at Rachel instead of the wood nymph. Elen herself smiled, almost in some perverse kind of triumph at her stroke of genius in proving her trustworthiness.

Joyce touched Rachel’s hand gently. ‘Are you all right?’ she whispered.

Still shocked at coming face to face with her long deceased daughter, Rachel found she could not speak. Her throat was dry as she tried to come to terms with what she had just experienced. It was not so much the fact that she had come face to face with Gloria that upset her, it was the shamelessly cavalier manner in which Elen had brought her back – just to make a point.

‘My daughter lives on in another life,’ Rachel finally managed to croak as she licked her lips to moisten them.

‘It’s good to know there is another place we might go to after death,’ sighed Louise.

‘And what if we don’t want to live through another lifetime?’ snapped Rachel suddenly. She pointed at Elen. ‘I lost my daughter because you bent the rules you claim to uphold, and now you bring her back to say hello, but I don’t get to keep her in my life because she’s dead. I’ve lost my daughter twice now; if I live on in some kind of afterlife, who’s to say I won’t lose her a third time? I can’t handle that.’

Joyce patted her hand reassuringly. ‘Calm down, dear, we’ll cross that bridge later. Yes, what Elen did was perhaps cruel and heartless, but she did it for a reason – so that we might trust her, not so that we might like her.’

‘Mum’s right,’ said Theo. ‘If this Sawyl Gwilym is returning and is as dangerous as she claims, then we must pull together to make sure he doesn’t regain his memories before Elen can deal with him.’

Rachel thought for a few moments, and then nodded. ‘Fine. How do we do that then?’

Elen responded dispassionately. ‘He must be brought to this place. Only here can I deal with him.’

‘How can we get him here?’ mused Theo aloud. ‘We don’t even know in whose body he is.’

‘My children are working upon that problem as we speak.’

Rachel faced Elen, her face clouded with anger. ‘You mean Isabella and Peter?’

Elen shook her head sadly. ‘Such anger directed at me is misplaced, Rachel. You have no idea the importance your daughter plays in our society of Avalon.’

‘To be perfectly honest Elen, Elaine, Tree Woman… whoever or whatever the hell you are; to be honest, I really don’t care. By forcing the creation of Isabella and Peter Neville, you personally set all these things in motion. You took my daughter from me, twisted our family tree out of all recognition. I believe I would still be here had Gloria not gone back in time, though perhaps slightly different, in much the same way that Margaret and Elizabeth Ashton would have been mothers to two ordinary people had you  and your sister not taken their places… and I don’t even want to ask what you did with those two poor women! Had you not intervened, I am certain my daughter would still be by my side.’

‘That may be so, but Sawyl Gwilym would be your Overlord. One way or another, it is he who has destroyed your family, not I. Even without my intervention, Gloria’s destiny would have brought her into contact with him, and he would still have taken both your daughter and your husband from you. I merely made certain there would be in existence those who would be able to help.’

Rachel held up her hand. ‘Hold on a minute; what do you mean, Sawyl would still have taken Gloria and Jeremy from me?  Are you telling me Sawyl Gwilym was responsible for Jeremy’s death?’

Elen nodded. ‘I am sorry to say, but yes, he was responsible. When Sawyl’s host body died back at Ravenscreag fifteen years ago, his spirit escaped into the fabric of the house. There, he awaited a suitable new host, and he chose Jeremy. Secreted within your husband’s body, undetected because by that time Peter Neville had departed Phil’s body, Sawyl was able to hitch a lift – so to speak. He must not have made his presence known to Jeremy, but exerted his will enough to take control when the time was right, and made that fateful journey in which Jeremy died.’

Rachel clapped a hand over her mouth as tears welled up in her eyes. ‘He caused the car crash that killed Jeremy?’

Elen nodded sadly. ‘Yes. Jeremy was an easy target, but he was old and only suited Sawyl’s immediate purpose, which was to return to his lair atop Wicca Hill. He made Jeremy drive to the place that is the confluence of many ley lines, very close to Wicca Hill, where he was able to abandon his host and return to his lair. In the ensuing momentary lapse of concentration while control of his body was returned to him, Jeremy lost control of the car and crashed into the trees. I know this because I witnessed it.’

Rachel’s resentment towards Elen diminished slightly, though it did not disappear completely. Instead, an old strain of anger resurfaced, directed at Sawyl Gwilym. ‘Very well, for the moment I agree we should concentrate on Sawyl. How do we get him here? You were saying, Elen, that Isabella and Peter were working on trying to find out whose body he’s inhabiting?’

‘No, not Isabella and Peter. They have returned to Avalon, their task here, for the moment at least, complete. No, the children to whom I refer are Maxim and Thaumaturgia.’

‘Thaumaturgia is here?’ gasped Rachel.

‘Of course she is,’ said Louise. ‘You know she’s visited me recently.’

‘Yes, yes of course; I forgot. I was just thinking of what Elen has just said. If Thaumaturgia came down here from Ravenscreag with you, Louise, why did she not pick up on Sawyl’s spirit when he took over Jeremy?’

‘Don’t forget, you and Jeremy stayed on at Ravenscreag a while after the funeral and wedding; I returned down here with Mum and Dad.’

Rachel nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Presumably Sawyl did not leap into Jeremy’s body until shortly before we left.’

‘Actually, he did not take control of Jeremy until after that,’ said Elen. ‘It was when you returned to Ravenscreag the following year to pack away your family’s personal effects. If Sawyl had been with him to begin with, I would have sensed his presence when you bought your house in Elendale. Sawyl was not with Jeremy at that time.’

‘When we came back that time, Jeremy dropped me off at the cottage and went off to take some things to Louise and Phil, and that’s when he died.’

‘Sorry to interrupt, but we’re getting a little off topic here,’ said Theo. ‘We can discuss the ins and outs of the various possessions later, but for now, don’t you think we should concentrate on Sawyl?’

‘Sawyl will make his presence known to us in due course. For the moment, there are other spirits who are restless, and I feel I am partly to blame for their restless state.’

‘You mean my son?’ whispered Margaret.

‘For one, yes.’ Elen glanced around, eyes alert to sounds beyond the scope of human hearing. She was aware of the approaching presence… and another close behind.

‘Me?’ gasped Matthew incredulously.

‘Yes, child, you! This is all about you. Right from the beginning it has always been about you.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You will. When the final few arrive, all shall be revealed.’

*

Luke crouched low, hardly daring to breathe as he watched the wood nymph presiding over the others. He recalled his last meeting with her with such clarity it felt as though it happened just yesterday.

But it was a thousand years in the past. He had survived several lifetimes since that meeting, and from what he had seen and could hear, she had changed barely at all: she looked the same, and still spoke in her infernal cryptic riddles.

That last time, the girl Lucia had been in control of their shared body mostly; this time he was in charge. He was stronger now, having drawn energy from the two times in between Lucia and Lucinda when he had been truly reincarnated and was not dependent upon the subjugated will of a host body.

His last reincarnation had been named Luke. He liked that name, having links with his original name, and as he preferred the modern English version, that was how he now referred to himself.

As Luke Gaines, he dispatched his bride Matilda with great flourish, and the young lad, Obadiah, paid the price with his life. It mattered not to Luke how many innocent lives were lost in his quest for revenge, and he would not stop until his goal had been claimed.

Each time in the past, the wretched girl’s father had thwarted him due to his lack of appearance. Luke wanted Hrothgar to know the pain and hurt that had been caused all those many centuries ago. He wanted Hrothgar to witness his daughter’s death, up close and personal, and then die alongside her.

It was the only way Luke felt he could attain his personal salvation, cursed as he was to wander through lifetime after lifetime because of his own misery. He had himself been murdered, and would not rest until he had attained vengeance upon the perpetrator of his personal purgatory.

Matthew must die; Matilda must die – Maud must die; and this time was the right time, for Hrothgar was at last here also.

At last I shall be free.

*

Hrothgar halted in his tracks, holding his breath. He had followed the young woman who shielded his daughter’s killer into the forest, and was led to the clearing where a group of people gathered around the fabled Wood Witch, Elen.

He himself had met Elen only once, long after his death, when she explained to him why he had not passed through the light and into the after life. He understood why salvation had not been granted to him, and he accepted that his task was not yet done.

What he had not realised was that he would endure many lifetimes in silence, witnessing the same events playing out time after time in a ceaseless spiral of fury, a mere spectre, unseen and unable to intervene.

Until now.

He had not exactly achieved corporeal form, but his presence could be felt, and over the years, he had mastered control over his host body. When his daughter had been reborn within the body of his host’s own son, he knew the day would come when the three of them were once again thrown together. He had the knowledge to ensure events played out as they were supposed to this time, but he first had the challenge of making the other two listen to what he had to say before they either killed each other, or killed him.

Hrothgar knew it would not be easy. His daughter was still just a frightened child. She could have no possible concept of what was going on. Each lifetime that came and went, she saw her enemy and struck before he did; sometimes she was not swift enough and Lucius struck first.

And so it went on, one lifetime after another; only Hrothgar could halt the bloodshed, but until now, his mere wraith-like existence prevented his intervention.

Not so, this time.

He could see the enemy some distance from him, also watching the figures within the clearing. It was clear that his own presence thus far remained undetected. All he had to do was make his daughter and her killer see reason, and it would all finally be over.

However, he had no immediate idea how to achieve this goal now the opportunity had arisen.

*

Elen stopped talking and turned her back on those gathered beside her. She smiled. ‘The final two have come at last, finally.’ She held aloft her arms in greeting. ‘Come forward, lost souls. Lucius, Hrothgar – I bid you enter my domain.’

The others glanced at one another in bewilderment, wondering who on earth was about to step into the clearing. Only Margaret and Joyce anticipated Roger’s appearance, but even they did not know who Lucius was, past or present.

‘Dad!’ cried Matthew as he saw his father step forward from the shadows, whilst from another direction, another slightly less familiar figure came into the clearing. ‘My god… Lucinda!’

‘My name be Luke, not Lucius, not Lucinda… Luke!’

The male voice that came from Lucinda’s mouth caught Matthew by surprise. ‘What the hell is going on?’

Ignoring him, Lucinda and Roger faced each other; Luke and Hrothgar glared at one another with open hostility. Face to face at last after so many centuries, as the fury from long ago boiled over into the present Luke launched himself at Hrothgar, removing the knife from his pocket as he did so.

Elen pointed at them both, and vines shot from her fingers, entwining around the pair, restraining them effortlessly. ‘Be still and silent, both of you.’

Luke and Hrothgar ceased their struggling, but Elen did not release her grip.

‘Are we at long last about to find out what this is all about?’ asked Margaret.

Elen ignored her question. ‘Thaumaturgia, attend me.’

Somewhere above them in the canopy of the trees, something white appeared from the darkness and descended towards the group. A ghostly girl-like voice floated around them.

I be here, Mother. Hath the time come to free the girl?

‘Yes, daughter.’

The glowing white figure with flowing white hair and robes, and characteristics both male and female, floated through the air to approach Matthew. He would have backed away in terror had his feet not been gripped by tendrils that appeared suddenly from the ground. His growing terror mixed with an uneasy fascination as he witnessed Thaumaturgia’s appearance fluctuate from young girl to old hag before his eyes.

He flinched as the Seer reached out to touch his forehead.

Maud, daughter of Hrothgar, be not afeared. I grant thee the freedom from thy bonds; the time of deliverance hath come at last.

A burning sensation swept through Matthew’s mind like red hot pokers stabbing his eyes, but as suddenly as it had appeared, the pain vanished before he had a chance to vocalise his agony.

And in that split second he became actively aware that he was not alone within his mind. He could sense the presence of a young girl as she falteringly came forward, and he was astonished to realise he had known she was there all his life. She was very afraid, her fear directed solely at Lucinda.

Matthew glanced at Liam’s sister, and was surprised to find he could see another figure superimposed over Lucinda’s body, almost as though there were two distinct spirits vying for control of her body, and Lucinda had lost.

The man, whose appearance seemed inordinately familiar to Matthew, glowered at him but remained silent.

Matthew glanced at Roger – and saw only his father… twice. It was as if he also shared his body with another spirit, but curiously, that second spirit was his own.

He felt the girl begin to exercise some control over his body, and he had to fight his first instinct to do battle with her. He knew she was no threat to him, and knew she had important information to impart. He knew that if life were ever to become normal then he must relinquish control of his body to the girl, whose name he suddenly knew to be Maud.

As he surrendered to her will, he smiled reassuringly at his mother, whom he could see was unnerved by the events that unfolded before her. He was not certain whether she saw his smile or not, for in the blinking of an eye Maud had taken control, pushed him to one side, and turned to face Elen and her two captives.

‘Hello, Father,’ Maud said with a sad smile. ‘It be good to look upon thy countenance after so many a year.’

‘Likewise, daughter,’ said Hrothgar softly. ‘Long have I dreamed of this moment.’

‘As have I!’ hissed Luke. ‘The moment of my retribution. The moment of my salvation.’

Elen’s tendrils ensnared Maud too, and drew the trio closer to her, binding them tight. ‘Such things will have to wait. There is something I must show you all.’

With a swift snap of her tendrils, she wrapped Hrothgar, Maud and Luke tight against her body, and in horror, the remaining group watched as Elen and her captives disappeared into the bowels of the earth with a thunderous roar and an updraft of mud and leaves.

When the ground settled, all four were gone.

AD 43

The moment word came that the approaching Roman centurions, heading south from Londinium, had reached the neighbouring settlement, the parents of Maud and six other youngsters hastily manhandled the children into the welcoming canopy of the trees that dotted the southern side of the River Dryad, which split their valley in two.

Maud did not want to leave her father, but she knew he would not be caught by the advancing foot soldiers as he and the others sheltered in the caves high up on the hill to the north of the valley. Hrothgar warned her that she and the other children must remain very still and silent, for if the Romans captured them, they would be taken as slaves.

The two dozen or so adults from the settlement scattered amongst the caves, hoping they would all evade capture, aware that if the Romans noticed the caves their fate would be sealed.

As the footsteps of the approaching soldiers echoed down the otherwise still peacefulness of the valley, Maud shushed the whimpering boy beside her on the branch of the tree in which they hid. ‘We must be silent,’ she whispered as quietly as she could, as the first of the horse riders passed beneath them in advance of the foot soldiers.

The lead rider raised his hand, bringing the entire century to a halt. He turned the horse around and cantered back towards the rear of the group.

Maud could not hear his command to the foot soldiers who brought up the rear, but as he brought his horse back down to the front, she saw six men heading off towards the hill where her father and the other adults hid.

She stifled her gasp of horror with her hand, and then froze in terror as she had realised the horseman had heard her. She pressed herself backwards out of his eye line as he peered upwards – just as a flock of starlings burst out of the tree somewhere above her head, startling the horses, which all whinnied and stamped their hooves on the compacted ground, distracting the rider.

He struggled to control his steed, and when he and the other riders brought their horses into line once more, he gave the command to proceed onwards.

The six foot-soldiers who had been dispatched to investigate the hill returned down to the valley floor ahead of the riders, and as she craned her neck to see, to Maud’s surprise they brought with them no captives. Her surprise turned to alarm as she wondered why there were no prisoners. She had expected to see all the adults from their settlement being herded down the hill at spear-point, or to hear the foot soldiers calling for assistance, but they were alone, and after speaking with the lead horseman, they fell back into formation at the rear of the century, and all carried on walking.

The children waited for several minutes after the century had disappeared from the valley, following the river as it wove around the edge of the hill, disappearing to the east, before cautiously scrambling down from their hiding places.

‘Did they find our parents up at the cave?’ whispered the boy who had shared her branch.

Maud shook her head. ‘It would appear not. Mayhap the Great Goddess Elen did afford them her protection this day. We should offer up thanks to our protector.’

They bowed low before the trees, which seemed to rustle their appreciation, and as she raised her head, Maud saw several figures running down the hill towards them. One was her father.

She ran to embrace him. ‘Father, I was certain thou wouldst be caught or killed.’

‘The Great Goddess did protect us with her own kind,’ responded Hrothgar gruffly as he hugged his daughter tight. ‘We did shelter in the large cave, and after we hid, a forest of trees sprang up to shield the cave entrance. The Romans checked only the smaller caves, afore returning down to the valley.’

‘Praise be to the Great Elen,’ murmured Maud. ‘Should we escape detection till the morn, I shall pay homage to her benevolence with an offering.’

‘That be a most wise decision, daughter. The Great Elen doth once again prove her word be true. How long doth she offer her protection to us within this dale? It be time to honour her with the naming of our settlement.’

Maud smiled at her father’s suggestion. ‘As her handmaiden, I shall inform her of thy decision, Father.’

‘It be most fortuitous that the Romans did pass through the valley. They did miss our settlement, and I once again sense Elen’s hand. Come nightfall, we shall return to our homes, but until then we should gather the animals together.’

While they all gathered the animals, none of the inhabitants spoke of that day’s events. They all knew how lucky they were to have escaped detection, and each was well aware that the Romans might return. When the last of the goats had been carefully rounded up and penned in alongside the cows and ponies, the inhabitants returned to their cluster of eight roundhouses.

When Hrothgar had gathered some firewood and kindling from beneath the thatched eaves, he set about making a fire in the central rock hearth to combat the encroaching chill of the autumn evening, and Maud huddled close to the flames.

‘Ye all be most brave this day,’ said Hrothgar with unreserved pride as he began preparing the evening meal.

‘We all be afeared, Father,’ Maud responded in a small voice. ‘I wish those Romans had not come to our land.’

‘Indeed do we all wish that, daughter, but here they be, and until all the tribes of our land come together as one to defend this isle, here they shall stay. Should we prove our worth to the Romans, we might yet remain free.’ Hrothgar turned to his daughter in the glow of the firelight. ‘Thy visions did forewarn of  their arrival, and I wish now we did speak to the others of this.’

‘Father, thou dost know what would happen had we done so. Would we not both face banishment from the tribe, or worse, death? We did agree it best to not tell the others that I be cursed with the gift of sight.’

‘Did they not believe me when I said the message came from our neighbouring tribe that the Romans be approaching?’

‘I reckon so, Father.’

‘Hast thou any further visions this day?’

‘None, save the one I cannot explain.’

‘Again, it doth visit thee?’

Maud nodded. ‘Aye, Father, I be afeared by it.’

Hrothgar came round the fire and hugged her tight. ‘On the morrow, when thou dost pay homage to the Great Elen, thou must seek an answer from her about thy visions.’

*

Elen lived deep within a copse of trees at the near end of the valley, and to disobey her order that none but her handmaiden might enter her domain was to cause her great displeasure. She had protected the tribe for countless decades; never once had she allowed one of the neighbouring tribes to seize any of their lands.

Only a girl selected by the Great Goddess herself set eyes on Elen, and the last had been Maud’s mother, who some years earlier died during the particularly harsh winter. When she was old enough, Maud was appointed to take her place, but it was no task to the child; it was an honour and a privilege. As handmaiden, Maud was required to take offerings of fruits, vegetables and flowers once a month throughout the year to give thanks for Elen’s continued protection of the tribe. In return, the handmaiden would be granted words of wisdom, for Elen could see future events.

She had confirmed Maud’s own premonition about the coming of the Romans, informing the child what the tribe must do, and again, her words of wisdom saved the tribe.

It pained Maud that the great Elen could have done nothing to save her mother, but Elen explained on their second meeting that she could not interfere in the natural order of things. Time and nature could not be stopped – they were the two forces in the world that were bound by the laws of creation and could not be undone, though some might try. It was most unwise to try; to attempt such a feat could lead only to certain death.

At the time, Maud had thought it a curious statement, implying as it did that Elen’s previous statement was in fact a lie, and that nature and time could indeed be undone in some way.

Maud though knew better than to incur the wrath of Elen by questioning her.

It was not long after making her first offering to Elen that Maud suffered her first vision. She dreamed that a fire would sweep through the settlement; she knew where and when it would start, and was able to prevent it spreading before it blazed out of control. More visions followed the first, all came true, and many were averted because of her foreknowledge.

Only Hrothgar and Elen knew of Maud’s gift.

Hrothgar knew it would be unwise to let the rest of the tribe know of Maud’s gift, for the others would see it as a curse, so father and daughter conspired to keep it secret. Upon broaching the subject to Elen, Maud was informed that every handmaiden shared in her gifts of foresight, but Maud could recall no single time that her mother predicted anything.

Elen had informed Maud that she was as gifted at keeping secrets as her mother had been, and there had been no more discussion on the subject.

Maud had told Elen all but one of her visions. The one that most troubled her was the one she understood the least. None of the images she could see made much sense to her, bearing no resemblance to anyone or any place Maud knew; the people she saw dressed in strange clothing and spoke in a strange tongue, and even though she could understand most of their words, she understood none of their meaning.

It was also the sole vision that visited her repeatedly.

She stood beyond the boundary of the trees, holding the basket of autumn berries and the last of the summer blooms, speaking the incantation of thanks that would alert Elen to her presence, and then she entered the copse.

Though the copse was not especially large, she seemed to walk for an age before reaching the central clearing, where she placed the offerings upon the rock altar at the far end and seated herself upon one of the fallen trees placed strategically around the edge of the clearing.

It always struck Maud as odd, when only one person was allowed into the copse, that the clearing always seemed like it was waiting for a gathering of people. In the end she had come to the conclusion that it was all pure coincidence, that the trees had fallen due to age or disease and had just been left where they fell.

She heard movement behind her and stood, turning to bow low as Elen appeared in the clearing.

Having no desire to frighten the young girl, Elen had abandoned her natural forms and adopted a purely human physical appearance. In her human form, she required sustenance, and was pleased to see Maud had brought fruits with her, although she was glad she needed less food than other humans for a bowl of fruit would not last a whole month. At times she wondered what it might be like to live amongst the humans – but so far that desire remained small and relatively unfulfilled.

Elen walked towards Maud and tilted the girl’s head so she might better look into her haunted eyes. ‘Thou art troubled by something, my child. Pray, tell me what it be?’

‘Oh Great Elen, I be troubled by persistent visions that I cannot explain.’

Elen indicated that Maud should sit, and seated herself beside the girl. ‘Pray, tell me of these visions.’

‘I be uncertain I can explain them, oh Great Elen. They be filled with images not of this time.’

Elen gasped. ‘A vision of the future? How can this be? Thou should have only visions that be available to me.’ She closed her eyes and placed her hands on either side of Maud’s head, concentrating her thoughts on the images she located within the girl’s mind. She clenched her teeth as she forced deeper concentration. ‘My child, thou must focus upon my mind. Thy thoughts be cluttered. Thou must focus upon the images thou hast seen, and exclude all else.’

‘It be difficult, oh Great Elen,’ gasped Maud. She closed her eyes, struggling to do as Elen asked, and a few minutes later, Elen’s eyes snapped open and her hands flew apart from either side of Maud’s head. Maud opened her eyes, as out of breath as Elen was. ‘What didst thou see?’

Elen frowned. ‘I be uncertain. Thy mind be too unfocussed to see clearly. I believe it to be thy death, sometime from now, at the hands of a man named–’ She shrugged. ‘In the chaos of thy mind, all I could see was a name that doth begin with ‘L’.’

‘But Elen, why did I not recognise the places I saw? Why were there people I did not recognise?’

‘I be uncertain of that, also, my child. I know not whence those images come, so I cannot explain them. They be not images of my making, so I understand not their meaning.’

‘Be there one who might understand them further?’

Elen shook her head. ‘I know of only one such person. She be one of my daughters, but she be not upon this Earth yet. I be most apologetic, Maud. I can offer thee no more words of wisdom than this: should this man succeed in killing thee, then the remainder of thy family shall most assuredly be dead too and there shall be no stopping his quest for ultimate power.’

Though she did not recognise the name or the face, nor hear the name properly through Maud’s undisciplined jumble of confused and frightened thoughts, Elen knew exactly whom the vision depicted.

Her own brother was to kill the girl, in this life or the next. She did not reveal what she knew to Maud; how could she tell Maud her killer was the son of Father Time?

So, thought Elen, I came to this place to keep watch over him, and he be not here yet, but now I have viewed terrible visions of a future time when he will continue his evil. At least it doth prove I be in the right place, for here my brother shall return, though I know not when.

Now Elen knew this was the right place, if not the right time, she determined to remain until her brother resurfaced, for only she had the power to return him to Avalon where he could do no harm.

She would have to be patient.

As Elen lapsed into silence, her attention drifted away from Maud, and sensing her audience was ended, the child bowed low, gave thanks once more, and left the copse.

*

Leaving the valley behind her, Maud rounded the curve of the hill and made her way back to the settlement.

She could not fully comprehend the words Elen had said regarding her visions. It had not occurred to Maud that her visions were actually Elen’s and that the deity shared them with whoever was her handmaiden, but it was clear that the vision troubled Elen as much as it troubled her. Where had the unexplained vision originated, if not from Elen?

Nothing made sense to Maud’s increasingly confused mind. How was it possible for Elen to have a daughter who was not yet on this Earth? Why would that child be more predisposed to understanding the vision than the Great Elen herself? That would mean the child would have a more clearly defined gift of foresight than Elen, and the fact that Elen had children meant she had shared several intimate liaisons with men – which Maud could not bring herself to believe, for she had always thought Elen to be chaste and pure, unsullied by the imperfections of human touch. But then, if the child was more powerful than Elen, was it not more probable that the father was one such as Elen?

Maud realised a great many mysteries surrounded the Great Elen,. She was a Goddess, so the mysteries were just as things should be – one should not have too much intimate knowledge of one’s Gods and Goddesses, she reasoned.

She would not question Elen’s lack of answers. It would not do to question one’s Goddess; if answers were not forthcoming to her questions, it was because Elen had decided she should walk the path to enlightenment personally. The answers were there to be found, if she knew where to look, and if she did not know where to look, she would have to search constantly until she found them.

She thought of what Elen had actually revealed.

A man whose name began with the letter ‘L’ would enter her life at some point in the future, a man who sought ultimate power, and who would ultimately destroy her and her living relatives – which after the death of her mother left only her father. In her confused mind, Maud reasoned this man must surely be a Roman, on a quest to enslave the tribe; Elen would save the tribe, but somehow she and her father would not escape.

Was it possible to prevent the terrible tragedy from occurring?

Although she had not yet attained her thirteenth year, the thought of killing someone to prevent such a happening was not entirely repellent to Maud. She had not yet met this mysterious man, and since he would be a stranger to her, he would have no emotional attachment to her, so his death would cause her no ill.

How would she recognise him though?

Deep in thought, she failed to notice the figure that trailed some distance behind her, and as she approached the boundary of the settlement, Maud paused, closing her eyes as she struggled to recall the man’s voice. In the repeated vision, he spoke several times, but in wakefulness, she could recall neither his words nor his voice. All she could recall was that his words and his manner of speech were strange, almost foreign.

Her eyes widened. ‘He be not of our land,’ she said aloud. He was definitely a Roman then; it was the only explanation.

She struggled to recall the strange surroundings in which she had found herself within the visions: as the man tried to kill her in the unknown location, she called out for help, but her father was powerless to help; she begged for pity – but the stranger spared no thought for her as he stole her lifeblood.

The strange place might be Rome, then. She and her father would be taken there to become slaves – or perhaps she was to become a bound concubine; she would die trying to escape, while her father probably died in enslavement.

With sudden clarity, it all made sense to Maud, except for how the vision came to be in her mind without it being part of Elen’s design. That did not matter though. She knew what was to happen, and she knew what must be done to prevent it from happening: she must wait for the Roman to make his presence known, and then she would strike first.

‘Excuse me.’

The sudden voice from behind startled Maud, and she turned around sharply – to be confronted by a man wearing all but the armour of a Roman Centurion.

‘My apologies, child,’ he said, smiling in what he clearly hoped was a friendly manner when he saw the fear in her eyes. ‘I did not mean to startle you.’

‘What dost thou want of me?’ Maud whispered, backing away slightly as the man struggled with the native tongue.

He held up his hands. ‘Please, do not be afraid, I mean you no harm. My men and I passed through here yesterday, on our way to the coast. I sensed there were people hiding hereabouts, and up in the caves on that hill.’

He pointed behind to the hill on the other side of the River Dryad where yesterday Hrothgar and the other adults hid, and at that moment, Maud recognised him as the lead rider who had almost spotted her in the tree.

‘Why hast thou returned here this day?’ she questioned with a frown, seeing no other reason for his return than to hunt down locals for enslavement.

‘These past days, as we have left Londinium behind, we have encountered and fought numerous members of the tribes of this land. They fought valiantly and put up much fierce resistance… most worthy opponents. Amid much bloodshed, they have been subdued and the survivors have been sent to Londinium, where they will be put to the torture and sold into slavery. Those who resist the Roman might will be put to death.’

Maud was appalled, though not surprised. That fate would have befallen her tribe had they not hidden from the aggressors, but now it seemed their lives were forfeit… perhaps the unexplained vision was nearer to becoming reality than she had thought.

‘Be that the fate thou hast in store for mine own people?’

The Roman shook his head. ‘Had that been my intent, I would have brought the century with me. No, there has been much bloodshed since leaving Londinium, but I have heard rumour amongst the captured Cantiaci of a mythical creature of immense power in this region. They refer to her as the Green Woman protecting the inhabitants of a settlement on the outskirts of a valley. They all wish she protected their own settlements.’

Maud’s eyes widened in shock at his mention of the Green Woman. ‘Thou dost know of Elen?’

The Roman centurion’s face betrayed his awe. ‘Then she is real, this Green Woman of whom they speak? I had feared she might be a myth.’

‘She be real enough, and her powers do indeed protect us. Why dost thou seek her out?’

‘I have deserted my century in the hope that she is real. If she truly has such immense power, I thought perhaps she might have the power within her to stop all the killing.’

‘Thou dost seek her power to halt the bloodshed? Art thou certain thou dost not seek to use her power for thine own purpose?’

The centurion shook his head. ‘One of such great power would not be enslaved to the will of a mere man such as I. No, I seek her for the reason I have given.’

‘Wouldst not thy men have missed thee by now? Be thee not their leader, after all?’

‘If I bring danger to your settlement, it was not by design. Surely this Elen can protect you from such danger?’

Maud nodded. ‘Mayhap thou art correct. I shall take thee to her.’

‘Thank you, child.’

‘My name be Maud.’

‘And I am Lucius.’

Maud felt as though her heart stopped beating for a fraction of a second at the mention of his name, but though her blood ran cold, she managed to smile disarmingly. ‘Come, thou must follow. I shall lead thee to Elen.’

Maud thought fast. She had been about to believe him, seduced by his charm and charisma… until he told her his name. Now, though, she knew he could not be trusted. Elen could look after herself, and would ensure the tribe remained safe, but the vision clearly indicated that both she and her father would be captured.

Was such an outcome perhaps actually inevitable?

Even though she knew Elen would save the tribe in times of danger, Maud felt it her duty to prevent such necessity if possible. She decided she would lead Lucius away from the settlement, lead him towards one of the other recently ransacked settlements and kill him before he could betray them.

Like a sheep, Lucius followed without fear and without question as she backtracked and led him around the perimeter of the hill, until he realised she was leading him in the general direction he and his century had taken yesterday.

He whirled around on her, but instead of the fury she anticipated, Maud saw fear; raw, undiluted fear that was so blatant and honest that she realised he really had deserted his men. It altered nothing, though, as far as Maud was concerned.

‘You are taking me to my men,’ he cried in accusation. ‘They will kill me.’

Maud shook her head. ‘No, thy soldiers travelled south-east; I be taking thee round the western hill, beyond which dwells Elen.’

Lucius relaxed a little and fell into step beside her. ‘Tell me, what is this Green Goddess like?’

‘The Great Elen shall inspire awe within the hearts and minds of the most hardened battle-weary men,’ replied Maud softly.

As they passed by fallen boulders at the foot of the rock escarpment that dominated the immediate vicinity of the western hill, she saw half a dozen Roman soldiers approaching. She saw them before Lucius did, and dragged him behind one of the larger boulders, warning him to remain silent.

They crouched low as the foot soldiers came closer, and as they passed by, Lucius breathed as sigh of relief – and then gasped in shock as Maud leapt out from behind the boulder, tearfully appealing to the Romans for help.

‘Are you all right?’ asked one of the centurions as they turned to face her.

‘Please, let him not harm me! I barely escaped him; let him not take me again.’

‘Who, child?’

‘He doth hide behind the rocks.’

Two of the centurions grabbed Lucius before he could escape.

‘Well, well, Lucius! Vespassian himself has issued a warrant for your arrest for deserting our ranks.’

‘This girl was hiding from us yesterday,’ Lucius blustered desperately. ‘I came back in search of her and her kinfolk.’

‘There are others of her people still here?’

‘I have not seen them, but they are close by.’

Maud shook her head, wiping away forced tears. ‘I be alone. Thou hast slaughtered the remainder of my tribe. I be the sole survivor.’

One of the soldiers turned to another. ‘She must be from that settlement half a league yonder. Did I not tell you I saw someone escape? It must have been this girl.’

‘She knows where the Green Woman lives.’

The centurions laughed at Lucius. Such a wild claim could be met only with contempt, for they had no belief in such a creature. ‘Paganism is something we shall make certain is wiped out from these lands with the introduction of our own religion,’ said the clear leader as he snapped his fingers.

The two soldiers who held Lucius dragged him away, kicking and screaming, and the remaining four turned to face Maud. ‘Are you injured, child?’ the leader asked.

Filled with sudden dread as she saw the lust in their eyes, Maud backed away, shaking her head as she wondered whether she had made a terrible mistake.

‘Excellent,’ the leader grinned. He began unfastening his clothing as he approached.

Maud turned to run, but one of the other men grabbed her and threw her to the ground. She screamed, but he silenced her with a blow from a rock he picked up, and blackness engulfed her.

*

The autumn darkness fell by late afternoon, and still Maud had not returned from paying tribute to Elen.

Hrothgar stood at the boundary of the settlement, straining to see into the gloom, frantic with worry. Something must have happened to her. He knew he should have gone in search of her before dusk, but his toil in the fields took precedence over his anxiety until the onset of darkness.

There was little he could do save hope that nothing bad had befallen her, and pray that she was safe. He closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer to Elen that she would guide Maud safely back to the settlement.

Opening his eyes once more, he continued to peer into the gloom. He squinted. Had that been movement, almost beyond his field of vision?

He took a few steps beyond the settlement’s boundary, and emitted a howl of despair. He ran to the approaching figure as she staggered towards him, and she collapsed into his arms.

Maud was naked, clutching scraps of ripped clothing to her body in a vain attempt to conceal her nakedness. Her body was covered in bruises and scratches; blood flowed from a wound to her head, and even in the semi-darkness, Hrothgar could see the dried blood between her thighs.

‘Oh my poor child, who has done this to thee?’ he sobbed as he cradled her in his arms.

As Maud reached out to caress Hrothgar’s cheek, the clasp from a Roman centurion’s tunic fell from her trembling dirty hand. Blood dribbled from the corner of her mouth as she spluttered a single word and died in her father’s arms.

Lucius.

Hrothgar clutched her lifeless body to him, howling his anguish and fury as he rocked back and forth.

Several others of the tribe, upon hearing his cry, rushed from the settlement to see what had happened. All were appalled by Maud’s injuries.

Hrothgar lifted his daughter and handed her gently to one of the gathered men. ‘Make certain she be buried beside her mother.’

With those words, Hrothgar fled into the darkness.

*

He had known the Roman centurions would not be difficult to find. He had seen the direction they had taken yesterday, and the fact that one of their number named Lucius had returned and desecrated the temple of his daughter’s body meant they could not be camped far from the valley.

Less than an hour later, he found their encampment. The century that had passed through the valley seemed to have met up with several others; their encampment was expansive, and using stealth, guile and cunning, Hrothgar made his way past the guards without detection.

He drew his dagger from its sheath at his waist and thought about how best to find Lucius.

A lone centurion, staggering beneath the effects of too much wine, came towards his hiding place. Hrothgar crept out and grabbed the man from behind, a hand placed roughly against his mouth so he could not cry out in warning, then dragged the soldier into the shadows behind one of the tents.

‘Make any attempt to call for help or struggle against me, and I shall slit thy throat. Dost thou understand my words?’

The centurion nodded.

‘Tell me where I might find the one known as Lucius.’

Hrothgar cautiously withdrew his hand from the Roman’s mouth, who in a drunken slur told him in no uncertain terms that the deserter Lucius was imprisoned within the stockade at the far side of the encampment awaiting his punishment.

‘It shall be I who doth administer his punishment,’ Hrothgar whispered in the man’s ear as he slit his throat. He did not linger to gloat as the Roman gurgled with his last bloody breath.

Hrothgar moved swiftly and silently through the shadows, keeping close to the perimeter of the encampment and avoiding torch-lit areas, until he found the stockade.

There was a single occupant of the cage. He had to be Lucius.

Hrothgar approached the cage from behind, where the prisoner sat slumped against the bars. He reached through and grasped his hand firmly against the dozing man’s mouth, startling him into wakefulness.

‘Art thou Lucius?’ Hrothgar whispered in his ear. ‘Nod thy head if it be so.’

The prisoner nodded his head.

‘Know me now, Lucius, for I be Hrothgar, father to Maud. My daughter be dead, and she named thee her killer afore she drew her last breath. Thou did violate her body, and thou shalt pay with thine own life.’

He reached through the bars with his other hand and slit the throat of the prisoner with a flourish, and as Lucius collapsed, gurgling, coughing and clutching his throat, trying to stem the flow of blood even as the life flooded from his body, Hrothgar stood staring dispassionately down at him.

He made no attempt to move, no effort to escape as he was spotted by one of the guards, who shouted in alarm.

He did not struggle, nor feel the thrust of the sword as it plunged into his back.

He died, and as he died, he saw his daughter in the distance, shaking her head sadly. Even from here, he could hear her words.

‘Oh, Father, what have we done?’

2002

Margaret and Joyce gasped as the wood nymph vanished with Matthew, Roger and Lucinda. They glanced around, as though expecting them to reappear immediately, and when that did not happen, they grew concerned. When Elen had vanished and brought back Gloria Schofield, she was gone mere moments, but this time the seconds dragged into endless minutes, and it became all too apparent that she would not be returning with her company any time soon.

Still drifting effortlessly above their heads, the ethereal image of the Seer slowly descended as she sensed the growing unease beneath her.

Thou should be unafeared. Thy friends shall remain unharmed. Mother doth wish that they witness events of the past so they might better understand events of the present.

Only Louise seemed to have the courage to speak to the indeterminately sexed figure that glowed white, hovering a few feet off the ground. ‘Thaumaturgia, can you tell us what is going on?’

I cannot. It be not my place to interfere with Mother’s wishes. She shall explain all to ye upon her return.

‘That’s not really an acceptable answer,’ snapped Margaret as she found her voice. ‘That’s my husband and my son she’s taken with her.’

I can offer thee no further solace. Thou hast no other choice than to trust in me.

Margaret sighed, reluctant to acquiesce, but realising she had no choice. ‘Very well, but what about this son that Elen spoke of? Where is he?’

Maxim be about, somewhere. He doth seek the one known as Sawyl Gwilym.

‘Your father!’

Thaumaturgia faced Rachel. ‘Yes, my father he be, to my shame.’ Such was the Seer’s anguish that she spoke the words aloud instead of projecting them mentally. ‘I sense his presence; he be close.’

‘And yet you still don’t know who he’s hiding in?’

Thaumaturgia shook her head. ‘No, not until one of our kind do come face to face with his host body shall we know that. He doth prove himself a most powerful warlock. He hath no memory of his life in Avalon, but he doth remember all the secrets that fool Merlin did allow him to steal. He doth know how to conceal himself most effectively. Isabella and Peter Neville, having human fathers, possess not the power to detect him, but Maxim and I, having non-mortal parents, have such ability.’

‘So Sawyl is Maxim’s father, too?’

‘No, Maxim be a mere half-brother to me.’

Rachel did not hide her confusion. ‘So, who is his father?’

The sudden rumbling from the bowels of the earth prevented Thaumaturgia from responding, and in an upsurge of leaves, branches and roots from deep below ground, Elen reappeared in her tree-like state. Her branches unfurled, revealing her trio of unwilling guests, who stepped into the clearing ashen faced, while Elen transformed into her wood nymph guise once more.

Margaret rushed forward to hug her son, and smiled at Roger reassuringly. ‘You’re both all right, thank God. What happened?’

‘Elen took us far into the past,’ croaked Matthew through dry lips. ‘I’m not sure what the date was, but there were Romans there, and the locals lived in huts that reminded me somewhat of those recreated at Butser Hill.’

‘Iron Age,’ muttered Theo from his position at the edge of the clearing. He was overwhelmed with happiness at seeing Matthew return in one piece, but decided to remain out of the way for the moment.

‘Yes,’ replied Matthew with an abstract frown, ‘something like that. We were observers, but I know which of the people we were watching is the one who hides within me. I was a young girl called Maud. It was all my fault.’

Margaret held her son at arm’s length. ‘You mean it was all this girl’s fault, darling, not yours.’

‘I guess.’

‘What was all her fault?’ demanded Theo.

‘The hatred and the anger that causes Lucius to kill me… her… every new lifetime! Maud indirectly caused his death, and he strikes out in revenge each time they are reborn.’

‘I must bear some of the responsibility,’ said Hrothgar through Roger. ‘It was I who did misinterpret my daughter’s dying words. When she spoke the name Lucius, I did believe she meant her killer.’

‘I approached your daughter in peace,’ hissed Lucius through Lucinda. ‘She betrayed me to the very people from whom I fled.’

‘I be sorry.’ The quiet voice of a frightened little girl issued forth from Matthew’s lips as he cowered away from Lucinda, burying his head in Margaret’s breast. ‘I be so very sorry.’

Despite the bizarre circumstances, Margaret comforted Matthew, stroking his hair and kissing him tenderly. ‘It’s all right… Maud… it’ll all get sorted out.’ She turned to face Elen. ‘So, what the hell happened? I think it’s time you told us everything.’

Everyone started speaking at the same time, hosts and spirits agreeing with Margaret that it was time for the whole truth to be revealed, and Elen silenced the cacophony with a single swipe of her hands.

‘You will all be still and silent,’ she commanded, and everyone found they could do nothing but obey her will.

Elen told the gathered group what she had taken Matthew, Lucinda and Roger into the past to witness. ‘The spirit of Lucius, knowing himself to be innocent of any misdeeds, cannot let go his anger and resentment at being killed; he lingers on instead of passing into the light, hoping that one day both Maud and Hrothgar will be reborn at the same time so he might kill them both together.’

She faced Lucinda with a sad smile of regret. ‘Each time you have been reborn, Lucius, only Maud has been present, and each time you killed her, you were unaware of Hrothgar’s presence, invisible and silent, unable to interfere, able only to watch you exact your terrible revenge time after time. His anger towards you has increased to such a point that it outweighs even your own anger, Lucius, but now he has seen the truth and the cause of your anger, his has lessened.’

She touched Lucinda’s lips. ‘But has yours lessened, Lucius?’

‘A little… perhaps,’ said Lucius when he realised he had been granted permission to speak. ‘But two millennia of bitter fury does not disappear in a moment of revelation. Tell me, why did Maud betray me to my fellow Romans? If I know that, forgiveness might come a little easier.’

‘I am glad you say that, Lucius. Upon the release of his spirit when he died, I told Hrothgar that one day he would finally be reincarnated in physical form and that when that happened, his child would be Maud’s reincarnation, and that they would eventually encounter you together once more. He knows you must all embrace the day of reckoning if there is to be forward movement, that there must be forgiveness for both the misunderstanding and the repeated unnecessary deaths, and that the forgiveness must be unanimous or else everything you have gone through will be repeated for all eternity.’

Lucius nodded. ‘I shall consider it, but I must know why the child betrayed me.’

Elen reached across and touched Matthew’s lips. ‘Do you recall, Maud?’

Maud nodded. ‘Yes, oh Great Elen, I recall everything.’ Her voice was pitiful with regret and fear. ‘Please, make me not witness it all once more.’

‘You must, Maud. We must witness it together.’

‘Might Matthew cometh with us? I like him. He doth comfort me.’

Elen smiled. ‘What say you, Matthew Silverthorne? Are you a willing participant to the viewing of Maud’s vision first hand?’

‘If it helps finally sort out this sorry mess, then yes, I agree,’ said Matthew.

Elen glanced up at her daughter. ‘Thaumaturgia, it is time.’

She placed one hand upon Lucinda’s forehead and another on Matthew’s, and she closed her eyes. In unison, Lucinda and Matthew closed theirs.

Floating behind them, Thaumaturgia moved forward until her ethereal body blended with Elen’s, and she reached out and plunged her hands into Lucinda and Matthew’s heads.

The pair snapped open their eyes, their mouths gaping in a combined silent scream of agony as Thaumaturgia and Elen between them opened their minds, shared their gifts, and released Maud’s vision.

Maud’s Vision

She sits in the chair in the strange house, looking out through the window to the tree-lined hill in the distance. She recognises the hill now, even though it is greatly different from how she remembers it. In her own memory, the valley is not smothered in trees.

The crest of the hill has changed little, and she knows she is close to her settlement. Why did she not notice this before? She is seeing things more clearly and remembering everything that once was forgotten.

She blinks and remembers another time; here, with a man she knows to be her father yet is not the father she knew and loved.

She blinks again and remembers a further lifetime, when she had been betrothed – and murdered.

And now she is here, in the same place, in a different time. She cannot understand how she has come to be here, but knows now it is not Rome.

She feels different, not herself. Glancing down she sees her legs are clothed individually in a coarse blue material. She glances at her hands. They are well cared for and not rough, but they are definitely male.

She recalls the last time she witnessed this vision, and knows it to be the same, but she can see so much more.

‘How can that be?’ she says aloud.

It is because I am here to unveil the mysteries within your mind. You have now lived through most of these events, so you understand them more.

‘Oh Great Elen, I be afeared.’

Do not be afraid, my child. Open your mind; reach out with your thoughts and see the rest of the vision.

She blinks again. ‘Where be this place?’

‘You are home, naturally.’

She turns sharply at the voice and sees her father. She recognises him. He is Hrothgar, yet he is not, but he is most definitely her father. She runs to him, throws her arms around his shoulders and embraces him. ‘Oh Father, I be so afeared.’

She feels him stiffen, hears a horribly familiar death rattle from his throat, and his weight falls upon her.

‘And so thou shouldst be afeared,’ says a resonant yet young masculine voice from nearby.

Moaning and squealing in her terror, she tries to push her father’s body away from her, but she is imprisoned beneath his dead weight and cannot move. She can hear the man who has killed her father as he walks around the room, but he remains outside of her field of vision.

‘I knew thou wouldst return, my dear,’ he says, his voice chilling in its timbre. ‘Thou didst think thou had killed me, but I have escaped and survived. Now I shall have my vengeance upon thee, and the lost secrets shall be returned to me. I shall have the immortality I seek, and I shall rule time itself, and thou art powerless to stop me this time.’

‘I understand not thy words,’ she sobs.

He laughs his cruel laugh. ‘Play not thy mind games with me, my dear. I have been patient long enough, and grow weary of thy interference. The time has come for thy death.’

She feels strong hands grab her throat, squeezing the life from her body. She cannot see the face of her attacker, for her father’s body blocks her view.

‘Die!’ he mutters callously. ‘Die, and think not to plague me with thy presence again.’

Her vision begins to blur and darken as she fights for breath, but can struggle little because the weight of her father pins her to the floor.

The man laughs again and continues laughing as the life is finally crushed from her body. As she dies, she hears another voice.

‘My God, what are you doing L–’

But darkness falls upon her at last – and she is gone.

2002

Thaumaturgia flew backwards as though expelled by some explosive force, and with a gasp, Elen removed her hands from Matthew and Lucinda’s foreheads, and the pair collapsed to the ground.

Exhausted from her exertions, Elen’s grip on the others waned, and Margaret ran to her son. ‘Matthew, are you all right?’

Matthew struggled to sit. ‘I’ll be fine, though I have a thumping headache.’

Nearby, Lucinda sat up slowly, clutching her head.

‘Was that what you saw, all those years ago, Maud?’ asked Lucius in a gentle voice.

‘Yes.’ Maud faltered as she explained how she had gone to Elen in search of an explanation of the vision, how she had thought back then that the vision showed her and her father being killed in a far off place. In the past, her undisciplined mind had made little sense of the images, most of which she forgot after each vision due to her lack of understanding. ‘I remember not seeing the view of the hill before. I did believe that Father and I were to be captured by the Romans. When Elen did enter my mind afore, she could make out only the deaths, and a name that doth begin with the letter ‘L’, and because the stranger spoke with an accent–’

‘You thought it to be me!’

Maud nodded sadly. ‘I am truly sorry for what I have done, Lucius. What have I done?’

There was compassion in the voice of the Roman centurion who had been so terribly wronged. ‘You were but a frightened child, Maud, who did not understand the significance of the vision. Your young mind, untrained to recall such images, retained only what it could comprehend. I do not say I forgive you entirely, but I understand now why you did what you did.’

Matthew’s voice broke through the child’s control. ‘You may not understand the significance of the vision, but we do, don’t we, Lucinda?’

‘Yes,’ whispered Lucinda fearfully.

‘Maud foresaw her murder in a future life, not a faraway place. It is now, in our time, at Four Oaks. Elen said it was a man whose name begins with ‘L’, but it isn’t Lucius. I recognised the killer’s voice.’

‘As did I,’ said Lucinda. She faced the others. ‘It’s my brother, Liam!’

‘Excuse me, but why on earth would Liam want to kill Matthew?’ asked Margaret. ‘At least , I assume Liam was trying to kill Matthew, after all, he doesn’t know of Maud, does he?’

‘Matthew, do you think he was really that cut up about you spurning his advances that he would try to kill you in revenge?’ said Theo.

Matthew shook his head. ‘You’re both missing the blazingly obvious. It’s not Liam… it’s Sawyl Gwilym!’

Once Matthew had stated the fact, the others realised he must be correct. It really had to be true if Matthew and Lucinda had both recognised Liam’s voice, and there was – until that moment – the mystery surrounding Sawyl Gwilym’s host body.

‘Why would Sawyl wish to kill Matthew, though?’ demanded Rachel. ‘It makes no sense, even if it were Maud he was trying to kill.’

‘Perhaps he met her at some point in the past?’ suggested Louise. ‘I mean, we know they have both lived several times over the centuries. Who’s to say they haven’t locked horns before?’

‘True,’ Rachel mused. ‘It’s possible that in some past life, Maud defeated him in his quest for immortality.’

‘One thing I don’t understand is where Maud’s vision of her death came from,’ sighed Margaret. As unnerving as the situation had become, she nevertheless felt pity for the poor traumatised girl, locked away inside Matthew’s mind. ‘I mean, Elen just told us that Maud’s visions were actually hers, projected through the child because she was Elen’s handmaiden… or whatever. Even Elen herself didn’t know where this particular vision came from.’

Hrothgar turned to face Elen, his voice gently coaxing, not accusatory. ‘That be not quite the truth. Elen, I feel it time Maud be told the truth.’

Maud whirled on him. ‘What mean you by such words, Father?’

‘Maud, have you never once wondered how you are able to hide your spirit from Lucius, unless he spots you first?’ said Elen softly. ‘In the past, I kept a few secrets from you, intending to reveal them when you reached womanhood. Sadly, that did not come to pass, and you remained a child in spirit form.’

‘What hast thou not told me?’ shouted Maud, suddenly very angry. She felt badly at being the cause of Lucius’s death, but felt fury at the thought of having important information about herself being kept from her.

Elen sighed. ‘Maud, you are able to shield yourself from Lucius because you share the genes of Mother Nature; you live on as an eternal spirit instead of dying because you share the genes of Father Time; you shared my visions because you are linked to me. You share all these things because I am your mother, and your own visions are my gift to you. Because you have a mortal father, though, your physical body has a human mortality. All of this I would have explained to you had you not been slaughtered by the Roman soldiers.’

Maud turned to Hrothgar. ‘Be all this true, Father?’

Sadly, Hrothgar nodded. ‘Aye, daughter, it be so. Elen did wish knowledge of our people. She came to me and did ask that I give her a child. I did agree, but only if she did allow me to raise the child myself should she decide to return to her natural state.’

‘As I was forced to do, for reasons I have no wish to divulge before these others, lest they think ill of me.’

‘Elen, we’re already losing respect for you,’ muttered Rachel bitterly, who having heard all about the wood nymph’s powers, could not believe the creature so inhuman as to not save her daughter from the Romans. ‘Why not go the whole hog!’

Elen sighed. ‘I decided to return to Avalon to fetch my children, Thaumaturgia and Maxim, but I discovered my daughter had been banished from Avalon, and so I returned with just my son. Five of your years had passed, and I could not go back those five years because that would have altered time.’ She looked at Hrothgar and Maud with great sadness. ‘In that time, Maud, you thought me dead, and it served no purpose to intrude upon your lives. I was happy when Maud accepted the role of handmaiden, for it meant I had legitimate contact with her. It gladdened my heart that I should have contact with at least one of my daughters, until she was snatched from me.’

‘Why didst thou not protect me from the Romans?’ demanded Maud, echoing Rachel’s thoughts.

‘I was elsewhere at that time. Again I left you, and again I lost you. It seems the sad cycle of my life to depart for any short length of time, and lose those dear to me by the time of my return. You must hate me for that, and I do not blame you.’

‘Actually,’ said Rachel, her voice softening, ‘that doesn’t make me feel ill of you. Goddess or not, you cannot be everywhere at once, and I guess there must laws about changing history.  I know you bent them once, but the end result changed nothing. I can understand how you feel about losing your daughter. It’s how I feel, only you were able to still see your daughter and I cannot see mine.’

‘After Maud’s death, it was many years before the arrival of Thaumaturgia. I made myself known to her immediately, and we lived in human form together until my ‘death’, in the caves on Serpent’s Crest.  During that lifetime together, we awaited the arrival of Sawyl Gwilym.’

‘I cannot believe the Rulers of Avalon banished him to our world,’ Louise sniffed. ‘What were they thinking?’

‘They did not actually banish him. When it was discovered that Sawyl would become the Master of Time should he continue on his path of evil, his memory was blocked. Unfortunately, at the moment of his memory block, he escaped from Avalon to what we call the Wastelands of Albion, the world beyond the walls of our city. From there he was able to walk the ancient pathways, what you would call ley lines, and made his way into your world. It was always only a matter of time before his memories returned, and I am quite surprised the memory block has lasted as long as it has. I came in search of him to keep an eye on him, but miscalculated my arrival, and was reunited with Thaumaturgia when those who feared the nature of her visions banished her from Avalon. In her visions she foresaw the return of his memories, and foretold that she alone would have the power to bring together the elements to defeat him, and with my power he could be returned to Avalon.’

‘If that’s the case, why weren’t you sent out together, as a pair?’ Rachel wanted to know.

‘Yes,’ agreed Louise. ‘That would have made more sense.’

Elen nodded. ‘In my maternal vanity, I did not wish to subject my children to such dangers, which is why I left them behind.  It was only when I returned to Avalon for them that I discovered Thaumaturgia had been banished, and why it had happened.’

Thaumaturgia’s voice echoed around the clearing as she floated above them.

The decision was taken out of Mother’s hands when I was but a child, stolen from my brother’s side one night and abandoned in this world. I be feared by those who rule Avalon, who did believe I would walk my father’s path. Thankfully, my mother did find and nurture me.

‘You were abducted and abandoned here, alone, by those who rule Avalon?’ gasped Rachel.

‘Yes, by the Queen of Avalon.’ Elen sighed deeply. ‘The Queen of Avalon is the daughter of she who was once your daughter!’

‘What?’ shrieked Rachel. She shook her head vehemently. ‘No, that’s not possible. Elizabeth is dead; she lived her life in this world and died when I was young.’

‘No, not Elizabeth. After Gloria’s death in this world, she came to us at Avalon. It is much too long a story to tell here now, but she was reborn in eternal spirit form in Avalon, where she lives with James, and in their new life they have another daughter, whom they named Verity, and she has become Queen of Avalon. She is a good Queen, but misguided at times. She thought she could prevent Sawyl Gwilym from escaping, but it is all history to her mother, so it could not be prevented.’

Rachel closed her eyes and shook her head wildly. ‘It’s all just too much to take in. Gloria is still alive, after a fashion, in this place you call Avalon, and she has another daughter there who is the Queen, and who tried and failed to prevent Sawyl Gwilym from escaping. You were sent to keep watch over him, but whilst you were gone, your daughter was banished because of her visions. You brought into existence Isabella and Peter Neville to help ensure Gloria returned to the past to defeat Sawyl there – but he escaped, and now he is here, in Liam Samwell’s body… and his memories could come flooding back at any moment. In the meantime, another of your daughters misinterpreted the vision of Sawyl’s return, and so caused several centuries of unending bloodshed between three people.’ She opened her eyes again, staring at Elen. ‘Is that a good summary of events so far?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Well then it ends here and now, tonight – fittingly, Halloween. These three–’ she indicated Matthew, Lucinda and Roger ‘–or rather the spirits they carry, need to agree their whole sorry situation was caused by a series of terrible misunderstandings. They need to find forgiveness and move on, let their hosts live their own lives at last, free from spiritual interference. Then we need to find a way to lure Liam here so that the vision doesn’t come true, and you two–’ she indicated Thaumaturgia and Elen ‘–can do whatever it is you need to do to get Sawyl Gwilym back to Avalon… and then we can all just get on with our lives without all these supernatural shenanigans!’

Max suddenly materialised in their midst, startling them all. ‘There’s no need to worry about luring Liam here… he’s on his way as we speak.’

Louise grabbed hold of Glory’s hand. ‘I don’t want my daughter here when that warlock arrives.’

‘I agree,’ said Phil, speaking for the first time since Peter had left him. ‘Can you get us out of here?’

‘Maxim will lead you all to safety. Only Thaumaturgia and the three possessed by spirits should remain.’

‘Come,’ said Max, revelling in being the leader once more. ‘I shall do as Mother asks. Follow me.’

Rachel, Louise, Phil, Glory, Margaret, Joyce and Theo followed Maxim from the clearing, but Theo paused, glancing back over his shoulder at Matthew. Matthew caught his eye and smiled reassuringly, indicating to Theo that he would be fine, and so Theo plunged into the darkness of the forest, hurrying to catch up with the others.

Thaumaturgia disappeared from sight, leaving only Elen, Matthew, Roger and Lucinda standing in the centre of the clearing.

They did not have to wait for long.

Less than a minute after the others departed, Liam appeared, slightly dishevelled from traipsing through the ever-encroaching forest, but unlike everyone else on their way in, he had avoided slipping and falling over on the muddy forest floor.

On Liam’s face, Sawyl Gwilym’s thunderous countenance appeared to them all. It was as much as Elen could do not to greet him as her brother, but she knew he could not be allowed that small but vital piece of information in case it proved to be the catalyst that opened the floodgates of his memories.

‘So,’ he said, his voice thick with evil, ‘I get to meet the infamous Green Woman at long last. Long have I heard of thee, but always have I thought thee to be a myth.’

Elen smiled thinly. ‘I, on the other hand, have never once thought of you as a myth, Sawyl Gwilym. I thought you to be dead, though.’

Sawyl laughed thunderously. ‘Peter Neville and that meddlesome wench, Ria Snowfield, thought to kill the host body, but I sought an escape afore she died. It be as well that the Witch of the Woods who once also dwelled within this forest be not on hand at that time, else she might have banished me with her own expert sorcery.’

Elen laughed. ‘Thaumaturgia Anathemas, an expert in sorcery? She conjured the spirits that roam these woods, but had not the wherewithal to return them. All she was good at was curing all ills… nothing more.’

‘Thou wouldst appear to know her well.’

‘I should, for she was my apprentice during her time here. That is how I know she is not the powerful witch you believe her to be.’

Sawyl indicated the trio beside her. ‘What of these three? Why be they here?’ Did she bring their spirits to life? Have they possessed these poor, pathetic mortals?’

‘Poor, pathetic mortals? Why Sawyl, you would seem to imply that you are not mortal!’

Sawyl laughed. ‘Not for much longer. There be a time in the past when I did come close to achieve my goals, though Ria Snowfield did interrupt my plans. She did allow my execution – and I did escape that time too! She doth return to vex me once again. I sense her presence in him!’ He pointed at Matthew. ‘I can sense he has within him a female spirit who doth seek to kill me, but she doth hide her aspect from me. She must be the witch, Ria. Here endeth her days at last by my hand. Join me, Elen. Thou and I might make a formidable team. I know most of the equations which doth make the elixir of life, but require a female intellect to find the final secrets.’

Facing Elen, gloating in his sense of triumph, Sawyl did not notice that Matthew had inched closer. With such swiftness that it astonished even Elen, Maud struck, whipping out the dagger Lucius had intended to use on her, and thrust it into Liam’s heart.

‘Die, foul creature,’ Maud hissed. ‘Too long hast thou plagued my nightmares. My visions shall not come true!’

In the instant before Liam’s death, Sawyl’s spirit fled his violated body, shocked that he had so dreadfully miscalculated yet again, fearful that he would die for certain if he did not flee.

The other spirits witnessed the ethereal spirit energy as it left Liam’s crumpled body, and in that instant, Elen entwined herself around her brother’s body, entrapping him without warning. The ground shifted, and screaming his rage, unable to escape Elen’s mystical powers, Sawyl Gwilym was dragged into the bowels of the earth by her as she disappeared.

In a heartbeat, Thaumaturgia descended, surrounding Liam’s body with her own ethereal energy the very moment before his body died, healing his wound as only she could.

In that instant, Hrothgar, Maud and Lucius realised they had merely been unwilling pawns in the greater plan to gather all the pieces in position at this exact moment in time, to once and for all vanquish the evil of Sawyl Gwilym before it could fully manifest itself. Though their anger remained, they departed their hosts, vowing never to return – their endless bloody feud would find a meaningful salvation in the fullness of time.

In that instant, her healing done, Thaumaturgia vanished from around Liam’s body, and as he slowly sat up, wondering where he was and how he got there, he saw his sister, Matthew and an older man staring around, equally bemused.

‘Okay,’ Liam said with a frown, ‘would one of you please explain what the hell has been going on!’

Epilogue

All Saints Day

2002

Friday

November 1st

Liam could not believe he was inside Dead Man’s Wood. All his life the place had petrified him, yet here he was, standing within the trees, and nothing was happening. Although the others were a little confused, they remembered more as time passed, and explained as best they could what had happened. Liam still had no recollection of events that led to his awakening; the last thing he remembered was planning to go up to the lair of the legendary Warlock of Wicca Hill with Matthew.

It terrified him to think he had apparently done just that, alone, and had, it seemed, awakened the dormant spirit of the warlock himself.

Thankfully, Elen had been on hand to save the day, vanquishing him and disappearing with him. Liam wished he could remember that happening – it sounded so cool.

It seemed inconceivable to him that the old woman from the village, Elaine Oakhurst, had been Elen all along, but Lucinda confirmed Matthew’s story.

There was a tension amongst them as they awaited Elen’s return. Matthew and his father were not speaking; sibling animosity lingered between Lucinda and Liam, and both were aware that the other still lusted after Matthew, even though they both knew neither stood a chance.

With no sign of Elen, nor of Thaumaturgia, and having waited for what felt like many more hours than it actually was, Matthew decided they should leave the woods and try to make their way back to Four Oaks.

The going was tough, not least because they could barely see where they were going. It was a full moon, and although hardly any light filtered down through the dense branches above their heads, it was enough, and they soon found themselves at the stream that bordered the grounds of Four Oaks. They splashed through the cold water, not bothering to try to find the fallen log they had used on their way in, and ran almost all the way up to the house.

Lights blazed in every window, and as they approached, they could see everyone was sitting in the rear drawing room.

Those in the warmth of the house glanced up startled as the French windows rattled open, and everyone was on their feet the instant they realised who was entering the house.

Margaret threw herself at Roger, while Matthew and Theo embraced, and Liam and Lucinda were mildly surprised to find their parents in the room.

‘Mum, Dad, what are you doing here?’ gasped Liam. He was astonished when his father hugged him. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I was knocked unconscious at the hospital,’ explained Ainsley. ‘When I finally woke up, I had to try to explain what happened to the police, who were called after I’d been discovered. Of course, I couldn’t really explain everything, so after lots of questioning, they let me go. Somehow, I knew this was the place to come, and so having borrowed some clothes,’ he stared pointedly at Roger, who blushed, ‘I came straight here. I found everyone else here, and they explained everything that had happened.’

‘I was knocked unconscious here at the house,’ said Chloe, ‘having followed Matthew’s father from the hospital.’

‘Did Max guide you out of the woods?’ asked Joyce. ‘He told us to stay here till morning, and then he disappeared.’

Matthew shook his head as he and Theo finally separated. ‘No. Elen dragged Sawyl’s spirit into the ground and Thaumaturgia saved Liam’s life, and after that we were left alone. All spiritual activity seemed to stop in the woods.’

‘They did it then?’ cried Louise. ‘They finally got rid of that blasted warlock once and for all?’

Matthew nodded. ‘Yes.’

Everyone cheered.

‘So, where are Elen and Thaumaturgia now?’ asked Joyce. ‘And Max? What happened to him when he left here? We all assumed he was on his way to help guide you from the woods.’

‘I should think their task is done at long last,’ sighed Rachel. ‘They have most likely all returned to Avalon, just like Peter.’

‘Have we seen the last of them, do you think?’ asked Phil. ‘Is that the end of all the possessions?’

Matthew shrugged. ‘I have no idea. Who knows? Perhaps… until the next time they need our help.’

‘I won’t miss Peter,’ sighed Phil. ‘I kind of got used to having him around, but he seemed to come and go a little too readily. I got the impression he had some other agenda.’

‘Well, I definitely won’t miss Lucius!’ snapped Lucinda. ‘It’s not in my nature to be such a bitch.’

Chloe, Ainsley and Liam exchanged amused glances, but remained silent.

‘I, of course, am very glad to be rid of Sawyl Gwilym,’ muttered Liam.

Rachel chuckled. ‘We are all glad to see the back of that evil man. I just hope that this time he is gone for good!’ She turned to Louise. ‘Now that I have had time to digest it all, I’m actually rather glad that Gloria has a second lease of life in this place called Avalon. Who knows, perhaps one day I might be reunited with her, just as she said, especially if Jeremy is there too. Mind you, I think this other daughter of hers needs taking in hand!’

Louise smiled. ‘It would be nice to be able to spend more time with her I guess, but I’m not sure I’d want to live another life. This one’s been quite eventful enough! I don’t know if I’m going to miss Thaumaturgia or not.’

‘I don’t miss her, Mummy!’

Louise hugged Glory tight. ‘In that case, neither do I.’

‘What about you, darling?’ whispered Margaret in Roger’s ear.

‘I’m just glad I haven’t lost my child!’ he muttered in a meaningful, apologetic tone, which elicited a smile of gratitude from Matthew. ‘I think I have much to atone for, otherwise I’ll end up like those poor tormented souls.’

Margaret kissed him. ‘It’s about time you woke up to reality.’

‘And how about you, Matt?’ asked Theo.

Matthew laughed. ‘I’m just glad to be me again. I’ve never been overly fond of girls anyway.’

They all laughed, even Roger and Ainsley, who both seemed to have found a personal tolerance from the events of the past few days.

‘So,’ sighed Joyce, ‘have we seen the back of them all?’

Everyone glanced at one another, and in the end, none could answer the question.

‘Well, let’s not think about that right now,’ said Matthew. ‘I don’t know about you lot, but I’m shattered. There’s plenty of room here at Four Oaks. You’re all more than welcome to stay for the rest of the night.’

Everybody agreed, and less than half an hour later, for the first time in its history every bedroom at Four Oaks resonated with the reassuring sounds of gentle snoring.

And no spirits, no dreams, no visions nor nightmares disturbed the sleep that night.

The End