Cries arose from the ghosts, all of the ghosts, as heat more intense than the cold had been welled up from below, closed in from all sides. The whispers had been illusory, echoes of far louder sounds that resonated down the years at a psychic level. The whispers Helen heard were distant cries of agony. The death screams of burning men.
Burning.
Mortlake flinched, had to force himself to concentrate and maintain contact with the tormented spirits. The whole world seemed to be burning, and men were screaming as their flesh blackened and fell from their bones. Their clothes were already reduced to ashes, their hair scorched down to their reddened scalps. For a moment, Mortlake wondered if they might actually be in Hell, the Hell he had never really believed in but now felt he must.
Then he saw that it was not Hell at all. Far from it.
The burning place was here on earth. And that made it all the worse.
The reek of burning bodies mingled with the screams and the intense fiery heat to disorder his thoughts. Mortlake struggled to hold panicked fear at bay. He had to see this through, find out more. He had to understand the truth at the heart of the mystery, the horror. He could see more clearly now, see blazing lengths of wood—a framework around and beneath him that was collapsing.
The screaming men were being burned inside a vast cage of some kind.
Below all this, he thought. What lies beneath?
Smoke seemed to fill his lungs, and he started to cough uncontrollably. The heat started to become unbearable. He told himself it was illusory, that he could contain purely mental torment. But his will faltered just as the great wooden structure began to collapse. The last thing he saw as he cartwheeled through space amid a hail of blazing boughs and bodies was a crowd of onlookers.
Hundreds of people stood watching.
Men, women, children.
They were all cheering.
***
“Stay there, okay, and look after Trixie!”
Ellie looked upset but not disposed to follow Tara as she ran into the house. After the light of the sun, it took her a second to see Mortlake clearly. Carl had dragged him out of the psychomanteum and was letting the professor lean on him. For a second, Tara smelled burning. Then she saw more clearly that Mortlake, while sweating and red in the face, seemed unharmed. The smell of scorched flesh vanished.
“Prof? You okay?”
Mortlake managed a smile.
“People always ask that when I look like I’ve been hit by an asteroid,” he said to Carl. “It’s hardwired in our species, I think.”
Tara felt a heady mix of irritation and relief.
“He’s okay,” she told Carl. “He’s forming perfect ironic sentences.”
They helped Mortlake into the kitchen and gave him some water. Tara waited patiently for him to say something, and when he didn’t, she started demanding answers.
“It will be easier if I tell everyone at once,” he said. “I think I know what we’re dealing with. And it’s definitely not safe for anyone to be here. It’s getting worse because it has more people to draw on, more energy.”
Carl and Tara exchanged alarmed looks, then Tara ran out to check on Ellie. The Garlands’ SUV was just pulling up, with Trixie doing her leaping and barking routine. Sonia and Tim got out. Tara started to talk about Mortlake and danger and nobody going inside. Then she saw Ellie looking frightened and calmed down a little.
“I think the prof needs to talk to us outside the house,” she said. “Sorry, I was babbling. But we should talk outside.”
***
The SUV had been backed up onto the lawn and the trunk opened so Carl and Tim could perch on it. Sonia sat on the blanket. Ellie was snuggled up beside her, half asleep it seemed, with the greyhound lying on her side by the child. Mortlake was in the mood to walk and talk and strode up and down while Tara leaned on the car, trying to contain her impatience. She wanted to know what they were going to do. But she knew he wanted them all to understand, that this was a vital part of the process.
“I do love giving outdoor lectures,” Mortlake said, stopping to look toward the village, which was just visible beyond a clump of ancient woodland. “Everyone sitting on the grass, bees buzzing, birds a-tweet…”
He stopped, and Tara shook her head at him slightly. He grasped that a light tone was not going to relax his audience. He cleared his throat and started again.
“In 1953,” he said, “a young plumber’s apprentice called Harry Martindale was working in the cellar of an old house in York. He was surprised to hear what he termed a ‘tinny trumpet call’. Several times. Then about twenty Roman soldiers appeared, marching past, carrying spears and shields, plain as day. There was also an officer on a horse. Harry fell off his ladder and hid, but there was no sense that these ghosts were aware of him. It was like watching a film. Classic example of the ‘stone tape’ theory, that ancient sites retain a kind of psychic memory of important events.”
Mortlake paused, apparently for questions. There were none. He gave a slightly disappointed “hmph” and continued.
“This might have been just another ghost story except for a few unusual details. One is that Harry Martindale described the soldiers as scruffy—dirty, unshaven, miserable. Like real soldiers on campaign, in fact, not film extras. Secondly, their garments and equipment weren’t the kind of things Romans wear in the movies. According to Harry, they had green tunics, kilts, plumed helmets, and carried round shields. Roman legionary shields were not round. But it was later confirmed that the empire’s auxiliary soldiers—militia, drafted in from loyal tribes—did carry round shields.”
“Okay,” said Tim, looking confused, “but York is a long way south of here. What’s the connection?”
“Helen York,” said Mortlake simply. “I did a lot of checking online last night. Not easy to find information on obscure characters like her. But I found that Helen was in fact, born in the city of York. Not uncommon. If I were a gambling man, I’d say she lived near, or perhaps even in, the house where Harry Martindale saw his ghosts.”
“Still don’t get it,” admitted Tara. “You’re saying she was somehow primed to contact dead Romans?”
Mortlake smiled, stopped striding, and went into full tutorial mode. Tara suppressed a giggle when he tried to insert his thumbs into an imaginary waistcoat.
“Helen York’s talents were innate. She’d probably have become a medium if she’d migrated to Timbuktu. But! She was born and raised in a city where there is clearly some strong psychic residue of the Roman occupation. It was the capital of the province of Britannia in Roman times. Constantine the Great was proclaimed Emperor there by his legions, with momentous consequences for Western civilization. There’s rather a nice statue of him, outside the minster…”
Tara, out of sight of the others, made a throat-cutting motion.
“Yes, yes, I should cut to the chase.” He smiled apologetically. “The point is that a Roman force marching north to quell troublesome border tribes would be dispatched from York, or at least pass through along the Roman road which passes just south of here. Now, we know from Anita’s terrible experience that some Romans met a terrible fate, presumably at the hands of native tribespeople. Is there a link? Did coming to Haslam House reopen a paranormal connection that Helen didn’t even know was there? It might explain the peculiar nature of this haunting. This is the strangest one I’ve ever heard of. Multilayered. And dangerous.”
Mortlake looked at Sonia, whose face showed real anxiety for the first time.
“You are right to be worried. Better safe than sorry. Only Tara and I should investigate this and try to deal with it.”
Tim and Sonia looked impressed. Mortlake had, as Tara expected, won them over by his old-school charm and grasp of facts. For all their concern, they were also, she sensed, slightly proud that their haunted house was, in a sense, a record breaker. And Tara was sure there was more to come.
“Okay,” she said, “what’s the next revelation, Prof? Because I heard yo
u ask Ellie about the yellow bird. Is that what I think it is?”
Mortlake smiled and took out his phone, dabbed at the screen, then carried it around to show his listeners. They shaded their eyes to see the image, but it was instantly recognizable from schoolbooks, movies, and TV shows. It was a Roman imperial eagle, a golden bird with wings spread. A disciplined formation of legionaries marched behind it in the small picture.
“The golden bird,” said the professor. “Little Ellie said they tore off its wings, which would make sense. It was, after all, the god of the Legion.”
Tim looked puzzled, and Carl raised a hand like a schoolboy.
“Did you say it was a god?”
Surprisingly, Sonia nodded vigorously and spoke up.
“In the Bible, it says the Romans wanted to put their eagles in the temple in Jerusalem, and the priests would not allow it.”
“Precisely!” Mortlake said, pleased to be understood. “To the Romans, gods of varying degrees were everywhere. They had a supernatural hierarchy from top-level deities—like Jupiter and Mars—down to little household idols. The greater gods were the most powerful, but the smaller gods were closer, less abstract. People related to them more. Each legion’s eagle was a deity, with its own military priesthood, decorated with tributes. When three Eagles were lost in Germany—the battle of the Teutoburg Forest, in the reign of Augustus—the Romans expended vast quantities of men and money trying to get them back. And failed. We might think it’s silly, but it was deadly serious to them. Gods must be honored and served, not neglected or insulted. Military gods even more so. Without them, how could the empire prevail?”
Tim seemed to be up to speed now and put in a question.
“And something similar happened here, in England?”
“Before it was even called England,” said Mortlake.
At last, Tara thought ruefully. Finally, he lands the plane.
“Sometime in the early years of the second century CE, the Ninth Legion, based in Britannia, simply vanished from history.”
Mortlake paused for effect then started striding up and down again.
“There were no more references to the Ninth in Roman records. This suggests a shameful defeat, one so bad it had to be expunged from history. Scholars have long assumed that the Ninth was sent north to deal with rebellious tribes and failed, badly. It might have been ambushed or worn down in a guerrilla campaign. We can be sure that auxiliaries of the sort, glimpsed in that York cellar by Harry the plumber, would have fought alongside Roman regular troops. Whatever happened, though, it seems this area saw the final act of the tragedy.”
He held up one of Ellie’s drawings and pointed to what looked like a crudely drawn fence.
“VIIII,” he said. “We would write IX in Roman numerals, but, in fact, in the second century, we would more likely have used this version. Roman numerals. Not something Ellie would know, I daresay?”
Ellie mumbled something. Sonia gently put a small sun hat on her daughter’s head, shushed her gently.
“Okay,” Tim said. “So—would this golden eagle actually be under this house?”
Tara suppressed a laugh as she saw the Garlands’ eyes light up. Here was a possible way out of their financial quagmire. Impulsive Tim and pragmatic Sonia, both of one mind. Mortlake shook his head but not in dismissal.
“I honestly don’t know,” he said carefully. “The rebels who captured it might have melted down the precious metal. But they may well have kept it as a trophy, to show off to other tribes. Beating the Romans gave you major bragging rights, of course. But, given the totemic nature of the Eagle, it might have been—degraded, insulted. Buried in the same pit as the legionaries who followed it. It wouldn’t hurt to do some digging. Something might be unearthed.”
“Buried treasure,” Tim said, then seemed to focus again. “But what about Anita? Why did Helen York hurt her like that?”
“I’m coming to that,” said the professor gently. “I think Helen York possessed Anita to try and escape from a fate genuinely worse than death. I think after she died here, she found herself trapped with dead soldiers of the Ninth Legion. The stress laid on burning suggests that the tribe who defeated them took prisoners.”
Sonia laid her hands over Ellie’s ears. Tara knew something horrific was coming. Mortlake always saved the worst details for the end of his little talks.
“You mentioned a pit, Prof?” she asked. “So, you think the prisoners were massacred, not enslaved or taken hostage?”
Mortlake’s expression became more serious.
“Based on what I just experienced in that house, I think they suffered a far worse fate. It’s possible that Haslam House was the site of an atrocity that experts have discussed for centuries. Some claim it was Roman propaganda, that the tribes didn’t really do it. But… Well, I know what I saw, and heard, and felt. See for yourselves.”
He switched to another picture on his phone, held it up to Tim, and Carl, and Tara. There were gasps all around. Tara was truly horrified to think what Anita might have experienced, the world of suffering Helen York and so many others were trying to escape. The warmth of the summer afternoon seemed to fade.
“Oh. My. God,” she breathed.
Sonia met Mortlake’s eyes, shook her head.
Mortlake flicked the image away.
“Of course,” he said, subdued now, “some of what I have told you is speculative. But I have no doubt that on this site, there was—about eighteen hundred years ago—a cruel sacrifice. Which leads to another obvious question…”
Mortlake could not help pausing for effect, but before he could ask the question, Carl preempted him.
“A sacrifice to what?”
Chapter 10
“It is a god,” said Mortlake simply. “A pagan god, nameless now. Nameless, perhaps, for the best part of two millennia. A deity with no worshippers, forgotten, overlooked. And therefore diminished, but obviously not fatally, if such beings can die, which seems improbable. Maybe people were aware of it as a vague sense of unease. That feeling of being watched when you’re definitely alone. But it was always there, localized and vaguely defined, lingering as a malign force—somewhere beneath Haslam House.”
Before he’d finished speaking, Sonia had taken Ellie off with Trixie to play out of earshot. The mention of human sacrifice had crossed a line, and, given Sonia’s Catholicism, the pagan god had probably not gone down well either. Mortlake made a mental note to apologize later. But now, Tim and Carl were plying him with questions.
“God—okay, you’re the expert, but I’m having trouble with that word,” admitted Tim. “I mean, all those old idols and things, they were just made up, right?”
“Yeah,” added Carl, “it’s just like all those old myths and legends, they’re not literally true?”
Mortlake took a deep breath then caught Tara’s warning glance.
“One man’s myth is another man’s gospel, gentlemen,” he said. “You now know for certain that what people call the supernatural exists. Ghosts. Hauntings. Human paranormal phenomena. Well, what about other types of sentient beings? Why shouldn’t something like a god—or a demon—exist? And be worshipped, probably out of fear?”
Seeing that the two men were still skeptical, Mortlake plowed on.
“Look at it this way—the early Christians had no problem reconciling centuries of pagan worship with their faith. They claimed that the fallen angels—Lucifer’s allies—had posed as Apollo, Zeus, Neptune, and so on. But then along comes the true faith and boom! Their cover was blown. I’m not asking you to believe all that—every last drop of medieval theology. But consider what we have seen already. This is more than a haunting. This is something inhuman, a greater and older evil than any mere ghost. You might as well call it a demon because it is certainly demonic.”
The argument didn’t seem as convincing to Tim and Carl as he had hoped.
I should be wary of using the kind of logic that goes down well in tutorials and research papers, he
thought.
Carl gestured at the house and grounds.
“Wouldn’t they just, you know, keep away from this god, demon, whatever? I mean, if this is a bad place, this tribe you talk about would just have avoided it.”
“Yes!” agreed Tim. “And you said it was localized, so that suggests, erm, a limited range?”
Mortlake shook his head sadly, though he was pleased they were taking his idea more seriously. He searched for the right argument, one that would appeal to men used to practical problems.
“Remember what Mark Twain said about investing in land? ‘I hear they’ve stopped making it.’ Land was always at a premium in Iron Age farming and hunting cultures—the sort that existed in Roman Britain. You can’t just move away from bad things without bumping into someone else, trespassing on their turf. And that meant a small war. Remember, this was a country of warring tribes.”
Mortlake paused and saw that Carl and Tim were coming around. He’d given them a straightforward story they could follow despite being stressed out and confused.
“So,” he went on, “you make a virtue of a necessity. If you live in swampy ground, you learn to use it for defense. If you are surrounded by forests or mountains, you do the same. And if you find a dangerous paranormal force on your patch of land, well, you do your best to keep it happy. And in those days, sacrifices of animals were common. And sacrificing people—was not unknown.”
Carl tentatively raised a hand, and Mortlake thought of an average pupil in a tough lesson. The professor cocked his head in an “I’m listening” gesture.
“You’re saying this—this ancient god actually talked to these people, made demands?”
“Tara, what do you think?” Mortlake asked. “You’ve been here longer and seen more than I have.”
Tara had been looking distracted, perhaps only half listening. Now, she seemed pleasantly surprised. Mortlake made yet another note, to involve her more. He had worked alone for so many years before the werewolf case. He still didn’t feel they quite meshed as a team.
House of Whispers: Supernatural Suspense with Scary & Horrifying Monsters (Mortlake Series Book 2) Page 12