by Carrie King
Quickly, she hurried downstairs, again tightly grasping the banister railing as she descended before moving into the sitting room. Sitting Grant down on the settee, his back braced into the corner, half-sitting, she gazed out the window only to find the rain pelted the windows. The clouds hung so low that she couldn't even see the edge of the cliff.
Diane felt agitated, trapped, and she didn't like the feeling one bit. She had to move, even if it was just to pace around the room.
As she walked, she kept an eye on her son, her worry increasing. What was wrong with him? Was he having some type of seizure? Coupled with his claims of seeing … of seeing ghosts something had to be wrong. She tried to quell her growing panic without success. What if he had some type of brain tumor? What if he was experiencing a nervous breakdown? What if …
She pulled herself together and paused to once again brush her son's hair from his forehead. Maybe a hot, warm, and sweet drink would help… hadn’t she read somewhere that it was good for shock?
"I'm going to go into the kitchen to make some tea. Would you like that? A nice cup of tea? I'll put some honey in it for you. Your favorite."
He didn't blink.
Diane crouched down and placed her face in front of his, but he didn't respond or react in any way. His pupils were still dilated so wide that she could hardly see his blue irises—just like his father's.
She had to stay calm, had to do what she could to make him comfortable until the storm passed. When she regained reception, she would call the taxi and they would be away from here.
"I'll be right back, Grant. I'm going into the kitchen to make some tea."
No response.
She left the sitting room, frowning in consternation, trying to figure out what was prompting her son's trance-like state. She had made her way halfway down the hallway when she stumbled. She quickly reached out with her arms to catch her balance, but fell heavily to the right, her shoulder banging against the wall underneath the stairs.
It moved. Gasping, she stood, one hand braced against the wall, staring in stunned dismay at what appeared to be a hidden doorway under the staircase. The weight of her body crashing into the wall had caused one side of a door to move inward, and the opposite side to swing outward.
What was this? She stepped toward the opening maybe a hand’s width gap, but saw only darkness beyond. Glancing down, she saw a stone step. Stale air that smelled like decay, dust, and oddly enough, the sea, wafted upward, a small breeze tugging at her hair.
Goosebumps rose on her skin and Diane stepped back, eyes wide. A secret tunnel? Whatever was it for? Could someone be hiding there? Was that what Grant had seen?
No, she pushed the thought away. Not the least bit interested in exploring, she tried to close the door by pushing at the open end, but nothing happened. It was stuck.
"There are no monsters under the bed, no skeletons in the closet … no monsters under the bed, no skeletons in the closet," she muttered over and over, pressing her back against the opposite side of the hallway.
Chapter 63
"Release him," Angus ordered Beatrice, as the palm of her hand squeezed the top of Grant's head.
"Only if you let me take her. For you, darling," she purred.
"No."
"Then I will not release him."
Angus knew that Beatrice had the power, sometimes as much, if not more, than he. That power, he surmised, came from the evil in her heart. With every soul she took, she grew stronger. If he weren't careful, soon her power would exceed his.
"I'll take her for you, and I'll spare the boy. That's a nice compromise, don't you think?"
He glared at her. "You will harm neither."
The storm surged around them. She smiled… it was not a pleasant smile.
"Oh please, Angus, this is child's play and you know it. What does it matter who the child is, or the mother? You've never given any of them a second thought."
He scowled. "The ones I took deserved it. Adulterers like you, wicked people who had done wicked things. Not like you, taking whomever you please. This boy and his mother, they're innocent. They have done nothing to incur my wrath."
She laughed, twirling one of her curls with her finger with her free hand. In the blink of an eye, her smile disappeared and a dark glower came over her features. He knew what that meant.
"He told me to take them both."
Angus didn't doubt who the "he" was.
"But for your sake, I will only take her." She gazed down at the boy, grinned, and swiftly moved her hand down his throat, wrapping her hand around it, choking the boy.
"No!" Angus shouted, stepping forward to yank her hand away. He grabbed her wrist and yanked it away, but the boy continued to struggle to breathe. He turned toward Beatrice to order her away, but she was already gone, and he knew where. He wanted to go after her, to stop her, but the boy needed help. He placed his hand on the boy's chest, another on his forehead.
"Breathe," he said softly. "Breathe.” His touch calmed the boy and he gradually felt the boy's heartbeat slowing, his chest filling with air though he was still under the trance of her touch. That would linger for days, perhaps longer. He had seen Beatrice do that to people who had come here over the years … the decades … the centuries. How he hated the cruel, evil woman.
A scream reverberated through the house, followed instants later by a flash of lightning and a loud clap of thunder. Angus hovered over the boy, his large hand nearly encompassing the boy's chest. His heart was heavy, the shroud of guilt weighing down on him heavier than ever. There was nothing he could do for the boy's mother. Beatrice would have her way with her.
But the boy. He would not let her take the boy.
Epilogue
The taxi driver pulled up in front of Greyfield Manor, frowning when he saw the boy staring out the front window, his eyes wide, his mouth open and frozen in a silent scream.
The driver quickly scrambled out of the taxi and rushed through the mud toward the front door, surprised that it opened easily. He stepped inside.
"Kid? Kid?"
In a few steps, he ventured into the front room to find the boy kneeling on the old-fashioned sofa, hands and forehead pressed against the glass, unmoving.
"Where's your mum?”
The boy remained unresponsive. The taxi driver frowned and left the room, turning down the hallway toward the kitchen. "Missus Greyfield?" Louder. "Missus Greyfield?"
He shook his head, wondering what the hell had possessed the young mother to leave her child in the house alone. The kid looked so terrified.
He peered into the small study on the left, then into the dining room on the right. Nothing. He grew angry. When he saw her, he would give her a piece of his mind.
"What the hell is the matter with people these days?"
He took one step into the kitchen and froze, eyes wide with horror as he stared, mouth open, his gorge rising in his throat. The boy's mother lay on her back in the middle of the floor in a congealed pool of blood, arms spread outward. A large kitchen knife protruded from the middle of her chest, it was buried to the hilt.
"Oh God," he moaned, then backed out of the kitchen, reaching for the cell phone in his pocket. He turned toward the front of the house. He froze again. The boy stood at the end of the hallway, in front of the door, the front of his shirt stiff with dried blood.
Crossing Over
The Soul Taker
The Haunting of Greyfield Manor – Book 4
By
Carrie King and Caroline Clark
©Copyright 2019
All Rights Reserved
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The Soul Taker
In a remote haunted manor, The Soul Taker is hungry, can Angie prevent him from Crossing Over?
Angie Rogers arrives at Greyfield Manor with her videographer, a last-ditch effort by the owner to determine once and for all what – or who – is haunting the cen
turies-old estate. Angie is a world-renowned demonologist and trance medium who also happens to be the Godmother of a young boy whose mother was murdered at the estate just months before.
It is a job she knew she shouldn’t have taken. She is too close. But she is drawn to the house and to the answers that may lie within its ancient walls.
Angie's arrival triggers unexpected dangers, not only for herself and her partner, but for the spirits and the evil entity who reside there.
Angus Greyfield, the original owner of the property, wants to be free, but he's made a deal with the Soul Taker to take twenty souls in exchange for his freedom.
Will Angie be his twentieth victim?
Can she convince Angus and the other spirits who reside there to cross over?
Can Angie exorcize the demon from Greyfield Manor?
Everything's at stake as Angie confronts the greatest evil she has ever encountered. This might be her last chance to save not only herself and her partner, but the tormented spirits that yearn for freedom after centuries of torment.
Prologue
Greyfield Manor: Solway Firth 2012
"Another one's coming."
Angus stood at the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, looking out towards the Solway Firth. The sight never ceased to fill him with a sense of peace… such welcome peace. But he was tired, so very tired. The death of Diane Greyfield, more than any other over the decades, weighed on what was left of his conscience. Even Beatrice's needling and taunting failed to bring much of a rise out of him.
"The Soul Taker doesn't like her. She's going to die."
He glanced at Beatrice and the disturbed look on her face. Since she'd killed Diane, his estranged wife had been different. Quiet. Sad? He scoffed. The deceitful woman had no such emotion.
Earlier, he had experienced a tentative and very brief connection with the woman soon to arrive. This had never happened before and he didn't know how it was possible. The sensation of skin-prickling on his arms was strange, but he sensed that she was special; that she had extraordinary gifts. He knew that she was coming, and that she would try to destroy the Soul Taker. Perhaps she was a link to the little boy that had been here a few months ago. That lad was a descendant of his twin brother.
He didn't understand, so he didn't try to make sense of it. This realm was filled with questions, uncertainties, and endless suffering.
"You should have let me kill the boy. Then you could have been free. You promised the Soul Taker twenty souls. Only one is left and then you can be free."
A brief flame of anger flared but he said nothing. He didn't trust the Soul Taker, but for some reason, Beatrice did. She was a fool. One didn't trust demons, no matter what they promised.
He turned back to the ocean, waiting.
She was coming.
She would be here soon.
Chapter 64
Greyfield Manor: Present Day
"I need this issue resolved."
Angie Rogers ignored the urge to groan. They all wanted their issues resolved. Yesterday. She was speaking with Reginald Abercrombie, the current owner of Greyfield Manor. Mouth open, she tried to get a word in edgewise, but he was on a roll.
"Based on your investigation, I'm either going to sell the place or demolish it. My business has dwindled down to nothing over the years, and that grisly murder a few months ago was the last straw."
Angie fought down the urge to punch him. That grisly murder had been her sister-in-law, Diane Greyfield. It had been difficult enough dealing with the tragic and untimely death of her brother Jeremy, Diane's husband, only months before and then for this to happen! A wave of grief threatened to claim her and she bit down on her lip.
Diane and her young son Grant had traveled to Greyfield Manor from their flat in London to "get away from it all" for a while. It had not gone to plan. She had been murdered. Found with a butcher’s knife plunged into her chest, pinning her to the floor. God only knew how long little Grant had been alone there with his mother's corpse ...
Now, Diane was dead, her brother Jeremy was dead, and Angie found herself, at thirty-two years of age, the unexpected mother of young Grant Greyfield. Yes, she was his godmother, but honestly, she had never expected to actually … she just hadn't expected any of this.
The situation was challenging enough, but had been made worse by Grant's psychological issues. He was a troubled child, and that was putting it gently. The five-year-old had been affected—deeply— by the incident. If a taxi driver hadn't arrived to pick them up … Angie hated to contemplate how long he could have been there.
Since that incident three months ago, Grant had barely spoken. He didn't talk about what happened in the house. Some people thought that he might have had something to do with his mother's death. It was preposterous. Ludicrous. Stupid.
"Are you listening?"
Angie startled. "Yes, yes, Mr. Abercrombie, I'm listening. I'm also deciding whether I want to take the case or not. You do know that the … the woman who died there was my sister-in-law?"
A lengthy pause. "No, I'm sorry… I didn't know that." He sighed and his face dropped. "That being the case, I'll understand if you want to pass, but I really need your help. You're the only trance medium and demonologist that I could find in Great Britain. You have quite a reputation."
She did. Despite the naysayers, the disbelievers, and the people who often accused her of colluding with the devil, she had a special gift. One that for years growing up, she had kept secret, her parents hadn't understood it. Luckily, Jeremy had, once she had divulged her secret, and he'd always supported her.
She didn't advertise her gift and often conducted her investigations in secret, not only to minimize publicity for her clients, but because she didn't want to draw unwanted attention to herself. Attention was something she didn't need, especially in her line of work.
Still, reporters found out. Paranormal societies found out. The Vatican had even found out. Her secret was out and there was nothing she could do about it.
She channeled the dead and was called a trance medium. It was a form of spirit communication, and a greatly misunderstood one at that. Very few people, not even her clients, understood what she could do, at least not in a physical sense.
Now she had a decision to make, for she knew this man was desperate. Did she dare venture to Greyfield Manor knowing the power of the entity, that dark spirit –perhaps more than one—that resided there? Her young five-year-old nephew had not knocked his mother to the floor in the kitchen of that house. How would he have had the strength to plunge that butcher’s knife so forcefully into her chest that the knife had sliced through the bones of her sternum, spine, and then to have broken the tiles and gone an additional inch down into the thick planked floor beneath.
No, there was definitely something evil in that house. Perhaps it was Angie’s destiny of sorts. The house had been built by their ancestor Angus Greyfield back in the 1700s. He had been known as a private man, someone who avoided people. She had never been able to find out much information about him. From what little she had uncovered, she learned that he had the reputation of being a fair and just man. However, he had died under mysterious circumstances and his home had been passed on to his twin brother, from whose ancestral line Angie descended.
The family had sold the house decades ago, unable to maintain its upkeep. Over the past few years, Jeremy had expressed interest in buying it back, but the current owner had wanted way too much, much more than he could afford on his salary as an auto mechanic.
Now, Jeremy was gone, leaving her and young Grant as the only remaining members of the Greyfield line.
"So, what's your answer, Miss Rogers?"
Angie sighed, so many thoughts were running through her mind that she could barely track them. Should she take it? Heaven knows she didn't want to. She was too close to this one. At the same time, maybe doing so would somehow help Grant. If what Grant had initially told her was true, that the spirit of a man was trapped there, a man
she believed was Angus Greyfield, she might be able to free him and cross him over. Give him peace after centuries of unrest.
On the other hand, she might end up like the other people who had visited the secluded property: missing or dead… and Angie knew deep down, that missing was dead.
Chapter 65
Angie pulled up to Greyfield Manor, asking herself for the hundredth time on the drive north why she was doing this. Yes, this type of job was not that unusual for her, but with the personal connection… she had a bad feeling about this. She had done her research on the place. Had read the police reports that she'd been able to access through public records, in addition to what she had found in back issues of the local newspapers.
When the police had arrived following Diane's death, they had found much more than they expected. On searching the manor house, they discovered the skeletal remains of half a dozen people scattered throughout the property; in the yard, in the field behind the house, and some in a formerly secret tunnel that led from the house to the base of the cliff approximately three hundred meters from the house. Why the tunnel had been dug out, no one would ever know.
She sighed as she gazed up at the stone edifice, admiring the craftsmanship. Angus Greyfield had built much of this place with his own two hands. What had happened here so many centuries ago? He had died, his wife had disappeared, and ever since then, strange things had been reported at Greyfield Manor, the most recent, the death of Angie’s sister-in-law. Rumors that the house was cursed or possessed persisted and many of the locals would not come near the place.