Biters

Photo by Belper Unitarians on Unsplash

A story that follows on from the events in Out of the London Mist

“Thank you for coming here,” Alfred Gipton said. He watched Inspector Halton get down from the hansom cab and nodded to the cabbie. “You can take the horse around the back, there’s stabling there.” He managed a brisk smile under his immaculate moustache, but tension radiated from him. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Alfred Gipton, owner of the Scholes Aether Mine. It’s good of you to come, sir.”

“Inspector Halton, Scotland Yard. I was in the area, taking a rest cure when Colonel Bramley got in touch,” Inspector Halton said, shaking Gipton’s hand. “It’s a coincidence that I’m in the area, but my superintendant remembered that I had had some experience working with matters to do with aether energy. I’m happy to help out any friend of Colonel Bramley.” He looked down briefly as he remembered his superior’s comment. “Gipton is a toad,” the colonel had said, “but his brother was at Harrow with Charlie – you remember my son Charlie? So I suppose I’ve got to throw him a bone. How’s the rest cure going? Derbyshire driving you mad yet? Anyway, don’t let Gipton get carried away. And if it looks like something criminal, pass it over to the local boys in blue. You’re Scotland Yard, not Derbyshire County Constabulary. The nearest station is in Matlock, somewhere called Bank Road. Shouldn’t be too hard to find in that tiny place. I’ll owe you a favour.” Inspector Halton was not going to share that with the mine owner. He brought his attention back to Gipton.

“I believe I saw something in the papers,” Gipton said. “Something about a murder in the East End of London, like Jack the Ripper. There’s nothing like that here. But while it’s quieter than London, Matlock and Matlock Bath are quite the thing. There are visitors all year around. There are always people coming and going.”

“It’s a very pleasant town,” Inspector Halton said politely, thinking that Matlock and Matlock Bath together seemed smaller than Mile End, and would fit neatly into any small corner of Bethnal Green or Hackney.

“I’m sure it seems quiet compared to the East End of London,” Gipton said. “But you should have seen it two years ago, during Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee celebrations. The whole of Matlock Bath was lit up and shining – and it was powered by aether stones from this very mine!” Gipton hesitated. “Were aether stones involved in those murders in the papers? I’ve heard all sorts of rumours.”

“I’m not really at liberty to say, sir,” Inspector Halton said, diplomatically. “So, tell me what’s going on here.”

“It’s extortion, that’s what it is!” Gipton snapped. “Pure extortion. You need to find the fellow at once!” He led the inspector into a low, grey stone building, through a passage and into a spacious and airy office with a bright fire that was welcome after the chill of the early spring air.

“What fellow?” the inspector asked as he was ushered in.

Gipton looked over to the corner of the office. “Scholes, you explain. I get caught up in it.”

Inspector Halton followed Gipton’s gaze. The tall, broad young man in the corner was in his early twenties, with dim blond hair and, unlike the older, darker Gipton, was clean shaven. “I don’t think that we’ve been introduced.”

“I’m Francis Scholes,” he said. “I know that all the detectives in books like to have things set out. Why don’t I get Mrs Stanton to fetch tea and you can sit back and listen. It’s an odd tale.”

Gipton snorted as Scholes leant out of the door and shouted for tea. “That lad’s wandering in his wits. He’s got a steady job here, guaranteed, but instead he sends off for night classes in literature and poetry. There’s no money in words.”

Inspector Halton looked at Scholes’ broad back. He looked more like a farmer or a miner than a poet. “Some people seem to make a living out of it.”

Scholes wandered back in. “That’s true,” he said. “But not with poetry.” He smiled, his bright blue eyes glinting a little in the aether lights. “My hobby is poetry, but my employment is business. I hope I give satisfaction.”

Gipton waved an irritated hand. “Aye, you do, but that’s not the point. Now if you were studying bookkeeping or something practical, well, I wouldn’t have to send the books in to Matlock to get them sorted out. You could do it.”

“This is an aether mine, isn’t it?” Inspector Halton interrupted what seemed to be a well-worn grievance. “It’s just I don’t see any evidence of mining. There’s no noise or men around.” He lowered himself stiffly into a chair and watched as a motherly woman bustled in with a tray.

Gipton groaned and ran his hands through his hair. “I’m ruined!”

“The inspector may be able to help,” Scholes said. He watched Mrs Stanton pour tea and waited until she left. “As far as I know, this is unheard of.”

“Ouch!” The inspector rubbed his hand and looked down as a red, circular welt appeared. Something silver and gleaming scuttled down the leg of the chair and into the carpet. “What was that?”

 “We call them ‘biters’, and there aren’t that many around at the moment,” Scholes said. “At one point we were overrun with the creatures.”

“It was a menace!” Gipton snapped. “The mine was crawling with the damned things. You couldn’t move for them. They stole the miners’ snap…”

“Snap?” Inspector Halton asked.

“Packed food, like lunches,” Scholes explained. “And not just that. They got into the wiring, they swarmed around the pumps – they were everywhere!”

“Eat the cheeses out of the vats, and licked the soup from the cooks’ own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats…” Inspector Halton quoted. He looked at the blank expressions of the two men. “It’s from a poem, The Pied Piper of Hamelin. I learn poetry by heart to train my memory. It reminded me. It’s about a plague of rats.”

“I’m not familiar with it,” Scholes said as he concentrated on adding sugar to his tea.

“I don’t know about ladles, but they swarmed through Mrs Stanton’s tea urn and we couldn’t have tea at all unless we brought it in flasks,” Mr Gipton said. “And we had to drink it quick when it was poured.”

“They appeared when we broke through into another cavern,” Scholes explained. “It was a very promising source of aether stones. I suspect that they were beetles trapped there for centuries and they became accustomed to the aether energy and fed on it.”

“This part of Derbyshire is riddled with caves,” Gipton said, holding his tea close. “There are passages and tunnels all over. The Romans came here for lead. There are workings everywhere as well as the natural caves, and lots of odd nooks and crannies. But this is the first known source of aether crystals.”

“It’s a surprise that it took so long to find the aether stones,” Scholes said. “But Mr Gipton has been mining them here for the last six years. There was no trouble until we broke through to the new seam.”

“The fat was in the fire then.” Gipton said. He took a long drink of his tea. “It’s bad enough with the miners having to do short shifts on account of the effects of the stones. Once the biters turned up, they couldn’t do any shift at all! Nothing seemed to work.”

“We tried the usual baits for beetles,” Scholes said. “But we got no results. Then we got an anonymous letter.”

Inspector Halton leaned forward. “What sort of letter?”

“I’ll get it for you,” Scholes said and stood and strode over to the mahogany filing cabinet. “It should be here somewhere.”

“We sold the aether stones all over the Empire,” Gipton said. “Our last shipment had to be cleared by the Foreign Office as we sent it to Siam. It’s best quality stones, and our miners bring out the crystals in bigger pieces than almost anywhere else.” He looked around. “You see that brass plate? That’s from the Siamese foundry.”

Inspector Halton looked around. A huge circular plate the size of a cart’s wheel hung, gleaming in the harsh lights. It was beautifully cast with circles of ornate patterns and figures. “That’s what they sent us. I insist on it, you know, as part of the contract. Scholes Aether Mine Limited gets something from the equipment made with our aether stones, first off the press.”

“You must have a lot of scientific breakthroughs here,” Inspector Halton said. “Aether crystals and aether energy are the latest thing.”

Photo by mdreza jalali on Unsplash

“We don’t get the aether machines,” Gipton said. “And we don’t bother tinkering around with what they can do. But we get what they make. Look at that clock, now. The best timekeeping, aether powered, Swiss made and perfect.” He shook his head. “You can see the scratches on the casing where the biters climbed all over it. It’s a crying shame. I was thinking of asking a craftsman from Chesterfield to refinish it, but that costs money. And money is short!”

Inspector Halton let his eyes wander around the office. It was a large room, expensively carpeted with Persian rugs and with doors in all walls leading to passages and storerooms. Oak filing cabinets ranged around as a frame for the two massive desks in the centre. There were even a few aspidistras in the corners. It looked like a top solicitor’s office. The inspector looked closer. These were the products of the latest discoveries. The desks had mahogany tops, but the frames were the intricate brass latticework being produced by the new aether powered foundries in Benares in India. The leatherbound blotters were stamped with details and designs that showed they came from the best craftsmen in Lucca, Italy. Scientific instruments from Germany, Switzerland and the United States hung, mounted on dark, gleaming wood and resplendent in bright brass bezels. “It’s quite a cosmopolitan selection,” the inspector remarked.

“All exports were cleared by the Foreign Office,” Gipton said quickly. “And the lights and the fire are British made, and top quality with it.”

The inspector looked closer at the polished brass lights. They shed the harsh aether light, as expected, and the gleaming fire threw out plenty of warmth without a stick of wood or lump of coal, as expected from the best in Birmingham. “And you have some supplies here,” Inspector Halton said, nodding at a pile of metal sheets stacked in a corner.

Gipton frowned. “I’m still not sure about them,” he said. “They turned up without a covering letter. Scholes wanted to send them back, but I said that you never know when something like that will be useful, and aluminium is expensive stuff.”

“Aluminium?” Inspector Halton asked. “Isn’t that used to shield aether energy?”

Gipton shrugged. “It may, I don’t know. I get a man out once a month, or did. He does all the adjustments and surveying. But we get all sorts, you know. We had some lovely muslins delivered last summer, fresh from a new mill in Manchester, and I sold those for a good price on Chesterfield market.”

“I can’t find the letter,” Scholes interrupted. “It’s missing.”

“What?” Gipton exclaimed, jumping to his feet and rushing over.

“It’s not here,” Scholes said helplessly.

Photo by Valeria Reverdo on Unsplash

Gipton staggered back to his chair. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “The damned thing was typed, even the signature. He called himself John Bluecap.”

“It was obviously a fake name,” Scholes said. He turned to the inspector. “A blue cap is what the miners call a helpful spirit. They used to leave jars of tea and tobacco out for them.”

“Yes, before the biters,” Gipton said. “This so-called John Bluecap offered to clear the biters out for us, at a cost of £100, sterling.” He pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his face. “I’m not denying that we are, or were, making a good living here, but £100 is a lot of money.”

“Mr Gipton thought it was worth it,” Scholes said. “At least, he agreed to it.”

“How did we know that he didn’t bring the damned things in?” Gipton asked. “He may be the man responsible!”

Scholes ignored this. “He insisted that he wouldn’t be seen. We needed to leave a gate unlocked and unobserved.”

“I wasn’t having that,” Gipton interrupted. “I told young Mr Scholes to wait and keep a lookout.” He glared at Scholes. “I don’t know why I bothered.”

“I wasn’t sure that it was a good idea,” Scholes said. “And in the end, I didn’t get a clear look at him. It was dark, and the lights were out, as no-one was supposed to be here.”

“But you did get to see him?” Inspector Halton asked.

Scholes shrugged. “It wasn’t easy. He slipped through almost before I realised he was there, and hardly made a noise. He was very slim – half starved looking really, with lightish hair, I think. And he had a strange suit on, checked in mustard and crimson, like the barkers you sometimes get at travelling fairs.”

“His queer long coat from heel to head, Was half of yellow and half of red,” quoted Inspector Halton.

“More of that rat fellow?” Gipton snorted.

“Just a few lines from the poem,” the inspector said mildly. “It’s a description of the pied piper.”

“Well he didn’t make any music.”

“At least, not that I heard,” Scholes said. “I didn’t see him leave. And the next morning, most of the biters were gone.”

“And the man had the damned impudence to demand that £100 was left in the stone holes near the old cow shed.” Gipton said. “I saw what he left behind. Most of the biters were in heaps in the water butts and down the stream. He just caught and drowned them.”

“Our business was done at the river’s brink,” Inspector Halton quoted again. He looked at Scholes. “You’re familiar with Browning, of course, if you study your poetry.”

Scholes looked uncertain for a minute, then Gipton interrupted. “It’s not like they were going to come back,” he said. “So I left a five pound note where he said.”

“Very like the story,” the inspector said. “So far this is a civil matter.”

“It’s more than that!” Gipton exclaimed. “We got another letter, this time the damned rascal had the nerve to leave it on my own desk, and no-one seeing it. I was getting the miners set to go back down.”

Scholes looked up from the cabinet drawer. “That letter isn’t here either.”

“This is where he turned nasty,” Gipton said. “He had the cheek to say that if he played fair with me, I should have played fair with him. And that he’d make me pay. That’s a threat, that is!”

Inspector Halton sighed. “What happened next?”

“The mine stopped working,” Scholes said flatly. “Everything went dark.”

“I didn’t think that was possible,” the inspector said, looking between the two men.”

Scholes shrugged. “I know more about Shakespeare than aether energy.”

“And I’m a man of business, not a mucky handed engineer,” Gipton said. He sank back into his chair. “But the miners say that they can only find the aether crystals by the glow. And there is no glow. I’m ruined.”

“Surely it’s not that bad,” Inspector Halton said.

“This is the last month I can pay the bank loans and the wages,” Gipton said. “The few crystals left scattered near the door won’t even bring in enough to cover the hay for the mine ponies. I’m ruined.”

“There are a lot of assets in the office,” Scholes said. “I’m sure you can raise enough for another few months while we work out what to do.” He turned to Inspector Halton. “We’ve tried everything. We’ve put advertisements in all the main papers, local and national. We’ve employed private investigators-”

“And that cost a pretty penny!” Gipton took another mouthful of tea. “I can’t afford another month of this.”

Scholes ignored him. “All we need to do is find this John Bluecap and pay him his £100. But he’s disappeared.”

“I don’t think I have £100 now,” Gipton said. “It’s been months. I’ve the payments on the machinery and the payments on my house in Matlock to make – they all mount up. When I spoke to my brother, in Durban, he reminded me of Colonel Bramley, at Scotland Yard. I thought he would be able to help.”

The inspector leaned back in his chair and looked around. There were indeed goods worth hundreds of pounds in the room. However, buyers were like sharks – they could smell blood in the water. If you had to sell in a hurry, you would be lucky to get half of that value. And as for the missing John Bluecap, there was something extremely fishy about that. “Do you remember anything at all about the letters that may be unusual?” he asked. “For example, what sort of paper and ink was used? Was there a stamp?”

Scholes shook his head. “It was such an odd letter that I really studied it. The paper and ink were just like any other letter. And I’ve been racking my brains ever since, but I’ve thought of nothing.”

Inspector Halton turned to Gipton. “Nothing seems obvious,” he said. “I can make some enquiries…”

Gipton held up his hand. “I’ve made up my mind. When I bought the mine, I put in a clause.”

Scholes shook his head. “Not this again.”

Gipton’s face was set. “And I saw a solicitor this morning. Unless you can pull something out of the bag this afternoon, Inspector Halton, I’m selling the mine back.”

“What do you mean?” the inspector asked.

“Exactly what I say!” Gipton said. “I can’t go on like this. My nerves won’t take it. I’m under doctor’s orders as it is. But all the tonics in the world won’t help, not when I’m ruined and in the workhouse.”

“It needn’t come to that,” Scholes said. “There are other things that can be done here. They take expeditions down the Blue John Mines, up past Hathersage, and they have dinners down there and all sorts. Remember how we lit the town up for the Jubilee? We could make something of it.”

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Gipton shook his head stubbornly. “I don’t know about this aether stuff, and neither do you with your literature. I’m not throwing good money after bad. I’m off, and I’ll be taking my money and buying a ticket to Durban. I’d like to see my creditors find me in South Africa.”

“They’re at war over there!” Inspector Halton exclaimed. “They’re besieging Ladysmith, and that’s not so far from Durban.”

“I’ll tell them that I don’t want any,” Gipton said, “And my brother says that they have cricket. It has to be better over there.”

“Ladysmith has been under siege for months.” Scholes said. “You can’t seriously risk it.”

“I’ve provisionally booked a passage from Southampton,” Gipton said. “All I need is the £500 from you.”

“For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell,” Inspector Halton quoted again from the poem. “What is this £500?”

“It’s not legal,” Scholes said.

“It’s in the contract,” Gipton snapped, “And you haven’t got the money for any solicitor to fight it.” He turned to the inspector. “I bought this farm, fair and square, from Mr Scholes’ poor mother, just after she had been widowed. And she was glad of the money. And I made sure I played fair. I paid a decent price, especially as it needed all the investment to get the mine going, and I put in a clause that young Scholes here would always have a job as long as he wanted.”

Scholes nodded. “My mother was fretting. She thought I should still be able to farm if things went wrong.”

Inspector Halton looked out of the window. He did best in London with the cobbles under his boots, but it didn’t look easy farming country. “How big is this?”

“There’s thirty acres,” Scholes said. “We were doing okay until my father died.”

“It’s a hard life, farming up here,” Gipton said. “Though having a spa town nearby helps out, I suppose. Mrs Scholes followed her husband not long after, poor woman, and I did my duty, didn’t I?”

Inspector Halton was taken aback at the aggression of the last few words and looked over at Scholes. “You built the mine?”

“I looked after young Scholes, as I promised.” Gipton glared at Scholes defiantly. “I paid for school and school books, put clothes on his back and food on the table. It may not have been fancy, but it was good plain stuff, and many would be glad of it.”

Inspector Halton looked over the two men. Scholes was indeed wearing a decent suit, which was clean and pressed, but it was the same as most small clerks wore in the City. Like the hordes that toiled through the underground, Scholes was wearing a cheap suit that he had hoped would last but that was showing signs of age. Gipton was wearing bespoke tailoring. “I see.”

“And he has regular employment here, at a decent wage,” Gipton continued. “I daresay he could make better money in Manchester or Sheffield, as he’s a bright lad, but at least here he can visit his poor mother’s grave after Chapel on a Sunday.”

In other words, the inspector thought, Gipton had done the bare minimum to keep the good opinion of the town. “But what’s this got to do with the £500?”

“It was the deal,” Gipton said. “I said that that if I was supporting the young lad, there had to be something in return. That’s the thing in contract law. There’s supposed to be a benefit on both sides. If things go wrong, I get to sell the whole thing back to young Mr Scholes at the original price, which was £500. That’s the land, the mine and all assets and liabilities.”

“So all the debts,” Inspector Halton said. He looked at Scholes, but the young man was staring blankly into the fire.

“And all the assets,” Gipton said. “The business had taken out extra loans for better equipment just before the beetles turned up – in fact, it was the new drill that broke through to that cavern. And you can see that the stuff in here is worth a few guineas. And there’s still farming.”

“I was thinking of creating a poet’s retreat,” Scholes said. “They can visit the spa in Matlock Bath and then stay here for writing and inspiration.”

“There’s no money in words,” Gipton snapped again. “But I won’t care. I’ll be in Durban, watching the cricket.”

“If the inspector can find John Bluecap…” Scholes began.

Gipton held up a hand. “Having talked it all through now, I can see how it is. A good businessman knows when to cut his losses. I would be grateful for payment at your earliest convenience.”

“Mr Gipton, please,” Scholes began. “Just give us the afternoon at least, to let Inspector Halton look around.”

“Are you still using Mr Gill on Dale Road as your solicitor?” Gipton was not going to be deflected from his purpose.

“Hunter’s Chambers? Yes, he saw my mother’s will and signed for me when she sold this.” Scholes said quietly. “But Mr Gipton…”

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“I’ll be calling on him at noon tomorrow,” Mr Gipton said. “And I’ll either want the address of this Mr Bluecap or a draft for £500.” He jumped to his feet. “These damned beetles everywhere, funny folk calling themselves funny names, aether stones disappearing – I daresay a thousand pounds disappeared out of that cavern, and that’s just the stuff that’s easy to get! Who knows what else was behind those cavern walls? And my investments haven’t been doing so well. The South African mines have almost been brought to a standstill with the Boer War and I’m pretty much a ruined man! I’ve even had tradesmen knocking on my door – my very door! Did you know that the butcher won’t deliver so much as a pound of sausages to my door, not until his account’s been paid? And after I put him in the way of providing the meat for our Christmas dinner.”

“Mr Slack’s bill for the Christmas stuff is still owing,” Scholes murmured in the background.

“My nerves will no longer take it.” Gipton announced. “One thing or another, I’ll see you at Mr Gill’s office at noon tomorrow.” He looked at the inspector. “I’ll take the cab to Matlock and I’ll send it back for you. Perhaps you can find the answer or perhaps you can’t. All this aether nonsense! I can’t take much more at all!”

Inspector Halton sat quietly in the office as he heard Gipton stamping around outside and the clatter of the horse and cab as it trundled down the track towards Matlock. He looked at Scholes still staring at the fire. The gleam of the fire reflected in Scholes’ eyes reminded him of another few lines of the story, ‘and green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled’. He leaned back in the soft leather chair and took a sip of tea. “You played Mr Gipton like a fiddle.”

Scholes was suddenly very still, then he turned. “What do you mean?”

“Anyone can see that he cheated you out of your inheritance. Potential aether mines are changing hands for thousands,” the inspector said as he set his cup down on the nearby desk. “What are the biters?”

“I had nothing to do with those,” Scholes said. “They were there all the time, and they were a nuisance.” The polite smile had vanished. Instead there was a cautious defiance. “I haven’t been studying poetry,” he admitted. “I’ve been studying mining and the new aether engineering.” He leapt to his feet. “Do you know the breakthroughs they are making? Gipton will be sending back the horse and carriage, but in a few years time it could be a carriage that had lost the horses and was pulled along by an aether engine. Or perhaps a low level flyer, just skimming along the track.” He waved his arm around the room. “Have you seen all the breakthroughs around this room? Why aren’t there workshops around here? Why aren’t there forges like Benares, or leatherworkings like Lucca? There are some damned good craftsmen around here, and we can learn to be better. Why not even a better loom for the wool from the hills? Or even better shears?”

“Is that what you would do?”

“I didn’t bring the biters,” Scholes said, “But I did everything else. I even ordered the aluminium. If you run an electrical charge through aluminium, it attracts the beetles and then they get stuck, even after the electricity is removed. I had to drown them to get them off.” He grinned. “Very like the poem. It’s an old fairy story, you know. There’s all sorts of legends about the pied piper destroying the rats and then stealing the children. I thought I’d use the ideas. And it was easy to use the aluminium sheeting to cut down on the energy. It’s impossible to spot without knowing where to look. The crystals are still there.” He looked at the inspector. “What are you going to do?”

Inspector Halton looked around the room. There was a false feeling of business and clever dealing. Gipton had cheated a widow and a young lad, and now it looked like he was leaving a lot of people out of pocket as he ran away from his debts. He ought to call in at the police station at Bank Street and let them know. He ought to let Gipton know his suspicions. On the other hand, he was having a rest cure and couldn’t be expected to be able to spot everything. Just for once, after a career of following the rules, he wanted to do what was right instead of sticking to what was legal. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pocketbook and his card. On the back, he painstakingly transcribed a number and handed it over. “That’s John Farnley’s number, Lord John Farnley. If you can catch him when he’s in England, tell him that I said to call. He won’t mind giving you advice.”

“John Farnley the aether flyer?” Scholes’ eyes were wide with shock and he sank into a chair, holding the small card like fragile crystal. “He knows all there is about aether crystals and engines. He’s…” Scholes voice trailed off.

“He’s a good man,” Inspector Halton said. “But so must you be. We’re setting the slate clean here. You have the £500?”

Scholes nodded, still staring at the cardboard rectangle. “I’ve been very careful with money,” he said. He forced himself to look at Inspector Halton. “You’re not going to say anything?”

The inspector shook his head. “But I expect you to stick to the straight and narrow now. No cheating the miners, no messing about with tricks with beetles, and pay your bills fair and square.”

Scholes nodded. “I think I’ve proved that your sins have a way of finding you out.” He grinned suddenly. “And I’ll remember the last few lines.”

Inspector Halton laughed and quoted the last few lines of Robert Browning’s poem. “So, Willy, let you and me be wipers of scores out with all men — especially pipers: and, whether they pipe us from rats or from mice, if we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Scholes said, and raised his teacup.

Photo by Brian Patrick Tagalog on Unsplash

Iron Railings

“Why do they still use iron railings, Mr Benson?” Ollie worked his shoulders before getting back to rubbing the paint down.

“Hm?” Mr Benson was checking the cans of paint. “Make sure you get a good surface on those railings. Get all the gloss off before we paint it.”

“But why don’t they put in those Perspex panels?” Ollie said. He tried to find a better angle. “Lots of places have those panels. And they don’t need much upkeep.”

“Never try and talk yourself out of a job, lad.” Mr Benson squinted at the fine print on the tins of paint. “It may only be work experience, but it’s better than nothing at all, and it gets you out in the fresh air. If it was them new panels then you wouldn’t need someone to paint them. No, they have to be cold iron.”

Ollie changed hands, now thankful that Mr Benson had insisted on gloves. “Why iron, Mr Benson. Why not wood, if you need to make jobs and keep people out of the ruins.”

“Iron is special.” Mr Benson said, shaking the tin. “It’s long lasting, if you look after it. You can shape it more or less how you like, and it’s been around for a while so you know what to expect.” He looked down at the young lad. “You’re doing alright there, lad. Yes, iron is special. There’s a lot of superstitions about iron, you know. They say fairies and elves can’t stand it.” He paused. “I suppose I can tell you what I learned as an apprentice, when I was about your age. I don’t know how true it is, but it’s what Mr Harvey, the old gaffer, used to say. You see, this was a fine Abbey, very rich, with lots of monks and servants and despite what they say, a lot of good was done as well as a lot of bad. But when the Abbey was closed down by King Henry, something odd happened.” He paused. “Don’t forget to rub under than ledge there with the glass paper.”

Ollie shifted, changing the paper from one hand to the other again as cramp set in. “You mean, like witchcraft?”

“I don’t know about that, just that strange things happened.” Mr Benson looked between the railings. “All I know is that people still see strange lights inside the Abbey at night, when no-one’s supposed to be there. Sometimes iron railings aren’t there to keep people out. Sometimes they’re there to keep something in.”

Clean Door

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I never felt quite comfortable with Elaine. There was something a little off. I recognised her bag as a genuine Chanel and her scarf was Hermes, but her nails were cracked and dirty and there was a dead look in her eyes. It didn’t matter, I needed the job. Times were hard.

“You want all of this cleaning?” I asked. I stared at the battered, graffiti-covered door. “It may well attract graffiti afterwards. I mean, almost straight away. It may be easier to paint over it.”

Elaine shook her head. “I would like the door taken back to the original paint,” she said. Her eyes darted around as she looked for an explanation. “I need to find the original paint for correct restoration.”

That was another thing. When Elaine spoke, she used an accent that I would have put somewhere in the Home Counties, with nothing particularly striking. The way she said the words was as English as Buckingham Palace. The words she used, however, were just that little bit off, like she was translating in her head. Still, these sort of cleaning jobs had dried up recently. “It will take some time,” I said. “I’ll have to go carefully as well. It’s an old building and the wood may not be sound. I may have to use specialist cleaners.” It was a rundown building in a rough part of town. This alley was the back of closed shops, empty sheds and long disused garages. It wasn’t worth the effort, but who was I to argue with the fee she was paying.

“As long as you are thorough,” Elaine said. “And you requested half of the fee in advance.” She handed me a bulky envelope which I hastily stuffed inside my jacket.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll start this afternoon.”

I got back into the van and discreetly checked the envelope. The notes all looked genuine, but it was the same strange jumble. They hadn’t gone to a bank and withdrawn the cash in neat bundles. Instead it was a mishmash of notes of all denominations and conditions. I checked a few with the pen that I had picked up but couldn’t find a fake. My instincts were screaming at me to run, but I had rent and the van payments to consider and no other jobs on the horizon. I carefully stashed the money under the toolbox in the back and went to inspect the door.

I didn’t believe for a second that Elaine really cared about the original paint, but I took pride in my work and I took pains. If you have the right product, it’s not a hard job, but it took some time as I was washing off the chemicals between scrubbing the layers. I wondered if I would get in trouble with the gangs. It didn’t seem that sort of street, but I could feel an uneasy prickle between my shoulder blades as I worked, as if I was being watched. It didn’t matter. I needed this very generous payment.

The last layer was the worst. It was some strange signs that I had never seen before, not in years of graffiti removal. I squinted at them and took a picture on my phone. It looked like some strange writing, or a collection of symbols that should have been on ancient monuments, not a scruffy doorway in Leeds. I sent it to Kate at the University. She was into odd languages and perhaps could tell me who had tagged this.

It was getting dark as I finished. The usual chemicals hadn’t worked on the last layer but I fell back on the old faithful mixture of washing up liquid and biological laundry detergent. Eventually even that last tag was wiped away and the mushroom coloured door was left clean in glory just as the streetlights came on. It had been easy money, really, and I felt a twinge of conscience at the amount I had overcharged, but I had done a good job and the door gleamed.

My phone vibrated and I pulled it out of my pocket to check the text. I smiled. Kate had got back to me telling me not to wipe off the last layer, under any circumstances. I had to wait until she got there. Well that was too late. I sent back a pic of the immaculate door just as it was opening. I wasn’t expecting that. I hoped that the guy inside wasn’t upset at the change in his doorway.

Elaine appeared at my side, making me jump. “You have done well, especially with that last layer.”

“It was a little tricky,” I said. I fought with myself for a moment, and my conscience lost. “I needed some extra chemicals that I hadn’t accounted for in the quote for the job. I think…” I trailed off.

The man stepping out of the door looked barely human. Grey skin stretched tautly over sharp cheekbones and his eyes were red-rimmed and sunken. Great, I thought, a junkie. The elderly overcoat hung loosely on his tall frame and he swayed a little as staggered down the steps.

“Is that your door, mate?” I asked carefully.

He ignored me and turned to Elaine. “You have done well, my dear. You shall be rewarded.

My phone started ringing. Automatically I pulled it out of my pocket. It could be work. “Excuse me,” I said to Elaine. It was Kate.

“You need to get out of there, now!” Kate yelled frantically. “Just go!”

“I’m just finishing up now,” I said. “I’ll get my money and I’ll be over straight away.”

“Don’t wait for the money!” Kate screamed.

With unexpected, snake-like speed, Elaine pulled the phone out of my hand and ended the call. “You have done a wonderful piece of work,” she said, with a chilling smile.

I looked back at the door. That last layer of graffiti, that last bit of paint. It hadn’t been graffiti. I could feel the realisation flowing through me like ice water. It had been a warning.

“You removed the lock on the door,” the man said, also smiling. “Now you need to find what you have freed.”

I watched as the man’s smile changed, his teeth lengthened and his jaws gaped. I screamed and screamed as he stepped closer. And as his teeth fastened on my neck, everything went black.

Almost October

It’s nearly October!!!

Photo by Katerina Kerdi on Unsplash

I get giddy at this time of year, ridiculously so. I love autumn, the cosy nights drawing in, the weather getting fresher, and the wonderful display of colours as the trees shed their leaves. And, yeah, I’m a sucker for all the spooky stuff that starts spilling out everywhere.

Years ago I took part in the October Frights Blog Hop, run by the amazing AF Stewart, which got me hooked on writing for October. Last year I ran an entire month of stories about Kane, full of opinionated ghosts and bewildered mortals. This, with some new material, translated into An Apprenticeship of Ghosts and I’m currently working on a sequel.

It's compulsory for an author to put in a link, so here it is

I have a lot of short stories kicking around that are set in what you could consider is outside the ‘real’ world. Some are plain horror stories, others are set in the world of the White Hart, while some are just a little supernatural. I’ve decided to group them all together for a month of spooky stories, I’m throwing in some new pieces as well, and they’ll later be grouped together in a collection that will appear on Amazon probably near Christmas. I hope that you enjoy them, and I apologise in advance for the extra notifications. Fortunately for the sake of people’s inboxes, I won’t be publishing most of them on Substack, just on the two writing blogs.

And speaking of Substack, the routine that I’m trying to develop is to publish a little chat or news article once a week on a Wednesday. It may be one of my Research and the Author articles, or perhaps news of any publishing that’s happening. Except for this October, I have four Wednesdays and a commitment to stories. So on those four Wednesdays, there’ll be a linked set of stories with a focus on supernatural creatures, and those are the only stories that will make it to Substack.

Photo by Natasha Kovtun🇺🇦 on Unsplash
And just in case, with another author link, here is a link to my Substack account

And still speaking of Substack, the instalments of The Guest are lagging a little behind on Substack. To make things easier, I’ll be bringing them all out at once, so the decks are cleared. That also gives me time to set up The Guest for publication on Amazon.

This brings me on to things that will happen in October. Tomorrow, on 1^st October 2026, I’ll be closing my Draft2Digital account which leaves all of my published work on Amazon. I’m tentatively looking into alternatives, but it’s low on the list as I try and tidy everything up to make a clear space for me to write fun new stuff which may or may not include werewolves. It is, however, still on the list, and I’m happy to hear any suggestions.

The 31^st October 2026 is a little busy for me. That’s the day that I close my Royal Road account and take down The Guest. It’s also the day that I stop posting on my Wordpress account, apart from occasional reminders that I’ve transferred over to Blogger.

Photo by charlesdeluvio on Unsplash

This October is a big step for me, and, as usual, I have no idea what will happen next. But I’m more than happy to hear opinions and ideas so please leave a comment and let me know what you think.

The Final Feast of the Year

Photo by Jed Owen on Unsplash

You can read the story so far from the beginning here

The kitchen was in chaos. Hilary sat at one end of the huge kitchen table, keeping her head down as she worked her way through her lists, ignoring the heated discussions.

“That is not a recipe recognised as brandy butter,” Bracken insisted.

“I have been cooking since before your mother was born,” Auntie Ivy snapped.

“I is cooking better,” Bracken replied. “I cook meals.”

“Don’t you talk back to me!” Auntie Ivy waved a finger at Bracken. “You add that nutmeg into that mix.”

“I is using orange as the recipe requires,” Bracken yelled.

Hilary sighed, not for the first time that afternoon. “Do both,” she called across the table. The two brownies turned and glared at her. “Split the butter and brandy mixture into two and flavour one with orange and one with nutmeg.” Hilary made a note on a separate piece of paper. “Nobody’s going to taste either, though. I saw how much brandy was added, and people will be too drunk to notice.”

There was a pause. Auntie Ivy was the first to break it. “I shall find a bowl for my share of the butter and brandy mixture,” she announced.

“I shall bring nutmeg and orange to the table,” Bracken added.

Hilary sighed, then looked up as the kitchen door opened. Paul strode in carrying a large box. “What’s that?”

“Jed heard about what happened,” Paul said. “He says that he can feel the difference in his shop. He said that Marlene insisted.”

“Jed always uses Marlene as an excuse,” Hilary said. “What’s in the box?”

Paul dropped the box at the end of the table. “He said that he’d drop the rest off later. But at least I remembered to pick up the pickled beetroot, like you asked.” He held up a small bag that clanked as it swung, the jars jostling inside.

Hilary pushed herself to her feet. “I can’t believe that the Village Stores ran out of pickled beetroot,” she said, opening the cardboard box. “Oh!”

Bracken and Auntie Ivy peered over Hilary’s shoulder. “We will have meat for a week!” Bracken said.

“Of course, if we’re careful, we could stretch it,” Auntie Ivy said. “That large ham could be part of a hash, or in a crumble with a nice sauce.”

“Of course I is respecting Mistress Hilary’s wishes,” Bracken said. “But I would propose that the fine ham is eaten just by itself, in a sandwich or on a plate with fried potatoes, as it looks so good.”

“But the trimmings could be used to add depth to a beef casserole, or perhaps in a pasta dish.” Auntie Ivy had only recently been introduced to pasta, but she had thoroughly embraced it. “Pasta sauces seem to be able to take anything.”

“I think strongly that the beef should be roasted,” Bracken said, pointing to the huge slab of tenderloin. “Remnants could be minced with ham trimmings and served in a nice sauce, like the books.”

Hilary sighed again. “There isn’t a scrap of room in the fridge,” she said. “There have been gifts coming all morning.”

“I’ll take it down to the fridges at the Village Stores,” Paul said. “There’s plenty of room there.”

“And the food should be shared between everyone,” Hilary said. “I mean, all of Lord Peregrine’s court and Alison, because everyone helped out.” Her shoulders slumped as she went back to her chair. “Which means that we may as well have the Twelve Days of Christmas here.”

“That’s a stretch,” Paul said.

“Look in the fridge, when you have a moment,” Hilary said. “It’s chock full. I’d already stocked up for the Solstice feast and the farms have been sending all sorts. The pantry is full, and I’ve been using the old laundry room as a cold store for the nets of cabbages and sacks of potatoes. There is enough here to celebrate properly for weeks.”

“I’ll have a quick look through the fridge,” Paul said. “And I’ll move what I can down to the stores. There’s a box of bacon and sausages still in the car, and I think that they should be up here.”

Hilary looked up as Lord Peregrine slid into the chair next to her. His arm was still bandaged and his face was bruised, but the mischief in his eyes showed that he was on the way to recovery. “You heard that?”

“Are you sure that you will not resent it?” Lord Peregrine asked.

Hilary thought for a moment. “I could, of course,” she said. “But I choose not to.” She gently turned over his free hand and looked at the burn marks zigzagging across his palm and up under his sleeve. “We all worked against it, and the men who turned over the stones got hurt. Magnus is still limping and Tom has gone to Alison’s house to let his ribs heal. You got banged up as well, and I’m not sure what happened to Cabus, but I know that he suffered.” She smoothed her hand slowly over Lord Peregrine’s sleeve. “If everyone was hurt in one way or another, everyone should share the rewards. And there’s so much food being delivered that this household will never eat it all.” She laughed. “And if we celebrate here, my house is going to be cleaned within an inch of its life.”

Lord Peregrine looked over at Bracken and Auntie Ivy who had decided that they would settle on orange, quickly beaten in, before turning out every room that they could find. “Indeed. And decorated. Auntie Olive had been instructing Alison and Tom where to put the boughs of holly and fir around the house. I hope that you didn’t hope for a modern look.”

Hilary shook her head. “Let them enjoy themselves now that everything is safe.” She paused and looked at Lord Peregrine suspiciously. “Everything is safe, isn’t it?”

Lord Peregrine carefully avoided her eyes. “Two magical explosions in a relatively short span of time could well shake something loose,” he said. “But I have no information.” He patted Hilary’s hand. “And I’ll bring out the great marquee and pitch it in the field at the back of the Village Stores. On Twelfth Night, we’ll invite all of the village and feast, the last feast of the year.” He smiled happily. “Everyone will work together and you won’t have to clean up afterwards.”

Hilary turned as Paul called her over. “Can you check something for me,” he asked.

Hilary followed him along the hall, past the library that had been cleaned within an inch of its life and into the sewing room. “This is beautiful!” she said, taking in all of the greenery hung around the room.

“It’s a sort of test room,” Paul said. “If you like this, then we’ll do the rest of the house like it.”

“How could I not like it?” Hilary said, turning around. Thick boughs of fir and holly hung over the mantelpiece and windows, and trails of glistening ivy wound over the picture rail.

“Auntie Olive did something with Epsom salts,” Paul said. “And there’s bound to be more crafted stuff added.”

“It’s perfect,” Hilary said, moving into the centre of the room.

“Look up,” Paul said, stepping close.

Hilary looked up and laughed as she saw the mistletoe. “Are we having mistletoe in every room?” she asked. “There’ll be kissing everywhere.”

“I hope so,” Paul said, and he leant in and kissed Hilary thoroughly on the mouth. “We won’t get a lick of peace over the holidays, but after that, I’m looking forward to enjoying the calm. I think we’ve earned a quiet few months.”

Hilary leaned against him and sighed. “We’ve earned the quiet, but whether we’ll get it is another matter,” she said.

“We’ll make time,” Paul said. “After the final feast of the year.”

Making Mindful Changes

 

Photo by Kim Stewart on Unsplash
The sort of calm that I aspire to instead of the chaos that usually reigns

I wrote an article, I read it back, and it’s kind of dull. I want a bit of life in my writing, but when I read it back, it was meh. So I’ll start with the To-Long-Didn’t-Read summary and leave the rather limp but proper article attached. So, in summary:

1. I have no idea how to punctuate this part, and I didn’t realise that there were fancy things for lists, but now I know! Lists are no longer safe
2. The last instalment of The Guest is 28^th September 2026, if all goes well. There’s a reasonable chance it will appear on time despite my track record. That is the last piece of fiction that I’ll post on Substack and Royal Road. There may or may not be a sigh of relief from those sites, but I’ve got more bewildered by the week trying to keep track of everything, so I’m cutting a lot out. News and articles will still be posted on Substack, which will be acting as my newsletter.
3. I close my Draft2Digital account on 1^st October 2026. I’d like to think that I’m special, but I’ve got the sense that there’s a stampede of authors leaving them. And I say that I’m closing the account then, but I fail with tech, I fail with complicated procedures with websites, and I get the sense that the Draft2Digital helpline may get a little congested, but my account should disappear some time around the beginning of October 2026. It’s a shame, because it was once a site that I truly trusted.
4. I start the month long daily posting of spooky or not-our-world stories on 1^st October 2026 and I apologise for the excess of Wordpress notifications.
5. On 31^st October I get busy and I close my Royal Road account. I ought to feel a sense of loss, but I’ve never settled there. I’m an old lass and a square peg in a round hole there. I ought to make more of an effort, but I don’t have the time, energy, or understanding of LitRPG, so it goes. At the same time, I’ll take down The Guest from all blogs and translate it to Amazon. I have absolutely no idea how long that will take. Watch this space.
6. That day, 31^st October 2026, is also the last day that I’ll post on my Wordpress blog. I ought to feel sadder about it. Instead, it will be one less complication.
7. I’ll start a new fiction series on 2^nd November 2026, the first Monday in the month. I’m currently undecided whether it should be a sequel to The Guest or whether I should go Steampunk. Comments on this welcome. Going from a cosy kitchen to the dismal East End of London, awash with vampires and dark deeds, may be a step too far. I may, of course, decide on something entirely different. If you’ve followed me for any length of time, you’ll know that the chances of me sticking to a plan are lower than a soccer club winning the Superbowl.
8. On 30^th November 2026 there will be a cull of fiction from my blogs. I’ll take down Under Dark Hills, Invitation Accepted and all the stories that I published in October 2026, once again with a view to translate to Amazon. Then things should calm down…
9. I think that’s everything covered. Read on if you feel like it, comment if you think that I’m missing something, and know that I’m trying to play fair with my readers and I’ll answer any questions about my writing that you have.

Now the long version.

It’s coming to the end of September, and I’m finally getting around to the word of the year. I’ve seen so many people choose a word that gives them direction and purpose, and I chose Mindful. And I’ve been anything but since. That’s changing now.

It started with me actually thinking about my writing blog, and how comfortable, or otherwise, I felt with it. That led to a massive shift from Wordpress to Blogger, and after 31^st October 2026, I will not be publishing new content on Wordpress. I pay for its upkeep and the site name, and once this year’s payment runs out, the Wordpress content will disappear. I’ve gone through most of the 600 posts, but I plan a double check, probably after Christmas, to pick up any strays.

I’ve also made the choice to shift a lot of the stories from my blog into books, to try and keep them. I fret about losing them to computer malfunction and forgotten blog pages. I’ve an uneasy suspicion that I’ve got some stories still missing, but it is what it is. It’s part of the Mindful thing. Stories kicking around on my blog feel like a weight, like I should be doing something with them. Once something has been published, it’s set in stone and I can’t bother with it anymore. The weight of that story disappears. Once I’ve got Further Tales from the White Hart out, which will be published as a collection with Dark Pictures and Back at the White Hart, I’ll be publishing the collected spooky or alternate stories that I’ll be publishing every day in October – a lot of old stories, but some new ones sprinkled in after the end of November. I’ll also be publishing Under Dark Hills, Invitation Accepted, and The Guest, though I’ll leave The Guest up for at least a month once the story has finished before transitioning to book.

And speaking of The Guest, on Monday I published an instalment on Blogger, Wordpress, Substack, and Royal Road. That is too much and it’s easy for posts and comments to slip through the cracks. After The Guest is finished, I’ll stop publishing fiction on Substack. After all, I went there to make a newsletter, not to add to the mental load. I’ll stick to news and chat, with the occasional article thrown in, probably on Wednesdays. It’s still worth subscribing to me there, as that’s where you can subscribe to newsletter style emails.

Royal Road is a little different. It’s a great site, and I wrote the majority of The Guest in a concerted effort in their November challenge last year, but it’s not really a good fit with my writing. There’s a lot of LitRPG fiction on there, which I’ve never got the hang of. I can’t contribute properly, and I’ve failed at interacting. It’s distracting me, and there’s no benefit for anyone, so I’m closing my account there on 31^st October 2026.

My hope is that after 31^st October 2026, I’ll only publish fiction on the Blogger version of Always Another Chapter, and news, chat, and articles there and on Substack. That should clear a lot of clutter in my mind. If I also clear the clutter and get those blog stories onto Amazon, it should, I hope, allow me to be mindful, intentional, and write a whole load of new stories. And while I’m sorry that I’m not working harder at the Draft2Digital side, and I’ll be closing my account there from 1^st October 2026, again, it makes space in my thoughts and I can come back to that word, Mindful.

Please keep your fingers crossed that it all goes smoothly. It has to happen at some time, right?

Explosive

 

Photo by Chiara Guercio on Unsplash

You can read the story so far from the beginning here

Hilary sagged in her kitchen chair and ran a tired hand over her face. “I’m going to have to chase Lord Peregrine out of the house with a broom,” she said. “It’s going to be like one of those cartoons.”

Samgan chuckled. “What is happening now?”

“He’s talking about the Imbolc celebration in February!” Hilary sagged further. “He wants to have it here because my home is nicer."

Cabus smiled and sat next to Samgan, across from Hilary. “I would surrender now, Mistress Hilary. You know that Lord Peregrine will get his way.”

Hilary narrowed her eyes. “I’m not giving up without a fight. I’m going to get one of those spray bottles that they use on cats. Maybe that will deter him.”

Samgan laughed out loud. “There would be a queue of people who would pay to see that happen,” he said. “I fear, however, that it would be ineffective. You should start considering what to do for the feast at Imbolc.”

“I’m considering nothing,” Hilary said, then smiled. “I don’t know why I’m bothering to argue, though. It’s done no good so far.” She looked out of the window. “It’s dark already. The nights are really drawing in. I’m going to start dinner as they’ll be back from the shop before we know it.” She caught the question in Samgan’s eyes. “I’m making corned beef hash. It’s not too fancy and it’s lovely and warming.”

“With baked beans and fried mushrooms?” Samgan asked. “Or cabbages braised with caraway and carrots?”

“I’m happy to assist with peeling the potatoes,” Cabus said. “I need a break after working on the notebooks. It’s a fascinating study, but I’m overloaded.”

Hilary smiled. “That would be helpful, thank you,” she said. “At this time of year…”

There was an echoing bang from outside, coming from the far end of the garden. Hilary started, knocking her half-drunk mug of tea over, the hot liquid spilling across the tablecloth. All the cupboard doors flew open and the kitchen taps turned on, the water hitting the sink with noisy force as the flames from the stove suddenly roared up the chimney. Samgan fell off his chair and lay curled on the floor, holding his head. Cabus’ eyes flamed red and his fangs grew. He stared down at his hands as claws slid out from his fingers and the palms of his hands roughened with hair. Hilary found herself holding onto the table as a tidal wave of twisted magical energy flowed through the room, sparking and snapping when it hit the wards, then ebbing out down the hall towards the cellar.

“What was that?” Hilary gasped out, pushing herself to her feet and carefully walking across the room to turn off the taps.

Samgan struggled to his feet and winced. “I cannot believe that it was beneficial,” he said. “Cabus, do you need assistance?”

Cabus looked more normal, and was sitting rigidly, his eyes closed and his hands flat and face down on the table. “There was a pulse of power from the stones,” he murmured. “I need a moment.”

Hilary whirled around as the kitchen door flew open. “Lord Peregrine!”

The fae stumbled into the kitchen. His coat was torn and his trousers were liberally streaked with mud. He looked at Hilary with wide, wild eyes. “I may have been in error,” he said.

Hilary rushed over and guided him onto a chair. “Are you hurt?”

Lord Peregrine looked at her, his eyes slowly focusing. “I could manage a brandy,” he said.

“That’s not what I asked,” Hilary said, checking him over. “You look like you’ve been in a fight.”

“That brandy…” Lord Peregrine said.

“You’re not supposed to give brandy for shock anymore,” Hilary said sternly. “Samgan, please could you fetch the bottle of brandy from the dining room.” She patted Lord Peregrine’s hand. “I’m not giving you the cooking brandy. And I’m making you a cup of tea as well.” She rested her hand on his shoulder for a moment before filling the kettle.

“I’ve only myself to blame,” Lord Peregrine said. He shook his head, still slightly dazed. “I thought that if I bled off some of the power building in the stones, it would make things easier. It gets so intense this time of year.” He took the bottle of brandy from Samgan. “I thought that with a sudden loss of power, there’d be a little slack in the tension, a little ease that could help when we move the stones.”

“Use a glass!” Hilary said, setting a tumbler sharply in front of Lord Peregrine as he took a long swallow from the bottle.

“Must I?” Lord Peregrine sighed as he poured a hefty measure into the glass.

“You must!” Hilary insisted. “And what happened? You tried to get rid of some of the energy, and it went wrong?”

Cabus brought his own glass and poured an equally large measure. “Only Lord Peregrine is strong enough to even consider doing such a thing,” he said. He took a large swallow and coughed a little. “But it wasn’t correctly directed.”

Lord Peregrine grimaced. “There was a lot of power, and I’d allowed for it. But I hadn’t allowed for the malice in the power. It was twisting like a cat being baptised.”

“There was feedback, wasn’t there?” Cabus clutched hold of his glass. “It felt awful.”

Lord Peregrine took another drink. “If it felt bad here, in this warded space, think how I felt in the centre of it.” He shook his head again. “My ears are still ringing.”

“How may we restore you?” Samgan asked urgently.

“I need a few moments, this good brandy and the tea that is no doubt about to appear in front of me,” Lord Peregrine said. “And I need to stay for dinner. But not much longer.”

“I concur,” Cabus said. “You amplified everything. I can feel the vibrations from the stones, even in here. They’ll have to be moved tonight.”

“Make us something with plenty of meat, Mistress Hilary,” Lord Peregrine said. “And hearty with it. Those working on the stones will need to be grounded and have plenty of fuel inside them.” He took another mouthful of brandy. “Please call the Village Stores and ask them to shut early. Put the call out and get everyone here. We cannot delay.”

***

Alison looked at the heaped pile of dirty dishes in the kitchen. “You need a dishwasher,” she said. “You’ve just fed half the village. You shouldn’t have to wash up as well.” She glanced out of the window. “And it’s not as if the men can help, not if they’re out there, digging up those stones.”

“It’s not usually this bad,” Hilary said. “And I don’t really have room.”

“You could make room,” Alison said. “The kitchen is enormous. I’m sure that you could manage something if you really wanted.”

“I do not approve of the dishwasher,” Bracken said. “It lacks precision.” She rolled up her sleeves and started to run water into the sink.

Alison grabbed a tea towel. “I couldn’t manage without mine,” she said.

Hilary picked up another tea towel. “You need to save every moment to spend with your sons,” she said. “We have a long wait and a lot of worrying to do. Washing up keeps the hands busy.”

“And it helps keep you and I grounded,” Paul said. “We have to keep moving and talking. We can’t risk getting influenced by whatever is in that cellar.”

Alison looked towards the kitchen door. “I feel like a liability. And I can’t even help outside with the stones. I know I’m not strong like the werewolves, or Cabus and Lord Peregrine, but surely I could be some help.” She shivered as rain rattled against the window. “I can’t help feeling guilty being safe in the warm like this while they’re all out there in that dreadful weather, and who knows what could happen to them.”

Paul nodded. “I know,” he said with infinite understanding. “All we can do is clean up, keep the room warm and have good food and drink ready for their return.”

“And towels and hot water,” Bracken said. “With all things neat and tidy and in their place.”

“Besides,” Paul said, looking over at Samgan. “We may be needed for reinforcements. We get things set up in here, and we stay ready.”

***

“We start nearest to Rowan Cottage and work out,” Cabus said. “I think all of us can feel how the magic is twisting, so don’t bother trying to be fancy. We just get the stones out of the ground as quickly as we may. As long as they’re moved at least a hand’s span away from their original hole, it should break the connection.”

“My attempt to divert power may have backfired,” Lord Peregrine said. “In fact, the feedback loop has made things a little more intense.” He raised an eyebrow at the groans among the werewolves. “But it’s rattled the original links between the stones. Just that movement will do it, just a few inches or centimetres or acorns away from the original placement and out of the ground, ideally on their side.”

“We can split into teams,” Magnus said. “No-one knows what’s going to happen.” He grimaced as a gust of wind drove icy rain into his face. “We may as well start wide, and we can change if we have to.”

Lord Peregrine nodded. “That’s an excellent idea. We’ll start with…” he ran a quick count over the group. “We can start with two teams of four. I’m not sure how hard it will be to move the stones, but I’m sure that a group of four can manage.” He nodded at Cabus. “No time like the present.” He strode over to the nearest stone and drove his crowbar deep against one side. An unexpected and unnatural clap of thunder rattled around the clearing. “I must be doing something right.”

“Over there!” Tom pointed through the trees.

A glowing shape, framed in ethereal sparks, stood next to a stone. A sudden weight of magical energy pressed against them, a thick fog settling on their minds and stifling their movements. Magnus threw back his head and roared. “The hell with this!” He ran to the next stone and started working. “They’re not that deep.”

Cabus stared. “The figure. It’s changed.” The mental blanket suffocating them eased a little as the glowing figure split, one figure advancing on Lord Peregrine and another heading towards Magnus. “They’re splitting their power. Everyone take a stone!”

Cabus hung back as the rest scattered, checking that no stone was missed. “Keep moving!” he yelled. He muttered a charm and one of the figures fell back a little. “As soon as you’ve broken a stone, move on to the next.” With a grunt of effort, Lord Peregrine toppled the first stone out of its place. A figure disappeared, and the pressure eased, but what felt like a wave of fire ran through their bones before dissipating.

Magnus took a moment to recover, leaning on his crowbar. “Better or worse, we can’t stop,” he snarled. “Keep going.” With a final heave, his stone lifted out of its place and rolled an arm’s length away. A sense of an electric shock ran through all the men, leaving them shaking, but still determined. “Cabus, where’s the next stone. We’ll get this finished and clean out these woods.”

Photo by Jack Ward on Unsplash

***

Bracken peered out of the window. “It looks fierce out there.”

“I can feel it,” Hilary said, sitting carefully down on the nearest kitchen chair. “How about you, Paul? Are you feeling anything?” She looked carefully at Paul. “Paul?” She looked at the woman sitting across the table from him. “Alison?”

Neither looked up. Both sat, their faces blank and their hands neatly folded on the table in front of them. “I fear that they are not with us,” Samgan said. “If this room was not stringently warded, things could be dangerous.”

“Or if that thing in the cellar was more focused.” Hilary grabbed the cooking salt from the cupboard and quickly poured a thin trail of it around the table. “It’s already outside, we can see the sparks. I bet that it wants to get Paul and Alison working against us, but hasn’t got the strength to make them do something, just the strength to get into a place where it’s been before.”

“The salt is working. They are stirring a little, but far from free,” Samgan said. “I believe that you are correct.” He knelt and touched the salt and a tang of ozone filled the air.

“Keep an eye on them, Samgan,” Hilary said. “Bracken, I want you to fetch all the cooking salt from the stores. I need to grab something from my workroom.”

There was a slimy feel to the air in the hall as Hilary hurried to her workroom. A hint of sulphur and decay hung heavy, and she could hear banging from the direction of the library. She grabbed up her supplies and ran back to the kitchen. “We can’t carry on like this,” she said. “I’ve had enough!”

“That is how they find weakness,” Samgan warned. “You are pushed and pushed and pushed until you reach breaking point and act rashly. You must take care.”

“No, I really don’t think so,” Hilary said. She caught up a huge serving dish and put it between Paul and Alison. “I’m going to act while whatever is in the cellar is distracted. I've been thinking about this.” She tipped crystals from a silk bag into the dish and sprinkled them with salt. “Samgan, can you get this incense going.” She put the burner, charcoal and jar of incense on the table next to Paul. “Don’t put the burner on the bare wood!” She raced out to the utility room. The air was icy in here and there was a stench of foul water and slime as she pulled out the hose that she’d used so often on Tom after his muddy runs. As an afterthought, she picked up a large tub of the ice and grit that she’d got to salt the paths, before hurrying back to the kitchen.

“There should be no risk of fire,” Samgan said, then swore as all the lights went out. “I shall light a battery powered lamp.”

“What happened?” Paul asked. “Did we do anything?”

Hilary shook her head. “Whatever’s down there has its attention split too many ways.” She hurried around, switching on the battery lanterns and grabbing a headlight for herself. Outside, the rain drummed hard against the window and there was an unnerving bang. “You two stay here, inside that circle. I won’t be long. Samgan, Bracken, I need your help.” She handed over a headlight to each. “Are you with me?”

Bracken swallowed convulsively, but there was determination on her pale face. “There is much mess and disorder, which I cannot tolerate,” she said firmly. “Of course I shall help.”

“And I remain in your debt,” Samgan said softly. He squared his shoulders. “And I, too, can no longer tolerate this state of affairs.”

“Follow me.” Hilary took a deep breath and marched out of the kitchen. “Shut the door behind us,” she said. “I want to keep as many barriers as possible between us and Paul and Alison.”

“They wouldn’t wish to hurt us, but we cannot risk unexpected attack,” Samgan said quietly.

“Besides, the hall is freezing,” Hilary said pragmatically. “They may as well keep the warmth in the kitchen. I have a plan.” She looked quickly back at Samgan and Bracken. “It’s scary, and I don’t know if we can make it work, but whatever’s down there has its attention split. I think it’s out best chance.”

There was an echoing bang from outside. “I owe loyalty to both you and Lord Peregrine,” Samgan said quietly. “We will make it work.”

“You took me in and taught me to cook,” Bracken said. “And you paid and you paid with kindness. I has fear,” she admitted. “But I will no longer tolerate this mess.”

“Okay.” Hilary gathered up her mental strength. “Let’s get into the library.”

Hilary had repeatedly locked the library door, to no avail. It stood ajar now, a musty, dank smell spilling out into the hall. She pushed the door wide and stepped in. The library looked dismal in the glow of the headlights. A film of dust covered everything, and a faint, oily sheen coated the window. Most of the books were still on the shelves, but a few were tumbled around on the floor and the stench of damp, dirty paper was almost overwhelming. “Stay close,” she murmured.

“There will be so much to do before the Solstice feast,” Bracken said. “May I ask Auntie Olive and Auntie Ivy for assistance?”

“As long as they do what you tell them,” Hilary said, barely registering the words as she crept towards the cellar door.

Samgan casually tipped the heavy library table on its side. “We must take care and ensure that the door stays open,” he said. “I do not wish to be trapped again.”

“Good idea,” Hilary said, waiting for him to jam the secret door open before starting down the stone steps. “You know what to do?”

“We do,” Bracken said, uncomfortably close behind her. Outside there was another bang and a pained howl. “We must do something and I think we must do it now.”

Taking all her courage, Hilary slipped the coil of the hose over her shoulder and meticulously picked her way down the stairs. There was an unhealthy sheen on them, though the walls were coated in unpleasant, dusty clumps. “There’s a light on downstairs,” she said.

“No, it is not electrical light,” Samgan said softly. “None of the electrical lights are working. All we can say is that there is light.”

“That’s not reassuring,” Hilary said, reaching the bottom of the steps. “And it’s coming from the ritual room. Okay, let’s go.” She handed over the end of the hose to Bracken who sprinted across to the sink in the corner. Hilary hurried across to the ritual room, pushing past the wall of fear and horror that was sweeping through her. The stink of death filled the air as she pushed into the room and ripped the lid off the bucket of salt and grit. Then she stuttered to a halt.

“This is my place,” a shadow said from the corner. “It has been my place for so long. It will always be my place.” In the depths of the dark, where the headlights couldn’t penetrate, a dark, sadistic smile flashed. “And your fear is nourishment, so much nourishment. I could dine on you for a lifetime. That is, your lifetime.” There was a hint of a dark chuckle. “I believe that two of you could sustain me for some time. I could send one of you back, deranged and damaged, as a warning.” The dark chuckle sounded again. “Who should be released and who should suffer? How should I decide?”

It felt like ice slithering over Hilary’s skin. She’d brought her friends down, she’d brought down people she owed a duty of care, and now it was for nothing. The darkness was overwhelming, the power was too much. How could she have thought that there was any point in this? She was helpless. Vaguely she could hear a sob torn from Bracken and she thought that the low moaning came from Samgan. Her shoulders slumped as despair stabbed through her. The bucket of salt and grit tilted in her grasp and some spilled out over her hand. The sensation of burning icicles driving into her hand shocked Hilary, a frosty chill sliding into her mind and leaving her alert, unencumbered by fear, and furious. She hurled the salt and grit from the bucket, a wide swathe arcing across the intricate patterns on the floor and landing with a hiss. “Bracken, the hose!”

“I am ready,” Samgan said at her side. “How dare he!”

“I has turned it,” Bracken called. “The water is moving.”

Hilary turned the nozzle to jet and aimed at the centre of the circle. “Brace!” she called. “Samgan, on my mark!”

“Ready!” Samgan answered, his voice filled with purpose.

A howl echoed in the corner. “All to me, all parts, all to me!”

“Get ready!” Hilary sprayed the water over the salt and grit, scouring the intricate markings which melted in the onslaught. “I’m almost there.” More and more of the circle faded under the water.

“I forbid this!” The voice echoed and a chill slid into the room. The marks stopped melting as the water froze, the ice crystals gleaming in the light of the headlights. “This will stop.”

Hilary could barely hold the hose as the chill crushed her. She hunched over, desperately trying to keep her grip. “Now, Samgan, while the water’s still running.”

There was a deep groan from Samgan as he stretched pale hands out, but he didn’t flinch as he pulled at the hanging nearest to him, his supernatural strength dragging the railing down with it. Hilary turned the hose on the inscriptions, washing them away.

“No! My brother’s! Help me!” The scream was shrill and the temperature was rising fast. The ice was melting and the circle was almost gone. “Help!”

Translucent shadows flicked through the room, coalescing in the corner. A pulse of dread pushed out, but Hilary was relentless. Samgan moved behind her, crossing to the other side of the room to grab the hanging rail.

“Leave ussss!” There was an unpleasant echo in the voice. “Leave us here and we can grant much wisdom, many secrets. We can give power to those who spare us. No!”

Steam was rising from the water. “This water is much more hot than expected,” Bracken said, rushing in with a mop.

“Don’t touch the water!” Hilary said. “Samgan, go for it.” He pulled the rail entirely from the wall, letting it drop and leaving the hangings damp and muddled on the floor. Hilary didn’t hesitate. “Move back, Samgan,” she called as she sprayed the wall wildly.

The inscriptions glowed in patches, sparking and twisting, as a chorus of howls echoed around the room, splintering and shattering as they dwindled. Bracken looked anxiously at Hilary. “This water has become extremely hot.”

“Mop the walls,” Hilary said, turning her attention back to the first wall. “But if the water’s too hot, stay out of it.”

“Mistress Hilary, spray the hangings,” Samgan called.

Hilary directed the hose over the material before turning her attention to the corner. The shadows remained but they were shrinking. “Get out!” she snarled, aiming her hose directly into the corner. The water spilling over the floor felt uncomfortably warm under her feet, but she didn’t flinch. “Get out now!”

Outside a loud bang echoed, followed by claps of thunder racing nearer the house and into the house. Crashes rumbled around the room, almost knocking Hilary off her feet, and a spark of electricity shot painfully through her bones. Waves of cold and heat ricocheted wildly around the room, leaving Hilary staggering helplessly before the thunder faded and the temperature settled.

Then the light came on. Hilary stared at Bracken and Samgan before looking around. There was no sinister force lurking here, not anymore. This was just a plain room, with a muddy floor and some faint marks on the walls.

“There is much cleaning to do here indeed,” Bracken said.

Hilary took a moment to sense the flow of power in the room. It was stronger than most places but now it was calm, like a smooth, deep flowing river. The snarls and malice had gone, along with the wild whirling eddies that had caused so many problems. “It feels pretty clean to me,” Hilary said.