The Haunter (The Sentinels Series Book 2) Read online

  The Haunter

  Written by David Longhorn

  Edited by Emma Salam and Lance Piao

  Copyright © 2016 by ScareStreet.com

  All rights reserved.

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue: December 1944

  Chapter 1: Encounters and Revelations

  Chapter 2: Ghosts and Horrors

  Chapter 3: Communication and Confusion

  Chapter 4: The Evil Within

  Chapter 5: The Living and the Dead

  Chapter 6: Lost and Found

  Chapter 7: A Strange Inheritance

  Chapter 8: Closing In

  Chapter 9: Deeper Than the Darkness

  Chapter 10: The Garden of the Cosmos

  Chapter 11: What Lies Beneath

  Chapter 12: The Black Sun

  Epilogue: Life in Wartime

  Bonus Scene: Empire Star

  Prologue: December 1944

  Traven climbs over the wall at a place he's been before, where much of the old stonework has been brought down by the ravages of the weather. The climate is not gentle here in the far North of England; what was once a stretch of eight-foot wall is little more than a heap of masonry now. What's more, it's well away from the main road and prying eyes. Traven throws a tool-bag over first, then climbs over without much trouble.

  Once he has slid down the other side, he stands still, listening, just in case.

  Traven is not worried about being caught, not way out in the sticks at the break of dawn. But there is always the risk of a gamekeeper or some other busybody being about. Still, it's a remote location and winter weather has covered the countryside in a thick coating of snow.

  All very picturesque, he thinks, but you could freeze to death out here, if you're not careful.

  Traven is always careful. He's dressed in thick outdoor clothes, plenty of layers complete with hat, gloves, and heavy work boots. He hears nothing and, reassured, picks up his tool-bag and sets off through the trees towards his objective. The woods are bare and stark in the flat light of a wintry sky; a layer of low cloud covers the entire scene. He casts no shadow and takes this as a good omen.

  Traven is the sort of man who doesn't like to leave evidence. It's a pity his feet sink into the crisp snow, leaving deep prints. With luck, another snowfall will cover them soon enough. He could also do without the crunching noises his steps make. He has been here once before, 'casing the joint' as his sort call scouting a potential property to burgle.

  The manor house itself is impressive, and contains a lot of valuable goods. But there's only so much you can do with old paintings, Persian rugs, and Chinese porcelain. Traven needs more portable goods that can be disposed of quickly, for ready cash, and that means precious metal. In wartime, Britain's black-market economy, gold and silver are in heavy demand and there's always someone willing to fence it for you, if you have the right connections. Traven does.

  So, instead of heading to the large manor, Traven heads for a small building that stands apart from it. A more poetic imagination might see the chapel as standing aloof, an acquaintance of the big house, but obviously not a close friend. Traven is not imaginative, and definitely not in any poetic sense. Although he can imagine that the chapel contains some silver cups or such.

  It's worth a try, anyway, he thinks. The stuff might be locked up in a cupboard, but that's no obstacle.

  As he trudges through the trees, Traven takes a diagonal path. When he is close enough to be seen against the snow, among the black tree trunks, the view from the big house will be blocked by the building he's come to rob. It's the sort of crooked thing he does instinctively.

  Closer now, he can see that the chapel, like the walls of this country estate, shows signs of weathering and neglect. Guttering has fallen or been ripped down, and weeds, withered and snow-covered, have sprouted in places on stonework and tiles. But what of the interior? Traven emerges from the woods and scampers quickly across open ground to the chapel door.

  It's locked, of course, which isn’t a problem for a professional burglar. Traven has known rich pickings in big cities during the blackout. He has done his share of ransacking – lifting objects from bombed-out homes, shops, and warehouses.

  Once inside, he pauses for a moment to recompose. It's no warmer in here than outside; he can still see his breath. The dimly-lit interior is almost bare. It occurs to Traven that the chapel is an odd shape; it's circular, with a sort of glass dome in the middle of a gently sloping roof. Looking up, he sees that the dome is darkened by a thick layer of snow and wonders if it might give way under the weight.

  Best keep away from the middle of the room.

  What little light there is comes through slit-like windows, only half-obscured by snow. But Traven can see well enough in poor light.

  At first glance, pickings seem thin. A few old benches and wooden chairs are stacked around the walls. He sees no cupboards where valuables might be stored. There is, though, an altar of some kind, opposite the entrance, so he starts to make his way towards it, sticking close to the wall.

  A sound distracts him, and he stops. The faint noise probably means nothing. But Traven hasn't stayed out of jail this long without being careful. He pulls off his thick woolen cap to uncover his ears.

  Jesus, it's cold!

  He can hear it better now. It's the rhythmic squeaking of footsteps crushing snow. Someone is coming, and unless they're stone blind, Traven's tracks will lead them straight to the chapel.

  “Shit!” he says under his breath.

  Traven doesn’t like complications, but he's ready. He retraces his steps to stand behind the door he's just forced open. He selects a heavy wrench from his tool-bag, puts the bag down, and waits. It can only be the manor house's caretaker. Traven's heard the man is an old fellow.

  Too bad for him, then, he thinks

  “Run away!”

  Traven is not a coward but he emits a barely-suppressed yelp. He has never had such a shock before. A boy is standing right next to him, looking up at him with huge, dark eyes.

  “Christ!” he hisses. “Where the hell did you come from, kid?”

  The boy says nothing, just carries on staring.

  “What are you doing here?” the burglar demands in a more menacing tone. The child still does not answer. Traven is baffled.

  The kid definitely wasn't behind the door a second ago, and where else is there to hide in an empty, round building?

  “Run away! He's coming!”

  The child whispers urgently, clearly afraid of being overheard. Traven notices that the boy is wearing ragged clothes, a dirty cap of some sort, and his feet are encased in, what look like, wooden clogs. The thief knows the folk around here aren't rich, but there's something almost Victorian about this kid, as if he's just escaped from a workhouse.

  Nobody wears clogs now, do they? And those eyes. So huge, and dark, I can't make out the pupils.

  The expression in the child's eyes makes Traven pause. Not fear, certainly. He's very familiar with fear. This is something else.

  “He's coming! Run away!”

  “Shut it!” Traven hisses, finger on lips. “Shut it now, or you'll get this!”

  He raises
his empty hand. The boy shakes his head.

  The footsteps in the snow are coming closer, but the pace remains steady, unhurried. Whoever is coming either hasn't heard the whispered exchanges or doesn't care.

  It's just the old caretaker. I'll take care of him, have a quick scout around, and this kid better not give me any trouble or else!

  Traven prefers not to think beyond that. He has his limits. He has never killed anyone, and he doesn't intend to start with a child, or some old fart for that matter. But his nerves are starting to frazzle.

  The squeaking, crunching sounds stop abruptly. Traven can't hear anything, but he sees that the light from outside has been blocked. Someone is standing in the doorway. He clutches the handle of the wrench with both hands and raises it.

  Then he wrinkles his nose in disgust. Despite the freezing air he gets a whiff of something rotten, as if a small animal has crawled into the chapel and died. He shrugs off the distraction, braces himself again for imminent violence.

  “It's no good,” says the boy in a clear, high voice.

  “Shit! You stupid little bastard!”

  All hope of ambush gone, Traven quickly steps out from behind the door and prepares to knockout the intruder, and get it over with. But the brutal blow never falls.

  “Caught you in the act, thief!” hisses a new voice. “And now you must pay the price for your misdeeds, like the naughty little criminal you are!”

  For a moment, Traven stands, wrench raised above his head, eyes wide in confusion and panic. He starts to back away, but he's not fast enough. An imposing figure darts into the chapel, hands outstretched, fingers clutching for Traven's face. The burglar takes a wild swipe at his assailant, but the attacker slaps the wrench aside, sending it flying across the chamber. The echoing clank of metal coincides with Traven's scream as the inhumanly strong hands fasten on the sides of his face, and the fingertips begin to penetrate his flesh.

  “I told you to run away,” says the ragged boy, sadly. “They never listen.”

  Then he vanishes.

  Chapter 1: Encounters and Revelations

  “Sorry, miss, you can't go up there!”

  It's a frosty day in late January, and the evening sky over London is cloudy, blocking all trace of moon and stars. Rachel Rubin has been walking through the snowy city center wrapped up in her thoughts for the last ten minutes. In the gloom of low-powered streetlamps, she hasn't noticed the young soldier standing on the sidewalk, right in front of her. She stops and gazes up into a thin, pale, anxious face that has a fair crop of pimples. The soldier looks about fifteen, but obviously old enough to be in uniform. On his collar, she sees the insignia of the elite Bomb Disposal Unit.

  “Oh, right. Sorry! So you've found an unexploded bomb down there?” she asks.

  “Jerry was going for the docks last night,” he says. “Seems like he dropped a load of parachute mines. There's one hanging from a roof beam at number twenty-three.”

  Rachel shudders. Parachute mines, designed to land in the river Thames and destroy shipping, are among the most devastating Nazi weapons. But then something odd strikes her; the German air force was almost wiped out after D-Day. All the most recent attacks on London have been by V-1 missiles, pilot-less jet planes with explosive warheads. So how could 'Jerry' have dropped a mine last night?

  Maybe, I misheard him? God knows I'm tired enough.

  Rachel peers past the soldier along a route she uses every evening on her way home from the Underground station. In the light of a few weak lamps, the street, like so many in central London, looks like a mouthful of bad British teeth. There are gaps where half a dozen houses have been demolished following air raid damage. And now, she's worked out what's wrong.

  An area where an unexploded bomb is found is always closed off. Bomb disposal work is a common sight for Londoners in 1945; almost routine, in fact. But there's no barricade here, no army vehicles, no DANGER signs, just the one man blocking her way. And now, Rachel can make out a young woman pushing a stroller along the pavement towards them from the other end of the street.

  “Hey, I don't get it, soldier. Why isn't the street closed off, if there's a bomb? Look!”

  She points at the woman. The young man's expression doesn't change. He gives no indication that he's heard her.

  “Jerry was going for the docks last night,” he repeats, in exactly the same tone as before. “Seems like he dropped a load of parachute mines. There's one hanging from a roof beam at number twenty-three.”

  Rachel has a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She knows the trauma that's coming next but, despite her fear, she reaches out instinctively to try and place a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  “It's okay, fella! You don't have to warn me. I'll be all right. It's all over.”

  “Jerry was going for the docks last night ...” he begins again, but stops in confusion.

  “You did your duty, soldier. Time to rest, now. Time to stand down,” she says softly.

  He looks confused as her fingers go straight through his shoulder. She doesn’t feel the rough fabric of khaki cloth but a scorching blast of heat. The young soldier is suddenly caught in a roaring whirlwind of flame, a blast of sparks and smoke engulfing them both. Hair and flesh are torn from the man's skull, his uniform is ripped off his body, and the blast picks him up and hurls him at Rachel. He goes straight through her.

  The sensations may all be in her head, but that doesn't make them any less shocking. She staggers, closes her eyes, and turns away from the intense heat. It feels as if her skin is blistering, and her ears are ringing with the blast of an explosion. The explosion had destroyed a house two years ago, during the terrible air attack that the British dubbed 'the Blitz'. It had also taken the life of a confused, frightened young man who could never quite understand what had happened to him until now. The bomb-blast was the last thing he ever felt.

  Now, Rachel is feeling it with and for him, so that he can finally move on. The gift she received in Duncaster is uncertain, and unpredictable, but when it works . . . it works.

  The ghost is gone, and the woman with the stroller is standing still, staring at Rachel in alarm. The woman turns and pushes her precious offspring over to the other side of the street to avoid an apparent lunatic.

  I don't blame you, lady. I'd give me some space, too, if I had the option.

  After a couple of minutes leaning on a lamppost, Rachel stops shaking and resumes her walk home. That was a bad one, the most intense ghostly vision she's had in months. Since her strange experiences in Duncaster in 1940, Rachel's become accustomed to the world of the unquiet dead, those spirits who still haunt the earth.

  Those who die suddenly often fail to understand what's happened. She has somehow gained the ability to help them move on and free the dead from endlessly repeating their final moments. It's not been easy, living in a city under almost continuous bombardment. So much violent death, so many innocents taken too soon.

  I really could do with a holiday in the country. Or basically anywhere that's not here.

  She arrives home at their small apartment to find Major Tony Beaumont, her husband of two years, three months, and four days (she's still counting), sitting by a meager coal fire looking worried. He's holding an official-looking letter that's marked with some kind of fancy crest.

  Rachel feels a sinking in her stomach. Has he received new orders? Since he was nearly killed by a Nazi traitor in Duncaster, Tony has been assigned to training duties in Britain. But perhaps, after his latest medical examination, he's been designated fit for frontline service again?

  “Honey? You okay?”

  He looks up from the letter and smiles.

  “Oh, I'm fine. How was your day, my intrepid reporter?”

  “Same old, same old. Spreading news to the eager masses on several continents.”

  She rests on the arm of his chair. “Bad news?”

  “Oh, this? Not exactly, no.”

  He hands her the letter. She real
izes it's not a military order but a legal document, full of jargon like 'henceforth' and 'the party of the second part'. She struggles to understand it, gives up, and hands it back.

  “What gives?” she asks.

  “Well,” he says, “according to this, I've inherited a house.”

  “Oh, that's great! Is this house in London?”

  Rachel imagines moving to a nice, roomy town house, perhaps in the fashionable West End. It's a dream that lasts a fraction of a second.

  “Er, no,” he says. “In fact, this house is about as far from London as you can get and still be in England. Sorry.”

  Tony explains that his family were once wealthy landowners in the North of England, but after various disputes over the inheritance, they lost most of their estates. The only one left, Furniss Manor, has been caught up in legal wrangling since before he was born. But now, thanks to a series of deaths – some natural, some due to the war – he's the only heir.

  “Wow! Does that mean you'll get to be Lord Beaumont?”

  “Well, the title is Lord Furniss, actually. And let's not count our chickens!”

  Rachel is excited, but she also wonders what her left-wing dad, Nate, will make of it if she becomes Lady Furniss. He wasn't exactly pleased when she and Tony got married in a London registry office with just friends as witnesses. Well, she still uses her maiden name as a reporter, so at least that won't change.

  “How come I've never heard about any of this before, huh?”

  “Well, it's a bit embarrassing to admit your family used to have land and wealth and ended up losing it all. Or so I thought!”

  “And now, you'll get to meet the King and Queen, sit in the House of Lords, and all that stuff?”

  “Maybe! But the main problem right now is that I've got to go to the house and check it over for legal reasons. Some document, dating back about a hundred years, says a Beaumont must reside at the Manor. It seems ridiculous, but there it is.”

  He grabs her round the waist and pulls her onto his lap.