Angela agreed with him. “Exactly,” she said. “That’s why I know this family is messing with me. They know that the church ordered me to perform an exorcism to try and cure Charles Crippley of his delusions. He had been brutalising the livestock on his farm, and publically condemning people that he felt were “sinners”. The local community started to complain, so the diocese decided to do something about it. I visited Charles at home every day for over two weeks, but every day he was worse. He took to spitting at me and blaspheming. He became sickly and stopped looking after himself. I performed The Rites on him several times but they only seemed to exacerbate his condition. His friend, Barley, was becoming more and more present and all I felt like I was doing was bringing something vile to the surface, like pus from an infected boil. But I continued anyway, even when Charles said that Barley was going to punish me, along with anyone who followed me.”
“So what happened?”
“Sunday services happened. Charles wasn’t even there when I started, which was strange because he was always one of the first to arrive. I started more or less as usual, and gave a sermon about the Good Samaritan and the importance of helping your neighbour. I was almost finished when Charles came down the aisle. He was shouting that we ‘were a flock of immoral lizards being led by a soulless dyke’. He knew I was a lesbian, even though I’d never admitted it to anyone at that point. In fact, I’m not sure I even knew myself back then.”
“That’s weird,” Tim said. “Maybe the guy had one of those gay-dars or something.”
Angela took a deep breath and continued. “As soon as he came in I noticed he was carrying the knife. It was one of those big, curved blades that they use in slaughter houses. He was blocking the doorway and shouting. Then he got started. He killed nine people by the time he was done. I was the only survivor.”
“That’s horrible,” Tim said, empathising with how Angela no doubt felt. Looking at her, he could almost see the torment etched into the creases of her face.
Angela blinked and a tear fell down her cheek. “Enough,” she said, wiping it away. “I’m done with trips down memory lane. My point was only supposed to be that Jessica and Frank have done their homework. They’re using my past to try and manipulate me. Worst of all is that they’ve involved a ten-year old boy in their schemes. Did you see the shape Sammie was in?”
Tim sighed. “I’m not so sure you’re on the right track here, Angela. My bullshit meter is pretty sensitive and I think Jessica is legitimately worried. You must sense how utterly strung-out the woman is? It’s clear as day. And as for Sammie, there’s no way they could coax a kid his age to behave the way he has been. There’s something just not right with him, and that’s why we’re here – to help figure things out.”
“If Sammie is so innocent then how did he know what happened in Jersey? He must have been briefed.”
Tim shrugged. “I don’t know, but we can find out the answer together. If I get one whiff that we’re being played for fools then I will walk right out that door with you. But until then, I would rather have your help than not.”
Angela finally gave in. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll stay.”
Tim stood up and clapped his hands together. “Great! Because I could do with some help setting up my equipment.”
Angela frowned at him. “Equipment?”
He winked at her. “It’s time to blind them with science, my lesbian friend.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Angela had decided to stay behind in her room to have a bath before doing anything else, so Tim left her alone to enjoy her soak. He’d since made the journey down to the Manor’s driveway and was heading over to his parked-up transit van. Beside it was the long black Mercedes in which Frank had led him there two nights previous. The five-door saloon was as financially-indulgent as the house and grounds were. At the edge of the pebbled driveway was a garage block, and beyond that was a modest pond. The water’s surface was devoid of ducks or other wildlife, which seemed strange for the time of year.
Tim reached into his pocket and pulled out the key for the van. He disengaged the lock and opened the rear doors. A wide smile stretched across his face and he said, “There you are, my babies.”
The back of the van was really Tim’s office, full of his gadgets and gizmos. The intention of his various investigations was always to debunk claims of the supernatural or paranormal, and science – along with common sense – was the best way to do it. His equipment included audio recording equipment, an infrared camera, microscopes, barometers, thermometers, a motion detector, assorted chemicals, and many other tools that would allow him to separate the “normal” from the “para-normal”. For now, all Tim wanted was his environmental testing kit. It would be best to start by investigating the grounds and working inwards towards the house.
He rummaged around and picked out a small plastic clip-case, then closed the doors to the van. The nearby duck pond was as good a place as any to start investigating so he decided to head there first. Maybe he could find out why the peaceful habitat was devoid of wildlife when it should have been teeming with the various species of birds, rabbits, frogs, and other creatures that inhabit the English countryside.
Tim detected a sharp odour as he approached the water’s edge. It was a mild tang; subtle, yet faintly eggy like the fumes from an exhaust pipe. The pond water lay still, undisturbed by the light breeze of the day.
Tim crouched down on the bank and unclipped the plastic clip-case. From its contents he plucked a strip of litmus paper and doused it in the pond water. A few seconds later he waved it to-and-fro in the air. A few more seconds after that, Tim examined the strip of paper and saw that it had turned a dark red. Acidic. Factoring in the eggy smell, Tim suspected sulphur. It could have been used by the gardeners to alter the pH of the soil, especially if there was a high lime content. It could then have seeped through into the pond, which would explain why there was no wildlife, but as Tim looked around he saw no attempt at planting vegetables.
He headed away from the pond, just a few meters, over to a patch of grass. He knelt down again, picked up a few grains of soil and cupped them in his palm. Next, he produced a slim, plastic test tube from his testing kit and dropped the granules inside. Finally, he added some litmus flour to the soil sample and some pure water from a small flask. Rattling the test tube around for a couple of seconds, he then waited for the solution inside to settle. Just like the pond water, the soil was acidic. The liquid in the test tube had turned red.
There was a noise behind Tim, making him spin around. The hissing sound was coming from the pond. He took a step back towards the water’s edge and saw that the surface of the pond had become unsettled. At first it just shimmered, but then it began to bubble and pop like soup in a cauldron. The pond was beginning to boil. Tim could feel the heat coming off it. The smell of eggs grew to eye-watering levels.
What the Hell…
Tim crept closer to the water, staring into its murky depths. He got down on his hands and knees, moved his face closer. The pond continued to churn, frothing violently, almost as if it could detect his increasing proximity. He’d never seen anything like it. Even if there was some sort of gaseous vent heating the pond, there was no way it could have gotten heated so fast.
The water hissed louder.
And then suddenly it was airborne.
Several fist-sized drops of boiling water flew toward Tim’s overhanging face. He swung an arm up to shield himself but wasn’t quick enough. Some of the liquid got through his defence and splashed against his face. The soft flesh of his cheek and forehead stung in agony.
Tim leapt backwards and twisted to the ground, holding his face in his hands. “Goddamn, motherf-” He screamed out in pain.
“TIM! Tim, are you okay?”
It was Angela’s voice. Tim felt the woman hit the ground beside him and put her hands on him. She forced him over onto his back. He still clutched at his face and struggled to tell her what had happened. “The water. It,
it…burned me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The pond. The pond is hot.”
“I don’t understand.” She sounded frantic. “The pond is hot?”
The pain in Tim’s face lessened a little and he removed his hands tentatively and pointed to the pond. “The pond is boil-” He stopped mid-word. The pond was normal again; its surface as still and serene as a painting. It was also full of fish. Goldfish zipped through the water merrily, flitting back and forth. Tim thought he even spotted a family of newts at the pond’s edge.
Tim’s mouth started working back and forth, but no sound came out.
“What’s wrong?” Angela asked him. “I don’t understand what’s happened.”
Tim tried to catch a breath and calm himself down. “I…Oh, hellski, I don’t have a clue. Maybe I’m losing it.” His face no longer burned and, as he fingered the skin of his cheeks, it felt completely normal. “Can I ask you a question, Angela?”
“Of course.”
“What does my face look like?”
Angela looked confused, but she gave him an answer. “Ugly, same as usual.”
Tim laughed. “Cheers. No…burn marks, or anything, though?”
Angela shook her head. “You want to tell me what happened?”
Tim heaved himself up onto his feet and shook his head. “Nothing happened. At least it appears that way. Come on, let’s go back inside the house.”
Angela didn’t ask him any more questions about it, but as they walked away, she stopped and pointed down at something on the ground. It was his environmental testing kit. “Do you need that?” she asked him.
“No,” Tim replied. “I’m beginning to think that my usual methods might not be as effective as I hoped they would be.”
“Guess you need a Plan B then.”
Tim scratched at his fuzzy beard. “To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever needed a Plan B before.”
“I’m going to take that as a bad sign,” said Angela.
“Yeah,” replied Tim, thinking about things a little deeper. “Me too.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Frank unlocked the door to the Security Office and stepped inside wearily. He hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, too mistrustful of the recent house guests to allow himself to sleep. He would need to set some time set aside soon – his mind was beginning to get cloudy – but right now there was too much going on.
Frank’s main priority now was the protection of Ms Raymeady and her son. With a disgraced priest and a professional ghost hunter-come-whackjob in the house, Frank needed his mind fresh and alert. He needed to be ready for any tricks the two charlatans might pull. While Tim had proven himself previously to be a man that looked for facts rather than fantasy, Frank still did not trust him. He didn’t trust either of them. If Jessica wanted them here then that was her prerogative, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.
Then again, he didn’t have any better ideas to help young Sammie. The boy was a grade-A nutcase heading for life in the funny farm, but he was also Joseph Raymeady’s son and the only existing link to a man that Frank had spent the last ten years serving. He would do what he could to protect Sammie, but at this point he had to admit that things were looking pretty hopeless.
Frank took a seat at his desk and gave a quick glance to each of the CCTV monitors in front of him. The house seemed to be in order for now. Mike and Graham were in the kitchen fixing another batch of their gluttonous sandwiches to take out to the car. Jessica was in the piano lounge with a large glass of wine, per usual. The two tricksters, Tim and Angela, were currently walking around the grounds, thick as thieves. No doubt colluding on whatever con they’re about to spin. Finally, Frank checked on Sammie. The boy was in his room (which was now more of a dirty cell) scribbling away at his desk.
The boy had a sick mind, that was for sure. The things he drew were obviously the concoction of a deeply disturbed mind. They were also frighteningly astute. Frank himself had received many sketches from the boy and they had shown things from his days serving in the Army. He drew scenes of torture in Sierra Leone one day and then dead children in Northern Island the next. The one thing the pictures always had in common was that Frank had seen them all first hand. It was as if Sammie was reaching into Frank’s nightmares for artistic inspiration, presenting him with the faces of all the men who had died fighting at his side.
The worst picture Sammie had drawn for Frank had featured a soldier firing cartoon bullets into a pregnant woman. The foetus was spilling from her guts and landing on the sandy floor in a sickly pile. Frank knew the soldier was him. What he did not know was how Sammie could have seen his darkest secrets. The secrets from the day he led his men into a quiet little village that had seemed safe but was, in fact, nothing but a trap. His bad decision making had cost lives, and a pregnant woman her baby.
One of the television screens flickered.
Frank gave the monitor a tap, but it just made things worse. The picture had become scrambled with static. Frank hit the monitor again, harder, and then flinched in his seat. The picture suddenly snapped back into focus. Sammie was no longer at his desk. The boy was now just ten feet away from the CCTV camera lens, staring up at Frank and grinning. His eyes were dark orbs and his teeth jutted out from swollen, brown gums.
Frank leant closer to the screen, trying to work out what the boy was doing. Sammie was inching closer and closer to the camera, which Frank knew for sure was a good eight feet off the ground. It was almost as if the boy was levitating. Getting closer and closer…
Crack!
The monitor’s screen split from corner to corner, a deep furrow carved into the glass.
Frank leapt back in his chair. The screen was shattered, struck by an invisible hammer. Frank was silent. There was nothing that he could say, alone as he was in the room. Instead he chose to sit and think for a moment, twiddling his fingers as he processed the facts in his mind. From the way things were going it could well turn out to be another twenty-four hours before he got any sleep.
CHAPTER NINE
Angela was still freaked out by the picture Sammie had drawn her – and the incident with Tim and the pond had done nothing to calm her nerves – but she was now determined to take charge of the situation. She would not be manipulated or frightened. If this was all just one big set-up then she would make sure those responsible regretted it, and if not… Well, if not then Angela was determined to get to the bottom of things.
The only person she trusted right now was Tim, and that was only because he seemed as freaked out as she was. There was little doubt in her mind that he was here for the same reasons that she was (primarily money) and for now she was willing to work with the dishevelled young man.
She and Tim were back inside Raymeady Manor now, standing in its vast foyer. There was no one else around.
Tim put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. “It’s a bloody nightmare trying to find people in this place,” he said.
“I know,” Angela agreed. “I’m not surprised Jessica’s on edge. Empty houses have a way of making people skittish – especially old empty houses.”
“You think that’s what’s going on?” Tim asked her. “Simple paranoia?”
“I hope so, because what’s the alternative?”
Frank appeared from the east side of the foyer, his polished work shoes clicking on the marble. “Miss Murs, Mr Golding. I was beginning to wonder where you two had gotten to.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” said Tim. “We’re ready to see Sammie again now.”
Frank nodded. “Okay. You may be wasting your time, though. The boy likes to watch South Park during the afternoons. He can be quite unresponsive.”
Frank led them back towards Sammie’s room on the first floor. Even before they got there, Angela could hear the television blaring. She’d never watched South Park herself, but she knew it was popular. She also knew it wasn’t suitable for a ten year old boy.
“Why do you let him
watch the program? Isn’t it meant for adults?”
“It is, yes, but he gets violent if you turn it off.”
Tim scoffed. “Violent? Can’t you control him, a big man like you?”
Frank’s expression was impassive. He did not rise to the insult. “Sammie is stronger than he looks.”
They arrived at Sammie’s door and Frank unlocked it, allowing them to step inside. Frank grinned at Tim and said, “I’ll leave you ‘experts’ alone to do your work.”
The door closed behind them and suddenly Angela felt very claustrophobic – trapped even. The room was humid and tropical like a Florida storm. Sammie was lying in his bed, wrapped up to his neck in sweat-stained bed sheets. A wall-mounted television flashed in front of him, brightly-drawn cartoon characters frolicking across the screen.
Angela waved a hand. “Hello, Sammie. How are you feeling?”
The boy said nothing. His gaze was transfixed on the television, his eyes unblinking. Angela could not be sure, but he seemed to be muttering to himself very quietly.
Tim stepped forward and perched on the end of the boy’s bed. “Hey, little man. So, you dig South Park, huh? Who’s your favourite character? I like Cartman.”
Sammie said nothing.
But there was movement beneath his sheets.
Tim continued his attempt to get through to the boy by trying to speak on a similar level. “Have they killed Kenny yet? Huh? Sammie, are you listening to me?”
The movement beneath the bed sheets got faster.
Suddenly Angela realised what the movement was. “Tim,” she said horrified. “My God, I think he’s…”
Tim stood up from the bed with a disgusted look on his face. “Sammie, you stop that right now. That’s very rude.”
Angela couldn’t believe the young boy was masturbating. The sheets were moving up and down rapidly, the small hand beneath pumping like a piston.
“Turn off the television,” said Angela. “He’s in a trance or something.”
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