Jessica Bannister And The Cursed Seas 5p6172

Table of Contents

Cover

Jessica Bannister and the Ghost Monk

The Cursed Souls of the Seven Seas

Ghost Island

Under the Green Phantom’s Spell

About J-Novel Club

Copyright

Jessica Bannister and the Ghost Monk

Grey clouds hung over London, the rain pouring down and forming large puddles in front of the British Museum which I cautiously sidestepped to get to the entrance. I hunched my shoulders to shield myself from the chill wind that blew around me. I had brought a recording device with me, complete with microphone, which I carried in the handbag that was wedged under my arm. A few steps from the entrance, I stopped for a moment and looked up at the imposing façade. The tall, thin Ionic columns stretched up before me, ing a long pediment decorated with stone figures. Behind the veil of rain and mist, the stone figures seemed eerie and almost menacing. I shuddered and turned from the façade, making a beeline for the entrance that was nestled between two of the columns. A few moments later, I was out of the rain and standing in the warm, brightly lit foyer of the museum. A large sign in the shape of a Celtic cross hung down from the ceiling in the middle of the room that was impossible to miss. IRELAND IN THE SIXTH CENTURY A.D. was written in an elaborate Celtic font on the cross. An arrow directly under the cross that pointed to a wide staircase leading to the first floor told me that it was ‘A Special Exhibition by Tara Grey’. An uneasy feeling washed over me as I walked down the twisty hallways, past all the old artwork, statues, and sculptures. The atmosphere in the museum was cosy and familiar. When my parents were still alive and I was just a small girl, we would often visit the museums of London with my great-aunt Beverly and her husband, Francis ‘Frank’ Gormic, the famous archaeologist. Uncle Frank knew how to turn a simple visit to a museum into an exciting and unique adventure. On occasion, he would even hold lectures about a new exhibition, and he had a tendency to personally present the findings of his own expeditions and digs. As I followed the path marked out by the Celtic cross signs through the huge museum, my mind turned to my great-uncle, Frank Gormic. He had been a tall, wiry man, and his sculpted, weathered face had left an impression on me as a little girl. Uncle Frank had always seemed mysterious and mystical to me, as did

the countless digs he told me about and all those faraway lands stripped of their strange secrets. I had ired my great-uncle and his work, and growing up, he had always been my role model. When I was a little girl, I hoped my career would be just as exciting as my great-uncle’s. So when we received news that Frank Gormic had gone missing without a trace during one of his expeditions, the shock of it hit me even harder. I was only ten at the time, and it dawned on me that the life of an archaeologist was less romantic and more dangerous than I had imagined. Since that fateful day, we had received no word from Frank Gormic, and he had been declared missing presumed dead. It had taken Aunt Bell a long time to accept that her husband was likely no longer alive, for she had loved Frank beyond words. She continued to honour the memory of her dearly departed husband and made sure he wouldn’t be forgotten any time soon. Frank had bequeathed to his wife the old Victorian house they had shared in Hampstead, one of the wealthier parts of London. The house was full of archaeological finds that Frank had brought back from his expeditions, and everywhere you looked, there were curious artefacts, masks, and statues, as well as old books and curling parchment. When Aunt Bell took me in after the death of my parents, the old Victorian house seemed more like a museum of oddities than a home. This impression was only cemented by the strange things Aunt Bell had collected herself over the years. She was fascinated by the supernatural, and had collected anything and everything with even a ing relation to the subject. From newspaper articles and crystal balls, to healing herbs she grew in her garden — if it had a hint of the occult about it, you could find it in that old Victorian house. When I was old enough, Aunt Bell gave me the first floor of the old Victorian house to call my own and turn into a nice, cosy living space for myself. We often jokingly referred to it as the ‘occult-free zone’, as it was the only area in the house that wasn’t packed to the rafters with archaeological artefacts and occult curiosities. The ground floor, which was unmistakably Aunt Bell’s domain, could get quite spooky on dark, stormy nights. Aunt Bell had a habit of curating her own ‘exhibitions’ there, displaying the objets d’arts her late husband had ‘procured’ on his archaeological adventures, and a lot of thought went into what she wanted to display. These ‘exhibitions’ didn’t consist of objects selected at random; all the artefacts were carefully chosen to fit a theme, and at the end of every month, they would get switched out for other curios. And why not? Aunt

Bell had a near-limitless treasure trove of archaeological finds up in the attic where her husband Frank used to have his workshop, which she had kept the same since his disappearance. In it, there were piles of boxes full of antiquities that had been unearthed in digs, which Aunt Bell rooted through to find items for her ‘exhibitions’. Together with the occult paraphernalia she had amassed over the years, she had created her own charming little museum on the ground floor. ‘If you ever stop earning money as a journalist, I’ll open the house up to the public, and the entrance fees alone will still let us lead a comfortable, carefree life,’ Aunt Bell had once joked. These words rattled around my head as my gaze skipped over the antique vases, plates, and cups in the British Museum’s brightly lit glass display cases. I had no worries about my job; Martin T. Stone, the editor-in-chief at the London City Observer — the London newspaper I worked for — always had ample work for me. With a shudder, I thought back to the time I had travelled to the Amazon rainforest on the trail of a story for the Observer. There, we had stumbled across the ancient temple which had been the destination of Uncle Frank’s fateful final expedition. I had hoped this discovery would help me find out more about his disappearance, but my hopes were quickly extinguished when I learned that Professor Alan Porter, the only man who could have shed light on Uncle Frank’s disappearance, had died in mysterious circumstances in the very same temple. I had returned to London feeling hugely disappointed, though I couldn’t deny that I had brought back an excellent story for the Observer and its readers. It was for the Observer that I was here in this museum today. The special exhibition on Ireland was to be officially opened in a few minutes’ time by archaeologist Tara Grey who had been the excavation director on the digs in Ireland, and I had been tasked with writing an article on her and the exhibition. I walked towards the wide-open double doors which the sign hanging down from the ceiling informed me was my destination. The large hall beyond was packed with invited guests and reporters from other newspapers, the room completely abuzz with chatter. I greeted some acquaintances before threading my way through to the podium that had been set up for the speaker. Behind the small lectern, there were glass cabinets and other larger exhibition pieces that all had black sheets draped over them. The museum had explicitly forbidden us from taking photographs of the exhibition, which is why my colleague, Jim Brodie, the Observer’s star

photographer, had not accompanied me here — which was a shame because we had been on many exciting adventures together. But I would have to make do without his presence and humorous observations today. I looked around the room and noticed the gathered guests were getting quite restless, with hushed murmurings of conversation, the squeaking of shoes, and the rustling of cloth creating a quiet but unmistakably fidgety soundtrack to proceedings. Everyone was eagerly awaiting the arrival of the guest speaker, Tara Grey. It was her endeavour we had to thank for this exhibition in London, as she had spent many years in Ireland, unearthing the finds that were soon to be on public display for the first time, which she herself had called ‘sensational’ on her arrival back in the capital. The fact that Tara Grey had somehow managed to convince all parties involved that she should exhibit her findings in London first instead of in Dublin when the artefacts were legally the property of Ireland was a feat in itself. Suddenly, the lights dimmed, and the double doors slowly swung shut on their own, automatically locking with an audible click. The murmuring grew louder, but all at once, it stopped as if cut short. A small side door had opened, and a figure had entered into the dimly lit exhibition hall. The figure was wearing a wine-red robe that stretched down to the carpet. The hood of the robe was pulled down over the figure’s face, meaning I could not immediately recognise who was hiding beneath it, but as I peered closer, I suddenly froze with fear. In the swirling blackness of the hood, I saw a flash of pale white: a skull! It seemed to grin back at me with malice written all over its skinless features.

***

Startled, I took a step back and stepped on the foot of the man behind me, who let out a small yelp. I quickly mumbled an apology before staring back at the strange figure in the red robe, my eyes wide. Slowly, as if floating, it glided across the hall. I could no longer see the bone-white skull under the hood — only impenetrable blackness stared back at me. I rubbed my eyes and looked around the room uneasily. It seemed as though I was the only one who had seen the skull as my gaze only saw excited faces in the crowd; the fear the eyeless

glance of the bizarre skull had awoken in me was not visible on the faces of the other visitors. Were my senses playing tricks on me? It seemed like they must be, and it was only at that moment that I noticed the slim, dainty arms of a woman sprouting from the wide sleeves of the robe. The gold trim that adorned the fringes of the robe glittered mysteriously in the dim light. With determined steps, the woman walked into the bright spotlight that bathed the podium in light, making it look like some kind of luminous island. She raised her hands up to her hood and threw it back to reveal the pleasingly symmetrical face of a woman framed by thick black hair. ‘It’s Tara Grey!’ whispered the man behind me. I sized up the archaeologist: she was slim and, at a guess, I would have said she was in her mid-thirties. Under the robe, she was wearing a form-hugging red dress which accentuated the blackness of her hair, though in the spotlight that shone down on her, it had a distinctly bluish tinge. She had a narrow nose and high cheekbones, and she looked down at her captive audience with pride in her expressive brown eyes. I had no idea why I had thought I had seen a skull instead of her actual face. It was obvious the archaeologist had enjoyed her little performance, luxuriating in the stunned silence as her guests gawped at her in amazement. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said into the microphone, her pleasantly soft, deep voice filling the room. ‘It is my honour to welcome you all to the opening of this unique exhibition showing Ireland as you’ve never seen it before.’ She threw her arms wide, her robe billowing out to make her look more than a little imposing, and pointed to the still-covered exhibition pieces behind her. ‘All of the artefacts you are about to see have lain hidden away in the soil for hundreds of years before I came along and unearthed them. Many archaeologists have searched the area before me, but they all missed these treasures, never knowing what was right beneath their feet.’ She paused and let her gaze scan her captive audience again. ‘But with my considerable talents, I have brought these treasures back into the light. Though, I didn’t find them through sheer skill alone. No, I had a secret weapon on my side: intuition!’

She stretched out an arm and curled her hand into the shape of a claw. ‘Initially, I feared this gift that had been bestowed upon me,’ she continued in a serious voice before mellowing again. ‘But with every new find, I started seeing my intuition as a boon I should be grateful for, instead of something to fear.’ I had taken out my recording device to record the speech, as this was turning out to be a rather unusual monologue, and I figured having the option of quoting chunks of it verbatim in my article would be worthwhile. ‘No doubt you’re wondering about my strange choice of attire,’ continued Tara Grey in her sonorous voice. She grabbed the ends of her robe and twirled on the spot. The gold trim glittered impressively in the bright spotlight. ‘This is a modern take on the kind of robe a God-fearing monk would have worn in the early days of Christianity on the island of Ireland. These monks captured my interest instantly as they were the ones who defined and promoted the culture of the era, and by feeling my way into their way of thinking and their way of living, I made better use of my powers of intuition to find the exact spot where the monks went about their business.’ The archaeologist smiled down at us. ‘I’m sure that my methodology might seem unscientific to many of my colleagues, but my success proves that it is effective.’ Tara Grey turned around and made an extravagant gesture, the black sheets suddenly sliding off the glass cabinets. It was an eerie sight, watching the heavy cloths fall to the floor all at once, their previously hidden mysteries revealed. On show were richly decorated Celtic crosses made from weathered stone and plates with elaborate ornamentation. An astonished murmur shot through the audience as the house lights came up, and the assorted treasures in the glass cabinets became easier to make out. Ancient hand-painted books lay open under the glass, and fine gold jewellery sparkled magnificently in the newly-restored light. ‘What you see in front of you has come from the monks’ very own smitheries and worktops,’ Tara Grey said, raising her voice slightly to be heard over the audience. ‘In this collection, there are one-of-a-kind pieces that truly demonstrate the impressive artistic skills the monks of the time possessed. I discovered most of these artefacts in a field near to a round tower, which is notable because monks of the time built round towers to protect themselves and

their treasures from the scourge of pillaging Vikings. The monks of this particular tower had a trick up their sleeves, however: while they lived inside the round tower as you would expect, they would bury their treasure in the grounds outside rather than in the supposed safety of the tower. This meant that when the Vikings marauded across the country and eventually captured the round tower, they were left sorely disappointed by the lack of treasure. Today, only the tower’s foundations remain, likely because the Vikings destroyed the building in frustration. Even the monks they held captive remained silent about this hoard until their deaths. And so the treasure was forgotten, and it is only now, centuries later, that it has been found again — all thanks to my powers of intuition!’ Tara Grey bowed slightly. Someone began to clap — it seemed to be a young man wearing a black suit. He had dark brown eyes, a high forehead, and a prominent chin. His hair was combed back, and narrow sideburns framed an honest-looking face that seemed full of confidence. The other guests also began clapping, more hesitantly than the man leading the applause, but the crowd’s uncertainty didn’t seem to bother the archaeologist in the slightest. She gestured towards the exhibition as if inviting everyone forward. ‘You now have the opportunity to take a closer look at these unique finds,’ she said before stepping down from the podium. The young man who had applauded with such enthusiasm elbowed his way past a group of older gentlemen who were deep in conversation. Their discussion seemed rather heated, I noted. ‘I’m impressed by your work,’ the man in black said to the archaeologist when he eventually made it over to her. I could hear everything he said as I was standing only a few feet away. ‘I think you’re just the woman who can help me,’ he continued, absent-mindedly pushing a strand of hair out of his face. Tara Grey regarded the young man with a reserved expression on her face, but before the two of them could discuss the subject any further, the archaeologist was approached by the gentlemen who had previously been engaged in a heated discussion. As it turned out, they were also archaeologists. One of them, a short balding man with a pointy beard, particularly stood out. He wore glasses with thick lenses that made his watery blue eyes look abnormally large.

‘You disgrace the entire archaeological community with all this balderdash about supernatural abilities,’ he spat out, clearly disgruntled. ‘Your professor, Frank Gormic, would have been disgusted if he had been here to witness that scandalous display just now.’ Tara Grey seemed completely unfazed by the remark, but my ears pricked up immediately — she had been one of my great-uncle’s students! Aunt Bell had once told me that Uncle Frank had held a professorship in archaeology at one of the many colleges of the University of London, though she itted he had hardly ever shown up there as he preferred the practical side of archaeology to the theoretical side. I was curious to see Tara Grey’s reaction to her colleagues’ verbal chastisement, but she didn’t get an opportunity to reply before the young man in black leapt to her defence. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’ he said, his sonorous voice cutting through the noise of the other guests. ‘Just because you don’t believe in supernatural phenomena doesn’t mean for a second that they don’t exist.’ ‘So you’re in league with this con artist, are you?’ the bearded man said to him, accusingly. The body language of the man in the black suit seemed defensive, as though expecting the confrontation to end in blows. His eyes glowed with fury as he glared at the bearded archaeologist. Tara Grey let out a gentle, placatory laugh. ‘Gentlemen,’ she said calmly, ‘there is no need to argue. Just cast your eyes over the artefacts. My methods speak for themselves.’ ‘In my opinion, you should be thanking Lady Luck for this find, not some mystical mumbo-jumbo,’ the bearded, bespectacled man said pointedly. All of a sudden, the fluorescent lights above began to flicker and made a crackling noise before switching off completely, leaving everyone in the room staring into darkness. Only a faint ray of light managed to cascade in through the window blinds, barely penetrating the inky blackness. Worried murmurs spread through the hall like wildfire, and one woman let out a shrill scream. Someone tried jiggling the door handles but they were still locked from before. I suddenly noticed something moving in the darkness and heard the rustling of cloth. I could just about make out the faint outline of a robe.

Tara Grey! I thought. Without a second’s hesitation, I followed the archaeologist’s dark silhouette, but I unexpectedly bumped into a woman who lost her balance and fell over. I apologised to the stranger and helped her back to her feet. When I looked around again afterwards, I couldn’t see Tara Grey anywhere. I gingerly felt my way to the side door that Tara Grey had come via when she entered the exhibition hall earlier. I was relieved to find that the door wasn’t locked. I slipped through and found myself in a dark hallway. The power had gone out here as well, the light switch doing nothing when I flicked it on and off a few times. It was even darker in the hallway than it had been in the exhibition hall. Carefully, I placed one foot in front of the other and headed down the corridor, listening intently to the darkness around me. Suddenly, I heard a voice. ‘What do you want from me now?’ It was unmistakably Tara Grey’s voice. She seemed to be in a nearby room. ‘I want to make you an offer,’ replied a male voice. ‘And I just know it’s one that will excite you greatly.’ Without thinking, I had stopped walking. Should I head back to the exhibition hall? It wasn’t in my nature to eavesdrop, but the desperation in the man’s voice made me pay attention to the conversation. ‘It is of the utmost importance that you help me. If you are successful in this, it will boost your standing with your fellow archaeologists.’ ‘I think it’s touching how much you care about my reputation, really I do,’ replied the archaeologist cynically, ‘but it’s not necessary, I assure you. I am convinced of my methods. The fact my colleagues doubt my powers of intuition only goes to show how narrow-minded they are.’ ‘I’m glad you think so.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because with every word you say, you are proving to me that I can trust you implicitly.’

‘What is this about, anyway?’ ‘A valuable, early Christian chalice. I know that it’s buried somewhere along the coast of the Northern Irish county of Londonderry, and if the legends are to be believed, it’s even more richly decorated than the Ardagh Chalice that currently resides in the National Museum of Ireland in Dublin!’ For a moment, there was silence, save for the loud voices of the locked-in guests in the exhibition hall. ‘You’ve piqued my interest,’ Tara Grey itted. ‘But why are you coming to me with this?’ ‘Because I am convinced that your abilities will help you find the chalice quick as a flash.’ ‘You’re in a hurry to find it?’ ‘Yes,’ replied the man. ‘I’ll explain why later — after you’ve agreed to come to the old monastery on the Northern Irish coast with me. Oh, and just so you know, you won’t be working alone up there. I’ve already assembled a few capable people at the monastery, all of whom have supernatural abilities like yourself. Together, you should be able to root out the chalice in no time.’ ‘You’ll understand if I want to your story before going along with this,’ said Tara Grey. ‘I freely it that my methods are unconventional, but that doesn’t mean I go chasing after every ghost story I hear about.’ ‘I can show you documents proving the existence of the chalice this very afternoon. I’ll wait for you in the restaurant at my hotel.’ ‘Okay,’ the archaeologist said, seeming to agree to this. ‘Now, I really must be getting back to my guests.’ Suddenly a shadowy figure appeared in front of me, and before I could move out of its path, it banged right into me. I teetered back on my heels, struggling to keep my balance, before a pair of strong hands grabbed me around my waist and kept me upright with an iron-like grip. At that moment, the light in the hallway buzzed back into life. I blinked a few times, my eyes taking a moment to adjust to the light, and when they did, I could see it was the young man dressed in

black standing in front of me, holding me up — so close to me that I could smell his aftershave. He looked me up and down, seemingly sizing me up. His brown eyes twinkled mysteriously. ‘Who are you?’ he asked gruffly. ‘Jessica... Jessica Bannister,’ I stuttered. ‘I... accidentally overheard your conversation.’ ‘Then you’d best forget it again,’ he said firmly, releasing me from his grip. ‘It’s nobody’s business but my own!’ He turned away from me and hurried over to the small door, opening it and disappearing into the exhibition hall beyond. It had all happened so fast. Confused, I looked in the direction the man in black had gone. I had followed Tara Grey here with the intention of asking her a few questions, but after that little encounter, it was as if someone had swept all my previous thoughts out of my head. Without dwelling on it any longer, I followed the mysterious stranger. When I reached the now well-lit exhibition hall, I looked around intently. The buzz of excitement that had electrified the guests previously had died down, with everyone chatting among themselves instead, hardly paying any attention to the treasures in the glass cabinets. The young man in the black suit was nowhere to be seen — it was as if the ground had swallowed him whole. Tara Grey entered the hall again. With an irable degree of composure, she headed straight for the podium. ‘I must apologise for the minor technical hitch,’ she said. ‘All my life, I have noted with some dismay that technical equipment often fails when I’m around. So far, no one has been able to offer me a plausible explanation for why this should happen, but I believe my powers of intuition are to blame. Electricity and sixth senses don’t mix, it would seem.’ The man with the beard let out a sharp, mocking laugh. Behind his thick spectacles, his eyes glared at her with contempt.

***

‘So the grand opening of her exhibition was a total flop for Tara Grey, hm?’ Martin T. Stone concluded after reading the draft of my article. ‘Still, your article is a lively of events and a rollicking good read to boot. I especially like how you described the chaos when the lights suddenly went out.’ Martin T. Stone let out a guffaw which he quickly suppressed. The magisterial desk the editor-in-chief of the London City Observer was sitting behind was hopelessly full of folders, binders, agency reports, letters, and memos. Of course, Stone’s office was no different to other offices I had been in, aside from everything being a bit more untidy and chaotic in here. The shelves were packed with old newspapers and books, and the wastepaper basket was overflowing with torn up pieces of paper. Martin T. Stone was holding a draft of my article on the exhibition in his hand. His beige tailored suit subtly accentuated his sturdy frame, and he had a chiselled face topped with dark hair that was mottled with grey at the temples, which made him look every bit the forty-six-year-old he was. His blue eyes were observing me carefully, but his face showed no emotion and I couldn’t tell what was going through his mind. Many of my colleagues thought he was cold and distant, but I knew that was just a front. Behind his gruff exterior, he was perfectly pleasant. Though, that didn’t mean he wasn’t a tough taskmaster; he demanded the very best from his employees, and he was willing to use nearly any means necessary to squeeze that top performance out of them. ‘I wouldn’t call the exhibition a flop,’ I interjected. ‘It just didn’t quite go according to plan when you compare it to your average exhibition opening.’ I felt obliged to inform Stone of the things I had not mentioned in my article. ‘Tara Grey doesn’t make it easy for her peers with her unusual methods,’ I continued. ‘But on the other hand, she has her irers too.’ I was referring to the stranger in black — the odd offer he had put to Tara Grey still occupied my thoughts. But Stone just shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s just some weirdo trying to make himself seem more interesting,’ he suggested. ‘You shouldn’t waste your valuable time on ghost stories, Jessica. You don’t know anything about this bloke, not even his name. Without facts, there is no story.’

On this point, I unfortunately had to agree. Tara Grey had left immediately after apologising for the technical gremlins. I had followed her, but she had told me in no uncertain that she wasn’t willing to give me an interview, so I was forced to make do without one. With a sigh, I got up out of my chair and made to leave, but at that same moment, the door to the office flung open and Jim Brodie rushed in. London City Observer’s young star photographer was wearing his customary patchriddled jeans that had seen better days, and his blond hair was sticking up all over the place. In his hand, he was clutching a set of photographs. ‘Hi there,’ he greeted me with a sly wink. ‘Is your audience with the Pope over? I hope you received his blessings, my child.’ Stone’s expression turned sour — he recognised straight away that Jim’s jab had been aimed more at him than me. ‘Haven’t you heard of knocking before entering your boss’ office?’ he barked. ‘But your secretary’s desk looked so empty out there,’ answered Jim. ‘I thought you’d be glad of the company. In my haste, I must have forgotten my manners.’ A half-grin appeared on Jim Brodie’s face. The editor-in-chief of the London City Observer was renowned for the speed at which he went through secretaries, and it hadn’t escaped anyone’s notice that he was currently secretary-less. Stone was always up against it and that often put him in a foul mood — something his secretaries got to see close up, which goes some way to explain why none of them lasted very long in the role. They either quit, furious at their treatment, or got the sack because of some minor perceived issue that had sent the volatile editor into a rage. Two days ago, that very scenario played out once again, and the agency that supplied Stone with secretaries hadn’t managed to find a replacement yet, most likely because his reputation had reached the ears of any would-be applicants. ‘You’re welcome to sit at the desk out there,’ Stone replied coolly. ‘If your work is as bad as your manners, I’m sure you’ll jump at the chance to be kept on the payroll.’ Jim smiled sourly and itted defeat. He laid the pictures he was holding on the desk in front of the editor.

‘These are the best pictures I could get of Carl O’Malley’s funeral,’ he said and spread the photos out. ‘It wasn’t easy getting usable pictures with this horrible weather we’re having. It was raining cats and dogs out there, and the fog at the cemetery was unreal.’ I was still of a mind to leave the office, but my gaze happened to rest on one of the photos that showed a young man in a black raincoat surrounded by gravestones. The man, who was prominently in the foreground, was holding a large umbrella but his face was unobscured and easily recognisable. The high forehead, the narrow sideburns, the prominent chin... I knew that face. There was no doubt about it: this man at the cemetery and the eccentric stranger I had encountered at the museum were one and the same. I pointed to the photograph. ‘Who’s that?’ Jim looked up at me. ‘You know him?’ he asked. ‘Funny old world, eh? He’s the last surviving O’Malley, and sole heir to Carl O’Malley’s estate.’ ‘When you say Carl O’Malley, are you talking about the gangster who died three days ago of heart failure?’ I asked. The report of his demise had been widely reported by all press outlets at the time. Carl O’Malley had been an infamous criminal who had made a name for himself by racking up a rap sheet a mile long that included abduction, burglary, and murder. Scotland Yard had chased this hardened criminal for quite some time before finally getting their man three years ago. They threw the book at him, and to some sections of society, his sentence had seemed particularly harsh, since O’Malley was a wealthy man who had maintained an outward appearance of civility while orchestrating all of his crimes from the shadows. For his numerous felonies, the court sentenced him to life imprisonment. This was reduced when it became clear that O’Malley suffered from a heart condition and only had a few years left to live. He was subsequently given a month’s probation in London, albeit he could only leave the house in the presence of several guards. It was on one of these outings that he ultimately met his end. O’Malley had been in his favourite restaurant when he finally succumbed to his illness. His funeral had been held early this morning. ‘Yup, that’s the one,’ confirmed Jim. ‘The chap in the picture is John O’Malley.

Old Carl was his uncle. John’s set to inherit all the money his uncle didn’t amass through criminal means, and that’s not exactly a small amount. As far as I know, it even includes some old monastery in Ireland.’ I was completely taken aback. I wasn’t expecting to be reminded of the mysterious stranger from the exhibition so soon. Martin T. Stone made a show of looking at his watch. ‘Are you done with your little chit-chat?’ he asked, clearly irritated. ‘I’ve got work to do, you know.’ I ignored his protests and pointed to the photograph. ‘That’s the man from the museum I was telling you about,’ I said to him. Stone’s eyebrows arched upwards in surprise. ‘Okay, wow. Now that makes the story more interesting,’ he murmured. ‘That chalice must be rather important to the boy if he went to the British Museum straight from his uncle’s funeral to talk to Tara Grey.’ Stone formed a rectangle with his hands in the air. ‘“Heir to O’Malley Fortune Hires Spiritualist for Treasure Hunt,”’ he said, formulating the headline he could see in his mind’s eye. Then, his blue eyes turned to look at me. ‘What are you still doing here? Try to find out more about John O’Malley’s plans. And if Tara Grey should decide to participate in this treasure hunt, I’ll need you to move heaven and earth to follow that frankly odd woman on her little trip.’

***

Tara Grey lived near St James’s Park in an older building that had been newly renovated. Its façade, complete with protruding balconies and baroque elements, had been freshly painted and looked just as colourless in the perpetual gloom that defined the city as all the other buildings on the street. Inside, the house looked much friendlier. The walls and floor of the foyer were made of marble

and inset with long mirrors, and a curved staircase circling a lift shaft with elaborate wrought ironwork led to the upper floors. The archaeologist lived in a small flat on the third floor. I hadn’t called ahead, because I reasoned I would find out more in a private face-to-face conversation than over the phone. But Tara Grey didn’t seem to be home. I had tried ringing the doorbell several times with no answer, though I hadn’t heard a bell ringing inside. I was about to turn and leave when I heard a quiet noise from behind the door. I stopped, turned back to the door, and rapped loudly on it with my knuckles. Not long after, I heard footsteps on the other side. The door swung open, and a dark figure appeared in front of me. The entrance hall of the flat was in semi-darkness, and for a moment I thought I could see a glistening skull in the gloom, its empty eye sockets seeming to stare right through me. Startled, I took a step back. A moment later, the light flicked on to reveal Tara Grey standing in front of me. This time, however, she was wearing a plain blue suit, not the red robe she had been wearing at the museum. The skull was nowhere to be seen. Tara Grey didn’t seem particularly happy to see me. ‘You again?’ she said in place of a greeting. ‘I already told you at the museum that I don’t give interviews. And whatever you want to know about my Ireland exhibition, you can find out at the museum.’ ‘I... I’m not here because of the exhibition,’ I stuttered. The image of the skull had left me a bit shaky. Tara Grey looked at me in surprise. ‘No?’ she asked. ‘Well, what do you want then?’ ‘I want to know more about your methods,’ I began. ‘When you opened the exhibition earlier, your colleagues attacked you for how you approach your digs. An article in the London City Observer might help silence your critics. I overheard you talking about going to check out some ancient manuscripts this afternoon. What do you say to me shadowing you and seeing your methods for myself? It would make a great introduction to my article...’ ‘Who told you I was going to look at manuscripts?’ asked Tara Grey suspiciously. Her face had darkened. ‘I overheard your conversation with John O’Malley earlier,’ I answered honestly.

‘And I have to it, it really piqued my curiosity.’ Tara sighed, sounding weary. ‘If I find anything that’s of public interest, I’ll the press myself,’ she said curtly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an engagement I’d prefer not to be late for.’ I had a suspicion who she was meeting. If I didn’t think of something fast, Tara Grey would be meeting John O’Malley alone. ‘I’ve got another reason for being here,’ I said hurriedly. ‘You knew Frank Gormic, right? He was my great-uncle.’ Tara Grey had nearly closed the door, but she paused. Slowly, the door opened again, and the archaeologist looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Is that true?’ she asked. I nodded. ‘As a child, I used to spend a lot of time with Uncle Frank. He told me all about his expeditions and digs. His exciting work and adventurous lifestyle did wonders to spark my imagination as a kid. His disappearance was difficult for me...’ The archaeologist’s acerbic expression had completely disappeared and had been replaced with one that looked almost friendly. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so from the start?’ she said, smiling at me. ‘Professor Gormic was the most important man in my life. I have a lot to thank him for.’ Tara had a sad gleam in her eyes as she said this, but her expression quickly lightened again. ‘I always regretted never getting the chance to show Professor Gormic my gratitude, so I think it’s only right that I do his niece this tiny favour. You can come with me to meet John O’Malley.’ She gave a winning smile, and not for the first time, I asked myself how I had ever mistaken that friendly face for a ghoulish skull. ‘Wait here a moment,’ said Tara, interrupting my thoughts. ‘I’ll just grab my raincoat.’ It wasn’t long before she was standing beside me, closing the door to her flat. ‘Professor Gormic was a truly unique man,’ she gushed as we walked

down the hallway. ‘He gave my life a completely new direction back when I’d just started studying archaeology.’ I stopped in front of the lift. The wooden compartment with its glass doors glided down the wrought-iron shaft towards our floor, but Tara Grey took me by the arm and pulled me towards the stairs. ‘I don’t trust technology,’ she explained, smiling uneasily. ‘I’ve got stuck in lifts too many times to count. It’s like I’m cursed or something. My phone constantly stops working for no reason and my doorbell regularly goes on strike.’ I ed the odd apology Tara had made for the power outage at the exhibition. According to her, electricity and sixth senses didn’t mix. ‘So that’s why the doorbell wasn’t working,’ I said. ‘The doorbell was broken.’ Tara smiled wanly. ‘Having supernatural powers has its downsides,’ she said.

***

We took my cherry-red Mercedes to the meeting place, the rain hammering the roof of the convertible. The classic car had been a wedding gift from Frank Gormic to his wife, Beverly, but as she knew nothing about cars and it had been sitting in the garage untouched for many years, she had given it to me as a graduation present. Tara told me bashfully that she didn’t have a driving licence. Her driving instructor had finally refused to teach her because the car would develop some sort of fault every time she got behind the wheel. ‘I finally accepted that it was better for me and everyone around me if I just gave up on the idea of driving,’ explained Tara as we drove through the wet, glistening streets of London. ‘Otherwise the accident rate of this city would no doubt have gone up a few percent by now.’ We laughed. Tara Grey turned out to be very friendly when she let you see

behind her mask. A little time later, we had reached the hotel John O’Malley was staying at. I parked up in the adjacent car park and hurried through the rain with Tara towards the hotel’s imposing entrance. ‘Let me do the talking, at least at first,’ said Tara with a wink. ‘I’ll convince O’Malley that having a journalist around won’t do any harm.’ I hoped she would be successful in that, especially as I hadn’t made the best first impression on O’Malley when we had bumped into each other at the museum. We walked into the hotel’s restaurant, and a waiter in a black blazer approached us. After Tara Grey had told him that we were expected by John O’Malley, he led us through the stylishly decorated hall. He guided us to a booth that was bordered with vines and elaborately carved folding screens on two sides. The lighting in the booth was dim. When we reached it, John O’Malley suddenly emerged from between the plants — presumably he had seen us coming. I noticed there was another person seated in the booth behind the fauna, but the light was too bad to be able to make out anything about them. O’Malley greeted the archaeologist warmly, but when his eyes landed on me, his eyebrows nearly leapt off his head in surprise. Before the young man could protest, Tara quickly shut him down. ‘She’s a friend of mine and works for a well-known London newspaper.’ ‘We’ve met,’ said John O’Malley drily. Turning to me, he said: ‘Didn’t I make it clear that this was none of your business?’ I went to say something, but at that same moment, the person who I had seen sitting in the booth stood up and came into the light. Speechless, I stared at the dumpy woman in front of me. She was about a head shorter than me and was wearing a burgundy dress. Her curly grey hair and round, good-natured face were unmistakable. ‘Aunt Bell!’ I cried in astonishment. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘I was having a little chat with Mr O’Malley here,’ said Aunt Bell, her smile lighting up her face. She came up to me and gave me a quick hug. It did nothing to lessen my astonishment. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before I left this morning that you were meeting

someone at this hotel?’ ‘Because I didn’t know I was this morning,’ Aunt Bell said. ‘John didn’t call me until around noon. We met a year ago at a conference for diviners in Ireland. Since then, we’ve often exchanged letters and news about what’s going on in the occult community.’ ‘So this is Jessica Bannister?’ John O’Malley said, suddenly looking at me in a completely different way to before. He ushered us into his private booth, making sure there were enough chairs for all of us. John introduced Aunt Bell and Tara Grey to each other. After Tara explained that she knew Frank Gormic and I explained why I was there, Aunt Bell nodded knowingly and cast a glance around at everyone. ‘So many coincidences at once,’ she said mysteriously. ‘I believe fate has brought us together today.’ John O’Malley nodded his agreement. ‘Mrs Gormic told me all about you and your extraordinary abilities,’ he said, turning to me. I gave Aunt Bell a chastising look. I knew only too well without being told what they had been discussing. Aunt Bell was convinced I had supernatural abilities. Every once in a while, I would have strange nightmares that sometimes — and not a little unnervingly — matched up with future events. And it would appear Aunt Bell had told this John O’Malley character about my so-called ‘abilities’. She winked at me calmly. ‘We are among our own kind here,’ she said. ‘John is a trustworthy young man. I would never have told him of your secret if he wasn’t.’ I sighed. Like always, I found it impossible to stay mad at Aunt Bell. Besides, she knew full well what she was doing — even though her interest in the supernatural and the occult was seemingly barmy by all s, she hadn’t lost her ability to think critically. John’s brown eyes sized me up attentively. ‘Since you already know why we’re here, I see no reason to keep you in the dark any longer. Though, I must ask that you don’t write any articles on this for the time being. I’d rather you wait until the chalice has been found before that. Then

you can have exclusive rights to the scoop.’ I nodded to indicate I agreed with this condition. He pulled a large tome out of a thick leather bag down by his feet. We moved our drinks to one side and opened up the tome in front of us, which took up the whole table. ‘In this book, you will find clues about the existence of the Golden Chalice, purported to have been in the possession of the early Christian monks of Londonderry,’ explained John. ‘These are the only references I have found to it. The chalice is also known as the Petrus Chalice, and from its description, it seems similar to the Holy Grail. According to legend, Saint Peter drank from this chalice at the Last Supper, and as a disciple, he used it at all subsequent masses. As such, the chalice is said to have the same magical properties as the Grail itself.’ Tara took a closer look at the huge tome. Rather than being bound in the usual way, it looked like a collection of single pages. The thick, yellowing pages looked worn and torn at the edges, and the leather that surrounded them looked equally timeworn. The archaeologist smoothed the first page flat and looked at the ancient handwriting. The first letters of each paragraph were little works of art, nestled as they were inside small landscape scenes and painted snapshots of daily life. ‘This book is some sort of chronicle,’ said Tara Grey thoughtfully. ‘It would have been produced by monks who had studied painting. This book is an original copy and is quite rare in its own right. That’s what I can tell at first glance, at least.’ John was looking keenly at Tara, barely able to contain his excitement as she carefully leafed through the pages. John had inserted bookmarks next to certain pages to denote mentions of the Golden Chalice. Tara Grey read the ages thoroughly. She must have been very well versed in the ancient script and language of the time as her eyes didn’t pause even for a moment as she scanned the pages. John, Aunt Bell, and I talked quietly among ourselves. John was very talkative and turned out to be quite the charming conversationalist. He was very well educated and seemed to care a lot about the world around him. I had butterflies every time his gaze met mine — something mysterious in those deep brown eyes of his touched me in a way I couldn’t explain.

Tara Grey had now read all the marked ages. The tome was still open on the table at the last page which seemed especially old and worn. I let my gaze wander over the page and my eyes caught on something. The large first letter on the yellow paper looked eerie and strange in comparison with the more colourful drawings on the previous pages. I was struck with an uneasy feeling as I looked at the miniature in closer detail and saw it depicted a skull in a hood. A bleak, desolate coastal scene served as the backdrop, and directly underneath the skull was a ghostly tower that soared upwards into a cloudy sky. The large letter inside this postage stamp-sized scene had been made to look like it was made of fog. My mind reflexively compared the ancient image in front of me to the strange skull I had seen in the darkness in place of Tara’s face. Was there some connection between my senses playing tricks on me and the image in the monks’ chronicle? ‘So? What do you say?’ asked John O’Malley, turning to the archaeologist. ‘Does the Petrus Chalice I told you about really exist?’ Tara Grey nodded slowly. ‘I assume so,’ she replied. ‘And if this chronicle is to be believed, it must be a remarkably unique piece of art — one that would put even the famous Ardagh Chalice to shame.’ She massaged her temples with her fingers and closed her eyes momentarily. ‘My powers of intuition are silent still,’ she said. ‘But in this case, I trust my archaeological skills. I will come with you to Ireland and take part in the search for this chalice.’ She looked questioningly at John, for the time had come for the heir to the O’Malley fortune to lay his cards on the table about his interest in this rare artefact. John leaned back and expelled a long breath, before looking contentedly around the group. His dark eyes shone mysteriously. ‘Then, I suppose we’ve got to that point in the conversation where I have to answer some of the questions that I am sure are eating away at you.’ He gave me a sidelong look and grinned. ‘You’ve no doubt heard that my uncle, Carl O’Malley, died a few days ago. I

don’t feel it’s my place to judge him; he lived the life of a criminal and now that he’s dead, he likely finds himself in front of the judge we will all face one day. Carl had no children, so his entire inheritance falls to me as I am the last of the once-numerous Irish clan, the O’Malleys.’ John briefly lowered his gaze and stared at his hands. There had been no hint of emotion in his voice as he spoke, but the death of his uncle did seem to weigh heavily on his heart. But after a moment, he continued: ‘My uncle made sure that, after his death, his estate wouldn’t to me by the normal route. No, he left an unusual will — and it’s that will that we have to thank for our meeting here today.’ He looked around at the faces of his guests. ‘There is a clause in the will that says I must find the Golden Chalice we’ve just been talking about before I can receive my inheritance. If I do not find it, I lose every penny of it.’ John paused again. He had stopped scanning the faces of his captive audience, and his eyes had rested on me. Again, I felt a strange chill run through my body as those bottomless brown pools looked deep into my own eyes. ‘So you now understand why it’s so important that you don’t report on this story before the chalice has been found,’ he said to me. ‘Because if you did, Londonderry would be crawling with treasure hunters in no time.’ I nodded my understanding. ‘So that’s why you’re so interested in finding the chalice as quickly as possible.’ John hung his head. ‘Oh no, that’s another matter entirely,’ he explained. ‘There’s a woman by the name of Louise Skellfish who has already signed on to help me search for the chalice. She is a renowned astrologer and tarot reader. She calculated that the next few days would present the best possible conditions for finding the chalice, and I don’t want to up this opportunity.’ Slowly, the unusual behaviour of the young man was beginning to make more sense. He seemed to believe in astrology and the notion that the future could be read using cards — two things I frankly found foolish.

‘I still think it’s rather questionable that you could find this chalice in such a short space of time,’ I pointed out. ‘Archaeologists often take years, even decades to find what they’re looking for. In fact, there’s a distinct possibility that the Petrus Chalice may never be found at all...’ My words seemed to have caused John some consternation. It would appear that I had vocalised his deepest fears, but he quickly regained his composure. ‘Which is exactly why I’m bringing Ms Grey on board,’ he replied, sounding optimistic. ‘You and the other guests at the monastery will find the chalice in no time flat, I’m sure of it.’ ‘How did your uncle even find out about the existence of the chalice?’ Aunt Bell chimed in. ‘And why was it so important to him that the chalice be found after his death?’ John shrugged. ‘The old monastery on the Northern Irish coast has been in our family for generations, but it’s rarely seen any use in recent times. As a child, I only went there a few times, but it left a strong impression on me. Uncle Carl was the only one who would retreat to the monastery every once in a while for extended periods of time. Probably to come up with his latest criminal venture in the isolation of the old building or who knows what.’ John pointed to the old book that was still lying open on the table. ‘Carl discovered this tome in the monastery’s library. He translated the chronicle into modern English himself, and that’s when he learned of the legend of the reputedly cursed Golden Chalice. Maybe talk of a curse frightened my uncle too much for him to seek it out himself, I don’t know, but he would’ve known how priceless a piece it is.’ John sighed. ‘Precisely what motivated Uncle Carl to write in his will that the search for the chalice should be continued after his death remains a mystery, even to me. There’s no point even thinking about it, though. No one other than Carl would ever be able to answer that question. That’s why I think it’s all the more important to find the chalice quickly.’ One of the young man’s comments had grabbed my attention. ‘What’s this about a curse?’ I asked curiously. ‘Nothing specific is known about it,’ answered John with a shrug. ‘It is said that

the chalice has some mystical abilities, and that’s about it.’ I pointed to the open page and the eerie scene that depicted the monk with a skull in place of a face. Strange images still occupied my thoughts. ‘Does this chapter talk about the curse?’ I asked. John shook his head. ‘I read my uncle’s translation,’ he said. ‘In the last chapter, the last lot of monks to reside in the monastery write about the death of the abbot, Victor Corbett, who met his end in the round tower. Apparently, ever since, his ghost has haunted the place. Unfortunately, I’m yet to meet him.’ John winked at me and grinned. I returned his smile weakly. John believed in all things supernatural, but that didn’t stop him from seeing the funny side. I was in no mood for jokes, however. Something about this story troubled me. John turned to Tara Grey. ‘So now you know everything I know. Time is precious in this endeavour,’ he said, his tone serious. ‘You can’t waste even a minute in our search for the Petrus Chalice. I propose that we leave for Ireland tomorrow.’ Tara Grey stood up abruptly. ‘Agreed,’ she said. ‘But I must go home now and make the necessary preparations for our voyage. Usually such a venture would require careful planning, which I now have to do all in one night.’ Aunt Bell and I got up too. ‘I would be glad to have you in our little group,’ said John, who was now also on his feet. I was happy it was John who broached the subject rather than me. ‘I don’t wish my invitation to offend you,’ he said. ‘I don’t care if you have supernatural abilities or not.’ John O’Malley wasn’t exactly unfriendly — in fact, his actions seemed perfectly logical, given the circumstances — but I never felt at ease when somebody put their trust in what they called my ‘supernatural abilities’ due to not fully believing in them myself. John shot me another one of his winning smiles and shook my hand. I quivered inside as our eyes met and I felt his strong hand

gripping mine so tightly...

***

Aunt Bell and I were soon back in my cherry-red Mercedes and making our way through the gloomy London streets. The wind-tossed rain battered the roof of the car, and the wipers could barely cope with the deluge of water that streamed down the windscreen. ‘John is a good man,’ said Aunt Bell unprompted, giving me a meaningful look from the enger seat. ‘You mustn’t believe he’s just some greedy weirdo trying to fulfil a clause in a will using dubious methods.’ I shrugged. ‘I have to it, that was my first impression of him, but now I feel like I may have been wrong in thinking that.’ Aunt Bell nodded solemnly. ‘John desperately needs that inheritance money,’ she explained. ‘But he doesn’t want the money that’s tied up in that monastery all for himself.’ I raised an eyebrow in surprise, but kept my gaze glued to the road ahead, which I could hardly even see in this downpour. ‘John O’Malley set up a charity some years back,’ Aunt Bell continued. ‘A charity that provides refuge for victims of violent crime. To understand his motivations, you need to know that his parents died in a bank robbery in Dublin when John was eighteen. They had only gone in to withdraw some cash when masked men burst in and threw sacks onto the counters, demanding that the tellers put all the money into them. But it only took a few minutes for the bank to be surrounded by the police, and the situation escalated in the blink of an eye. The robbers took all the customers and employees hostage, and tough negotiations continued through the night to bargain for their release. However, one of the robbers lost his nerve and shot indiscriminately into the assembled hostages, killing four of them, including John O’Malley’s parents. The police then stormed the bank and arrested the criminals. Ever since then, John has been

obsessed with the idea of helping survivors of violent crime. He studied law and founded a charity that has already helped many people in Ireland get over their psychological scars. This charity needs money, though — the public funding they receive isn’t nearly enough to cover costs and John’s savings are nearly depleted. Carl O’Malley’s inheritance comes at the most opportune time.’ Aunt Bell nodded as she considered the timeliness of it all. ‘I think it’s a wonderful idea to use the wealth inherited from a hardened criminal to help victims. And it’s typical of John O’Malley that he didn’t breathe a word of the charity during our little get-together in the restaurant...’ My great-aunt’s words touched me deeply. I suddenly saw John in an entirely new light, and I could easily imagine those in need getting the help they required with his aid. As we chatted, we reached the neighbourhood of Hampstead and I turned onto Shirlock Road. A little way down it, I steered my cherry-red Mercedes into the driveway nestled between the tall poplar trees that stood guard next to the entrance to our detached house. Before us, the black silhouette of the Victorian house rose up into the rainy night sky. With its protruding bay windows, decorative turrets, and tall, thin chimneys, the old house looked more like a small, magical castle — undoubtedly eerie to look at, but to my eye, it was cosy and familiar.

***

We had already covered a considerable distance when John O’Malley, Tara Grey, and I finally found ourselves traversing the moorlands of the Northern Irish county of Londonderry in a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce. It was late afternoon, and we barrelled along at a comfortable pace down a B-road that cut through the bleak bog-covered landscape like a ribbon of grey. It was impossible to see what lay on the road ahead as thick fog reduced our visibility to just a few yards in front of the bonnet, its milky whiteness completely obscuring the horizon. Thick, grey clouds loomed over us, and the grim black bog that the road bisected surrounded us on every side. The heather trembled in the cool northerly breeze blowing in from the sea over the flat land, causing the car to sway as it made its way across the eerie landscape. Suffice to say, the surroundings did nothing to

help me overcome the uneasy feeling that had been plaguing me since I set off. It did the exact opposite in fact. Just looking out the side window into the fog at the bushes and gnarled trees that stood like bizarre silhouettes against the grey sky was enough to give me chills. I involuntarily thought back to the strange events in London that had triggered the unease that gripped me and seemed unwilling to let me go. Aunt Bell and I had spent a considerable amount of time the evening before sitting in the kitchen, recounting our memories of my great-uncle, Frank Gormic. The meeting with Tara Grey had opened old wounds for Aunt Bell, which had already been prodded at after my unsuccessful trip to the Amazon basin a few weeks earlier. Aunt Bell had taken out a number of old photo albums, and we had flicked through until nearly midnight, but by that time, she was feeling less melancholy — reliving memories of her late husband seemed to have improved her mood greatly. ‘I’m going back up to the attic to look through Frank’s things again,’ she had declared. ‘Maybe I’ll find something up there that’ll help you in your search for this Petrus Chalice.’ With that, she had disappeared out of the room. I had begun to tidy up the kitchen, putting dishes into the dishwasher, when I had seen movement at the window. Startled, I had found myself rooted to the spot. I could’ve sworn I had seen a pale figure in a robe, but a moment later the apparition had disappeared again, leaving only the glittering raindrops running down the glass visible against the darkness outside. The kitchen had a small back door which led out into the herb garden Aunt Bell tended to with love and care. With an uneasy feeling, I had reached for the doorknob and opened it, walking out into the night air with a chill running up my spine. The rain was cascading down the leaves of the poplar trees that shielded the house from the street, and a cold wind had greeted me as it sprayed rain towards me. I had looked around, my senses heightened, but I could see nothing besides the deep shadows and all-consuming darkness. I had wondered briefly whether my senses had been playing tricks on me again. I couldn’t be sure and had finally returned to the kitchen, carefully locking the door and making sure all the other windows and doors in the other ground floor rooms were locked. Only after I had done that did I start to feel a bit better.

Even though the ancient weapons hanging on the walls of the entrance hall cast eerie shadows, I found them somehow comforting. Aunt Bell liked to display a whole range of weapons she found while digging around in her late husband’s things in the attic, using the ground floor as some kind of exhibition space. Halberds with brittle wooden handles, ball-and-chain flails with rusty spikes, and dangerous-looking muskets could all be found in her makeshift armoury, as well as functioning crossbows, clubs, and Stone Age arrowheads. I had glanced uneasily up at the cobbled-together arsenal as I walked up the stairs to my occult-free zone. From the stairwell, I had called out to Aunt Bell that I was off to bed, but her reply had got lost in the shuffling and bumping coming from the attic. I had simply shrugged and retreated to my living area. After packing a suitcase, I had climbed straight into bed. The following morning, I had called the London City Observer and told Martin T. Stone that I would be travelling to Ireland with John O’Malley and Tara Grey that day. I had also given him a brief overview of what I had already found out. Stone hadn’t been a fan of being banned from publishing the story until after the chalice was found, but he had finally agreed to the of my agreement with John and wished me ‘happy hunting’. I had also tried to convince him to send Jim Brodie along with me, but the editor-in-chief had harpooned that idea. The London City Observer’s star photographer was already completely booked up for the next few days, he had told me. I would have to go without him. After I had hung up, I had gone to the kitchen where Aunt Bell was already waiting for me with breakfast spread out in front of her. The look on her face had told me that her rest had been just as broken as mine. ‘Sadly, I couldn’t find anything in the attic last night that could help you,’ she had said, the disappointment evident in her voice. ‘And I was so sure Frank had studied Irish history...’ She had paused and shot me a worried look. ‘I can see something’s bothering you,’ she had said. ‘Did you have another one of your nightmares?’ I had shaken my head. ‘I’m just tired and anxious.’ It wasn’t a lie. My sleep had been disturbed, with every noise seemingly grabbing my attention. At some point during the night, I had gone over to the

window to look out into the rainy darkness. Without knowing exactly what I was looking for, I had found myself being startled by every shadow and branch that could possibly have ed for the silhouette of a robed figure. ‘You must look after yourself,’ Aunt Bell had said. ‘Your supernatural abilities are still largely unexplored. Who knows what power you might discover you have sometime in the future?’ ‘You know I’m sceptical when it comes to that sort of thing,’ I had replied uneasily. ‘Why should I, of all people, have such unusual abilities?’ Aunt Bell had smiled at me. ‘Because you’re special, of course.’ ‘You’re special too,’ I had said. ‘And you don’t have any supernatural abilities.’ ‘More’s the pity,’ she had sighed, wistfully. I could only grin at that last remark. I had to it, my great-aunt was unshakeable in her beliefs. ‘I have to go now,’ I had said, getting up. ‘The taxi will be here soon.’ A few minutes later, I was sitting in one of London’s famous black cabs. That morning, fog had settled over the city and caused everything to look bleak in the weak daylight that barely managed to pierce it. The cabbie — a stocky, dour, fatfaced man — had practically stood on the accelerator, and we had sped off down Shirlock Road. I ed my facial expression turning to one of disgust at the way this man was driving. Outside, thick banks of fog had rolled across the street and visibility was dire. At the end of Shirlock Road, there was a small church surrounded by old oak trees. The tall church spire had been little more than a silhouette in the thick fog. As I looked at the mighty oak trees, I had suddenly spotted a figure wearing a monk’s robe with a pointed hood standing between them. ‘Watch out!’ I had yelled almost instinctively. The cabbie had been startled and had slammed on the brakes. Without warning, one of the trees near to where I had seen the monk had begun to sway dangerously. I could hear cracking and splintering, and as I watched, the crown of the tree trembled before the mighty trunk slowly started leaning towards the

road. I couldn’t believe my eyes as the huge tree fell straight towards us, cutting through the fog like a knife. I could hear the squeal of the cab’s tyres on the wet tarmac as it came abruptly to a halt. At that same moment, the oak tree had crashed down to earth only centimetres from the cab’s bonnet. Wide-eyed, the cabbie had stared first at the tree, then at me. His pudgy face had suddenly gone quite pale. ‘By... By a hair! It missed us by a hair!’ he had stuttered. ‘If... If you hadn’t warned me, we’d be flat as a pancake!’ I had paid him no attention, instead throwing open the car door and running over to the church. The fog had still been swirling from all the commotion, tumbling around in the air and making the area seem even eerier than it already was. I had quickly scanned the scene, but the figure in the monk’s robe had seemingly vanished. Or had it all just been my imagination? Chills had jinked their way up my spine again as I rubbed my upper arms with my hands. If I hadn’t seen that ghostly apparition, the falling tree would have flattened us. ‘You see?’ a gravelly voice had boomed beside me, freezing me to the spot. But it had only been the cabbie who had sidled up next to me unnoticed. With a fleshy finger, I could see him motioning to the tree stump. The trunk of the old oak had sheared a few inches above the ground. The stump had looked shredded — charred even — and long pieces of wood lay scattered around it. ‘It’s like it was hit by an explosion,’ the cabbie had concluded. ‘Probably lightning. Can’t think of any other explanation for a whopper of a tree falling over without warning like that.’ ‘Did you not notice anything unusual?’ I had asked, thinking the cabbie might have also seen the ghostly apparition. The driver had simply shaken his head. ‘To be honest, I wasn’t paying much attention to what was going on around me,’ he had itted quietly. ‘I would’ve driven straight to my death with my eyes wide open... if you hadn’t warned me... My knees are still shaking just thinking about how we could be dead right now...’ He had stopped and shaken his head again, before suddenly raising the palm of his hand to his forehead with a slapping sound.

‘You were going to the airport!’ he had cried. ‘I’ll go phone another driver to come pick you up. I can’t get back behind the wheel in this state. My nerves are shot. But I’ll get on the blower to the police and see that they take care of this mess...’ With that, he had turned away and headed back over to his cab. I had looked around uneasily at the silhouettes of the church and the oak trees that were hard to make out in the pea-souper that surrounded me. Was I sure there wasn’t something moving in the bushes over there? With a shudder, I had spun around and hurried back to the road.

***

I had made it to the airport where Tara Gray and John O’Malley had been waiting for me impatiently just in time. During the flight, I had kept to myself mostly and let Tara and John carry on the conversation between themselves. I had noticed, however, that John kept looking over at me with those deep brown eyes of his when he thought I wouldn’t notice. At some point, I had fallen asleep and didn’t open my eyes again until the aeroplane had touched down in Dublin. John had laid his jacket on top of me so I wouldn’t be cold. With a thankful smile, I had handed it back to him. From Dublin, we had taken the train to Derry, the capital of County Londonderry. When we got there, a man with a grey face and gaunt features had met us at the train station. His hair was thin, and he wore an expensive-looking black suit. John O’Malley had shaken the man’s hand and introduced him to us as his butler. ‘Harry, please take care of our guests’ luggage,’ he had said to him. While the butler was off dealing with our luggage, John had led us to a black Rolls-Royce. It had been cold and windy in stark contrast to the warmth of the train we had just been on, and we had only managed to stretch our legs for a moment before taking our seats in the luxurious car. In the meantime, Harry had wandered over with our luggage. I feeling sorry for the thin man, as you couldn’t accuse Tara of travelling light. There was an old trunk in her

mountain of baggage which must have weighed at least forty kilos. Unsurprisingly, the butler hadn’t found it easy getting the bulky luggage into the boot of the car and had only managed it with John’s help. During the long car journey, John had told us about the old monastery. His uncle had often retreated there alone, without taking servants with him. According to the locals, there were rumours that the monastery was haunted. The legend of the cursed abbot, Victor Corbett, had apparently lived on down the ages. This meant it wasn’t so easy for John to find staff. When someone in Dublin had directed him to Harry, he was ecstatic. As weak as he was, Harry was at least good at his job. In addition to the butler, John had also hired three women to work in the kitchen who would also tend to his guests’ needs. All of them came from Dublin, which meant not a single one of them had heard the ghost stories that had made everyone else steer well clear of the old monastery. John had been speaking quietly so that Harry, who was up front in the driving seat, wouldn’t hear him, but when he finished recounting the tale of his hiring spree, he turned to his butler and asked: ‘Have all the other guests arrived?’ Harry nodded. ‘The guests are already quite impatient, sir. They keep asking strange questions that we cannot answer for the life of us. Last to arrive was a Mr Leonid Kabakow.’ Content with this answer, John leaned back in his seat. We had been going up an incline for a while now, leaving the eerie bogs somewhere down below us. We were on some kind of stony, black hill; either side of the road, the vegetation was sparse and the smell of algae and seaweed hung in the air, wafted here from the nearby sea. Suddenly, the outline of a grim-looking building surrounded by high walls appeared out of the fog in front of us. It was several storeys tall and had many small gables and bay windows. Light from narrow arched windows shone through the fog and made the bare stone walls of the building seem even gloomier. All the roofed sections were covered in black slate, and at the top of the highest point of the building, there was a large, black, iron cross that was visibly rusting. ‘The monastery,’ said the butler, rather unnecessarily. It wasn’t until we reached the monastery that we could make out another even

taller building in the background. But what we were seeing, looming so eerily and menacingly behind the monastery, were the ruins of a tower. It seemed to be round in shape and topped with broken battlements. Its walls were filled with holes that looked like the hollow, black eye sockets of a skull. The tower really does look exactly like the miniature in the monks’ chronicles! I thought to myself. An uneasy feeling gripped my chest and my mind turned back to the ghost monk I had seen with a skull where his face should have been, but I managed to push these nagging thoughts out of my head and instead concentrated on the dismal old building in front of me. My attention was drawn to several Celtic crosses that seemed to be part of a cemetery stretching off to the right of the building which I guessed must have belonged to the monastery. The low wall that surrounded the sacred earth and its sparse clumps of grass was in poor shape and crumbling in more than one place. The Celtic crosses themselves were covered with moss and lichen, while the squat, weathered gravestones seemed to rise from the ground like terrifying undead creatures. ‘No wonder the locals think this place is haunted,’ I said, shuddering. ‘The sight of the tower and graves alone are enough to give you goosebumps.’ Harry slowly drove the Rolls-Royce through the open gate and into the grounds of the monastery, where we found ourselves in a small courtyard. Around the internal walls was a covered walkway. The stone pillars that reached up to the roof were richly decorated with a number of figures carved into them. The car rolled to a stop and Harry got out quickly to open the doors for us. We were greeted by a chill wind as we got out, and light rain landed on my shoulderlength hair and clung to it. We could just about make out the distant crashing of waves. I pushed a strand of hair out of my face and looked hesitantly over at the ruins of the tower that rose up behind the main building. Its stone walls were black and weathered. In contrast to the monastery, it looked as though the tower had never been renovated. Suddenly, I saw movement between the tower’s battlements. A figure in a monk’s robe! And it was looking down at us! Because of the distance, I couldn’t make out what the face under the hood looked like, but it seemed strangely pale and oddly bony... My breath caught in my throat and I took a step back.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked John worriedly. ‘There... Up there.’ I stammered. My shaking hand pointed up at the tower, but when I looked at the battlements again, there was no one there. The top of the tower was now completely hidden by a bank of fog. John squinted and tried to see where I was pointing. ‘I don’t see anything that would cause that reaction,’ he said. I rubbed my eyes. Had my senses played tricks on me again? Was I seeing ghosts? ‘It... It must have been the fog,’ I said apologetically. John smiled at me, then waved over to the others and guided us to an archway that led into the main courtyard. He approached some big wooden double doors that were intricately decorated with detailed carvings depicting scenes from the Bible. The narrow arched windows left and right of the door seemed to have coloured glass in them, and had men and women with halos depicted on them. Above the door, there was another stained-glass window. It was round and showed a full moon in a star-filled sky. ‘The monks who used to live in this monastery must have been very talented artists,’ I concluded. ‘I wonder why they abandoned the monastery.’ ‘Because the monks were convinced it was haunted,’ John said, answering my question. He reached for the doorknob and heaved open the heavy door that creaked and squeaked on its hinges. ‘Victor Corbett, the last abbot this monastery had, died in the old round tower when the roof collapsed in on top of him. Supposedly, for several months after, he would appear as a ghost and stalk the grounds. Then, the whole lot of them just up and left...’ Suddenly, a shrill scream rang out from inside the monastery, echoing off the depressingly bare stone walls. I froze with fear.

***

Without a second’s hesitation, John dashed into the monastery and ran across the large entrance hall. By this time, I had regained my composure and set off after the young man. The dim light that seeped through the stained-glass windows barely illuminated the hall, but I could just about make out doors, columns, and stone statues in it. John made a beeline for an unusually tall door between two thin columns, below a triangular arch. John pushed it open to reveal a wide corridor beyond. He quickly headed towards one of the nearby rooms, which turned out to be the kitchen. It was fully decked out in tiles — very old ones, with some broken, even missing completely in places — and crooked cabinets lined the wall. An ancient-looking sink sat underneath narrow windows, and beside it was a stove with a number of pots on it, steam rising from each of them. A dumpy woman was lying on the floor in front of the stove, her white apron skew-whiff and stained. John was already kneeling next to her. He had lifted her head and was giving her water. ‘What happened?’ I asked, as I knelt down beside the woman as well. She had coarse features, and her black, curly hair was a wild mess. I guessed she must have been around forty. I could see the fear in her blue eyes when she looked up at me. ‘A... A ghost,’ she stammered, breathlessly. ‘I... saw a ghost!’ With a trembling finger, she pointed to the corner of the room. John and I exchanged a look. ‘What did it look like?’ I asked. John helped the cook to her feet. When she was upright again, she managed a shrug before flopping against the sink for , her legs still shaky. ‘I... I didn’t get a clear look at it,’ she said. ‘It started with strange noises, like scratching and tapping, but I was the only person in the kitchen. At first, I didn’t think anything of it; you hear all sorts of noises you can’t explain in old buildings like this...’ She smiled apologetically and looked at us, from one to the other.

‘I hope you don’t think I’m mad,’ she said. ‘I’m not usually so easily startled. But when I was standing over the stove and heard all those strange noises, I couldn’t help but get a little jittery, you know? Then, I saw something move. Like a shadow or... Anyway, I turned around and... well, I don’t know what it was exactly, I only know I saw something disappear into the wall, like the tiles had just swallowed it up...’ John went over to the corner and took a closer look at the wall, before shrugging and declaring: ‘I don’t see anything out of the ordinary here.’ Tara Grey appeared at the door. Beside her stood a second woman with a small, gaunt face that looked unnaturally pale — an impression only exaggerated by the full-bodied, shimmering red hair that framed it. She was wearing a plain blue outfit and a ridiculous number of necklaces: amulets with runes and mystic symbols on them elbowing each other for space on her chest. I noticed her slim fingers were also adorned with rings that prominently displayed zodiac symbols. ‘I already knew this would come to ,’ said the red-haired woman in a monotone voice. ‘What was long hidden is now finally coming out into the light. When this night is over, there will be no more secrets. We must stay alert and interpret the signs correctly, for only doing that will lead us to the Petrus Chalice.’ ‘You must be Louise Skellfish,’ I said, interrupting her oracular prophesying.

***

We had gathered in the monastery’s large dining hall, and six people in all sat at the long table that took pride of place in the sparsely-furnished hall. John had seated himself at the head of the table. Next to Louise Skellfish, who sat across from me, was her companion, Graham Ross, who was hunched over in his seat. He seemed dour and close-faced, with a perpetual absent look in his eyes. His thick, wavy hair was nearly snow-white, though despite that, he didn’t look a day over thirty-five. Unlike the rest of the group who had said a few words about the supposed supernatural abilities they possessed when introducing themselves, Graham Ross had only offered his name.

To my left sat the sixth member of our little group: Leonid Kabakow. He was of Russian descent and he had a deep, bass voice. He told us that he was an experienced diviner and had located several oil fields in Siberia, thanks to his supernatural abilities. Leonid Kabakow’s eyes were a piercing sky-blue that stood out from his round, austere face. He had a short, trimmed beard and black matchstick-length hair that stood out from his head like porcupine needles. He looked grim and sinister in his black attire. Tara Grey had seated herself next to Kabakow, and had also made special mention of her unusual powers of intuition when it was her turn to introduce herself. Next up was Louise Skellfish. ‘I hail from the north of England,’ she said in her somewhat shrill voice. ‘I came into this world under a full moon, and in the middle of Stonehenge, no less!’ She looked around at those present as though expecting some snide remark about this, but when no one piped up, she continued: ‘My mother worked as a tour guide at Stonehenge when she was pregnant with me, telling the tourists about its deep mystical significance. Back then, the ugly fence that currently surrounds the druids’ sacred site hadn’t been built yet, so the faithful could still perform their ceremonies there.’ Her face contorted into a frown. ‘While leading one such nightly tour, my mother went into labour,’ she continued. ‘Luckily, there was a midwife on hand in the group, and I was born without complications in the middle of that circle of stones. I have these unusual circumstances of my birth to thank for my supernatural powers. I am an excellent medium, an astrologer without equal, and I read the tarot.’ After that, I felt I had a clear idea of who Louise Skellfish was: she struck me as the type of woman who would have declared she was a witch during a witch hunt just to be the centre of attention. All eyes then fixed upon me — I was the only one at the table who hadn’t introduced themselves yet. I declined to mention my supposedly ‘prophetic’ dreams, instead telling everyone that I was a journalist for the London City Observer. It seemed to satisfy everyone’s curiosity, at least for the time being. Our meal was then served, though it turned out to be rather bland and tasteless. ‘After my scare in the kitchen, I just couldn’t focus on my cooking,’ apologised

the dumpy cook — who I had found out was called Maria — as she and her two younger helpers served us. Had Maria really seen a ghost? Perhaps it was the same ‘ghost’ I had seen at the top of the round tower? I shook my head to try to clear the confusion that was fogging it up. The story of the abbot, Victor Corbett, haunting the monastery was only a legend... wasn’t it? Or was there some truth to it? After the meal, we retreated to what used to be the monastery chapter room. In this richly decorated room, pious monks would meet to read from the Bible and discuss their faith. The O’Malleys had remodelled the room into a parlour without changing its original design. Life-sized stone statues still lined the walls, but there was a noticeable modern touch to the room, with leather seating crowding around the fireplace, its mantelpiece held up by two bowing stone monks. The narrow windows in the chapter room had stained glass in them, but the colours appeared washed out in the light of dusk, and the room itself was gloomily lit as a result of the fading light, making the life-sized stone figures — supposedly depicting angels and saints — look ominous and creepy. At the back of the room was a round table. It seemed Louise Skellfish had set up shop here before our arrival, as star charts and open books displaying endless lists of numbers were strewn across it. There was even a tarot card spread on there, seemingly only half-read, the colourful cards with their symbol-rich images laid out in a specific order. A low-hanging light illuminated the table, making it look like a luminescent island in the dimness of the room. We gathered around the fireplace, the flickering fire casting spooky shadows onto each of our faces. Tara Grey stood beside the fire and — on John’s request — gave a short talk about the Golden Chalice we had been tasked with finding. As I already knew all of what she was saying, I let my gaze wander around the room. The life-sized statues in their carved, heavily wrinkled clothing stood like silent witnesses. How many conversations had they been privy to over the centuries? How many lives had they seen play out? Suddenly, my blood turned to ice. Had one of those statues just moved? I felt a chill run up my spine. The statue in question was in a particularly dark corner of the room, where the shadows were nearly jet-black, meaning I couldn’t quite make out what it looked like, though I reckoned it must have been wearing a monk’s robes with the hood pulled down over its face. I rubbed my eyes, and when I looked back at the dark corner, it was suddenly statueless! Startled, I held

my breath and strained my senses to figure out what was going on. The archaeologist was still speaking by the fireplace, but her words barely even reached my ears. As if in a trance, I got up and walked over to the dark corner. On closer inspection, I confirmed it was indeed devoid of any statues. Had the flickering shadows of the fire played tricks on my senses? My mind automatically turned back to the incident in the kitchen where the cook, Maria, had seen a shadowy figure disappear into the wall... I looked around at the stone statues standing against the walls with a growing sense of unease. Their chiselled faces looked frozen and lifeless, their eyes dead and soulless. My chills only intensified, and I suddenly hankered for the relative safety of the fireplace. ‘Everyone who participates in the search will receive adequate compensation for their work,’ announced John O’Malley as I reed the group. Tara’s lecture had seemingly ended, and she had sat back down again. ‘On top of that, whoever manages to find the chalice will be recognised across the archaeological world for their achievement, and the media publicity you’ll receive will be huge.’ John nodded his head towards me. ‘And it won’t just bring fame and glory to those who earn their bread by making use of their innate supernatural abilities — it will also almost certainly lead to more work for you as individuals...’ ‘The stars are in perfect alignment,’ said Louise Skellfish, repeating her earlier prophecy. ‘Now is the time for discovering secrets. But don’t think the journey of discovery will be a pleasant one...’ She trailed off, but immediately picked up the thread again, looking at us all intensely as she continued. ‘It is a dangerous affair we are getting ourselves into. There is still time to pull out, but once we have begun walking down this path, it will be impossible to turn from it.’ ‘You are just trying to scare us,’ said Leonid Kabakow dismissively. ‘A crude attempt to stop anyone getting in your way during the search, so they don’t snatch the chalice out from under your nose!’ ‘You accuse me of having less-than-honourable motivations?’ huffed Louise Skellfish, clearly insulted. ‘Your words are a reflection of your own soul, nothing more.’ John raised his hands to try to calm the situation. ‘Let’s go over our plan of attack, shall we?’ he suggested. ‘If we work together,

we will undoubtedly reach our goal faster.’ Leonid Kabakow shook his head firmly. ‘We should start searching immediately,’ he grumbled. ‘I’ll find this chalice if it’s buried around here. I don’t need anyone else’s help.’ He shot Louise Skellfish a dismissive glance before reaching into his black leather jacket and pulling out a golden divining rod. ‘This is the only thing I need to help me find it and it’s the only thing I trust!’ The tarot reader glared at him. ‘I don’t appreciate your aggressive tone,’ she said snidely. ‘If you’re as clumsy with that divining rod as you are with your words, I highly doubt you’ll find water with it, let alone an ancient artefact...’ She had clearly struck a nerve. Kabakow’s face hardened, and a shadow fell across his light blue eyes. ‘There’s no sense in us fighting,’ said John, trying desperately to make them see reason. ‘If we don’t work together, our search for the chalice is doomed to fail!’ ‘Leonid Kabakow is right,’ Graham Ross piped up suddenly. The rest of us had almost forgotten about him, as he had been content up to this point to stare into the fireplace without drawing attention to himself. ‘Each person has their own method, and they aren’t going to gel in such a short space of time. In fact, even if we tried to unite our powers, they would likely only cancel each other out.’ ‘We should listen to Graham,’ said Louise. ‘He has a good sense for this sort of thing.’ John shrugged. ‘If you all prefer working alone, I guess I’ll just have to like it or lump it.’ ‘Then, the hunt is on,’ Kabakow declared, content with this outcome. He got out of his seat, and Louise and Graham did likewise, but while the Russian strode purposefully out of the chapter room, Louise and her companion sat down at the round table and bent over their tarot cards.

Tara shook her head. ‘Those three sure are full of beans,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to start searching tonight — I’m too tired from the journey over. I think I’ll go back to my room now.’ With that, the archaeologist left the room as well, and suddenly I found myself alone with John. The young man turned and smiled at me. ‘Things seem to be taking on a life of their own.’ He took a step towards me. ‘Will you be retiring as well? Or would you like me to show you around? We could go for a nighttime stroll. The sea isn’t too far from here.’ I made a spontaneous decision and nodded. ‘Okay, let’s meet in the entrance hall in fifteen minutes,’ he said. I suddenly felt at ease, all the strange events that had happened over the last few hours — days even — seeming little more than distant memories. Though, if I had known what was about to unfold on what should have been a harmless nocturnal walk, I would have declined John’s offer and returned to my room then and there. Unfortunately, I didn’t, so I went with him out into the night...

***

In his hand, John carried a storm lantern, the calm flame in its glass casing casting a yellow shimmer of light that only managed to pierce the fog a few feet in front of us before being swallowed by the sea of white again. We took a rocky path down to the coast, the banks of fog creeping over the damp ground as we descended the slight incline. To the left and right of us, bare stone and treacherous scree lay in wait for the unwary. In places, the thick clouds above us would part to reveal twinkling stars, their cold light making the fog seem to glow from within. ‘Sure is creepy here,’ I remarked. I could hear the crashing of the waves close by, and the air tasted of salt. ‘This must be what people used to imagine the end of the world looked like,’ I added.

John laughed. ‘In summer, this rugged, desolate landscape is like a little corner of paradise,’ he assured me. ‘So isolated that it heals the soul with its serenity.’ I looked at the man by my side. His sharp features cast jagged shadows across his face, but I could see a decisiveness and confidence in his eyes. ‘You’re talking about the people your charity wants to help,’ I said, realising why calm solitude would be so important to him. John looked surprised. ‘How do you know about my charity?’ ‘Aunt Bell told me about it.’ ‘Then we’re even,’ replied John, with some amusement. ‘I know about your strange nightmares, and you know about my desire to create a better world.’ With each step, the fog was getting thicker the closer we got to the shoreline. The wind had picked up, and the moisture in the air condensed and clung to my hair like cobwebs. ‘When I become the legal owner of the monastery, I will remodel it into a mental health facility,’ said John. ‘The rooms in the old building are very well-suited to the purpose.’ ‘I ire your commitment.’ We had finally reached the beach. A biting wind clawed at our faces and the fog swirled around us, bringing sea spray with it. John looked at me openly, his deep brown eyes seeming even more mysterious than usual in the dim light of the storm lantern. But then, something made me jump: somewhere out to sea, I could hear faint cries, carried on the wind. ‘What was that?’ John furrowed his brow and gave me an enquiring look. ‘What was what?’ I heard it again, only this time, it was more of a scream of pure fear. ‘Don’t you hear those cries?’

John listened closely. Suddenly, I heard the splintering of wood, followed by screams of sheer horror. I thought I could hear both men’s and women’s voices, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. ‘It sounds like a boat’s in trouble,’ I said. ‘We have to do something!’ John shrugged helplessly. ‘I only hear the sea,’ he replied and looked me in the eye, his brow still furrowed. ‘Are you sure about what you’re hearing?’ I was absolutely certain I could hear the desperate pleas of people thrashing about in the water mixed with the ominous crashing of the waves. The strong wind made the cries an incoherent jumble, carrying only snatches of pleading over the waves to the beach. I grabbed John’s arm and looked at him in desperation. ‘Please, John!’ I cried. ‘We can’t just stand here and do nothing! People are drowning out there!’ John still had a sceptical look on his face. Why couldn’t he hear their desperate cries for help? Then, without warning, he grabbed my hand. ‘I really can’t hear anything out of the ordinary,’ he said, speaking quickly. ‘But one look into your gorgeous green eyes is enough to convince me something terrible is happening.’ John pointed to the beach. ‘Somewhere down there, there should be a rowboat,’ he said, and pulled me in the direction he had pointed. We started running, the fog getting so thick that I could barely see John even though he was no more than an arm’s length away from me. I stumbled, but John quickly caught me and propelled me forward. Suddenly, a black figure emerged from the fog. John slid to a stop and placed himself protectively in front of me. ‘Who’s there?’ he called out to the figure, but as soon as he’d said it, there was a crash, and the figure tripped and fell, cursing loudly as he hit the deck. John and I rushed over to the figure on the ground who was trying to get back to his feet. ‘Leonid Kabakow!’ I cried, recognising his short hair, trimmed beard, and allblack attire. I had secretly been scared that the figure would turn out to be the phantom monk, so I was more than a little relieved when I found out my fears had been unfounded.

The Russian cursed again, and kicked the rowboat he had tripped over in the fog. He stared at us, his eyes wide. ‘Something strange is going on out here,’ he said ominously. His face seemed unnaturally pale and he looked stressed. He was holding his golden divining rod with both hands, its thick wire that had been bent into a Yshape pointing resolutely out to sea and its thin tip vibrating. The Russian looked disgusted with the reaction of his divining rod. He stared speechlessly at the gold-plated device that seemed to have developed a mind of its own. ‘There’s something out at sea,’ he said. ‘My divining rod is going haywire.’ ‘Don’t you hear those screams coming from the sea?’ I asked, barely able to hide my distress. ‘There are people drowning out there!’ Kabakow cocked his head to one side and listened, before shrugging with a look on his face that told me he was even more confused than before. ‘I don’t hear any voices,’ he said. ‘But my divining rod seems to be picking up something.’ ‘Run back to the monastery and alert the coastguard!’ John yelled, and began preparing the rowboat for launch. ‘If we hurry, we might still be able to save those people.’ Kabakow turned away from us and disappeared into the thick fog. John dragged the boat to the water, not seeming to care that the waves were lapping against his tro legs and getting them wet. I helped as much as I could, motivated by the haunting screams of the drowning people. When the boat had finally reached the waterline, I went to get in it, but John held me back. ‘It’s too dangerous!’ he yelled over the crashing of the waves. ‘I can’t allow you to—’ I shook my arm free from his grasp, grabbed the storm lantern, and climbed into the boat. ‘Alone, you’d be just as helpless as those poor people out there,’ I told him.

John pressed his lips together for a moment, before he came to a decision, and used all his strength to push the boat out onto the waves. By the time he took a seat in the boat and grabbed the oars a few moments later, he was soaked through, from head to toe. I listened closely to the sea to try to figure out which direction the screams were coming from, and as I surveyed what little of the scene I could see, I was terrified by the sharp, black rocks that rose up out of the water, creating a slalom for our rowboat to navigate. Foam and spray from the breaking waves surrounded the treacherous rocks that were often so well-hidden in the fog, we only saw them when we were almost on top of them, which often resulted in the keel of the boat scraping loudly across them. We were tossed back and forth, and I felt like a tiny rag doll in a toy boat who had been chucked into a raging torrent by a child. If John had cast off from shore without me as he had intended, he would have capsized long before now, or else the boat would have smashed itself to smithereens on the unforgiving black rocks; but with me in the boat, I was able to reach out over the bow with the storm lantern and stare into the fog, occasionally giving John hand signals in an attempt to home in on the screaming. Then we found ourselves right in the middle of the catastrophe. I believed we must have been extremely close to the shipwreck due to the loudness of the screams. I looked around, but all I could see were dark rocks protruding from the surf that rose up and formed the walls of a cavern of some kind, carved out by centuries of being battered by the waves. It looked like the gaping mouth of a gigantic sea monster, and this illusion was only strengthened by the sharp rocks at the entrance to the cavern that looked like fangs. Water gurgled and thrashed about inside the rocky mouth. For a moment, I thought I could see a pale figure in the dark cave; it seemed to be wearing a leather loincloth and an unusual helmet with two walrus horns on either side. Then a wave obscured my view, crashing into the dark cavern, and when I looked again, the figure had vanished. The fog was making me see ghosts now too! I felt a chill run up my spine. John stopped rowing, and together we scanned the angry sea for signs of life, but we couldn’t see anyone in the crashing waves. ‘It’s crazy!’ I called over to him. ‘I can hear screams, but I don’t see anyone!’ John cupped his hands and yelled into the fog, but got no reply. The cries for help grew weaker and weaker, and the little bits of it I could make out, I couldn’t understand. It sounded like the drowning people were speaking a language that was completely foreign to me. It was a terrible feeling, sitting there in that flimsy

rowboat, staring helplessly at the sea while the haunting cries of the dying drifted through the fog towards us. Their voices faded away completely, leaving behind an eerie silence broken only by the crashing waves which sounded distant despite being so close. ‘They’ve all drowned,’ I said in a weak voice. ‘We... We got here too late.’ John was silent. His brown hair was completely soaked, and bedraggled strands of hair hung down over his forehead. I was sure I didn’t look any better — my dress and raincoat dripped seawater into a puddle at my feet. John took my hand and looked me in the eye. ‘Don’t blame yourself,’ he said firmly. ‘Whatever happened out here, there was no way we could’ve done more than we did.’ I tried to wipe the salty water off my face with a wet hand. John’s touch and words had brought me back to myself. ‘I feel ridiculous,’ I itted. ‘Maybe I just imagined it all. But those voices... they sounded so real...’ The boat rocked violently with each wave that hit it, but this didn’t seem to bother John in the slightest. ‘ what Louise Skellfish said,’ he said. ‘Tonight is the night all secrets will be revealed. The stars are aligned in a very rare pattern right now... and don’t forget that even Kabakow’s divining rod was pointing out to sea.’ John let go of my hand and leant back. He grabbed the rudder and steered the boat back the way we had come. I began to think about what had led us to this point. Did the cries I heard have something to do with my supposed ‘supernatural abilities’? I shook my head clear of these confusing thoughts and turned my attention back to the sea and the cliffs that rose up beside us. I held the storm lantern out over the bow to light the water ahead of us and guide John through the fog. When we had finally made it back to shore, two figures were waiting for us there: Leonid Kabakow and Louise Skellfish. ‘I tried calling the police,’ said Kabakow once he’d helped John drag the boat back onto the beach. ‘But the phone lines are down.’

Maybe that’s Tara Grey’s fault, I thought to myself. After all, her sixth sense and electricity don’t mix. John sighed. He was beginning to feel very cold in his wet clothes, as was I. ‘I sent the butler out in the Rolls-Royce,’ continued the Russian. ‘He was supposed to go get help... but I guess we won’t be needing it anymore?’ ‘You did the right thing,’ said John, before giving the two of them the rundown of what we had seen and heard at sea. ‘Maybe a ship really did run aground,’ he concluded. ‘I’ll feel better once the coastguard have done a sweep of the area.’ John wrapped an arm around my shoulders and gently rubbed my back to comfort me. I immediately felt a little warmer. ‘We should head back to the monastery,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, we’ll catch our death in this cold.’

***

When we got back to the monastery, I immediately went to my room. The guest rooms were up on the first floor, and had been the monks’ sleeping quarters in times gone by. They were small but fully-furnished: in addition to the customary soft bed and narrow wardrobes where I’d hung my clothes, there was also an old bureau that sat under the narrow arched window. After taking a rather hot shower, I put on some fresh clothes. It was already coming up to midnight, but despite the late hour, sleep was out of the question. My blood was still full of adrenaline from the events down at the beach. I would never be able to forget the desperate cries of the drowning souls, nor the sight of the eerie fog on the surface of the water, devoid of any sign of these helpless people, as their haunting pleas drifted over it. Suddenly, there was a knock at my door. It startled me, but I quickly gathered myself and opened it. It was John O’Malley. He had also taken a shower, it

seemed, and smelled strongly of aftershave. ‘I wanted to check in and see how you were doing,’ he said with a smile. I was happy to see him: his presence gave me a feeling of safety and familiarity. ‘I just can’t get what happened out there at sea out of my head,’ I said in a hollow voice. John walked in and closed the door behind him without turning around. ‘Tomorrow morning, we’ll scour the beach and try to get some clarity on the situation. If there really was a shipwreck, we should find debris and...’ He stopped short of finishing his sentence, and I was thankful for that. Many souls would have undoubtedly been lost in a shipwreck that catastrophic on a foggy night like this. John took my hand, and looked deep into my eyes. ‘I’m sorry you had to go through all that,’ he said. ‘I’d so hoped your stay at the monastery would be an enjoyable one, but it looks like it hasn’t quite gone to plan...’ John was about to add something when a bloodcurdling scream echoed through the corridors. John and I looked at each other before dashing off in the direction of the scream.

***

When we reached the ground floor of the monastery, we headed down a twisty, dimly lit corridor. We could hear excited voices at the other end of it. As we turned a corner, we saw a man lying on his back on the ground. I recognised his light suit and white hair: it was Graham Ross. Louise Skellfish had draped herself over his motionless body, her own body quaking as she wailed loudly. Even Tara Grey was present, leaning against the wall, her face very pale. She was wearing the red monk’s robes she had worn at the opening of her exhibition in London. The archaeologist looked like she’d had a fright, for there was a deeply disturbed look on her face. Her lips quivered, and she kept running her

hand through her black hair that was tinged with blue. ‘What’s happened?’ John asked, kneeling down next to Louise and Graham. Louise lifted her head from the white-haired man’s chest and looked up at us through tear-filled eyes. Her makeup was a mess, and her red hair was wild and unkempt. ‘It’s Graham... He’s... He’s dead!’ she stammered. Sobbing uncontrollably, she threw herself back onto the lifeless body of her companion. John took Graham’s wrist and felt for a pulse. He looked over at me and pursed his lips, clearly disturbed, before slowly shaking his head. ‘It’s... It’s true,’ he said in a raw voice. ‘Graham Ross is dead.’ I heard a shrill, muffled scream from behind me which made me spin on my heels. I could see Maria, the cook, looking at the scene from around the corner. She was wearing a white nightgown and a pointed cap. Both of the younger kitchen helpers had positioned themselves behind the large woman and were using her as a shield, peering out from behind her to stare in terror at the dead man on the ground. ‘This house is cursed!’ the cook screamed hysterically. ‘I demand you take us away from here immediately. I don’t want to stay here a minute longer!’ John got up and glared furiously at the women. ‘Harry’s already left with the Rolls-Royce to get help,’ he snapped. ‘And we don’t have another car. As soon as he’s back, he’ll take you out of here.’ By this time, even Leonid Kabakow had shown up, dressed from head to toe in black, as was his custom. He didn’t seem shocked when his eyes caught sight of the dead body, though he did have the wherewithal to lead the upset cooks away from the morbid scene. He spoke to them calmly — or at least, as calmly as his gravelly, booming voice would allow — as he guided them around the corner and out of sight. John turned to Tara who was still leaning motionless against the wall. ‘Care to fill me in on what happened here?’

Tara nodded. ‘I was the one who found Graham Ross,’ she said, her voice quavering. Louise stood up and pointed an accusing finger at the archaeologist. ‘She’s to blame for everything!’ she cried, raising her voice as she spoke. ‘The cards warned me about her! They foresaw death, and my poor dear Graham was the first to fall victim to my reading playing out...’ Tara shook her head and took a step away from her. ‘That’s... That’s not true,’ she said, defending herself. ‘I had nothing to do with the death of Mr Ross.’ ‘Then what were you doing here?’ Louise yelled. ‘I thought you said you were going to bed!’ ‘I did,’ replied Tara in some desperation. ‘But... I couldn’t sleep. There’s such a strange energy in this monastery. It always sounds like there’s something scratching and scraping behind the walls. Maybe it’s just rats or mice, but...’ she shuddered, her train of thought tailing off, before she gathered herself again. ‘That’s why I decided to get up and do some work. I put on my monk’s robes like I always do when I want to create the right conditions for my supernatural powers to work. Only by doing this can I feel my way into the lives of the monks who once lived in this monastery.’ She took a deep breath and regarded us with a calm look on her face. ‘I was concentrating on the question of where the monks would have hidden their prized chalice...’ Tara paused and lowered her gaze. The flat, worn stones around us shimmered darkly in the dim light. ‘And then, I heard a voice...’ She ran her fingers nervously through her bluish-black hair. I could see her hands were shaking. ‘You’ll probably think I’m mad,’ she said hastily, glancing shyly at John and me.

‘I was taken aback myself. It was whispering, you see, but there wasn’t anyone around. The strangest part was that this voice seemed to be speaking an ancient language that is nowadays known by only a handful of archaeologists and palaeontologists...’ Tara shook her head. ‘This disembodied voice was both inviting and demanding at the same time. I couldn’t resist it. I left my room and walked through the unlit corridors like a puppet on a string. After a while, I didn’t know where I was, but I strode onwards, my feet seeming to know where they were taking me. It was horrible,’ she continued. ‘I was scared half to death, but I could do nothing to release myself from this ghostly guiding hand. The corridor I was walking down finally ended in a small hall lined with pillars and recesses. The whispering voice suddenly fell silent, and I stopped to take a look around at the room I found myself in. A faint light drifted down through an arched age and gave the tiny hall a spooky feel. In the age, there were stairs I hadn’t noticed before, leading down into the darkness. A figure was coming up the steps and as he got closer, I saw it was a robed monk with his hood pulled down over his face. His head was bowed as though deep in prayer, the wide sleeves of his robes concealing his folded hands.’ The archaeologist’s voice had gone very quiet. The next words that came out were barely louder than a whisper. ‘Then, the monk was in the hall with me. I held my breath because I felt like something was wrong with him, and as I stared at him, I noticed light was radiating out from him and his feet weren’t touching the ground. He was floating! He raised his head and I saw a grinning skull where his face should’ve been! His wide sleeves then slid back to reveal bony hands clasped together in prayer. I... I was unable to scream,’ continued Tara, stuttering. ‘I seemed to choke on my fear. I realised that this monk surrounded by an ethereal aura must be a ghost.’ Tara made a dismissive gesture. ‘I stood behind a sticking-out bit of wall and hoped the ghost hadn’t noticed me, before turning and fleeing. I ran blindly without paying any attention to where I was going — I just wanted to put as much distance between me and this strange

ghost monk as I could...’ Tara’s voice trailed off. She pointed to the prone man on the ground. ‘And that’s when... when I nearly tripped over Graham Ross,’ she said. ‘He was in the middle of the hallway and wasn’t moving. And now, finally, a scream disgorged from my throat, and it didn’t stop until Louise appeared at my shoulder...’ Tears were streaming down the archaeologist’s face, her lips quivering violently. I walked over to Tara and placed my hand on her shoulder to comfort her. She looked up at me through watery eyes. ‘Am I going mad?’ she asked, her voice breaking. I shook my head firmly. The image of the faintly glowing skull under a hood that Tara had described suddenly came into my mind, clear as day. ‘It might sound strange,’ I said soothingly, ‘but I believe your story about the ghost monk.’ By this time, Leonid Kabakow had reappeared. Without saying a word, he knelt down next to the dead man and began to examine him. Louise heaved herself to her feet, her vast number of chains and amulets clinking together as she did so. Silently, and with a pained expression on her face, she turned to see what the Russian was doing. Leonid Kabakow flipped the dead man onto his stomach, revealing a large red stain on his back. Blood! The Russian looked from the dead man to us. ‘Graham Ross was murdered,’ he said grimly. ‘Stabbed from behind.’ At that moment, the dead man’s right arm slid down from where it had got caught on his jacket and came to a rest on the stone floor. A stack of old parchment papers could be seen inside his jacket before they followed the arm’s trajectory, tumbling out and hitting the floor with a dry rustle. Graham Ross had obviously hidden them in his jacket, pressed closely to his chest in the moments leading up to his death. Louise picked up the yellowed papers and looked at them, her brow furrowing. ‘Where did Graham get these papers?’ she asked in wonder. ‘I’ve never seen him

with them before!’ The tarot reader ed the parchment papers to John who leafed through them. When Tara peered over his shoulder at them, her pale face suddenly regained some of its colour. She took the papers from John and inspected them. ‘They seem to be private notes made by one of the monks who lived in this monastery a very long time ago,’ she said, growing more animated. Her brown eyes were almost twinkling with excitement. ‘I’ll get to work translating the text immediately,’ she announced. ‘There must be a reason Graham hid these papers from his murderer. Maybe they even contain a clue that will help us find the chalice.’ ‘I’m afraid, at the moment, we have bigger problems than the chalice,’ said John. ‘A man’s been murdered, and the perpetrator is likely still among us. Not to mention, there’s evidence that a ship has come to grief just off the coast near here. I hope Harry returns soon with the police. Things are starting to spiral out of control.’ ‘We should continue with the search,’ said Leonid Kabakow, springing to the archaeologist’s defence. ‘I doubt any of us will be able to sleep right now, and it’s probably the furthest thing from our minds anyway, so instead of letting time slip through our fingers, I say we focus on finding the chalice.’ ‘It is, of course, your decision to do as you see fit,’ replied John coolly. ‘But first, help me take his body down to the basement.’

***

I had decided my priority at this moment in time was to help the tarot reader by accompanying her back to her room, which happened to be right next to mine. As soon as she had crossed the threshold, Louise Skellfish made a beeline for her bed and flopped down on top of it. She didn’t even get undressed or take off her necklaces, she just laid there fully-clothed, staring blankly at the ceiling. I sat down on the edge of the bed and took off her shoes for her. Louise Skellfish was at her wits’ end, her nerves completely frayed. She had loved Graham Ross, and

his death had hit her particularly hard. ‘I shouldn’t have dismissed the warnings of the stars and the cards,’ she said, her voice tired and flat. ‘They foretold terrible things happening tonight. I should’ve known my poor Graham would be involved somehow...’ She turned her head towards me and looked at me through tear-stained eyes. ‘He didn’t deserve to die such a meaningless death,’ she said. ‘He was a caring man even if he didn’t look it at first glance. And he had such terrific abilities! If there was something hidden anywhere, Graham would find it quick as a flash...’ Louise Skellfish smiled sadly. ‘He’d often make full use of his abilities when we were invited to the houses of the well-off to hold séances, or produce horoscopes, or just to read the tarot. I’d captivate the attention of the rich folk with my prophecies, while Graham would sneak off into the building unnoticed, looking for hidden safes and familiarising himself with the alarm system. A few nights later, when the house was unoccupied, the residents having gone out for the evening, Graham would slink in through a window and crack open the safe, or root out the well-hidden family jewels and make off with them.’ I was speechless at this sudden confession of criminal activity. I stared at the young woman, my eyes wide, but she didn’t seem to notice my stunned look. Why was she using this moment to tell me all about her crimes? Louise sighed, and continued staring up at the ceiling. ‘But one day, he discovered a strange cavity in a basement wall in a really old manor house. Since he couldn’t find a safe in any of the rooms, he naturally assumed the house’s owner must have hidden his treasure in this empty cavity. The owner was a strange man who I had taken an instant dislike to the moment I met him. He was very pale and gaunt, and always had a dour look on his face. I his name was Henderson, and he wanted me to his uncle who had disappeared a year before, and who had owned the spooky manor house before him. Because Henderson’s uncle had been missing for over a year, the authorities had declared him legally dead at the request of his nephew, which meant he could inherit his estate, which came with a stack of cash and the eerie house. He had engaged my services to the ghost of his uncle in order to ask him a few questions. I that night was a nervous one for me,’

itted the tarot reader. ‘He almost found out that my whole séance business was a sham. So I was happy when we finally got out of that isolated manor house and away from its oddball owner. Then, three nights later, Graham broke in and headed for the empty cavity in the basement he had found, breaking some of the wall tiles to get access to it. But what he found inside weren’t valuables... He discovered a corpse! It was the corpse of Henderson’s uncle, and it appeared he had been murdered!’ The fortune-teller rubbed her arms which were covered in goosebumps. ‘Graham was terrified. He wanted to get out of that house as quickly as possible, but Graham had wrongly thought Henderson had left the house when he hadn’t. That brute Henderson discovered Graham in the act, beat him unconscious, and threw him into the cavity alongside the corpse of his uncle, before replacing the wall tiles and sealing him in...’ I stared at Louise in horror. Her story had caused goosebumps to break out all over my back. ‘I waited all night for Graham to come home,’ she continued, talking slowly. ‘Hour after hour, the feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach grew, and I could sense that something had gone wrong. When dawn finally broke, I couldn’t take it anymore. I went straight to the police and told them the truth. Henderson was not unknown to them, and they quickly obtained a warrant to search his house, before hotfooting it over there. The police allowed me to accompany them. They searched the house from top to bottom without finding any trace of him, but when I went down to the basement to see if Graham had succeeded in breaking into the safe he thought must be there, I heard a strange scratching noise behind the wall that made me freeze in fear. A number of police officers came down with crowbars and set about making a hole in the wall. I thinking the mortar was still fresh, and when they finally broke through to the other side, Graham levered his way out through the gap they had made and fell shaking into my arms. After freeing Graham from his grizzly prison, they found the uncle’s corpse in the cavity and worked to extract it. I hardly recognised Graham when I first saw him appearing through that gap in the wall. His hair had gone white with fear. Henderson was arrested for his uncle’s murder shortly after that.’ I laid my hand on the shaking woman’s arm to calm her.

‘Try to sleep now, and don’t think about anything else,’ I said to her soothingly. ‘The police will be here soon, and I’m sure they’ll find Graham’s murderer and arrest them.’ ‘I’m partly to blame for Graham’s death,’ said Louise as I pulled the quilt over her. ‘I’m a charlatan who took advantage of my clients’ trust. But in this case, the cards and the stars were very clear... and it was me who didn’t believe them...’ She looked at me with pleading eyes. ‘Worse things are to come tonight,’ she warned. ‘When this night is over, there will be no more secrets! Please, look after yourself.’ With that, she closed her eyes, her tensed body relaxing. Not long after, Louise’s breathing grew calmer and settled into a regular pattern, suggesting that she had fallen asleep. Quietly, and with an uneasy feeling gnawing away at me in my stomach, I tiptoed out of the room.

***

I found John in the chapter room. The three cooks were hunched over in the chairs that crowded the fireplace, their packed suitcases at their feet. They stared morosely into the flames, whispering to each other and occasionally glancing around fearfully. Even Leonid Kabakow was present in the chapter room — I hadn’t noticed him on entering because his black clothing made him melt into the gloom. ‘Harry still isn’t back,’ said John, leading me away from the fireplace. He seemed glad to have an excuse to leave the cooks to their mutterings and furtive glances. I was happy too, now I was close to John again. I felt safer in his presence. The icy fingers of disquiet that had clutched and squeezed my heart up to this point slowly melted away. ‘Shouldn’t he have been back by now?’ I asked.

John nodded, worry etched on his face. ‘What I’m more concerned about is, Graham’s murderer is still among us. In theory, it could be any one of us... But why was Graham killed?’ ‘Louise told me that Graham had a talent for finding hiding places,’ I said to him. ‘Maybe he stumbled on something that incriminated his murderer...’ ‘The pages we found on him!’ John interrupted me. At that moment, Tara Grey entered the room. She looked very excited and waved us over to the round table where Louise Skellfish’s tarot cards and astrology books still lay strewn. ‘I found something very strange,’ the archaeologist began. In her red monk’s robes, she cut a very mysterious figure — an impression only heightened by the dim light in the chapter room. ‘The pages we found on Graham were written by a monk who crafted the Golden Chalice a very, very long time ago,’ she said once Leonid Kabakow had ed us. ‘His name was Brother Victorius.’ She laid the fragile parchment on the round table in front of us. ‘What I’m about to tell you sounds fantastical and downright crazy,’ she said, slowly. ‘But this leads me to no other conclusion: Brother Victorius, the monk who forged this relic, and the abbot, Victor Corbett, are one and the same!’ ‘But that’s impossible,’ replied John. ‘Victor Corbett lived much later, in an entirely different century, than the monk who crafted the chalice.’ Tara nodded in agreement. ‘He did, indeed. And yet, they are the same person.’ She pulled a black leather-bound book out of her red robes and laid it next to the parchment on the table, its leather cover cracked and crumbling. This book must have been several centuries old too. ‘This is the diary of the abbot, Victor Corbett,’ she explained, opening the book. ‘The handwriting on these pages is identical to what’s on the parchment, but the abbot’s diary was written hundreds of years later.’ I stared at the open pages. Tara was right: the handwriting on both sets of pages looked identical, the only difference between the two being the parchment

looked significantly older and more weathered than the paper in the diary. Tara looked from one rapt face to the next. ‘You can trust my judgment,’ she said, her tone serious. ‘I have painstakingly compared the handwriting, and there isn’t a shadow of a doubt that these two documents were written by the same person.’ ‘You know yourself, that’s impossible,’ said Kabakow in a gruff voice. ‘No one can live to be several hundred years old.’ ‘And yet, that appears to be what happened in this case,’ replied Tara Grey. ‘How do you explain it?’ I asked, keeping my curiosity about how exactly Tara had come to be in possession of this diary to myself. ‘The chalice is the reason for Victor Corbett’s long life,’ explained Tara. She pointed at the parchment, then at the abbot’s diary. ‘With these documents, I was able to reconstruct the chalice’s strange history,’ she said. ‘It is closely linked to the life of Victor Corbett.’ She took a deep breath before continuing. ‘One eerie, foggy night, the monk known only as Brother Victorius met an old Irish druid. He was still a young, inexperienced monk at the time, but he was a very skilled artist and an excellent goldsmith. The druid convinced him to make a magical chalice that would grant eternal life to whoever drank from it. The prospect of crafting such an item excited Victorius no end. He stole as much gold and jewels from the monks’ treasury as he needed to make the chalice, and the druid used his magic on it, performing peculiar incantations, the purpose of which remained a total mystery to Brother Victorius. To this end, they would regularly meet in secret in a rarely used basement in the round tower. The magic rites and chants tested the old druid’s powers so much that he keeled over and died as soon as the last magic ritual was complete. Brother Victorius now had to finish the chalice himself, which only lacked a few final artistic touches. When his work was finally complete, he was the first to drink from the chalice, but overwhelmed with guilt for having stolen from his brothers, he gave the magical chalice to the abbot, who immediately forgave Victorius his sins, so taken was he by its artistic splendour. He declared that the chalice would be treated as a holy

relic by his order from then on, and in those days, it was quite normal to associate such objects with a saint as a way to honour them. For instance, nearly every monastery in the land had at least one nail that was supposedly used to nail Christ to the cross. This is how the chalice came to be associated with St Peter, and the legend of the Petrus Chalice was born. But not long later, a horde of Vikings pillaged their way along the coast here — barbaric, grizzly men whose only thought was of plunder. Their leader was a man named Horlok, and he was considered to be especially gruesome and cold-hearted, even for a Viking. The Irish shuddered at the mere mention of his name. This monastery was ransacked by Horlok and his men, and many of the treasures that the monks had accrued and forged were stolen. Among these treasures was the priceless chalice that was rumoured to grant all who drank from it immortality.’ Tara looked up at us again. ‘Unfortunately, that is where Brother Victorius’ diary entries end.’ ‘So that was the curse that was supposedly placed on this chalice?’ I pondered out loud. ‘It made the person drinking from it immortal?’ Leonid Kabakow slammed his fist on the table. ‘If the Vikings really did steal the chalice, then it’s gone forever!’ he roared. ‘We’ll never find it!’ ‘Brother Victorius had a different opinion,’ replied Tara calmly. ‘Centuries later, he returned to the monastery as the new abbot, Victor Corbett. He had experienced firsthand the power of the old druids and hadn’t aged a day since. For centuries, he had enjoyed his immortality, but then life threw a spanner in the works in the guise of him falling in love.’ Tara smiled weakly. ‘Yes, Victor Corbett had fallen for a woman, despite his religious vows, and it can only be described as an “eternal” love. He despaired at seeing her age, her young body turning frail and old, while time left no mark on him. So he resolved to find the magical chalice again, in order for his wife to drink from it. This is the reason for his reappearance here at the monastery as the new abbot, Victor Corbett. It had been stolen from here, and he hoped he would find clues pertaining to its disappearance.’

We listened to the archaeologist, engrossed in the tale. I suspected she had learned all of these things about Victor Corbett from his diary, and again the thought flitted through my head wondering where she had suddenly magicked the black-leather book from. ‘Victor Corbett no longer adhered to the rites and rituals of the Christian religion,’ continued Tara. ‘He began using the round tower — which had been abandoned a long time before — for séances.’ ‘Why did he want to summon ghosts?’ John wondered aloud. ‘And whose ghost was he attempting to summon?’ ‘The ghost of Horlok, the Viking,’ replied Tara. ‘Victor Corbett had heard that a Viking ship had sunk off the north coast of Ireland in the years following the sacking of the monastery and all of the people on board had drowned. The longboat had been transporting men and women who wanted to settle in Ireland at the time, and their leader was rumoured to have been a man named Horlok, who had visited this part of the coast years prior and stolen the chalice Victor Corbett was seeking. The corpses of the Vikings that had washed up on shore had subsequently been buried in the monastery’s cemetery.’ Tara Grey rubbed her arms, presumably to warm them up. ‘On one foggy night, Victor Corbett exhumed the Vikings from their resting places, but he didn’t find the chalice buried with any of them, so he hit upon the idea of summoning the ghost of the Viking leader Horlok to find out what had happened to it.’ The archaeologist looked at us apologetically before continuing: ‘We’ll probably never know if he was successful with his séances — Victor Corbett died before he could write about his results. What we do know is Victor Corbett died when the roof of the round tower collapsed in on him while he was conducting one of these séances.’ She shrugged. ‘His body may have interrupted the ageing process, but that didn’t mean he was immune to other ways of dying.’ Tara took the diary from the table and slipped it back into her robes, trying not to draw attention to herself as she did so, but I grabbed her wrist and looked her square in the eye. ‘What’s all this about a diary?’ I asked. ‘Where did you suddenly dig that up from?’

The archaeologist lowered her gaze, sheepishly. I noticed her hands were shaking. ‘I was afraid you’d ask me that,’ she said.

***

Tara Grey stood up straight and looked me square in the eye. ‘I already knew before you showed up at my flat and told me you were Frank Gormic’s niece that I wouldn’t be able to keep my secret for much longer.’ As she said this, my mind shot back to what Louise Skellfish had prophesied: When this night is over, there will be no more secrets! It seemed it was Tara Grey’s turn to reveal her big secret. ‘As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I take an old trunk with me everywhere I go,’ she said. ‘I don’t go on any digs without it. It contains many priceless treasures in the form of countless documents and reports Frank Gormic had collected over the years on the subject of Ireland and its rich history.’ I looked at Tara, my eyes widening. So that’s why Aunt Bell hadn’t been able to find anything relating to Ireland in her husband’s things. ‘Professor Frank Gormic was kind enough to offer me all his stuff on Ireland when I was writing my dissertation. I was still just a nobody then: some faceless undergraduate no one really cared about. That’s why no one ed the kindness he had shown me when he disappeared.’ Tara shot me a guilty look. ‘I told no one about the documents. I was afraid someone would take them from me and rip up my dissertation, but then things got complicated when I had to find some way of explaining my extraordinary successes. You see, with Professor Gormic’s detailed papers on all things archaeological in Ireland, I was able to make some impressive finds. So I came up with the idea of having strong powers of intuition and had these robes made in order to look the part.’ She fiddled unhappily with the red fabric of her baggy sleeve.

‘So that whole thing about having issues with electricity was a lie?’ I asked. Tara nodded. ‘It’s quite the opposite, in fact,’ she itted quietly. ‘I’ve always had quite good technical skills. The incident at the British Museum, for instance, was all my own doing to put my critics on edge. All those other stories I told you, such as forever getting stuck in lifts, were completely made up.’ ‘So the telephone not working in the monastery wasn’t your doing after all,’ I said. Something about this realisation made me pause, but I couldn’t put my finger on what was making me turn it over in my head. Tara nodded. ‘I have no supernatural abilities at all. That’s why I found it so much more unnerving when I encountered the ghost monk and his spine-chilling whispers...’ Another thought tugged at me to get my attention: what if the papers we had found on Graham were also from Uncle Frank’s collection? Had Graham broken into Tara’s room and stolen the parchment from her trunk? That would shoot Tara Grey to the top of the list of potential suspects. Maybe she killed Graham to keep her secret from coming out. I pointed to the private writings of Brother Victorius which still lay strewn across the table, between the books on astrology. ‘Are these parchments from that trunk too?’ I asked her point-blank. John and Kabakow stared intently at the archaeologist, obviously thinking the same thing I had. Tara shook her head adamantly. ‘You don’t really think I killed Graham, do you?’ I didn’t get the opportunity to reply before a shrill scream pierced the air of the chapter room.

***

It was Maria who had screamed — not for the first time since I’d been here.

‘A ghost!’ she cried, pointing to one of the room’s dark corners. I noted it was the same corner where I had seen the ghostly monk who had suddenly disappeared. Following the cook’s finger, I could see movement in that corner again. ‘It’s... It’s the ghost!’ Maria stammered. ‘At first, I thought it was just a statue, but then it moved...’ John had already started hurrying towards the corner, and without thinking, I followed after him. As we approached, I suddenly became aware of a knot in the pit of my stomach — but the corner turned out to be empty. The stone figures standing either side of the corner certainly looked unnerving in the dim light, but where we had seen the hint of movement originally, there was no sign of life at all. John looked around at the statueless corner and shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Strange,’ he murmured. ‘I could’ve sworn I saw something moving over here.’ I came up beside him and peered at the wall, suddenly noticing a grey piece of cloth stuck between two of the massive slabs. ‘John! Look!’ I said, pointing to the cloth. In disbelief, John O’Malley gingerly touched the cloth with an extended finger, before feeling the wall with both hands. He looked across at me. ‘There must be a secret door here,’ he said. ‘Maria was right. Someone was standing in this corner. But it wasn’t a ghost: ghosts aren’t real, but this cloth certainly is...’ Kabakow and Tara had also ed us in the corner. The Russian had pulled the golden divining rod out from under his black leather jacket and was pointing it at the wall. Suddenly, the rod went haywire, and the Russian edged closer to the stone. He stretched out his arm and pushed against one of the slabs that — to our surprise — receded into the wall. Silently, part of the wall swung back, and we found ourselves staring into a dark nothingness. We quickly came up with a plan. Tara said she would stay behind with the three terrified women by the fireplace, while John, Kabakow, and I went and

examined the secret age. Its discovery had made me set aside my suspicions regarding the archaeologist for the time being, so I didn’t take issue with her staying behind with the other women. John grabbed a torch and went on ahead, the light from it piercing the darkness of the claustrophobic ageway. The dark walls glistened with moisture, and moss and lichen peeked out of the cracks in the stone. The air in here was musty and stale, and cobwebs hung down from the low ceiling, getting caught in my hair as I walked past them. Then, suddenly, we found ourselves at a fork in the ageway. ‘Seems like there’s a labyrinth of secret ages in this monastery,’ whispered John. While the two men pondered which tunnel to take, I noticed something giving off a weak glow in the left age. ‘This way!’ I declared, pointing down the left tunnel. A short way down the age, we found ourselves in a small, windowless room that was sparsely furnished but contained everything a person would need to survive. A lone figure wearing a monk’s robes was sitting hunched over in a chair beside a small stove, its hood pulled down over its face. John shone the torch at the stranger. ‘Who are you?’ he barked. The figure drew back its hood to reveal the gaunt face of a man with a thin ring of hair surrounding an otherwise bald head. His pale eyes were nearly hidden under his big, bushy eyebrows. ‘Uncle Carl!’ John exclaimed in surprise.

***

The man in the chair grinned humourlessly. ‘I’m happy we got the chance to see each other again, kid,’ he said sarcastically,

but his voice sounded weak, like that of a dying man. ‘But... How is this possible?!’ John asked, clearly perplexed by the situation that was unfolding. ‘You’re dead! I went to your funeral!’ Carl O’Malley let out a grating laugh that quickly morphed into uncontrollable coughing. ‘Someone else was in that coffin,’ he said when he had enough breath to speak again. ‘An old tramp who was the spit of me. The Chameleon, one of my old buddies from prison who owed me one, arranged the little scene at the restaurant for me. I was hiding in the broom cupboard next to the toilets the whole time, watching the excitement unfold when they found my lifeless lookalike.’ Carl O’Malley grinned humourlessly again. ‘The Chameleon did a bang-up job an’ all. Everyone, to a man, thought I was dead, but in reality, I finally had my freedom.’ He stared at me with his small, cold eyes. ‘But the Chameleon didn’t do such a good job when it came to you, Jessica Bannister,’ he continued. ‘John had sent a fax to the monastery intended for the butler tellin’ him to prepare an extra room for a “Miss Jessica Bannister”. Now, your name was already known to me. I knew you were a journalist, an’ a good one at that. So I contracted the Chameleon to get rid of you. I advised him to dress up as a monk and come up with the most creative death he could think of for you. An’ trust me, the Chameleon’s a visionary when it comes to death. So he fitted this small explosive device to the trunk of that oak tree, see? You it, right? Such a pity that tree missed the cab you were in.’ ‘You monster!’ cried John, rushing at his uncle with his fists raised, but Carl O’Malley suddenly had a revolver in his hand pointed squarely at John’s chest, making John halt in his tracks. ‘Which means you probably organised the whole thing with Harry, the butler,’ Leonid Kabakow chimed in. ‘No wonder he never came back...’ Carl O’Malley shook his head.

‘Nah, buddy, you’ve got it all wrong,’ he said. ‘I work alone. Even the Chameleon doesn’t know about my plans. I don’t need help in this place because I can reach every part of the monastery using these secret ageways. This is my domain, you see. Nothing that goes on in these rooms is a secret from me. That’s how I knew you’d sent Harry off to get help. I snipped all the phone lines to make sure the monastery was cut off from the outside world. An’ you can be sure I didn’t allow Harry to drive off with the car to bring reinforcements here. I hid in the Rolls an’ jumped him when we were far enough away from the monastery.’ Carl O’Malley let out another rasping laugh. ‘Harry’s lying in probably the most expensive coffin a butler has ever been buried in.’ He coughed drily. ‘Or to put it another way, he’s now resting in peace in the Rolls at the bottom of a nearby bog.’ ‘Murderer!’ John hissed. The revolver was the only thing keeping him from attacking his uncle. O’Malley laughed coldly. ‘Yes, I am a murderer! I killed Graham Ross an’ all. While I was out dealing with Harry, that white-haired oaf discovered one of the hidden doors. He snuck into my little hidey-hole here, an’ I surprised him while he was nosing through my things. Sadly, I’m not as young as I used to be. That Graham fella put up a good fight an’ I don’t mind itting it.’ O’Malley rubbed his side, grimacing at the memory. ‘He managed to knock me off my feet before scurrying back to the corridor where he’d found the secret door. I’d got him good though, an’ that’s where he ended up dying. I didn’t notice until a little while later that he’d stolen Brother Victorius’ papers. After all, I didn’t want anyone finding out the true power of the chalice.’ ‘You mean the magical properties the chalice is rumoured to possess?’ I asked. Carl O’Malley nodded. ‘It grants immortality. That’s why I wanted it. My whole plan is based around Johnny Boy here finding the chalice for me.’ Carl O’Malley struggled to his feet, clearly in pain, with the revolver still in his hand.

‘I mean, just look at me. I’m at death’s door. My days are numbered an’ that number ain’t high. The magic chalice is the only thing that can save me now.’ ‘I won’t lift a finger to help you,’ John spat back at him, venom dripping from every syllable. ‘You’re a cold-blooded killer — a real psychopath!’ Again, Carl O’Malley grinned and that smirk told me only bad things lay in our future. ‘I thought you might say that, kid,’ he said, seemingly unfazed by his nephew’s words. ‘That’s why I took out an insurance policy.’ He let out a repulsive laugh, his eyes glowing with evil. ‘I’ve taken Louise Skellfish as my captive. She’s the next one to die — unless, o’ course, you find the chalice for me!’ We could only stare at Carl O’Malley in defeat. His revolver was still trained on John, and I was in no doubt that if any one of us made any sudden movements, he would shoot his nephew in a heartbeat. ‘Okay now, off you all go! Get to work!’ he suddenly yelled. ‘If I don’t have that chalice by noon, the fortune-teller dies!’

***

We reconvened in the chapter room. Leonid Kabakow had checked Louise Skellfish’s room and found it empty. We decided the best course of action was to stick together to avoid giving Carl O’Malley any further opportunities to kidnap another one of our number. The cook and kitchen girls were asleep on the sofa by the fire, and we decided it was probably better we didn’t tell them about the latest twist in the tale. But none of us — Tara, Kabakow, John, and I — could think of sleeping at a time like this. Outside, dawn was breaking, and thick banks of fog surrounded the monastery. Everyone looked exhausted, myself included, but we all shrugged off our fatigue the best we could. John and Kabakow put their heads together to come up with a way to overpower Carl O’Malley. They spoke in hushed voices so that John’s uncle wouldn’t be able to make out what they were saying should he be listening in on their

conversation like he had the last few times. But they rejected every idea they came up with. After all, they didn’t want to risk endangering Louise Skellfish. I turned to Tara who was sitting at the round table, looking defeated and murmuring to herself. ‘What are you thinking about?’ I asked. ‘I can’t seem to get the ghost monk out of my head. It couldn’t have been Carl O’Malley.’ ‘What makes you so sure?’ ‘I saw a skull and bony hands, clear as day... And then, there’s the voice I heard in my head that spoke in an ancient language... It could only have belonged to the ghost.’ Was it possible Tara Grey had really encountered the ghost of Victor Corbett? Tara must have been particularly receptive to the vibrations and spiritual energy in the monastery due to her knowledge of the monks. Maybe that’s why I had seen a skull in place of her face on those previous occasions? ‘Can you what the ghost said?’ I asked. Tara looked at me in surprise. ‘Well, yes, actually,’ she said, astonishing even herself. ‘Now you mention it, I his words quite clearly.’ She closed her eyes and concentrated. ‘The voice told me to find the chalice and destroy it,’ she whispered. ‘Only when the chalice is destroyed can the souls who drank from it be freed from the shackles of immortality and find peace. Until then, their ghosts are bound to the place where their bodies died...’ The archaeologist opened her eyes and goggled at me. ‘Those were his exact words.’ I furrowed my brow. ‘Did the ghost monk really say “souls” plural?’ I asked. Tara nodded. It suddenly hit me who Victor Corbett meant by the other souls. ‘The Vikings who came to settle here on the coast!’ I exclaimed. ‘They must also have drunk from the chalice their leader, Horlok, stole from the monks!’

John and Kabakow looked at me in astonishment. ‘John, I think I know where the chalice is,’ I said in a hushed voice. ‘We need to go back out to sea!’

***

The morning sun was a milk-coloured disc hanging low over the sea. It was partially obscured by the mist and clouds and seemed to be producing little to no warmth on what was already a chilly day. Thick banks of fog floated across the beach and sea, and even though the wind was gusting, the fog simply danced around, refusing to dissipate. I had an unpleasant feeling that the fog was unnatural in origin. The waves rolled rhythmically up the uninhabited beach. I saw no shards of wood to indicate a ship had run aground and sunk near the shoreline, and no corpses of drowned people either, but in truth, I hadn’t expected to see any. The cries I’d heard the night before at sea hadn’t been the cries of people at that moment in time — they had been the cries of ghosts who had died hundreds of years before. I shook that chilling thought out of my head, and helped John push the rowboat down the beach and into the water. This time, we had come prepared with knee-high wellies and thick waterproof coats so we wouldn’t get so wet getting the boat into the water before clambering into it. With powerful strokes of the oars, John steered the boat around the rocks: he looked exhausted, but there was a determined glint in his deep brown eyes. John had quickly come to with the shock of his uncle being alive and using him for his own dastardly plans. He was now much more concerned about the fate of the people who found themselves in the clutches of Carl O’Malley. I knew John would be feeling he had to share a portion of the blame because he was the one who had brought everybody to the monastery in the first place. I searched for his gaze and when his eyes met mine, his facial expression suddenly changed. He looked at me with love in his eyes and smiled, seeming to row a bit more determinedly than before. The rock face that looked like the open mouth of a sea monster was obscured by a thick bank of fog; I would have nearly missed it if it hadn’t been for its eerie silhouette suddenly rearing up in the sheet of whiteness.

John landed the boat and we jumped onto the slippery black rock before turning to the entrance of the cavern. We had to duck to avoid hitting our heads on the low ceiling, which was littered with razor-sharp ridges and jutting-out pieces of rock. Puddles of seawater filled every dip in the uneven floor, but the sea wasn’t as stormy as the night before, so the waves did not reach this point in the cavern. In my mind’s eye, I could still clearly see the shadowy figure that I had witnessed standing in this cavern the last time I was here that, from a distance, had looked like a Viking. I ed seeing the figure hauling something heavy into the cave — in fact, to the exact spot we were staring at — but all we found there were stones and seaweed. Mussels and barnacles lay on the stones, and smelly slime had built up between them. John climbed back into the boat and returned with a crowbar in his hand — not exactly the most useful tool for a spot of archaeology, but under the circumstances, it would have to do. John began chipping away at the rocks, breaking bits off of them and shovelling the rubble to one side. Then, all of a sudden, we caught a glint of something gold peeking out from under the black rock. John doubled his efforts and soon found gold chains, statuettes, and platters. We had found the Vikings’ hoard. A little more digging revealed... the chalice! Barnacles and small coral had set up home on its finely-decorated surface, but even in spite of that, it was clear what a true work of art the chalice was. Red rubies and other precious gemstones sparkled beneath the sea life. ‘This is the magic chalice!’ John exclaimed, his relief apparent in his voice. ‘Now we have something we can use to bargain with my uncle.’ He looked at me, thankfulness gleaming in his unfathomably deep eyes. ‘Without you, we never would have found it!’ he said, hugging me tightly, before we set about carting the Viking treasure back to the boat.

***

I felt incredibly tired; my eyes were burning and I longed for sleep to embrace me. But it was too early to be thinking about sleep. When John and I made it back to the monastery with the chalice, an excited Tara Grey came to meet us.

‘Something terrible’s happened,’ she called out and hurried over to us. ‘It’s Carl O’Malley... He’s... He’s dead!’ John and I exchanged a look before hurrying after Tara who led us to the chapter room. There, in the middle of the floor, lay a body covered by a white sheet. Leonid Kabakow was sprawled out on the sofa, his arm in a sling and his shoulder bandaged. Louise Skellfish was hunched over in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames, and wrapped in several blankets. Maria and her two kitchen helpers were tending to the shocked fortune-teller and the injured Russian. ‘What happened?’ John asked. He had lifted the white sheet to look at the pale, lifeless face of his uncle. ‘It was terrible,’ replied Tara. She was still wearing the red monk’s robes which looked very wrinkled. ‘Shortly after you left, Carl O’Malley suddenly burst through the secret door and into the chapter room. He lost his balance and stumbled, but we could still see him holding the revolver tightly in his balled fist. He was muttering the whole time but it was mostly unintelligible. At one point, he raised his voice and told us he’d shoot us all if we didn’t bring him the chalice immediately.’ Tara fought back her tears. ‘Carl O’Malley held out a shaking hand and pointed the revolver at me. I... I was frightened half to death and I thought that was it,’ the archaeologist continued, her voice quavering. ‘But suddenly, Leonid jumped up and got between us. O’Malley fired and hit Leonid in the shoulder, but our resident diviner is made of sterner stuff.’ Tara smiled weakly. ‘He managed to floor O’Malley with a single punch before falling to the ground himself.’ Tara looked down at the man lying underneath the white sheet, the contours of his body the only thing visible from this angle. ‘Carl O’Malley’s weak heart couldn’t take it anymore. Those damp, musty ageways couldn’t have done him any good. The constant cold down there, and the fact he could probably never really get warm in that hideout of his, seem to have done for him. At any rate, he never came round before drifting off into the afterlife...’

I looked at John and clasped his hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’ John was grinding his teeth together. ‘My uncle was responsible for his own fate,’ he said grimly before looking up at me. ‘What’s more important is that he can’t take any more innocent lives now.’ ‘Our work here is not finished yet!’ Tara Grey blurted out to everyone’s surprise. ‘I had another encounter with the ghost of Victor Corbett! We... We must destroy the chalice so that the abbot and the Vikings can finally find peace!’ ‘How do you suggest we go about doing that?’ asked John, who had been clutching the chalice in his hand all this time. ‘I found an old forge in the basement. It was probably where the monks did their smithing. We could maybe use it to melt down the chalice...’ It was obvious this decision wasn’t an easy one for Tara, but even Leonid Kabakow and Louise Skellfish were in agreement that this unholy chalice should be melted down. And after all, we still had the jewellery and priceless treasure we had discovered with the chalice.

***

We melted down the magic chalice, but not before Tara Grey had taken an inordinate number of pictures of it, managing to use up two whole rolls of film. When we emerged from the basement after the deed was done, we were in for a small surprise. The ever-present banks of fog had dissipated, and the sun had come out, bathing the harsh landscape in a warm, friendly glow. ‘The ghosts are gone!’ announced Louise Skellfish. ‘Can’t you feel it too? The atmosphere feels cleansed.’ The tarot reader was indeed looking a little better, and even Tara Grey and Leonid Kabakow seemed more relaxed. John wrapped an arm around my shoulders and gazed at me with a contented look plastered all over his face. Then he turned his attention to the telephone line, repairing it after a quick eyeball to

confirm what the issue was, and phoning the police. When they eventually showed up, we all spent another hour recounting what had happened over the past day or so. The inspector promised us he would the Met to have Carl O’Malley’s accomplice, the Chameleon, arrested in London. The notary who had recorded Carl O’Malley’s will was also informed. Due to how the events of the past few days had played out, John deemed it necessary to dispute the of the will, but in any case, it was clear he would receive his inheritance without too much trouble. His plan to turn the monastery into a mental health facility for victims of crime had cleared its first hurdle. It wasn’t until evening had set in that the police left again, and Louise Skellfish and Leonid Kabakow were taken by ambulance to the nearest hospital. I called Martin T. Stone and gave him a quick rundown of the most important events of my stay in Northern Ireland, before assuring him that I would fax over the finished article when I had caught up with my sleep. As she was walking out the door, Tara Grey pressed a small, intricate-looking key into my hand. ‘For the lock on the old trunk,’ she explained with a resolute look in her eye. ‘I want you to give Professor Frank Gormic’s old documents on Ireland back to his wife, Beverly. She’ll take better care of them than I ever could. I’ll stop lying to my colleagues and come clean about whose research I’ve used in my work all this time.’ And with that, she left.

THE END

The Cursed Souls of the Seven Seas

‘The Natural History Museum looks back on a long, proud tradition,’ explained my interviewee in a voice so quiet and unclear, I had to hold my microphone inches from his mouth to record his words. ‘It is a museum with the highest reputation that enjoys international renown.’ My interviewee must once have been a fine specimen with a strapping chest and athletic build, the very picture of health — not unlike the dinosaurs whose skeletons were exhibited here in the main hall of the museum, looming eerily over us like monsters in the dim light — but age had left its mark on the man. Professor Castelli seemed fragile and sickly, his perfectly ironed suit contrasting oddly with his wrinkled face and his coarse, liver-spotted hands. The professor’s hair was snow-white and thin, and under his bushy white eyebrows, his watery grey eyes flitted restlessly. Professor Castelli was well past retirement age, but he was still in post as the director of London’s Natural History Museum, which meant that, despite his outward decrepitude, he was responsible for a great number of things that concerned the museum, including potential controversies surrounding its exhibits. ‘Aren’t you worried the museum’s good reputation might be tarnished by recent events?’ I asked, cautiously. Somehow, I got the feeling I ought to handle the fragile-looking professor with kid gloves because I was worried asking the ‘killer question’ might end up being literal. I wasn’t sure how long I could keep dancing around the topic at hand, though — after all, I didn’t want to return to the London City Observer without a story, and I highly doubted Martin T. Stone, my editor-in-chief, would show me any understanding if I strolled back in empty-handed. He always demanded nothing but the best from his journalists, so I couldn’t afford to be too overly considerate in an interview. ‘As I said,’ Castelli answered, raising an eyebrow suspiciously, obviously suspecting where the interview was heading, ‘it is a long-established practice of the museum to regularly expand our base stock of exhibits. After all, we must

move with the times and continually provide our patrons with new exhibits to look at.’ His words were barely louder than the hushed whispers of the museum visitors in the background who were gazing in awe at the ancient dinosaur bones. The professor was looking at me imively; it appeared he was unwilling to go into any further detail on the subject unprompted, so I decided I would have to try the direct approach. ‘But selecting new exhibition pieces requires a certain... sensitivity, wouldn’t you say?’ I began. ‘There are some rather vocal groups who aren’t exactly ecstatic about your new acquisitions, to say the least.’ I pointed to the two large stuffed lizards — one male, one female — that occupied an illuminated recess nearby; they were over two metres long, and so tall they came up to a man’s chest. Their grey scales shimmered dully in the spotlight. The male’s throat had been sliced open, and sharp, needlepoint teeth were visible in its yawning mouth with a long, forked tongue poking out over them. These two were examples of an extremely rare species, threatened by extinction: the Komodo dragon. They were thought to have descended directly from dinosaurs, which warranted them a place in the dinosaur exhibit. However, it was rumoured that these two particular specimens had been killed purely to satisfy the demands of the Natural History Museum. In the eyes of animal rights activists, it was seen as tantamount to murder, and they accused none other than Professor Castelli of ordering the killing. Castelli made a frustrated, dismissive hand gesture. ‘The people who say these things are fanatics,’ he said huffily. ‘It’s a storm in a teacup. In a few months, the noise surrounding their acquisition will have died down. The Komodo dragons complete our “Saurian and Lizard Exhibit” nicely. One day, people will thank me for bringing the Komodo dragon to the museum.’ Professor Castelli looked proudly at the stuffed animals — though I noticed his hands had started shaking and beads of sweat had formed on his brow. ‘What do you say to the allegations that the lizards were killed just so they could be displayed in the museum?’ I asked, finally going for the jugular. Professor Castelli’s face went beetroot-red. His watery eyes glared at me furiously as if I was the source of the incendiary allegation.

‘I have nothing more to say on the subject!’ he spat, causing the needle on my recording device to jump into the red. ‘These accusations are baseless lies!’ He turned and angrily stomped away, but I wasn’t about to give up that easily. I hurried after the professor, glancing around for some sign of my colleague, Jim Brodie, but the London City Observer’s star photographer was nowhere to be seen. After taking a few snaps of Professor Castelli and the Komodo dragons, he had made himself scarce to avoid disturbing my interview, but at this particular moment in time, I could really have done with Jim’s help. I was in no doubt that being photographed fleeing from an interviewer would have made Professor Castelli uncomfortable, possibly even enough to change his mind and continue talking to me, so although I couldn’t see Jim anywhere, I felt chasing after the professor was the way to go, on the off chance my sidekick was nearby and quick-thinking enough to realise the situation that was unfolding. ‘A statement would silence your critics!’ I called out after him, but Castelli didn’t seem to hear me, or at least pretended not to. He stomped past the glass cases displaying a range of fossils and turned left into a long exhibition hall. Musty, humid air greeted me as I followed him into the dimly lit hall, which had several illuminated terrariums along the walls to the left and right of me. In the lush vegetation behind the glass, half-glimpsed animals could be seen scurrying and crawling around. There seemed to be no visitors in this part of the museum, which meant the way was clear for the professor to hurry through it at speed without drawing too much attention to himself. He was heading straight for a small door at the end of the narrow hall with a sign on it that declared it was off-limits to visitors, but just before he could reach it, events took an unexpected turn. A masked man leapt out from behind one of the terrariums, his legs spread wide to prevent the professor from getting past him. I let out an involuntary shriek at his sudden appearance. The man was wearing a tight-fitting black shirt with tiger stripes across it and a black balaclava which made his head look a bit like a big cat’s from a distance. The professor stopped abruptly and stared at the man in astonishment. The man pulled a baseball bat out from behind his back and waved it threateningly over his head. I feared the worst, and was just about to rush to the professor’s aid when the masked man screamed: ‘Freedom for every enslaved animal! May their tormentors and murderers face justice and be punished!’

He brought the baseball bat down with a swift swing, but his target wasn’t the professor, it was the terrariums. The thick glass shattered as the heavy bat connected with it. At almost exactly the same moment, I heard glass splintering behind me too. Alarmed, I whirled around and saw a second masked figure attacking the other terrariums with a crowbar. ‘What’s going on here?’ I called over to him, helplessly brandishing my microphone in his direction. There was a sudden burst of movement from behind me, and I felt myself getting pushed aside. The first masked man who had blocked the professor’s path had elbowed past me, causing me to lose my balance and fall. I instinctively stretched out my arm to stop myself from tumbling, and I felt a shard of glass painfully dig into my hand. In the ensuing chaos, both masked men threw their weapons to the ground and fled the scene. I groaned, pain coursing through my body, and sat up. At that same moment, another shriek of fear echoed through the hall, but this time, it came from the professor. I quickly looked over at him, and my blood froze. Professor Castelli had taken a tumble against one of the destroyed terrariums, and from out of the fauna, slimy snakes were slithering towards him. I had no idea if these snakes were dangerous, but I wagered Professor Castelli would know all about them, and from his shrill screams of horror, as well as his frantic attempts to tear the snakes off his body, I assumed his actions spoke for themselves. I suddenly felt something drop onto my shoulder. An ice-cold chill ran up my spine, and I hardly dared move as I felt the creature crawl over my shoulder. As if in slow motion, I turned my head sideways to look at my shoulder... In that moment, I would have liked nothing more than to mirror the professor’s panicked reaction, but an inner voice told me to stay calm. On my shoulder sat a hairy spider the size of a fist, moving its eight legs almost gracefully and seeming to stare at me coldly with its strange eyes. It was a tarantula!

***

‘Don’t move!’ somebody yelled at me from the other end of the hall. The instruction had come from a handsome, well-built young man with golden blond hair in a light, elegant suit. He had a purposeful expression on his chiselled face, and a determined look in his blue eyes. He was accompanied by a young woman in an expensive-looking red outfit. I noticed she had pressed her fist to her mouth to stop herself from screaming the place down, which was something I also felt like doing but didn’t dare, as the tarantula on my shoulder had decided to crawl down my arm. The young man dashed towards me, making sure he didn’t step on any of the countless creatures that littered the floor, crawling away from the terrariums they’d escaped from. When he reached me, he quickly grabbed the tarantula and flung it off of me, before taking me by the arm and pulling me back onto my feet. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked in a melodious voice. I was incapable of answering him, and could only stare at the destroyed terrarium that suddenly spat out a second tarantula in the exact spot I had been cowering moments earlier. I made an involuntary move towards the blond man, but as I did so, my legs threatened to buckle under me. Luckily for me, my saviour instinctively wrapped his arms tightly around me and kept me from falling. By this time, other museum visitors had started appearing at the other end of the hall, drawn by the commotion. Among them was Jim Brodie — I spotted the slim young man with his messy blond hair and washed-out jeans almost instantly. Jim pushed his way determinedly through the crowd of onlookers who were gawping in astonishment at the scene in front of them without offering any assistance. More and more snakes and spiders crawled out from their shattered glass prisons. The sheer horror of it paralysed my limbs, and I was glad the young stranger was there with me, still holding me protectively in his arms. Jim quickly snapped a few photos before putting away his camera, and carefully picking his way across the hall without stepping on any of the spiders, snakes, or beetles. He reminded me of a young boy making a game of not stepping on the lines in the pattern of the living room carpet, going up on tippy-toes and contorting his body to get from one side of the room to the other. Though, this delightful mental image was quickly pushed out of my head when my gaze fell on the professor, who had fallen to the floor, his breathing little more than a rattling wheeze.

Jim gave me a casual wave and shot me a sour grin. ‘Well, I see you’re already in good hands,’ he said, looking sideways at the young man at my side. ‘I’d have preferred rescuing you myself, but I guess someone else had first dibs.’ Jim held up his camera. ‘Though I did manage to get a few snaps of those masked men. They ran right past me.’ Jim bent down at the professor’s side. Hesitantly, he reached out a hand towards the green snake that was still wrapped around Castelli’s neck. ‘You have to grab it directly behind its head!’ the man by my side shouted over to him. Jim took a deep breath, then darted his hand towards the snake, grabbing it and flinging it into one of the terrariums. With the professor’s neck clear, Jim put his fingers to it to feel for a pulse. ‘We need medical assistance here immediately!’ he yelled to one of the museum workers that had arrived on the scene, who seemed reluctant to enter the spiderand-snake-infested hall. We were becoming aware of the peril we found ourselves in too. Three rather unfriendly-looking rattlesnakes were heading straight for us, and my saviour and I had to retreat to where Jim was crouching beside the prone professor. We were surrounded by a cacophony of skittering and scratching; spiders crawled up the walls either side of us, and a giant boa slowly slithered out of its destroyed terrarium and onto the ground. ‘Damn it,’ cursed Jim. ‘How are we gonna get out of here? The professor’s out for the count. We’ll have to carry him.’ I pointed to the small door with the sign on it that indicated it was off-limits to visitors. It was only a few metres from where we were standing. ‘We’ll be out of harm’s way in there,’ I said, untangling myself from the safety of my saviour’s arms. ‘Help Jim carry the professor,’ I said to him. I gathered up all my courage and picked my way over a dozen snakes slithering on the floor between me and the door. When I got to it, I reached for the handle, my hand shaking something rotten — only to find out the door was locked. I wheeled around in a panic.

‘The professor! He must have the key on him!’ I called over to the two men. As I was saying this, Jim and the young man carried the professor to where I was standing. As carefully as he could, the stranger let go of Castelli’s legs and searched through the unconscious man’s pockets. Jim flung a spider off his shoe and shuddered. ‘I found the key!’ my saviour cried, throwing me a chunky key ring full of keys. The keys almost slipped straight out of my quaking hands. I clumsily tried each key in the lock, one after another until finally, the fifth key fit. By this time, the menacing-looking rattlesnakes were only a few steps away, almost within striking distance. I pushed open the door and barrelled into what looked to be some kind of office, with filing cabinets and file boxes filling every inch of wall space, and a desk strewn with papers taking pride of place in the middle of the room, dimly lit by a weak neon tube light. Jim and my as-yet-unnamed saviour carried the professor into the room and laid him flat on his back on the floor, immediately istering first aid. The rattlesnakes shook their unmistakable telltale rattles and slithered towards us, hissing, but just as they were about to cross the threshold, I slammed the door shut and locked the venomous reptiles out. ‘You’re injured,’ the young man said and walked towards me, worry etched on his face. He took my shaking, blood-covered hand and inspected the wound on it. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his light-coloured blazer and wrapped it around my hand as a kind of makeshift bandage. ‘That should do for now,’ he said, looking satisfied. His eyes met mine. ‘I haven’t had the opportunity to introduce myself yet. My name is Ben Collins.’ ‘Jessica Bannister,’ I said, returning the introduction, and treating him to a thankful smile — though as I did so, I got the distinct feeling that it was an insufficient response to his act of heroism. ‘You probably saved my life.’

***

A few hours later, I was back at the London City Observer on Lupus Street — no. 25 to be exact — and sitting in my cubicle. Since graduating from my journalism course at university, I had started my newspaper career at the London City Observer just over half a year ago, and in that time, I’d hardly had a second to myself to relax or even read a book. There was always some article to write, or an interview that needed to be conducted, or background research that had to be done. The events at the Natural History Museum had sapped even more energy from me, and I desperately found myself in need of a holiday. I resolved to talk to Martin T. Stone about it that day. In a tired and dreamy state, I glanced over the pictures on the partition wall: one of the framed photographs was of my parents, Julia and Jonathan Bannister, who died in a car crash when I was just twelve. They looked happy in it, standing arm in arm, and it looked like they were smiling directly at me. It had taken me a long time to get over their deaths, and to this day, I don’t know whether I would have been able to do that without the of my great-aunt, Beverly Gormic — or as I called her: Aunt Bell. She also made an appearance on my cubicle wall. As I gazed at the good-natured and somewhat chubby face of my great-aunt in the picture, I felt my muscles relax, and I took a deep breath. Following the death of my parents, Aunt Bell had taken me in, and I had grown up in her old Victorian villa in Hampstead. In truth, I think she was glad to have me around as she had lived alone up to that point after her husband, Frank — a well-known archaeologist — had disappeared without trace on one of his expeditions. I still lived with Aunt Bell in that big old house to this day, and we were as thick as thieves despite having very different opinions on a variety of topics. One such contentious issue was my supposed ‘supernatural abilities’: she was convinced I had them, but I refused to accept the notion. While it was true that I sometimes had strange nightmares that eerily predicted future events, I thought it was a bit of an exaggeration to call a few coincidences ‘supernatural’. I didn’t hold it against Aunt Bell though, as she was a kind-hearted woman who just happened to have a rather strange hobby: the occult and spiritualism. And despite her hobby, Aunt Bell wasn’t the type to buy into everything without any scrutiny. Quite the opposite, in fact. She approached her hobby with a very critical eye, and over the years, she had exposed a number of charlatans. I tore my gaze away from the photographs and slowly turned my mind to the present. I had finished the article on Professor Castelli and the events at the

Natural History Museum. It had taken longer than usual to type it up on the old, rickety typewriter due to my injured hand, but the article was more than worth it. The masked men had left a flyer in the museum as some sort of calling card, and on it, it said they belonged to a group of animal rights activists calling themselves the ‘Cats of Freedom’. The spectacle in the museum was meant to be punishment for the professor’s wrongdoings: they seemed to hold him personally responsible for the deaths of the Komodo dragons. Though I had felt it worth pointing out in my article that these self-styled activists had endangered people’s lives, and brought an untimely end to the lives of many of the spiders and snakes in the museum. Professor Castelli was still in hospital, being treated for a snakebite. The professor’s condition wasn’t life-threatening anymore, but given how venomous the snake that bit him was, it could have turned out much, much worse. The thought of what a tarantula’s bite could have done to me made me shudder. Of course, the Cats of Freedom weren’t entirely wrong in the accusations they levelled at Professor Castelli, but that didn’t make their actions any less unacceptable. While we were holed up in the back room of the museum awaiting rescue, I had taken a nose around. I had noticed some documents on the desk that seemed to magically draw my eye, and it had turned out they were purchasing orders for the stuffed lizards. The contracts were with an export company that was internationally known for lacking scruples when it came to their business practices and the way they ‘procured’ animals. I had prompted Jim to photograph the documents, which meant I was now finally in possession of evidence that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that Castelli was engaging in some pretty shady behaviour — though this triumph was somewhat dampened by the fact he was currently lying in hospital. I sighed, leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes for a moment. I suddenly felt a strange crawling sensation on my shoulder which instantly made me shudder. Had a spider been hiding in my clothing this whole time? I let out a shrill shriek, and leapt out of my chair — only to find myself staring into the face of Jim Brodie, who had been mimicking a spider crawling across my shoulder with his fingers. Without thinking, I threw a punch at him, hitting him square in the face. For a moment, we both just stared at each other in shock. ‘I’m... I’m sorry, Jim,’ I stammered. Jim rubbed his cheek which had gone red.

‘You have an excellent forehand,’ he said, with iration in his voice and a grin plastered across his face. ‘With a swing like that, you should’ve taken up tennis.’ I lowered my gaze in shame. ‘My nerves are shot,’ I said as way of an apology. ‘I don’t know where my head’s at right now.’ ‘Pretending to be a spider was a dumb joke,’ Jim jumped in. ‘Don’t sweat it. I should’ve known you’d react that way to anything that crawls after what happened at the museum. Maybe you should take a few days off to rest up.’ Jim’s thoughts mirrored my own exactly. I took the draft article from my desk and wedged it under my arm. ‘I’m going to Stone’s office,’ I announced. ‘And I’m not coming out again until he agrees to give me a week off.’

***

A few miles north of London, the town of Tilbury had once been a small, insignificant dot on the map until, due to the Thames widening considerably at this point in its course, it became the site of a large modernised port facility, causing the rest of London’s old unused docks to fall into disrepair. This morning, Tilbury was showing its ugliest side, with thick banks of fog creeping in across the Thames and swallowing the wharfs and container terminals, as well as the ships and the people working on the docks. The morning sun was hidden behind a thick blanket of cloud that was as grey and grim as the fog below it. Aunt Bell and I perched uneasily on the sagging back seat of Jim’s rickety old Ford and stared out at the fog. As the London City Observer’s star photographer, Jim was paid reasonably well, but for some reason, he refused to buy himself a new car. He loved his old Ford, even if it did have a tendency to conk out on him, like it had this morning, its engine suddenly giving up the ghost partway across a busy London junction. It took Jim nearly ten minutes to get it moving again. I was getting increasingly worried I would miss the boat and considered

calling a cab, but the car spluttered into life again, and we continued on our way to Tilbury, praying Jim’s old banger would get us there. We had finally reached the entrance to the enger terminal. Jim took the direct route to the wharf before abruptly braking, causing me to brace myself against the enger seat in front of me and Aunt Bell to let out a cry of surprise. ‘We’re here!’ announced Jim, seemingly unfazed by the sudden stop. He threw open the driver’s door and went round to the boot. Aunt Bell and I slowly got out of the car as well, damp fog greeting us as we did so. It was so thick that the people working on the wharf looked like blurry silhouettes. Behind them, the mighty outline of a cruise ship hove into view as it docked: the Lady Glamis. With its colourful flags and flawless white exterior, it was a striking sight in the greyness of the fog. ‘Thank God we made it in time’ said Aunt Bell. She was wearing a long beige coat and an elegant hat, her curly grey hair peeking out from underneath. I looked over at the Lady Glamis, awestruck by its majesty. ‘I’m so jealous you get to go on a cruise,’ she said, smiling. ‘It’s a wonderful ship, and you’ll have the best time, I just know it.’ She gave me a knowing wink. ‘Did you know that the real Lady Glamis was purported to be a witch? She was burnt at the stake in 1537 and is said to haunt Glamis Castle in Dundee, with locals calling her the “Grey Lady”. The owner of the ship must be interested in ghost stories — I can’t think of any other reason for the ship to carry the name of such a legendary figure.’ At that moment, Jim came over with my luggage. He set it down on the ground, grabbed the camera dangling around his neck, and began taking pictures of Aunt Bell and me. ‘We really don’t have time for that,’ I insisted. ‘If I don’t hurry, the Lady Glamis will leave without me.’ ‘If I don’t bring back some proof to show our colleagues at the London City Observer, no one will ever believe our slave driver of a boss paid for you to go on a cruise.’

‘It does seem kind of surreal, even to me,’ I itted, and smiled for the camera. ‘I won’t be convinced it’s not all a dream until the Lady Glamis is on the high seas and I’m sunning myself on the deck.’ We heard the horn blare, which was the signal telling us the cruise ship would set off at any moment. Jim was already in motion before the sound of the horn had fully died away, scooping up my bags and pushing his way through the crowd that had gathered on the wharf to say goodbye to friends and family aboard the Lady Glamis despite the thick fog making it almost impossible to see anything. I followed Jim’s example and hurried after him. Aunt Bell was having visible difficulty keeping pace with me, but that was the least of my worries right at that moment because just then, the dock workers gave the signal to retract the gangway. A gust of wind suddenly swirled around me, filling my vision with nothing but fog, my surroundings changing instantly. It was completely silent and the people on the wharf had been swallowed whole by the fog. Thoroughly confused, I stopped walking and looked around, but I could make out nothing other than the pale, ghostly fog. Then, a silhouette loomed eerily and menacingly out of the greyness, coming towards me like a wall. A ship! It must be the Lady Glamis. But I realised I was mistaken. The ship emerging from the fog wasn’t a modern luxury liner at all — it was a threemaster! Shredded sails hung from the yardarms, and a black flag with a skull and crossbones on it fluttered spookily in the gusting wind. I could hear gruff male voices wafting over from it, but their words were unintelligible. ‘Jess!’ A familiar voice pierced the fog. ‘Jess, my love, what’s wrong?’ I felt someone touch my shoulder. I spun around, and found myself looking into the worried face of Aunt Bell. The strange fog had suddenly lifted. ‘The... The pirate ship,’ I said, confused. ‘Do you see it too?’ I gestured to where I had seen the looming ship, but the ghostly three-master wasn’t there anymore. Instead, the Lady Glamis rose out of the fog in front of me like before. Even the onlookers and background buzz of activity had returned. Aunt Bell looked at me, her brow furrowed.

‘Did you just have another vision?’ she asked. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ I rubbed my eyes. Great, just what I need: Aunt Bell going on about my supposed ‘supernatural abilities’ again. ‘It’s fine,’ I hurried to assure her. ‘I’m just stressed and overworked. It’s time I finally did some relaxing.’ That was when I noticed Jim over at the wharf’s edge. He had put down my luggage and was waving his arms above his head frantically at the ship’s personnel, whistling shrilly to get their attention. I rushed over to him and saw that the gangways had already been retracted, and a dock worker was busy unhitching the massive ship from its moorings. But just then, a man appeared at the porthole next to where the gangway had disappeared. He was wearing an elegant jacket over his well-built frame, and had golden blond hair. I could hardly believe my eyes — it was Ben Collins, the young man from the museum! After the police and fire brigade had turned up at the museum with some zoological specialists in tow and freed us from the small office, we had all gone our separate ways. I later regretted that I hadn’t at least got my saviour’s address, because after all, Ben Collins had seemed nice and I would’ve liked to have thanked him in some way for saving me — but all I came away with from the encounter was the handkerchief he had used to bandage my hand. But suddenly, here he was in front of me. ‘Jessica Bannister!’ Ben Collins called out cheerfully. ‘I saw your name on the manifest, and was rather disappointed you hadn’t shown up.’ He gave the dock worker a signal to stop what he was doing with the ropes, then lowered the gangway. I quickly turned to Aunt Bell, hugged her tight, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Take care of yourself,’ she said, though I could see she was still lost in thought, turning my strange mention of a pirate ship over in her head. ‘Don’t worry, I will,’ I replied, squeezing her hand. I turned to Jim who had whipped out his camera again to take a few pictures of the ship with me in front of it. I waved into the camera and blew him a kiss.

‘Say hi to everyone at work for me,’ I said, grabbing my luggage. ‘And tell Stone I made it to the ship on time despite your attempts to sabotage me.’ Jim laughed and waved back. I hurried up the gangway with my bags, stomping all the way, to where Ben Collins was already waiting to help me with my heavy luggage. ‘Welcome on board the Lady Glamis,’ he said with a theatrical bow. ‘I am the chief steward, and I am here to make sure all of our guests’ needs are met.’ He gave me a winning grin. ‘You’ve saved me twice now,’ I joked. ‘I would’ve just died if the Lady Glamis had sailed off without me.’ ‘Saving beautiful ladies is a pastime of mine, and it’s one I rather enjoy,’ he replied gallantly, before showing me the way to the cabins.

***

My cabin was situated under the foredeck, and it was very spacious, with four portholes looking out over the sea — though at this particular moment in time, there was nothing to see out there other than fog and the indistinct shapes of cranes at the container harbour that looked ugly and bizarre in the all-pervasive greyness. On the way to my cabin, I realised the Lady Glamis was no ordinary ship. Its interior certainly lived up to the title of ‘luxury liner’, and I felt like I had wandered into a centuries-old castle rather than on board a modern ship. Antique candelabras with lightbulbs shaped like candles in them lined the hallways, and bleak paintings of castles perched atop stormy cliffs hung at regular intervals on the walls. ‘Mr Blane, the ship’s owner, is a bit on the eccentric side. The Lady Glamis was a culmination of one of his dreams,’ Ben Collins had told me on the way to my cabin. ‘Mr Blane is a big fan of the uncanny, and he absolutely adores ghost stories. The interior of this ship was largely cobbled together from old castles Mr Blane has bought over the years, their entire contents ending up finding a new

home on this ship. Just wait until you see the parlour.’ After that explanation, I was not surprised in the least to find my cabin decorated like the guest room of a castle. The antique canopy bed with its pink silk canopy caught my eye first, but as I scanned the room, I saw old-fashioned armchairs and a richly decorated table that had been placed under the portholes. The wardrobe looked baroque, though I was no expert, and the small desk in the corner was a cornucopia of drawers, compartments, and doors. Once Ben Collins had left the room, I slipped off my heels and flopped onto the bed. I put my arms behind my head and looked around the cabin, feeling contented. Martin T. Stone had reached deep into his pockets for me this time. I was almost certain a cruise on the Lady Glamis couldn’t have been cheap, a fact made all the more surprising by his initial disapproval at my idea of taking a holiday. ‘I can’t manage without you right now,’ he had answered gruffly while scanning my article on the events at the Natural History Museum. Stone was a handsome man in his forties, his thick hair greying at the temples, and his choice of attire showing he had a keen dress sense. He could almost have been called charming if it wasn’t for the fact he was almost constantly grumpy and ill-tempered. He was always up against some deadline, and when he was hopelessly overworked — which was nearly all the time — everyone suffered. I knew Stone could sometimes show his friendlier side, but these moments were far and few between. ‘I just can’t afford to send my best people on holiday,’ he had insisted. ‘You have to understand, Jessica.’ But I hadn’t understood and told him as much. Stone had simply made a show of looking at his watch. ‘Let’s talk about this some other time,’ he had said. ‘I have work to do.’ And for Stone, that had been it, end of discussion. I had no choice but to get up, leave his office, and accept my fate — which meant it was even more of a surprise when Stone had called me to his office the following morning and brusquely plonked a ticket for a cruise on the desk in front of me. ‘It’s a two-week round trip,’ he had said, leafing through the morning post, most of which got tossed into the wastepaper bin unread. ‘The Lady Glamis sails

down the Atlantic, along the west coast of Europe, before hanging a left into the Mediterranean,’ he had continued without looking up from the letters. ‘Have a nice trip, and come back rejuvenated and ready for work.’ I had been too shocked to respond, but I had eventually regained my composure and thanked Stone for his generosity, only for him to grumpily wave me away, telling me not to keep him from his work any longer. I thought back to that scene as I lay on this soft bed, staring up at the pastel-coloured canopy above me. Outside, the fog horns of the ships in the harbour rang out, the Lady Glamis giving a toot of her own wistful-sounding horn every now and then. I closed my eyes and embraced the feeling of finally having escaped the hectic life of a journalist, at least for a little while. There was a sudden knock at the door. At first, I wasn’t happy about being disturbed, but then it crossed my mind that it might be Ben Collins, so I quickly got up, padded over to the door, and opened it. I looked in bewilderment at the stranger who stood before me. He was gaunt and thin, and he was wearing a dark suit that was wrinkled and badly worn. His hair was thinning and was a colour that defied description. ‘Miss Lewis is ready to see you now,’ he said. He sounded like he had a cold, his voice lacking even the merest hint of enthusiasm. ‘She is expecting you in her suite.’ I looked into the man’s pale face which sported two deep, distinctive lines extending down from his nose to either corner of his mouth. ‘I don’t know a Miss Lewis,’ I said. ‘You must have me confused me with someone else.’ The man raised an eyebrow and double-checked the cabin number on the door. ‘You are Miss Jessica Bannister, yes? The London City Observer reporter?’ ‘I am, yes.’ ‘Then I’m sure you must know that you have an interview booked with Gracie Lewis. It was agreed with your editorial team, at any rate.’ It suddenly hit me what was going on. I was in no doubt that I had Martin T.

Stone to thank for this disruption. That sly fox! I thought to myself. I should’ve known there’d be an ulterior motive behind his generosity. Who knows what else he’s got planned for me... The pale, gaunt man continued to stare at me expectantly, and I began to feel uncomfortable under his piercing gaze. ‘Okay, one sec,’ I said quickly. ‘I’ll just get changed and be right with you.’

***

While I got ready in the en-suite bathroom, I feverishly tried to figure out who in God’s name Gracie Lewis could be, before it suddenly dawned on me that she was the talented young actress who had been making waves recently playing the main role of a starry-eyed, adventurous young woman in a new TV series produced in London. The main draw of the series was that it was a period drama that heavily referenced real historical events. Critics had been full of praise for Gracie Lewis, each one saying that she played the role convincingly and with great sensitivity. Just a few days earlier, I had sat down and watched the most recent episode with Aunt Bell. It had been a very moving and captivating story, and even though she tried to hide it, I saw Aunt Bell wipe away a tear when the heroes of the piece were happily united at the end. So when I emerged from the bathroom, I had a vague idea of who it was I was supposed to be interviewing. I threw on some fresh clothes, opened the door, and went out into the hallway. The man in the poorly-tailored suit startled me as he stepped out of a dark recess and came up to me. ‘Please follow me,’ he said and began walking away. ‘My name is Clark Winter. I am Gracie Lewis’s mentor and manager.’ I followed the man up a staircase that led to the foredeck. There was a small tennis court up here surrounded by a tall chain-link fence to keep the balls from flying off into the sea, and deck chairs were set up across from the railings. The deck itself was rather empty, though; I could only see one solitary couple on it, looking out dreamily at the foggy Thames. The desolate foredeck left an eerie

impression on me. Banks of fog wafted over it, and the seagulls that were circling the ship flew above us like ghostly shadows. I was glad when we finally got to the section of the ship we were heading for. The sliding door opened automatically — it had looked like a rotting wooden door, but it seemed that was just for show. The wide corridor it opened onto was lined with suits of armour. Clark Winter headed for a staircase covered in a red carpet that seemed to swallow the sound of our footsteps. A few engers ed us as we walked down the hallway, greeting us warmly and generally seeming quite relaxed — though Clark Winter didn’t acknowledge or return their friendly gestures. We finally reached one of the upper decks. Winter knocked on a cabin door and opened it without waiting for an answer. The suite I found myself in as I walked through the door was very spacious indeed and luxuriously decorated. A large crystal chandelier hung down from the ceiling, bathing the room in a dim, mysterious light. The fluffy white curtains were pulled back, allowing a view of the foggy foredeck. In this ‘deluxe’ cabin — there was no other word for it — there was even a fireplace, with chairs and a large sofa placed near to it. The fireplace was obviously fake, of course — but the red reflection of the simulated flames on the antique furniture looked almost natural. ‘Miss Jessica Bannister is here, Gracie,’ announced Clark Winter. At that moment, a young woman got up from one of the armchairs. I hadn’t noticed her at first, as the armchair had been facing away from me, and the sheer size of it had hidden her from view completely. Her long red dress highlighted her narrow waist, and it rustled as she walked towards me. She was very thin and looked extremely delicate, like she might shatter at any moment. Her curly blonde hair fell softly onto her shoulders and framed the finely-cut features of her almost childlike face. It was Gracie Lewis standing before me, offering me a fragile hand to shake and looking at me with her big blue eyes. I got the impression she was a bit tired and stressed; she had bags under her eyes, and her complexion seemed overly pale. It struck me that I probably didn’t look much better. My eyes burned and I longed for the canopy bed in my cabin. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said, giving the young actress a winning smile. ‘Let’s get this over with, then,’ Gracie Lewis said in a soft voice. ‘I’m not feeling particularly well...’

‘We can postpone the interview if you like,’ I suggested. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Clark Winter interjected quickly. He had remained over by the door, looking in. ‘The interview is scheduled for publication early tomorrow morning in the London City Observer. The opening episode of the second series of Gracie’s show airs in the evening. I discussed it all with your editor-in-chief. And if this timetable doesn’t suit you, then I shall be forced to go with another newspaper in future, which I’m sure Mr Stone won’t be best pleased about.’ I was starting to like Clark Winter less and less with each word that came out of his mouth. I was just about to make some snarky comment in reply when Gracie lightly touched my arm and gave me a pleading look. ‘Clark’s right,’ she said softly. ‘He knows what’s best for me and my show. After all, he’s my manager.’ I shrugged indifferently and allowed the young actress to guide me to a seat by the fireplace. The flickering light of the imitated flames cast mysterious shadows onto Gracie’s finely-sculpted face and her red dress. ‘Let’s get started,’ she said, smiling weakly. I looked around uneasily at Clark Winter, who was still lingering by the door. I could almost physically feel his gaze boring a hole into me. ‘Clark. Please leave us alone,’ said Gracie to her manager, clearly picking up on my discomfort. Clark Winter hesitated for a moment before turning and leaving the deluxe cabin. As soon as he did, I felt better, and I noticed that even Gracie Lewis seemed more relaxed.

***

I made small talk with Gracie Lewis to put her at ease, which is how I found out she was only twenty-one. She still seemed a little naïve and wet behind the ears.

‘Everyone agrees that you are great as the young, starry-eyed lead in your show,’ I began, launching into my first question. ‘It’s hard to find a single critic who hasn’t spoken positively of your acting abilities. How did you get into the world of acting?’ Gracie smiled, clearly flattered by the praise. ‘Clark Winter discovered my talent,’ she answered, seemingly speaking freely. ‘At the time, he worked as an English teacher in the orphanage I grew up in.’ A shadow suddenly fell across Gracie’s eyes. ‘I never knew my parents,’ she continued in a lowered voice. ‘It’s like some kind of fairy tale. I was a foundling, placed on the doorstep of a London orphanage one foggy night — just a little baby in a big, warm Moses basket. At the time, it caused quite a stir. Plenty of people tried to find out whose kid I was, but no one got to the bottom of the mystery.’ Gracie stared sadly into the flickering fireplace as I eagerly jotted down some notes — I hadn’t thought to bring my recording device with me on the cruise. ‘In the end, the authorities decided to leave me in the orphanage, as it looked like that’s what my birth parents wanted,’ she said, her voice trembling slightly. ‘I was given the name Gracie Lewis and assigned a birthday because no one knew my real one. I’ve never much cared for my name, and never once felt like celebrating my “birthday” when it comes around every year...’ Gracie brushed away a tear and smiled weakly. ‘I had a relatively uneventful childhood in the orphanage,’ she continued after a pause. ‘Naturally, I was unhappy that I didn’t know anything about my parents and had to grow up without them in my life. But I learnt to live with the sadness, just like I learnt to live with my adoptive name and fake birthday.’ Her smile deepened and her facial expression looked noticeably happier than before. ‘At the orphanage, I performed in a festive play, and that was where Clark Winter discovered my talent for acting as he was the director of the theatre troupe. He spoke with the management of the orphanage and made sure I was packed off to stage school.’

Gracie Lewis seemed to have shaken off her previous sadness, her tone now more routine and matter-of-fact. ‘Then, six months ago, Clark booked me in for an audition at a production company that was planning a romance series. So I went to the audition, and they snapped me up for the lead role. It was like a dream come true. Everyone at the stage school dreamt they’d be famous one day, and here I was, suddenly making it.’ ‘What do you think is the recipe for your unusual success?’ I asked. Gracie thought about it for a moment. ‘I don’t believe there is any particular recipe,’ she answered, hesitantly. ‘I just play myself, basically. Though, I do have a talisman of sorts that I take everywhere with me — but I don’t know if it actually brings me any luck.’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Tell me more about this talisman of yours,’ I asked. Gracie smiled uncomfortably. ‘It’s really just an ugly little statuette,’ she said, getting up but seeming unsure of herself. ‘I’ve never shown it to anyone else.’ She walked over to a cabinet with hand-painted doors and opened it. It was illuminated from within, bathing Gracie in a bright light which surrounded her like a mysterious aura. Gracie rummaged through the cabinet for a moment before finally emerging with a small object in her hand. She took her seat by the fire again. I looked at the ugly thing in astonishment as Gracie slowly turned it over in her hand. It was made from bone, or possibly old, darkened wood, and was barely bigger than a lighter. The artist who had made it obviously hadn’t put his all into it, for it looked rough and brittle, its arms and legs ill-defined. The artist had put a little more effort into carving its face, however. I took a closer look at it and immediately wished I hadn’t: the face that gazed sinisterly back at me looked like that of a demon. I shuddered and the strangest feeling washed over me, like the small statuette was staring right into my soul. ‘It’s pretty horrible,’ Gracie remarked. ‘I should’ve thrown it away a long time ago, but it was the only thing they found with me when I was left on the steps of the orphanage, other than a few blankets and a pillow.’ Gracie looked at me and grinned. ‘I don’t actually believe in magic and all that, but every time I look at

this statuette — you know, really look at it — I begin to wonder if there isn’t more in heaven and earth than we learn about in school...’ The red reflection of the artificial fire danced over Gracie’s face, specks of light flitting about in her big blue eyes. The young actress’ words had a unique effect on me, almost instantly giving me chills, and I caught myself looking uneasily around the luxurious cabin. Between the pieces of antique furniture, the shadows had deepened, and the light seemed more mysterious than before, the fog outside even thicker. Gracie ed me the statuette and nodded to indicate I was allowed to examine it more closely when I hesitated to take it from her. The horrible little thing felt warm and smooth, and I felt a sudden, uncomfortable, imaginary crawling sensation creep across me. I noticed that the head of the statuette was cracked slightly, but the area had darkened and smoothed over the years. Still, the crack was of note, and not to be overlooked. The statuette had probably been part of a larger piece of art, though what kind of artwork that would’ve been, I couldn’t say. Feeling somewhat repelled by the statuette, I wanted to give it back to Gracie, but I suddenly felt strangely weak and listless. Something seemed to close my throat as the darkness in Gracie’s cabin grew thicker and more mysterious. I noticed a sudden movement at the window. I turned around to see what it was, and I thought I saw a shadowy figure staring in through the glass at us. Startled, I dropped the statuette, but Gracie caught it before it could hit the ground. ‘S-Sorry,’ I stammered. ‘That was careless of me.’ ‘It’s fine,’ replied Gracie. ‘I should’ve known you’d react like that. It is a disgustingly ugly statuette, after all.’ I wasn’t paying attention to what she was saying though, instead getting to my feet and rushing over to the window to look out of it — but the strange figure had disappeared. Thick reams of fog wafted past the window; in the distance, the far bank of the Thames was barely visible. Seagulls circled above the ship, but that was all the life I could see out there. There was no one on the foredeck at all; even the couple I had seen earlier had vacated their viewing point, seeking refuge from the weather inside, in more pleasant surroundings. Even if there had been someone out there, Gracie’s cabin was too high up — about a storey higher than the foredeck it overlooked. Nobody would have been able to spy through the window unless they had the ability to fly or climb up smooth, damp steel

walls, which didn’t seem possible. Had the fog tricked my senses? A chill ran up my spine, and it suddenly occurred to me just how tired and stressed out I felt. It was high time I got a good night’s sleep. I was sure the strange tricks my senses were playing on me would stop if I did. I went back over to Gracie, and we said our goodbyes. ‘It was fun talking to you,’ she said, smiling. ‘I hope we see each other again soon. Cruises can be rather dull if you only have untalkative travelling companions like Clark Winter to chat to.’ I promised I’d see her again at some point during our journey, then left her cabin. I felt thoroughly creeped out when I realised Clark Winter had been waiting just outside the door in the corridor the whole time. His grim gaze followed me down the hallway as I returned to my cabin.

***

Scared screams echoed around the deck of the galleon. From out of the fog that had appeared around the Sea Queen a few minutes prior loomed the silhouette of a three-master. Up until that point, the atmosphere on the ship had been tense but relatively calm. The mighty sails of the Sea Queen had lain sagging and motionless, and other than the creaking of the wood and the caws of the seagulls, there had been only silence. When the fog had first appeared, everyone on the ship had instinctively sensed danger. The Sea Queen was on its way from London to Gibraltar, and at that particular part of its journey, it was on the high seas somewhere between and Spain. Its hold was jam-packed with goods that were to be traded for wares from Africa when they reached the Rock of Gibraltar. There were also engers on board, and among them was a young lady. Her presence had caused quite a stir among the sailors, as the lady was travelling without a male companion. A fight would have broken out as they vied for her attention if the captain hadn’t stepped in at the last minute. ‘Lady Gwen Stratford,’ the captain had eventually said to the young lady in a strict tone. ‘You will return to your cabin immediately, and you will stay there until the Sea Queen has docked in Gibraltar. I do not want to see you above

deck. Do I make myself clear?’ Gwen had nodded shyly, pushing an unruly strand of blonde hair out of her face and smoothing down her floor-length red dress, before retreating to the stern of the galleon where her cabin was situated in the aftercastle, the tower-like superstructure with protruding, ornate windows. She had sulked in her isolation, spending most of her time playing with and feeding a white dove in a small wooden cage, and staring out the window at the sea. But when the fog had suddenly appeared, Gwen couldn’t stand it in her stuffy cabin any longer. She resolved to disobey the captain’s orders and went out onto the deck. The men there paid her no attention: they only had eyes for the strange fog and the eerie three-master that was heading straight for them. The oddest part of it was the three-master’s sails were billowing while the Sea Queen’s sails drooped from its masts, and a chill washed over Gwen as the thought crossed her mind that the wind had a ghostly will of its own. The thick grey banks of fog crept forward like tentacles, wrapping itself around the Sea Queen. ‘It’s a pirate ship!’ a hoarse voice yelled somewhere above everyone’s heads. Gwen could see the black pirate flag flying from the large mast of the ghostly ship too. It was tattered and frayed, much like the sails that were attached to masts that equally looked in need of repair. ‘It’s Cap’n Blane’s Foxstone!’ cried a burly young seaman who was standing next to Gwen. His hands gripped the rail tightly, making his knuckles go white. ‘If Cap’n Blane and his men get us, we’ll all be lost!’ Gwen listened attentively to the resulting hubbub. There was nary a sailor who hadn’t heard about Captain Blane and his murderous band of pirates, and strange, spine-chilling stories about his exploits abounded. It was even said that he was in league with the Devil. So far, the British Navy had failed to apprehend him, largely because his ship, the Foxstone, seemed to just appear out of thin air, engage its target, and plunder it, before disappearing as mysteriously as it had come. No one had any idea where the ship and its crew hid between raids. Suddenly, frantic activity broke out aboard the Sea Queen: orders were ed down, and below deck, the canons were readied for firing, but before the Sea Queen could fire her first shot, the pirate ship had come about and fired a broadside volley. The thundering of the cannons was deafening. The men

scurried for cover, and one of the masts splintered and fell, the ropes and sails hitting the deck with a loud thud. Cries of pain echoed across the water and cannon smoke mixed with the fog to produce a floating grey-yellow mass that stank horrendously. Gwen took a fearful step back from the rail, the biting smoke burning her eyes. It all felt like a dream as she watched the young seaman next to her get struck by the falling mast and punted overboard. She desperately looked around for somewhere safe to hide, but where could she go? It was bedlam everywhere she looked: sailors were frantically running this way and that, orders were being barked above the din of cannon fire, and the soldiers on board were firing their muskets into the fog. Gwen was nearly trampled underfoot more than once. Unlike earlier on their voyage, the panicking men didn’t pay the blindest bit of attention to her beauty and charms — everyone was too busy trying to save their own skin. Suddenly, the sound of cannon fire ceased. Gwen knew exactly why: the pirates didn’t want to sink the Sea Queen, just disarm it and plunder it. The Foxstone was only a few metres away by this time, and Gwen could already make out the terrifying faces on board. They had gathered at the rail, grimly impatient, waving their weapons menacingly in the direction of the Sea Queen and yelling obscenities. Gwen shuddered. She retreated to one of the broken masts and hid among the debris. From her hiding place, she peered out fearfully at the eerie pirate ship, and on the poop deck next to the helmsman, she saw a gaunt, grim figure dressed in black from head to toe. His shoulder-length black hair hung down in greasy, messy strands, and over one eye, he wore an eyepatch. His bony, pointy chin was covered in prickly stubble. Captain Blane! Gwen thought to herself, instinctively ducking down deeper into the debris. Clenched in the eerie man’s fist was a weird long staff; he was barking orders and twirling this strange rod above his head. Then, as if by magic, the fog retreated from the destroyed deck of the Sea Queen. It’s like Captain Blane’s controlling the fog... thought Gwen, shuddering. Just then, she spotted a young man on the pirate ship who seemed different from the other verminous reprobates aboard the Foxstone. He had short blond hair, and was wearing a light-coloured pair of Turkish tros and an open shirt. A small monkey sat on his shoulder. The young man let his gaze wander over the deck of

the Sea Queen, and Gwen could sense that he wasn’t left unmoved by the suffering and chaos that the cannonballs had wrought on the English galleon. At the very least, he wasn’t ing in with the triumphant whoops of the rest of the crew. She suddenly felt the young man’s gaze resting on her, and she quickly buried herself deeper into the debris. It was a move that saved her life. A dark object whistled past her ear, missing her by a hair’s breadth before embedding itself into the wood of the deck with a loud crunch. A grappling hook! Gwen hurriedly looked around for a safer place to hide, which was when she noticed the aftercastle was on fire. Black clouds of smoke rose from the ornate windows and flames engulfed the stairs. My dove! thought Gwen in desperation, but she knew it was already too late: she wouldn’t be able to save the bird without putting her own life at risk. Gwen’s heart was racing and beads of sweat broke out all over her baby-smooth forehead. In a panic, she bolted across the deck, putting as much distance between herself and the blazing stern as she could. She avoided looking too closely at what was going on around her, blocking out the screams and the terrifying noise of battle that seemed to come at her from every angle. The only thought going through her head right then was that she had to find somewhere to hide where the pirates wouldn’t find her. Gwen tripped over a small, inconspicuous hatch that seemed to spring up out of nowhere. Without stopping to think for even a second, the young woman bent down and wrenched open the hatch to reveal a small dark chamber beneath her feet, its distant floor covered with neatly rolled up rope and folded sails. She looked around one last time: the first pirates had already swung over onto the Sea Queen’s deck and attacked its crew, who were desperately trying to defend themselves. Without waiting another moment, Gwen allowed herself to simply drop through the hatch which closed behind her with a thud, falling headlong into the darkness with a small yelp, and landing on a pile of canvas. She didn’t move for a good few seconds, instead listening to the horrifying sounds of battle that dully filtered down to her through the closed hatch. Scared and shaking, she pushed herself down deeper into the black shadows, hoping none of the pirates would think to look in this small storage chamber. Something clammy and hairy suddenly brushed over her naked ankle. Gwen

stiffened. She realised she was surrounded by small, scurrying shadows that were making quiet squeaking sounds as they scampered around the storage area. Rats!

***

I was suddenly wide awake. Had I just heard somebody scream? I looked around in confusion and realised I was still in my cabin aboard the Lady Glamis, lying in my soft, romantic canopy bed that was in complete disarray, blankets and bedsheets thrown far and wide. Dim daylight filtered through the small, round portholes, and I guessed it must be morning as I ed crawling into bed in the early evening — after writing up the interview with Gracie Lewis and faxing it through to the London City Observer, of course. I heard a frantic knocking at my door. ‘Jessica, are you there? Is everything okay?’ It was a man’s voice, and it sounded very worried. I got up out of the disorderly bed, smoothed down my wrinkled nightie, and threw on a dressing gown before padding over to the door. When I opened it, I was met with the sight of Ben Collins standing in front of me, looking rather eye-catching in his dapper white uniform, though I could see something was wrong because his face was beset with worry as he looked me up and down. ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, not hiding my confusion at his sudden appearance at my door. ‘Someone heard screams coming from your cabin,’ he explained. On seeing I was hunky-dory, the worried expression disappeared from his face. ‘A steward heard screams and informed me over the intercom. When he said they were coming from your cabin, I rushed down here to investigate.’

I suddenly realised the screams the steward had heard from the corridor were the same ones that had woken me: my screams! My dream started coming back to me, and I vaguely ed the eerie pirates and a young lady named Gwen Stratford. I cleared my throat uncertainly and invited the chief steward into my cabin, as the first gawkers had started gathering outside the door to peer in curiously at us. ‘I think I’m probably responsible for the commotion,’ I began in a quiet voice after closing the cabin door. ‘I had some sort of nightmare...’ Ben Collins put a hand on my shoulder and looked at me, his brow furrowed. ‘Are you worried about something? You having problems?’ he asked, and I could tell how much he really cared. I shook my head, and couldn’t help smiling at Ben’s concern for me. Since saving me at the Natural History Museum from the tarantulas and snakes, he seemed to feel personally responsible for me. Of course, I could have just explained to him that these nightmares weren’t exactly rare; I tended to have them more or less regularly these days, and most of them had some connection to future events, though I regarded that as sheer coincidence. Aunt Bell had a different opinion on the matter, taking an interest in my dreams early on. She believed I had ‘supernatural abilities’ and could see the future in my dreams — a presumption I found highly dubious. Perhaps that’s why I decided against talking about it to Ben. Unfortunately, even if I kept them to myself, that didn’t mean I could just gloss over my nightmares and forget about them. They were often intense and nerve-shredding, just like this one had been. I had really felt like I was there on that galleon when the pirates attacked, and just thinking about those rats in that dingy storage chamber was enough to give me chills. ‘Everything’s just fine,’ I insisted, and I smiled at the chief steward. ‘All I need right now is a hot shower and a hearty breakfast.’ Ben Collins let go of my shoulder. ‘We serve breakfast down in the dining hall,’ he said. ‘Or you can have it brought to your cabin if you want.’ ‘I’d prefer the dining hall,’ I replied. I figured being around other people would help me push the strange nightmare out of my mind quicker. The thought of

sitting here alone in my cabin didn’t sit well with me. Ben turned to leave. ‘Ben,’ I said spontaneously before he could reach the door. The chief steward paused and turned back. ‘Thanks for looking out for me,’ I said. ‘I wish I could repay you somehow.’ A wide grin spread across his face. ‘That can be arranged,’ he replied. ‘I have the night off. What do you say to dinner?’ ‘I’d love to,’ I replied happily.

***

Half an hour later, I was in the richly decorated dining hall. A long banquet table with a varnished wooden top occupied the middle of the room, around which sturdy high-backed chairs were arranged. Lavish, glittering chandeliers hung down from the high ceiling, and beautiful Tiffany lamps were placed on shelves above the smaller round tables dotted either side of the banquet table, each table decorated with the coats of arms of a different English county. It was still early, and the dining hall was relatively empty. I scanned the room and pondered where the best place to sit was. It was then that I noticed Gracie Lewis sitting with her mentor, Clark Winter, at one of the small, round tables near the window. Gracie spotted me at almost exactly the same time, and waved me over. ‘Come sit with us,’ she said cheerfully. I was thankful for the company, so I accepted the invitation, but when I got to the table, Gracie’s appearance startled me. The sea voyage didn’t seem to be agreeing with the young actress: she looked even paler than she had the day before and — despite some generously applied makeup — the bags under her eyes could hardly be missed. Gracie told me all about the exciting nightlife to be found aboard the Lady Glamis, and about her excursion to Le Havre, where the

ship had docked the previous afternoon. I hadn’t left the ship as I was too tired and wasn’t especially interested in meandering through the narrow alleys of the French city. At this point of the morning, the Lady Glamis had reached Brittany and was somewhere near the Loire estuary. We would reach the port of Bordeaux sometime that afternoon, and the engers of the Lady Glamis would get the chance to take a look around the city. At this particular moment in time, the French coast was hard to make out, as the ship was surrounded by misty fog again. Seeing the fog reminded me of my nightmare, so I decided to focus my attention on my company at the table instead. Clark Winter didn’t seem interested in participating in our conversation; he just stared grumpily at his breakfast as he pecked away at it. He paid zero attention to Gracie and me, content to grumble away to himself as he chewed. Every time I thought I could get away with it, I’d steal a glance at the young actress. I couldn’t help it — something about her reminded me of the young lady from my dream. Her name instantly popped into my head: Gwen Stratford. I shook my head, trying to clear it of these annoying thoughts. After all, I had come to the dining hall to distract myself from my nightmare, not to end up constantly thinking about it. I was still a little worried about Gracie — she wasn’t looking well at all. She lost her train of thought on more than one occasion when we were talking and kept absent-mindedly running her fingers through her curly blonde hair. What was the matter with her? Was she seasick? Or didn’t the salty sea air agree with her? I was about to ask her this when I noticed a sudden blur of movement outside one of the windows. I instinctively turned to see what it was. For the briefest of moments, I caught a glimpse of a dark figure standing at the window: it was wearing a tight-fitting black shirt with white stripes across it, and it had a strange mask pulled down over its face that looked like the head of a big cat. ‘The Cats of Freedom,’ I whispered, startling myself as I recalled where I had seen that distinctive outfit before. I sprung up from my chair, tipping it over — which caused Gracie to stare at me in shock — but the figure on the other side of the glass had disappeared again. However, this time, I was sure I had really seen it, and it wasn’t just a figment of my imagination. What’s more, it looked as though this person who was creeping around belonged to a group of overzealous animal rights activists who I had

already encountered at the Natural History Museum. I ran over to the window and peered out, but besides the waves and the mist and fog, there was nothing to see. I looked down and saw that the side of the ship was very steep, reaching all the way down to the sea below with nothing in between, the bow wave at the bottom foaming and gurgling around the ship as it scythed through the water. I couldn’t see anyone at all out there. I was about to turn away, reg myself to being none the wiser about the whole thing, when I suddenly saw movement somewhere above me. I pressed my face up against the glass and stared as far upwards as I could. I just about made out a black figure scaling the side of the ship and disappearing out of view. So it wasn’t a hallucination! I immediately sped off after him. I wanted to catch the guy at all costs. ‘Jessica! What’s going on?’ I heard Gracie calling out from behind me, but I didn’t reply. I’d familiarised myself with the layout of the Lady Glamis the day before, so I already knew the quickest route to A-Deck, the one directly above me. I ran down a corridor and sprinted up a staircase, bursting out onto a deck that was open to the elements on one side. A chill wind whipped through my hair and bit my face. I glanced around: the deck had been decorated to make it look like a gallery in a castle, with the notable exception of it looking out at the sea instead of into a hall, but other than the thick layer of fog, there was nothing much to see here. The rail was modelled after an old-fashioned, handcrafted galleon rail, and I noted that it looked deceptively genuine. This must have been where the blackclothed figure had swung up onto the deck after his climb, but I couldn’t see anything that could confirm my suspicions. At the rear of the deck, somewhere in the region of fifteen engers were doing morning aerobics with a trainer, his instructions and the rhythmic music wafting over to me clearly through the fog. Without a second thought, I went over to the people exercising. ‘Where’d the guy go who just climbed over that railing?’ I asked. All I got in response was blank stares. ‘Didn’t you see him climbing up the side of the ship?’ I continued. ‘He was wearing a big cat costume—’ ‘If you don’t mind, miss,’ the trainer interrupted, clearly put out at his session being interrupted. ‘If you’re bored, feel free to try one of the courses we offer on

board, but please, keep your practical jokes to yourself and let us finish up our fitness programme.’ I could only stare dumbfounded at the athletic young man. It seemed as though no one had seen the black-clothed figure. Or maybe I really had been mistaken? With my shoulders slumped, I turned away from the exercising people and returned to the dining hall. Halfway there, I ran into Gracie Lewis and Clark Winter. Gracie teetered slightly and seemed very unsteady on her feet. ‘What got into you all of a sudden?’ Clark Winter asked in a gruff, accusatory tone. ‘Gracie was worried.’ ‘I... I thought I saw something out there,’ I said. I turned to the young actress. ‘You’re not looking too hot. Can I do something for you?’ Gracie sighed, shaking her head. ‘I don’t understand what’s wrong with me,’ she replied. ‘I’m feeling absolutely exhausted. Filming that series must have taken more out of me than I thought.’ ‘Maybe you should go back to bed,’ Clark Winter suggested. ‘Some sleep will do you good.’ But Gracie shook her head emphatically. ‘Fresh air’s what I need,’ she said, and headed off to the aft deck. Clark Winter followed after her, wringing his hands. I watched them go, shaking my head at the pair. Gracie didn’t make it far, however. Her legs suddenly gave out, and her arms flailed in a desperate attempt to stop her from falling. She caught hold of the rail, but her weak hands slid off it, and it looked like the young actress was about to go over the side, her whole upper body tipping over the rail. I screamed, but Clark Winter was already at her side, grabbing her and hauling her back to the deck, showing a strength that belied his thin frame. I quickly ran over to them. Gracie let out a sob and collapsed into her mentor’s arms. ‘What... What’s wrong with me?’ she stammered between sobs. ‘I’ve never felt so weak and tired as I do right now.’

Clark Winter patted her shoulder to calm her down. ‘You’ll get better. Just give it some time,’ he said. ‘Miss Bannister and I will take you back to your cabin. Sleep will do you good. You’ll see. The world will look much better in the morning.’ Resigned to her fate, Gracie capitulated. As I accompanied her back to her cabin with Clark Winter, I kept an eye out for the man in black, but he seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

***

When the Lady Glamis reached the port of Bordeaux, a group of engers left the ship to go on a sightseeing bus tour of the French city. I ed them, as did the trainer who had led the morning aerobic session. He sat at the front of the small group, wowing everyone with his impressive knowledge of the historic city even if we couldn’t see a great deal because of the fog. After a while, I decided to get off the bus and to take a different route to the other engers. The arrogant man’s tour patter was starting to bore me, especially as he kept looking over at me suspiciously. He was probably worried I was going to start talking about a mysterious stranger in a cat costume again as some sort of prank. Since neither Gracie Lewis nor Ben Collins had come on shore, and I hadn’t found time to make any new acquaintances, I walked around the city by myself. The historic city centre of Bordeaux was very romantic and seemed frozen in time. The crooked little houses were packed close together, creating a confusing labyrinth of dreamy narrow streets and alleyways. Sadly, the lingering fog gave the otherwise-charming side streets a strange, gloomy look. For some reason, it felt like the fog had followed the Lady Glamis from London to here, sticking to the ship like glue, and that was an unnerving thought. A nonsensical one, of course, but that didn’t make me feel any better about it. I tried to banish these dismal thoughts from my head and carried on walking aimlessly between the small houses. The fog was like a thick carpet of cotton swirling over the pavement, getting disturbed every time I moved my legs. I went on a hunt for some shops, but this part of the city seemed to be more residential, the humble homes looking deserted and almost like they were asleep in the fog.

Finally, I stumbled on a shop in a small side street. It was a drab little charity shop, and as I entered, the door creaked and I was greeted by stale, musty air. The shop was overflowing with second-hand items, but I did spot a few actual antiques nestled in between the deteriorating furniture, fishing nets, buoys, and pointless tat. Behind a small counter that also seemed to be filled with skinmounted fish and starfish stood a hunched-over old woman. In her threadbare, dark clothing, she was barely distinguishable in the semi-darkness of her shop. Her long, grey hair hung down in messy strands over her hunched back, and she had a wrinkled, haggard face with unusually bright eyes that sized me up as I walked around the shop. Despite her decidedly frosty attitude, I was glad to have encountered another person in this desolate harbour quarter, so I decided to browse for a bit. There were some yellowing books in a cardboard box, and among them, I found a book in English on herbs which had recipes for healing tonics and salves — the perfect souvenir to give Aunt Bell. She had a special place in her heart for plants with healing properties; in her small herb garden right behind the kitchen, she planted both rare and common healing plants that she would put in teas or baths whenever one of us got sick, which thankfully didn’t happen very often. I was sure Aunt Bell would appreciate this small, leather-bound book. I walked up to the counter to pay for the book and negotiated the price with the woman, as the one printed on it seemed much too high for what it was. When I’d haggled her down to a price that was more to my liking, I handed over the cash which I’d exchanged some of my sterling for on the ship. But just as I was about to leave, the old woman grabbed my hand and turned it over. Her eyes suddenly grew wide, and her lips trembled. She ran her crooked, quivering index finger over the lines of my palm. ‘Beware the fog,’ she said in a voice that could only be described as creaking. ‘The ghosts of the past hide within.’ She let my hand go, scooped up the money I’d placed on the counter, and started waving her arms in the air. The gesture was an unmistakable one: the old woman wanted me to leave her shop immediately. Feeling odd about the whole encounter, I picked up the book and went back out into the street, where the fog was waiting for me.

***

The old woman’s strange words were still ringing in my ears as I walked away from the shop. Was I imagining it, or was the fog thicker than before I went in? I couldn’t even make out the end of the small alleyway now — in fact, visibility was so poor, I could only see a few metres in front of me. I took a deep breath, and marched into the wall of fog. I wasn’t going to let myself be paralysed with fear by the strange woman’s words; I was determined to enjoy my little excursion around town. Suddenly, I heard gruff, commanding voices nearby, which sent chills shooting up my spine. I wheeled around, trying to find the source of the voices, but I couldn’t see anyone. I seemed to be alone in the alley, even though the fog was swirling in a way that suggested the street was full of people walking back and forth. Ignoring the chills still doing a number on my spine, I continued on down the path, feeling more and more uneasy with every step, already regretting my decision to leave the group of engers from the Lady Glamis. All of a sudden, I found myself standing in front of a small café. Its old, crumbling frontage didn’t look very inviting, but I was happy for the opportunity to escape the eerie fog, so I reached for the door handle. As I did so, I peeked through the dirty glass, and saw a dreary, empty room with small, completely unoccupied round tables, save for one in a dark corner at which a blonde woman in a red dress was sitting. When I recognised who she was, my heart skipped a beat. It was Gwen Stratford!

***

It only took another second or so to realise I was mistaken. The young woman with the curly blonde hair at the table wasn’t the lady from my nightmare at all — it was the young actress, Gracie Lewis. I could see it was her clearly now, as she leaned forward over the table, emerging from the shadows, to give the young

man sitting across from her a kiss. I was surprised to see Gracie here, as she was supposed to be in bed, resting. I slowly released my grip on the door handle, and decided against entering. I had no intention of poking my nose into Gracie’s personal life — although I had to it, I was intrigued to find out more about this mysterious young man she was meeting in secret in this rundown café. Martin T. Stone would certainly be chuffed if I brought him back a bit of gossip about the TV star’s love life, and our readers loved juicy gossip... Forget it, you’re on holiday! I reminded myself, but as I thought that, the young couple’s lips separated, and Gracie stared dreamily out of the window — straight at me. The startled look on her face made me aware that I was really in the wrong place at the wrong time, but it was too late to do anything about it. Gracie quickly regained her composure and half-heartedly waved to me. I responded in kind, and had a desperate urge to end this awkward encounter, but saw that Gracie was signalling for me to her in the café. I shrugged and obliged. ‘I hope this doesn’t give you the wrong idea about me,’ I said as I entered the dimly lit room and walked over to them. ‘I know journalists have a bit of a reputation for being nosy parkers, but this really was pure coincidence, bumping into you like this.’ Gracie smiled uneasily and introduced me to the young man she was with. ‘Jessica, this is Norman Asgard. We know each other from stage school. He’s the son of one of the professors there...’ Her words trailed off, and she looked over at the young man across from her with love in her eyes. He got up and offered me his hand to shake. Norman was a well-built man, casually dressed, and with short, dark, curly hair. His facial features were sharp and distinguished, his eyes friendly, and a straight, distinctive nose poked out above an expressive mouth that had some of Gracie’s lipstick smeared across it. ‘Norman and I... We’re in love,’ Gracie said, haltingly. ‘But Clark doesn’t like seeing us together. He believes it’ll only hurt my career if I settle down too soon...’ Norman grabbed a chair for me, and I sat down. A portly waiter came in through

a side door and asked me what I wanted. After ordering a cup of coffee, I turned back to Gracie who was looking at me worriedly. ‘I won’t breathe a word of this to Clark Winter,’ I assured the young actress, reading her mind. ‘You’re an adult. That means you get to decide what’s best for you. Because in the end, you’re the one who has to live with the consequences, right?’ A relieved smile broke out on Gracie’s face, and Norman took her hands in his, squeezing them tenderly and lovingly. ‘By the way, it was Norman’s idea to go on this cruise,’ Gracie said happily. ‘This way, we get to see each other every day in a new port town. Isn’t that romantic?’ I raised an eyebrow, not quite understanding what she was telling me. ‘I follow the Lady Glamis over land,’ explained Norman, his voice pleasant and confident. ‘I know the ship’s route and where it docks. So I rock up at its next destination, then just sit and wait for Gracie.’ I was taken aback by the young man’s craftiness, but he had made a good impression on me, despite his audacious plan. ‘Luckily, Clark’s a grouch,’ Gracie quickly added. ‘He doesn’t care for sightseeing at all. He much prefers to stay in his cabin, and stare at the walls.’ Gracie giggled, but the bags under her eyes gave away how exhausted she was. ‘He thinks I’m still in bed sleeping.’ She shook her head mischievously. We talked for a while until I finally decided it was time to leave the two lovebirds to it. I didn’t want to spoil their ‘illicit tryst’ by boring them with my presence. Gracie smiled at me thankfully as I left, before quickly turning back to Norman and making gooey eyes at him. On leaving the café, I set off in the direction I guessed the harbour and piers were in, but the fog still lingered eerily in the streets as I walked down them. Again, I thought I could hear footsteps and gruff male voices, which I assumed belonged to fishermen who were wandering aimlessly through the labyrinth of alleyways after having one too many to drink, but I found it strange I couldn’t see them. I quickened my pace and hurried down the street, my eyes darting this way and

that, but the fog merely swirled around me spookily without ever revealing what was hiding behind its milky veil.

***

If only Ben was by my side, I thought. I felt safe in his presence, but as I hurried through the maze of streets, I felt very alone, like I’d been left to fend for myself. The alley suddenly opened out in front of me, and I found myself standing on the pier where the Lady Glamis had docked, but the fog had completely engulfed this part of town as well, so I couldn’t make out the cruise ship. As I peered into the wall of whiteness to find it, what I saw made me freeze in fear. It wasn’t the luxury liner I could see tethered to the pier... No, the sight that loomed out of the fog was much more grim and menacing: the silhouette of a three-master. Its sails were in tatters, and a black flag hung from the top of the main mast. It was the pirate ship — the same ghostly ship I had seen in Tilbury. I had shoved the memory to the back of my mind as it didn’t seem to hold any relevance at the time, but seeing the strange ship again, it all came flooding back to me. A chill shot up my spine as I realised the ship looked eerily similar to the one in my nightmare. ‘Captain Blane’s Foxstone,’ I whispered, and then I heard the ghostly sounds of footsteps and gruff voices again, this time from right behind me and approaching fast. I spun on my heels and frantically looked around for an escape route, but I was trapped: the only thing at my back was the ghost ship, and in front of me, what sounded like a horde of wild men — the same horde that had stalked me through the grey, dismal alleyways of the city — were bearing down on me. I thought back to the old woman’s ominous words: Beware the fog. The ghosts of the past lurk within. Who on earth was coming towards me out of the fog? Was it the pirates from my nightmare pursuing me as ghosts?

***

Paralysed with fear, I could only stand there and stare into the fog, my eyes burning. The voices kept getting louder and louder until suddenly, a number of black figures emerged from the milk-coloured mist. Finally, the strangers had shown themselves. I held my breath, my anxiety reaching a fever pitch... but a moment later, I exhaled again, relief washing over me. The crowd approaching me wasn’t a bunch of drunken fishermen or ghost pirates at all: it was the group from the Lady Glamis. I could clearly hear the trainer’s voice drifting over to me through the fog, and from the snippets of conversation I could make out, he had spoiled the sightseeing tour for the rest of them. I swivelled around to look back at the ghost ship in the dock, but it had disappeared. The Lady Glamis, with her colourful bunting and imposing stern, was moored there instead, the gangways extended and awaiting the return of its engers. Confused and more than a little relieved, I went aboard the ship and headed for my cabin. I felt dazed and tried in vain to come up with some explanation for what I had just experienced, when a cabin door was suddenly flung open in front of me, and Clark Winter appeared in my way. ‘Gracie’s gone!’ he cried, his voice sounding desperate. ‘Have you seen her? I’m extremely worried about her.’ Almost without thinking, I looked through the open door into Clark Winter’s cabin. It was very small and basic. Manuscript pages were strewn across the bed, and there was a travel typewriter sitting on top of a large wooden chest. Gracie’s mentor noticed my curious gaze, and quickly pulled the door closed behind him. ‘I saw Gracie down at the harbour,’ I said. I didn’t want to lie, especially as Clark Winter seemed genuinely worried about her, but I didn’t want to say anything about Gracie’s date with Norman Asgard either, as I had promised the young actress I wouldn’t. ‘But she’s supposed to be in bed sleeping,’ said Clark Winter, exasperated. ‘She’s ruining her health.’ I shrugged, but couldn’t resist making a cheeky comment. ‘She’s a grown woman. She can make her own decisions.’ Clark Winter shot me a furious look, before abruptly turning away and

disappearing into his cabin. He banged the door shut behind him, and I carried on down the corridor, shaking my head. A few minutes later, I was back in my cabin. I jumped in the shower, and as I let the warm water cascade down my naked body, I thought back to all the weird things that had happened so far. The constant presence of fog made me nervous, and I had no explanation for why I was suddenly seeing ghost ships from my dreams. I would also have liked to know if the figure wearing the Cats of Freedom get-up was real or just another figment of my imagination. I didn’t have a satisfactory answer to any of these questions, but I decided it was high time I got to the bottom of these strange events. The first thing I would do, I decided, was call Jim at the London City Observer to see if he could dig up some info for me.

***

The telephones were in small, shadowy alcoves on A-Deck, and whoever designed this section had succeeded in making it look uncannily like a corner of an eerie castle, right down to the rough-cut stone-effect walls that looked like they were covered in moss. Only the modern telephones seemed out of place here. I was in luck: Jim Brodie was in the office, developing some of his photos in the darkroom. ‘Hi, Jess,’ came the cheerful voice from the other end of the line. The connection crackled and hissed, probably because of the fog outside, but I could make out what he was saying well enough. ‘Has Stone set up any more surprises for you aboard the Lady Glamis?’ he asked sympathetically. ‘What’s the scoop this time? Reporting on the number of fish dying along the Atlantic coast? Though I imagine it’d be difficult to get witness statements for that. Fish are notoriously tight-lipped.’ ‘No,’ I replied, laughing. ‘Stone isn’t so mean that he’d pave my route to rest and relaxation with work.’ ‘If he hasn’t, it’s probably just because he’s too busy to set something up, due to his chronic lack of time,’ Jim countered. ‘Otherwise, I’m sure he’d have got you

doing a few other things besides the interview with Gracie Lewis.’ ‘You’re wrong about Stone,’ I said, defending the London City Observer’s editor-in-chief. I had already forgiven him for his misstep with the Gracie Lewis interview. ‘I’m still able to relax a little out here,’ I continued. ‘Even if the sky is overcast and there’s nothing to see but fog.’ ‘Strange,’ said Jim. ‘All the radio stations were predicting nothing but sunny skies all the way down the Atlantic coast.’ I furrowed my brow. Did that mean this fog had some special meaning? I ed what the old woman in Bordeaux had said, and a chill washed over me, but I hurriedly pushed those thoughts out of my head. ‘I’m calling about something else,’ I said. ‘Strange things have been happening on the ship. I think a member of the Cats of Freedom might be onboard. Or at any rate, someone’s running around in a big cat costume. And they seem to be up to something. I just don’t know what it is yet.’ ‘You don’t mean those cuckoo animal rights nuts from the Natural History Museum, do you?’ he asked, his annoyance audible in his voice. ‘I’m still getting over our last encounter with them, not to mention all those snakes and spiders. I’m actually doing some more research into them at the moment because Stone wants to run a photo feature on the Cats of Freedom.’ ‘How’s the museum director doing?’ I asked. ‘Castelli’s been released from hospital,’ Jim said. ‘He apparently used his time laid up in bed to reflect on his recent behaviour, coming out with a statement where he itted that the way he’d gone about acquiring the stuffed Komodo dragons was an inexcusable error of judgement, and he tendered his resignation from the post of director there and then. A younger director has now been installed in his place.’ ‘If you could, I’d like you to get me the enger manifest for the Lady Glamis,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘Maybe there’ll be some clue in there about who our mystery man behind the cat mask is.’ ‘Okay,’ Jim replied. ‘By the way, I also have some top secret information for you regarding Clark Winter, Gracie’s manager. Seems he recently published a novel

under a pen name, and he’s gone to great lengths to keep his identity secret. The book’s currently climbing the bestseller charts like a weather-forecasting frog scaling a ladder on a sunny day.’ ‘How’d you find out the book was written by Clark Winter?’ ‘A friend who works over at the publishing house that marketed his book owed me a favour. The publisher was pretty surprised when he read Winter’s novel for the first time. He’d apparently submitted stuff a number of times before, but it was always dross and his manuscripts got rejected every time. It seems, however, like Mr Clark Winter has finally found his literary voice, but he’s insisting on hiding his true identity behind a pen name, which is why I can’t do much with this nugget of information right now. But I thought it might be useful to you.’ I suddenly ed the manuscript pages on the bed in Winter’s cabin and the typewriter on top of the wooden chest. Well, that explained it: he was probably writing a new book. Though what I didn’t understand was why he had such a cheap, basic cabin when he could probably have afforded much better travel arrangements, considering the success of his book. I thanked Jim, and promised to call again the following day, before hanging up, deep in thought; instead of answers, I just had more questions. Questions that had, however, piqued my journalistic curiosity.

***

I spent the rest of the day strolling around the decks of the Lady Glamis. I went for a swim in the swimming pool on the promenade deck, before exploring the boutiques and the other shops situated below the aft deck. In the bookshop, I bought a copy of the novel Clark Winter had published under a pseudonym. Everywhere I went, I kept my eyes peeled for the masked man — I was determined not to let him escape me so easily this time — but he didn’t make another appearance, and my afternoon ed uneventfully. The sea was rough and offered the same view as the day before, the fog still clinging to the surface of the water, like a ring around the Lady Glamis. The seagulls seemed to be the

only ones not the least bit perturbed by the bad weather. They flew in circles above the ship, only breaking from their formation to plunge into dramatic dives at the scraps of food that engers threw to them. Evening finally came, and Ben Collins arrived at my cabin to take me to dinner. I wore an elegantly-cut brown dress that went extraordinarily well with my brown hair, and I had slapped on a bit of make-up that really brought out the green of my eyes. ‘You look enchanting,’ Ben said approvingly, looking me up and down. He had swapped his steward uniform for a black blazer with a white dress shirt underneath. This dashing young man took me by the arm and led me to the parlour via the foredeck. He stopped for a moment and leant on the rail, looking out at the dark sea. ‘It’s a shame we can’t enjoy the sunset with all this rotten fog around,’ he said, ‘I believe there’s nothing more beautiful than watching the red sun slowly sinking into the sea, painting the waves and the sky with the most spectacular shades of red.’ I grinned. At this precise moment in time, the sea really wasn’t offering us much of a view. It looked dark and eerie, the fog drifting over it as if it was alive. Even the sky was obscured by the mist, and we could only guess at what stage of its nightly descent the sun might be. ‘This fog is something else,’ said Ben. ‘According to the weather station, it shouldn’t even be here.’ We turned away from the less than cheerful view and walked over to the superstructure that housed the parlour. The room we entered was decorated like a ceremonial hall in an old castle, with large gold-framed mirrors hanging on the walls which made the room seem even larger than it was. Between them stood polished suits of armour, and there were two rows of richly-decorated columns lining the left and right sides of the hall, which served as grandiose borders for the dance floor between them. The parlour was lit by majestic crystal chandeliers that gave off a warm, pleasant glow. Palisades and ruined stone walls had been used to create partitioned-off booths either side of the dance floor, and by the looks of it, they were nearly all occupied. On a stage at the front of the hall, a band was playing medieval music on period instruments. All the musicians were

dressed as jesters, and they played lively tunes to entice people to dance. Ben led me to one of the booths and pulled out a chair for me, ordering dinner when a waiter came over to us. ‘Don’t you find it strange that we met again here after our not-altogetherpleasant first meeting at the museum?’ said Ben in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I’m happy fate brought us together again,’ I replied with a smile, though a thought was nagging at me that I wanted to clear up. ‘Who was that attractive young woman you were with at the museum?’ Ben looked at me in surprise, before relaxing again and letting out a laugh. ‘That “attractive young woman” would be my cousin,’ he said. ‘We always spend time together whenever I’m in London, which is not often enough for my liking. She’s the only relative I have.’ Ben’s face was open and honest as he spoke, so I had no reason to think he was lying. He slowly reached his hand across the table and laid it on top of mine, giving it a gentle squeeze, and I savoured his tender yet firm touch...

***

Wrapped around each other on the dance floor, we swayed to the soft melodies the band played on their archaic instruments, and I felt myself getting lost in the moment, barely aware of my surroundings. The chandeliers bathed us in a muted, romantic light that glimmered in the sea of mirrors, giving the hall a magical feeling, but all of a sudden, the lights started flickering before going off completely, leaving us in total darkness. The music stopped and a worried murmur spread around the pitch-black room. Ben held me close to him, as I had already stumbled and nearly fallen. Little did we know that it was about to get a whole lot worse. A strong vibration suddenly shook the Lady Glamis, and the sound of a distant thud could be heard. I nearly toppled again, but Ben’s tight grip on me stopped me ending up on my backside. He turned to the guests and yelled so he could be heard over the anxious chatter in the room.

‘Stay in your seats,’ he called out. ‘Wait for the captain to make an announcement. I’m sure it’s just some minor mechanical fault. There’s no need to panic.’ His words did the trick, the crowd calming considerably, but the ship’s intercom remained silent. There wasn’t even static. ‘I need to go up to the bridge immediately,’ Ben whispered to me. ‘You should come with me.’ As I had no objection, Ben took me by the hand and guided me in the direction of the bridge. On the way, he issued instructions to the stewards and waiters still in the parlour, before continuing on towards the large double doors that led to the foredeck and the stairs beyond with me in tow. Before we could get to them, however, the doors were hurled open and they crashed against the columns on either side. An ice-cold, goosebump-inducing gust of wind followed, and with it came the fog, rolling in like thick smoke through the yawning doors and quickly sprawling around the parlour. Ben and I stopped in our tracks as though paralysed. The clammy, cold fog lapped over us, seeming to glow from within — a dim, ghostly glow that spelled bad news. ‘What’s going on?’ Ben whispered, but his words got lost in the clamour that suddenly sprang up, seemingly from the fog itself. It was the same gruff, boorish voices I had heard in the alleyways in Bordeaux. I could hear orders being barked, but whoever was issuing them was nowhere to be seen... ‘Do you hear the voices?’ I asked Ben with a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. He shook his head, but didn’t make any comment, instead yanking my arm as he set off through the wide-open doors. He stomped through the swirling fog and out onto the foredeck, breaking into a run towards the stairs, dragging me along with him. Our footsteps echoed metallically and hollowly on the iron steps as we scurried up them. Once we had got to the top, Ben unclasped the chain that stretched across the walkway to stop engers from wandering onto the bridge and made a beeline for the wheelhouse. I noticed that all of the ship’s lights had gone out — even the navigation light looked like it had switched off. When we got there, the wheelhouse was a flurry of activity. Men in crew uniforms desperately jabbed at consoles without power, seemingly unable to comprehend

— or perhaps refusing to believe — that all the ship’s systems were dead. As soon as the captain spotted us, he walked brusquely towards us. He had a brown, weathered face, iron-grey eyes, and short, greying hair that stuck out from underneath the rim of his captain’s hat. ‘We’re dead in the water,’ he ranted, as though accusing Ben for our misfortune. ‘All the systems are down.’ Only then did he seem to clock who he was talking to. ‘How are the engers?’ he asked quickly. ‘So far, we’ve managed to avoid mass panic,’ Ben replied, ‘but I don’t know how long they can take the uncertainty.’ Ben turned to me. ‘I need to go back down and reassure the other engers,’ he said. ‘I’d feel much happier if I knew you were up here where it’s safe.’ The captain continued muttering to himself and shot me a surly sidelong glance, before finally nodding his permission, albeit reluctantly, and abruptly turning away. As his eyes clapped on his clueless crew once more, he launched into a bad-tempered tirade, cursing the fog and the dead systems. Ben just shook his head in amusement, then planted a quick kiss on my lips and dashed out of the wheelhouse. I turned to the window in front of me and looked out, the feeling in the pit of my stomach still gnawing at me. From my high vantage point, the Lady Glamis was a ghostly sight: the whole deck had been swallowed by the fog, and only the odd ventilation shaft here and there and the fence around the tennis court could be seen poking up through the billowing soup of fog. I shook my head again in disbelief. What on earth was going on here? All of a sudden, I noticed a large silhouette closing in on us from the port side. ‘A ship!’ I yelled out, and pointed to the eerie shadow moving in the fog. All the crewmen turned their heads in the direction I was pointing, each of them knowing what it would mean if a ship came too close to the disabled Lady Glamis. Without navigation lights or a working radio, a collision was all but guaranteed... ‘I can’t see a ship anywhere!’ cried one of the men who was peering out into the night through a spyglass, but even as he said that, the silhouette had pulled up alongside the cruise ship. I could hardly believe my eyes when I realised the

shadow was the ghost pirate ship from before!

***

Moments later, there was a bang that shook every last rivet in the luxury liner. ‘Damn it all to hell!’ cursed the captain. ‘Now what?’ Was I the only one who could see the three-master with its tattered sails? Icecold chills shot up my spine, but I didn’t have time to muse over why the men in the wheelhouse couldn’t see the eerie ship, because I suddenly spotted a black figure on the foredeck, dashing through the fog towards the pirate ship before stopping at the rail. The stranger in black waved his arms in the air, gesturing wildly towards the other ship. ‘What is that man doing down there?’ the helmsman asked, nodding towards the stranger. I let out a sigh of relief. At least the figure in the cat costume seemed to be real. All of a sudden, the pirate ship drifted away from the Lady Glamis, the fog seemingly departing with it, torrenting over the rail and back into the dark sea from whence it came. Not a moment later, all the control consoles flickered back into life. ‘The power’s back!’ one of the crewmen cried, relief apparent in his voice. The lights were next to come back on, the ship’s spotlights flooding the foredeck with dazzlingly bright light, dragging the masked man in the black shirt out of the secrecy of darkness. The figure reacted immediately, ducking into the last bit of fog that still lingered on the deck, and escaping into cover somewhere between the anchoring gear and the bow. ‘Send some men down there immediately!’ the captain barked. ‘I want to speak with that man! He might be the one who sabotaged my ship and made her lose power!’

The captain then picked up the microphone linked to the ship’s intercom and addressed a few reassuring words to the engers. The Lady Glamis had once again come away unscathed.

***

After making sure none of the engers had been injured during the mysterious power outage, and that all the systems aboard the Lady Glamis were in working order, everyone on the ship relaxed again. The search for the man in black was less successful, however. The men the captain had sent to track him down couldn’t find hide nor hair of the mysterious stranger. The captain cursed and bellowed, but no amount of ranting could magically conjure up the saboteur. I had told him everything I knew about the stranger, as well as my belief that he probably belonged to a group of animal rights activists calling themselves the Cats of Freedom. The captain couldn’t fathom why an animal rights activist would be targeting the Lady Glamis — there wasn’t a single animal onboard. Ben stayed by my side the entire time. Eventually, there was nothing left for us to do, so Ben took my hand and led me across the bridge to the personnel quarters. He opened the door to his cabin and invited me into his sparse but functional room. He put on a CD and we danced for a little while, wrapped in each other’s arms: it didn’t matter to me if we were on a well-lit dance floor or in a small cabin — all I cared about was being near Ben. We went into the en-suite bathroom and took a shower together, scrubbing each other’s naked bodies and messing about to a soundtrack of giggling. Then Ben took me in his big, strong arms and carried me over to the bed, carefully placing me down on the soft mattress, before covering me with ionate kisses from head to toe. I closed my eyes as I sank into a blissful reverie...

***

Gwen believed she would go crazy in her hiding place. She thrashed her feet about to scare the rats away, but the disgusting rodents always came back, and it felt like in increasingly larger numbers. However, the sound of thundering footsteps approaching the hatch made Gwen forget about the rats for a moment as the hatch was then thrown open, and a wide, bright band of daylight fell into the dark storage chamber. Gwen had no time to hide. The light shone directly on her, revealing her to the men who had gathered around the open hatch, their grim expressions turning to lurid grins as they whooped with joy after clapping eyes on the beautiful Gwen. A muscle-bound pirate in red tattered breeches with nothing covering his chest jumped down to her, and threw her, kicking and screaming, over his shoulder, before climbing back up to the deck. It was like a nightmare for Gwen: hands groped her from every direction, and someone even pulled her hair, causing her to scream in pain, but out of nowhere, the boy with the monkey on his shoulder she’d seen earlier elbowed his way through the baying mob. ‘Leave her alone!’ he yelled at the brutish pirates, but no one heeded his words. In fact, quite the opposite — the boy was shoved aside, and his monkey’s tail was yanked, causing it to yelp. But the pirates all suddenly fell silent, and the rabble parted to allow a dark figure in a black cloak to approach Gwen. Captain Blane! Up close, the sinister captain appeared even more threatening and dangerous. There was a cold glare in his one good eye, and the hand that grasped the strange staff looked calloused and bony. The staff seemed to draw Gwen’s gaze as if by magic: it was at least a head taller than the captain and there were strange carvings on it — in fact, not a single inch of the rod had escaped the chisel of its quite obviously mad carver. Grimacing wooden daemons stared out at Gwen, and mysterious symbols, snakes, and other disgusting animals wrapped themselves around the staff as though they were really alive. Without warning, the captain extended a finger in Gwen’s direction, as she quivered in fear in front of him. ‘When yer done with ’er, throw ’er overboard,’ he said bluntly, and went to turn away, but found the young man with the monkey blocking his path. ‘Captain, you’re making a mistake!’ Gwen expected Captain Blane to rebuke the boy for his insolence, but instead he

made a lazy gesture for the boy to continue. ‘This lady must come from a good family,’ the young boy explained, avoiding making eye with Gwen. ‘If we take her as a hostage, we could get her family to pay a huge ransom to return her.’ ‘Aye, there be some merit in that, lad,’ the captain replied gruffly. ‘This ship weren’t exactly brimmin’ wi’ loot. Other’n some provisions, there were precious little worth takin’. All right, bring the young lass to the Foxstone.’ When Gwen saw the joyful, leering faces of the pirates on hearing this order, she felt queasy. ‘Not a single hair on her head can be harmed, mind!’ the boy piped up. ‘Her parents won’t cough up a single shilling if she’s not returned to them unharmed.’ ‘So be it!’ Captain Blane bellowed. ‘Lock ’er up, an’ don’t any of ye scurvy dogs dare touch ’er!’ He finally turned and disappeared into the smoke rising from the Sea Queen’s deck, which floated out over the sea and mingled with the ghostly fog. Gwen could hardly believe her luck. Just moments earlier, she had thought her life was about to end, but now her situation didn’t seem quite so hopeless. The man who had carried Gwen out of the storage chamber grabbed her arm and yanked her along with him. As he ed the boy with the monkey, he stopped. ‘Count yerself lucky, Jonas lad, that the cap’n thinks so ’ighly of ye,’ he hissed furiously. ‘Else we woulda thrown ye overboards an’ fed ye to the sharks!’ Jonas said nothing, but he stayed close to Gwen, following the pirate back to the Foxstone, and not taking his eyes off him for a second as he led Gwen to a room in the aftercastle and locked her in. Gwen nervously looked around her small, stuffy prison cell which seemed to contain nothing but a hard wooden bed, though she was relieved to see there was at least a small window in here. It was only about as wide as her hand, but it was more than enough for her. She climbed onto the wooden bed and looked out of the tiny window, but what she saw sent shivers down her spine. The Sea Queen was completely destroyed, with several fires burning here and there, and she thought of all the people and her poor dove that probably hadn’t survived the blaze, only souring her mood still further.

Gwen’s attention was suddenly drawn to Captain Blane: he was standing in the middle of the wrecked deck of the Sea Queen with his arms aloft, both hands wrapped around the odd staff. He twirled it above his head and chanted some strange words. Gwen couldn’t believe her eyes. The fog that had been drifting aimlessly made a sudden course change towards the sinister captain, circling him like a tornado before seeming to be sucked into the staff itself. All of a sudden, the fog was no longer there, and only the smoke from the fire hung in the air. So that’s Captain Blane’s secret, thought Gwen with a shudder. He can control the fog with his magic staff. No wonder no one ever found his hideout — he uses the ghost fog to hide his ship! Gwen sat down on the wooden bed and curled up into a ball, feeling resigned. She mused bitterly that this nugget of information had come too late to be of any use to her. After a while, her eyes shut themselves, and as she drifted off to sleep, she thought she could hear the frenzied flapping of a dove’s wings, but she was too exhausted to open her eyes to see where it was coming from, so she told herself she had dreamt it.

***

Gwen was startled out of her uneasy slumber: someone was at the door to her cell. She was immediately wide awake, her fear returning, but relief washed over her when she saw it was only Jonas entering the room. He had brought bread and a jug of water, which he set down on the wooden bed next to Gwen. For a moment, the two youngsters stared at each other in silence. Gwen guessed that Jonas was around her age — much too young for the unforgiving life at sea. ‘Thanks for sticking up for me,’ said Gwen, her voice breaking. She sensed that Jonas was different from the other loathsome, amoral pirates, and she ired the courage he had mustered up to stand up to his captain. ‘Don’t mention it,’ Jonas replied shyly. ‘It’s not always easy dealing with pirates, but I’ve done it before to save other people’s lives.’

Gwen looked at him in astonishment. ‘Why did you Captain Blane and his men if you don’t agree with their cruelty?’ ‘I didn’t them,’ Jonas replied. ‘Captain Blane took me in when I was thirteen. He says he found me on a sinking ship in the middle of the ocean, and I was the only survivor. Captain Blane raised me like a son. I’m the only one who’s allowed to contradict him.’ Gwen looked at the young man, visibly impressed, and she couldn’t deny that she had taken a liking to him. Despite the dire situation she found herself in, she was suddenly having feelings for him. ‘Why didn’t you ever just leave the pirate ship?’ she asked. ‘An opportunity must have presented itself at least once.’ Jonas looked at her with the deep pools that were his eyes. ‘If I leave the Foxstone, there won’t be anyone here who will speak up for the poor souls the pirates capture,’ he said firmly. Gwen looked at Jonas, overwhelmed by his courage, and felt herself falling desperately in love with the young man. Without giving it too much thought, she leant across and planted a kiss on his lips. ‘You are a noble knight indeed,’ she whispered. He looked at her in silence for a moment, then abruptly got to his feet. ‘I have to go,’ he said apologetically. ‘It’ll raise suspicion if I stay in here too long. I’ll do everything I can to ensure you return safely to your parents in England.’ A shadow fell across Gwen’s eyes. ‘My parents are dead,’ she said quietly. Jonas gently stroked her hair. ‘I’d keep that to yourself,’ he advised. ‘It’ll be easier if Captain Blane believes you have parents he can extort.’ With that, he turned away, but Gwen tugged at his arm and kept him from

leaving. ‘Captain Blane has a staff that can do magic,’ she said. ‘What’s the story there?’ ‘Strange powers reside in that staff,’ Jonas said in a low voice. ‘Captain Blane stole it a long time ago from a wizard with black skin when he and his men sailed around the coast of Africa. But the wizard cursed Captain Blane and ever since, his life has been entwined with the fate of the staff. If he loses it, his soul will be lost with it. That’s his punishment for thieving that staff: he can never be separated from it.’ Gwen shuddered, goosebumps breaking out all down her back. ‘A chilling tale indeed,’ she said. ‘It’s no tale,’ replied Jonas. He gave Gwen one last tender look before hesitantly leaving her cell. After the door closed behind him, Gwen stared at the worn wood where he had just been standing seconds before. How nice it would be to have Jonas as a husband! A life by his side would be a life worth living. Gwen pushed the thought out of her head, and decided it was high time she finally did something! But first, she wanted to find out for sure what had happened to her dove, as she vaguely recalled hearing the beating of wings as she had drifted off to sleep. She pressed herself against the window and looked out. The Foxstone was at high sea, and it must have been early evening as the pale sun was already low on the horizon. The young woman pursed her lips and let out a melodious whistle. Then she waited for some response, her heart beating faster, her fear that her poor dove could really have perished in her cabin on the Sea Queen crystallising as the silence lengthened. But suddenly, there was a loud beating of wings nearby, and seconds later a snow-white dove landed on the narrow window ledge. Gwen’s heart did a somersault. She carefully took the dove in her hands and placed it on the wooden bed, staring thoughtfully at the snow-white bird, as a plan began to take shape in her mind.

***

Gwen had hoped Jonas would be standing guard in front of her cell, as it would have made everything a lot easier, but when her cries and banging against the door finally drew someone’s attention, it was the muscle-bound pirate who had plucked her out of her hiding place who came into the room. She immediately sensed she was in trouble. ‘’Ello, poppet,’ said the pirate, with a wide grin plastered across his face as he lumbered threateningly towards the young woman. ‘Be ye longin’ for my touch?’ He tried to grab Gwen, but fortunately for her, Jonas had left the water jug in her cell, which she produced from behind her back and raised high in the air before crashing it down on the pirate’s head with a satisfying crunch. For one long, fearful moment, the man stood stock-still, seemingly not reacting to the blow, but thankfully, his eyes finally rolled back into his head and he crumpled to the ground. Gwen quickly tore the hem of her tattered dress into strips and used them to tie the pirate up, stuffing an old rag into his mouth that she had found under the wooden bed when she had been looking for somewhere to hide her dove. She retrieved the white bird from its hiding place and crept out of the cell. She found herself in a dark hall which she tiptoed across, taking care to make as little noise as possible. Voices coming from the other end of the hall suddenly reached Gwen’s ears, her heart nearly stopping at the sound of them, but she quietly opened the door nearest to her and slipped into the room beyond. Breathing heavily, she kept her back against the door as she scanned the dark room she was in. It appeared to be a small kitchen from what she could tell, the layer of dust over everything and the dangling cobwebs on the ceiling suggesting that the room wasn’t one that was used anymore. Gwen was in luck, however. She found a pile of clothes in one corner of the room, and despite all of them being somewhat ripped and smelling rather musty, she didn’t hesitate to tear off her tattered dress so she could slip into a pair of tros and an old shirt instead. She hid her long hair under a headscarf and felt certain that she wouldn’t be immediately recognised as a woman in this new get-up. Content with her finds, she went back over to the door and listened at it, holding the dove against her chest like it was a precious treasure. The footsteps in the

corridor had faded away, so Gwen pushed open the door and slipped out of the room. She cautiously crept through the hallways, trying to get her bearings. Her whole body was shaking, and she felt incredibly weak, but she pursed her lips and continued on. She finally reached the door to the map room, stopping and pressing her ear up against it to listen inside, but no one seemed to be in there. She quickly slipped into the room and looked around it with bated breath. In front of her, there was a large table covered with sea charts and haphazardly placed nautical devices. Gwen went over to it and studied the map, having to squint in the inadequate light the windows let in. When her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw that the Foxstone’s course was charted on the map. Gwen went over to the small desk under the window and took some paper, a quill, and some ink from it, using them to write down the course’s coordinates. She waited for the ink to dry, then folded the paper and tied it to her dove’s leg. Suddenly, she froze: she had seen something moving in a dark corner of the room. A pirate’s been in here the whole time! thought Gwen, panicking. It’s all over! A shadow leapt out of the corner towards her and landed right in front of her feet. She struggled to suppress a scream at the flurry of movement, but when she saw it was just Jonas’s monkey, relief washed over her, and she petted the animal’s head. Her mind turned to her rescuer: she still hoped she could find him and convince him to leave with her, because once her work here was done, the Foxstone’s days were numbered. Gwen walked over to the open window with the dove in her hands, giving it a kiss on the head. ‘Be safe, my little friend,’ she whispered, releasing the bird. Beating its wings in its newfound freedom, the white dove flapped away, disappearing from view. Gwen took a deep breath because she knew she was about to embark on the most difficult part of her plan: finding Jonas before the Royal Navy showed up. She refused to leave the ship without Jonas by her side.

***

Most of the pirates spent all night on the deck of the Foxstone. Around the main mast, they had lined up an obscene number of wine barrels that they had plundered from the Sea Queen, and were having a rather raucous drinking session. Gwen looked on from the shadows, scanning the faces of the merry drinkers, but Jonas was not among them. Then she suddenly ed where she had seen the young man for the first time and peered up at the sails. Right at the top where they met the yardarm, near the crow’s nest, she finally found who she was looking for. Jonas was staring dreamily out into the fog that once again surrounded the ship, the young man seemingly lost in his thoughts. Is he thinking of me? Gwen asked herself and felt a warm feeling wash over her. You’ve fallen in love with Jonas, she thought with an inward sigh. You really couldn’t have picked a worse time for romance... Just thinking about what she was about to do next terrified Gwen, but after geeing herself up, she stepped out of the shadows and onto the deck. Her goal was to get over to Jonas without being noticed, and from there, make it to the small rowboat on the bow of the ship with him in tow. If they were quiet enough, they could lower it into the water without the drunk pirates noticing. Gwen sneaked past the first pirate without him looking up and was delighted that none of the revellers seemed to be paying her any attention. A man with an ugly disfiguring scar heaved an empty wine barrel into the air to shake the last drop out of it and down his gullet, before hurling it overboard to the sound of braying laughter and splashing as it hit the dark water below. As Gwen went to walk past him, he suddenly grabbed her by the collar. ‘Oi, ye little swab! Fetch me a new barrel!’ he barked at her. Gwen decided it was probably best to go along with it rather than saying anything that might provoke a fight, just nodding and walking over to the piledup barrels where another group of pirates were sitting and drinking. A chill ran up her spine when she saw Captain Blane seated among the men there; he was telling a hair-raising story that the rest of them were listening to keenly — probably more out of fear of the sinister captain than genuine interest. Gwen bent down to pick up one of the barrels, but it was too heavy for her, making the men around her guffaw as they watched her struggle to lift it. She cursed inwardly, but it was about to get a lot worse, because a dark figure suddenly appeared in front of her, placing a foot on the barrel she was trying to move. Gwen thought her legs might give way at any moment, for before her stood

Captain Blane, ing himself with his ghostly staff, and eyeing her suspiciously. ‘Who be ye?’ he rasped. ‘I know me crew an’ I ain’t ne’er seen ye on me ship afore!’ Gwen knew her number was up: Captain Blane had caught her — but she suddenly ed what Jonas had told her about his strange staff. With a wild, desperate scream, she threw herself at him, ripping the staff out of the surprised captain’s hand. The violent motion caused her headscarf to slide off, and her curly blonde hair cascaded down to her shoulders, but she paid it no attention, instead jumping back a step with the staff clasped tightly in her hand. ‘Grab ’er, ye dogs!’ screamed Captain Blane with a hint of desperation in his voice. A man with a cutlass lunged at her, but he was drunk and not totally thinking straight. With a pronounced stagger, he heaved the weapon above his head and swung it down at Gwen. She managed to dodge out of the way just in time, the blade striking the mystical staff and breaking it just above Gwen’s hand, leaving her holding only a small piece of it. She stared at it as she tried to process what had just happened, and to her, it looked like an ugly, hefty statuette with the head of a demon. The pirate drew his sword back to strike again but by that time, Gwen had regained her composure and darted over to the rail. She knew she would be done for if the pirates got their hands on her, as not even Jonas would be able to save her this time. Before any of the drunken pirates could stop her, she had climbed up onto the rail and swivelled around to look up at the sails with her back to the sea. She could see Jonas looking down at her — he was waving and yelling something she couldn’t quite make out. ‘Jonas! Get to safety!’ she yelled back desperately. ‘This ship is doomed!’ A pirate lunged at her, but Gwen simply stepped backwards off the rail and let herself fall overboard, escaping his outstretched hands at the last moment. The cold, dark water gushed over her head as she plunged below the waves. When she surfaced again, she frantically started swimming, all the while staring up at the ship, waiting to see if Jonas would follow her into the water. Instead she saw the gaunt, shadowy figure of Captain Blane appear at the rail, with Jonas next to him who was being wrestled to the deck by a handful of men. Captain Blane

raised his mystical staff above his head threateningly. ‘Ye blistering bilge rats have damaged me staff!’ he screamed furiously. ‘We all be cursed now!’ The ship sailed away at a vast rate of knots, disappearing into the fog, and in that moment, Gwen knew she would never see Jonas again. Her heart felt like it was in a vice, and tears welled up in her eyes by the gallon. She would have loved nothing more than to give herself to the waves and sink to the bottom of the sea... She suddenly hit something hard that was floating in the dark water, and she instinctively clung onto it. It was the empty wine barrel the drunken pirate had thrown overboard. Exhausted and letting the waves bob her up and down, Gwen rested her head on the rough wood and sobbed. She didn’t even notice that she was still holding the cut-off piece of the captain’s mystical staff in her hand.

***

‘Jess! Jess, wake up!’ The voice reached my ears as though through cotton wool, and my consciousness slowly surfaced from the dark depths it had been submerged in. Then somebody kissed me and I was suddenly wide awake. ‘Ben!’ I said in confusion and sat up in bed. Only then did I notice that I had my arms wrapped tightly around Ben’s muscular upper body like I was lost at sea and clinging to him for dear life. ‘Sorry...’ I stammered, letting go of him, but he just grinned at me, visibly amused. ‘That must have been a very intense dream you were having,’ he remarked flippantly, but then his brow furrowed and he fixed me with a serious look. ‘You called out a name in your sleep,’ he said. ‘But it wasn’t mine — it was

some guy named Jonas. When I meet him, I’ll have to have a little word with him.’ I turned away from Ben, pushing a strand of hair out of my face. ‘It was just a dream,’ I assured him. ‘I don’t know anyone called Jonas...’ A contented grin appeared on Ben’s face at this news, but his expression changed moments later when someone knocked frantically on the door. ‘Ben, you have to get up now!’ a voice called out from behind the locked door. ‘A enger went overboard in the night. Her name’s Gracie Lewis!’ I couldn’t believe my ears. In an instant, Ben was out of bed and on his feet. ‘I’ll be right there!’ he yelled, disappearing into the bathroom.

***

Clark Winter’s nerves were totally shredded, to the point that he could barely string a sentence together. He had knocked on Gracie’s door that morning so they could go down to breakfast together, but had received no answer. As he was already worried about Gracie’s health, he had used his key to enter her cabin, but on opening the door, he found that the cabin was empty. He had then asked for the young actress to be paged via the intercom, but that had yielded no response either. A search party made up of a number of stewards had searched each of the decks to find Gracie Lewis, but there seemed to be no trace of her and everyone had arrived at the conclusion that she had fallen overboard during the power outage. By this time, the Lady Glamis had turned about and was retracing its course, with motorboats being sent on ahead to search for her, but in the thick fog that lingered that morning, there was little chance of finding a lone woman floating on the open sea. The captain had attempted to call in reinforcements by radio, but the fog seemed to have disabled all means of communication, which I confirmed when I tried to call Jim at the London City Observer, and all I could hear was crackling and static on the line.

I shuddered. There were so many questions that I didn’t have the answers to, but I knew one thing for sure: something strange was going on here! I seemed to be the only one who had noticed, though. Since Ben was busy with the search for Gracie Lewis and I had nothing better to do, I retreated to my cabin and settled down to read Clark Winter’s novel. The very first paragraph came as a shock: the heroine from sixteenth century England was called Gwen Stratford, just like the young lady from my nightmares! Over the next hour, I devoured the book, thumbing past the pages where the author took far too much time describing the scenery because I was only interested in the story of Gwen Stratford. I learned that Gwen was the daughter of an English captain who had died in a storm when she was only eighteen years old. After that, she had lived with her younger brother and no one else, as her mother had died shortly after the birth of her son. It seemed that Gwen and her brother had experienced hardships after their father’s death, because although he had left them a small house on the outskirts of London as well as some savings, it was difficult for an unmarried young woman to be accepted as the head of her household by society at large. Gwen had to fight tooth and nail for her independence, making a number of enemies along the way who believed the young lady’s unconventional lifestyle was an affront to common decency, but other than a few quarrels that Gwen settled expertly, everything had gone well for the brother and sister for the next few years. That is, until Gwen’s brother killed the son of a respected nobleman in an illegal duel. Gwen’s brother was subsequently arrested and sent to prison, beginning a new chapter in the life of twenty-one-year-old Gwen. Talk of her assertiveness and individuality had reached as far as Buckingham Palace, catching the attention of Queen Elizabeth herself, and the Crown had decided to put the young lady’s resourcefulness to good use. Queen Elizabeth gave Gwen a choice: either she would do the Crown’s bidding, or she would have a front-row seat to her brother’s execution. From that moment on, Gwen had worked clandestinely for the State, and her spymasters hadn’t shied away from sending the stubborn young woman on dangerous and often futile missions... I closed the book and stared out of the porthole at the fog. So Gwen had taken the journey on the Sea Queen for the Crown? And her mission had been to find out the pirate captain’s secret and deliver him and his crew to the Royal Navy. She seemed to have succeeded in that task — even if I didn’t yet know whether Gwen had survived her adventure. How long could someone survive drifting at sea with nothing but an empty wine barrel to cling onto? I sighed and shook my head, confusion reigning supreme in there. How was it possible that my nightmares were so interlinked with the story Clark Winter had written?

Suddenly, there was a knock at my door. I got up and went over to it, but when I opened it, the corridor was empty. I was about to go back in, shaking my head at being disturbed unnecessarily, when a dark figure lumbered out from behind a pillar, and a hand was pressed against my mouth. I was dragged back into the cabin, and with fear coursing through my veins, I stared over my shoulder at the masked stranger who closed the door behind him without taking his hand off my mouth.

***

It was the same man in the Cats of Freedom outfit I had seen before. He deposited me into a chair, and gestured for me to stay calm, before removing his hand from my mouth and pulling the mask off his head. A prominent nose on a distinctive face topped with short brown hair appeared out from under it. ‘Norman Asgard!’ I was astonished to see the young man I had met in the café in Bordeaux — Gracie’s secret lover — standing in front of me. ‘Don’t give me away,’ Norman pleaded in a low voice. ‘No one knows I’m on board, not even Gracie.’ ‘You... You’re a stowaway,’ I said, realising what he meant. Norman nodded. ‘I had no other choice,’ he explained. ‘Captain Blane wanted it this way.’ I looked at him, my eyes wide as saucers. The situation on board this cruise ship seemed to be getting more and more complicated by the second. Then it occurred to me that it must have been Norman who had gestured wildly at the ghost ship from the rail the night before, causing it to leave and for the ghostly fog to disappear for a while — which suggested he was able to see the ghostly pirate ship too. What was Norman Asgard’s role in this unfathomable game? ‘You know about Captain Blane?’ I asked him in order to confirm my suspicions. Norman nodded. ‘I’ve heard his voice in my head ever since I was a child,’ he

explained as though it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘In the beginning, I tried to tell my parents about this disembodied voice, but when I saw they were starting to worry that there might be something wrong with me, I stopped and kept what he said to myself. But I can tell you,’ he continued, giving me an earnest look. ‘After all, you can see the ghost ship too, and you know who Captain Blane is.’ I chose not to ask how he knew this, fearing he might tell me the same thing Aunt Bell had repeated to me over the years about how I have ‘supernatural abilities’ — or at least, how I’m supposedly more receptive to the paranormal than the average person. ‘Why would Captain Blane want you to smuggle yourself on board?’ I asked. Norman was a talented climber, I had no doubt of that. Plus, if he had to get off the ship unnoticed at every harbour in order to meet Gracie on her day trips on land, the fog would most certainly have provided enough cover to conceal him from view. ‘The pirates want Gracie,’ Norman said, sounding less than happy about it. ‘Captain Blane says that Gracie is a direct descendant of Gwen Stratford, the girl who sold the pirates out and is responsible for the Royal Navy sinking the Foxstone. Ever since, the pirates have roamed the seas as restless ghosts. They are the cursed souls of the seven seas, and they finally want to be at peace, but they can’t do that until Gracie is on their ship.’ I ed Gracie telling me it had been Norman’s idea to go on a cruise. He had been plotting this all along. ‘You’re planning on giving up your girlfriend to the ghost pirates?’ I asked in disbelief. ‘I love Gracie,’ he replied firmly, ‘but if I don’t deliver her to the Foxstone, Captain Blane will take his revenge on innocent people, and that must be avoided at all costs. I’ll accompany Gracie on board, of course, to make sure the ghost pirates don’t harm her in any way.’ My head was spinning. ‘Gracie’s gone though,’ I said. ‘She probably fell overboard when the ghost ship knocked out the power on the Lady Glamis.’

Norman just shook his head decisively. ‘Gracie is still on board this ship,’ he said, fully convinced of what he was saying. ‘If she had gone overboard, the ghost pirates would have realised. After all, the sea is their domain.’ He shook his head again, this time in resignation. ‘I shouldn’t have let Gracie out of my sight. Captain Blane told me that so many times. But last night, she just suddenly disappeared from her cabin, and when the pirates showed up, I had to tell them I couldn’t find Gracie.’ He looked at me wide-eyed. ‘Captain Blane was absolutely furious. He sent his men out into the fog to attack the Lady Glamis, even wanting to destroy the ship when he couldn’t find Gracie.’ He rubbed his eyes and I could see his expression was a desperate one. ‘I only just managed to stop Captain Blane from attacking innocent engers. He gave me one more day to find her, but Gracie’s just vanished, and soon night will fall and the pirates will be back. This time, I won’t be able to keep Captain Blane from exacting his revenge on this ship.’ He looked at me pleadingly. ‘You must help me with my search. Otherwise, a lot of innocent people will die.’ Norman had spoken with such urgency that I didn’t doubt his words for even a moment, and as the previous night had shown exactly what Captain Blane was capable of... I stood up with purpose. ‘If Gracie is still onboard the Lady Glamis like you claim, we’ll find her,’ I said, believing every word as I already had my suspicions where she might be. I gestured to Norman’s black clothing and said to him: ‘But first, you need to take that off. You won’t get two metres in that outfit. They think you’re a saboteur, and they’re looking high and low for you.’ Norman did what I said and took off the shirt, revealing normal streetwear underneath. ‘Don’t you belong to that group then?’ I asked, pointing to the Cats of Freedom shirt. Norman shook his head. ‘I left,’ he said. ‘Those guys were too crazy, and their moral com was out of

whack. They were more than willing to sacrifice human lives if it meant protecting animals. I just kept the shirt so I could sneak around the Lady Glamis unnoticed.’ ‘Do you know who the masterminds behind the Cats of Freedom are?’ I asked. Norman nodded. ‘Will you tell me their names?’ ‘Only if we find Gracie and survive this cruise,’ Norman said. I briefly thought about Martin T. Stone and how he would no doubt be overjoyed if I could get him that information, then took Norman’s hand and dragged him out of the cabin with me. ‘We’ll go see Ben Collins,’ I said. ‘I’ll need the help of a crew member for what I have in mind.’

***

Ben knocked on Clark Winter’s cabin door while Norman and I lingered in the background. I had outlined my suspicions to Ben and told him the truth about Norman, getting him to agree not to take any action against the stowaway until after this was all settled. After everything Norman Asgard had learned about Gracie, it seemed even odder that Clark Winter had written a book about Gwen Stratford. Given her unusual occupation, there surely couldn’t have been any historical record of this unique young lady from the sixteenth century that Clark Winter would have had access to in order to research his book. He must have got his information from a different source. The cabin door opened a crack, and the suspicious face of Clark Winter appeared in the gap. ‘I’d like to look around your cabin,’ Ben requested politely.

Clark Winter raised his eyebrows. ‘Leave me alone,’ he replied crankily. ‘I do not wish to be disturbed.’ Ben unceremoniously pushed the door wide, causing Gracie’s mentor to stumble backwards into his room. He was about to complain loudly about the chief steward’s behaviour, but Ben didn’t give him the chance. ‘The captain has given me carte blanche in the search for Gracie Lewis,’ he announced, pushing past him into the cabin with me and Norman hot on his heels. But the room looked the same as the first time I had seen it, with loose manuscript pages piled up on the bed and a small travel typewriter sitting on top of a wooden chest. It seemed there was no doubt about it now: Clark Winter was writing a new book, likely a continuation of his first novel. Ben took a quick look around the small cabin, opening the closet, and looking under the bed, before pointing to the chest. ‘Please open the chest,’ he said. Clark Winter suddenly broke out in a sweat. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and looked at us from one to the other. ‘You... You don’t think I...?’ But Ben had already pushed aside the typewriter and yanked open the chest before Clark Winter could stop him. We gasped in shock as there, curled up in the wooden trunk, was Gracie Lewis!

***

She was wearing her red dress and appeared to be sleeping peacefully. Clark Winter had placed pillows in the chest for her and punched holes in the lid so she could breathe. Next to the young actress’s head, I found a small dictation machine. It was of a modern design that automatically turned on when someone

began speaking into it. Clark Winter suddenly bolted, but he didn’t get more than a few steps before Norman Asgard punched him squarely in the jaw, sending him reeling onto his bed, where he lay moaning. Ben looked Gracie over and determined she hadn’t been harmed. ‘She’s just sleeping,’ he deduced. ‘He must have given her a sleeping pill.’ I bent over and picked up the dictation machine. After rewinding the tape a little way, I played it back. ‘...I don’t know how many hours I’ve been lost at sea, floating on this barrel.’ It was Gracie’s voice on the tape, all right. She spoke slowly, her words slurred, as though she was dreaming what she was recounting. ‘I had given up on living when a Royal Navy vessel fished me out of the water. My little dove had reached the iral like I had intended, and set him on Captain Blane’s trail. However, I only had my lucky stars to thank for them finding me in that vast ocean. They brought me to a rearguard ship that was making preparations to cut off the pirates’ route to land, so they couldn’t escape that way. I asked the iral to show mercy on the pirates, especially on a young pirate named Jonas, but he wouldn’t listen to me. His mind was only on the battle. I was in no doubt that he would decimate the pirates’ ship with his superior numbers and firepower. Hours later, I could hear cannons thundering in the distance. The battle dragged on and on, and when the iral returned after nightfall, he had lost two ships. “The Foxstone is sunk,” he declared proudly as he approached. “None of the pirates survived!” His words cut through my heart like a knife. Jonas, the only man I had ever loved, was dead...’ The recording stopped. I chucked the dictation machine to Winter. ‘So that’s how you wrote your book,’ I concluded soberly. Winter’s shoulders drooped and he ran his hand through his sweaty hair. ‘I always wanted to be a successful author,’ he said in a breaking voice. ‘But I was told I lacked the necessary imagination for it, that all my stories were dull and boring. And then one night, I heard Gracie talking in her sleep. It was an extraordinary tale she was recounting, about a young lady from the sixteenth

century called Gwen Stratford, but when Gracie awoke in the morning, she couldn’t any of it. She had forgotten the whole thing.’ Clark Winter shook his head in disbelief. ‘What a waste, I thought, so I placed a recorder near her without her noticing, so I could record what she was saying every night. Within a few weeks, I had gathered enough material to write a whole book on Gwen Stratford. I only needed to fill out the text a little, add some dialogue, so on and so forth... When the publisher read the finished manuscript, he was ecstatic and promised to get the book into print as quickly as possible. But I didn’t want Gracie finding out, so I insisted on publishing it under a pen name.’ Winter looked at me sadly. ‘I thought I had cleared the final hurdle, that there was now nothing standing in my way and I could embark on a career as a successful author — but I was wrong,’ He disdainfully gestured to Norman Asgard with a nod. ‘Gracie suddenly started spending her nights with him.’ He sighed and shrugged in resignation. ‘So I forbade Gracie from seeing Norman, and my hopes were renewed when she said she wanted to go on a cruise. Now I would have Gracie’s dreams all to myself. I gave her sleeping pills regularly so that she would dream lots and lots and give me plenty of material for a new novel...’ Clark Winter paused, and I looked down at him in utter disbelief. He had completely abused the trust Gracie had put in him by secretly giving her sleeping pills. No wonder Gracie had looked so exhausted all the time and had nearly fallen overboard that one time. ‘Gracie was very stubborn,’ continued Clark Winter in a voice that seemed devoid of any emotion. ‘Instead of sleeping, she’d get up and walk the decks at night, and every time we docked, she would go on land to wander around the port towns. I lost patience with her. Last night, I gave Gracie a stronger sleeping pill and brought her to my cabin to lock her in the chest.’ Clark Winter’s gaunt face twitched nervously. ‘I... I would have let Gracie go again, of course,’ he stammered. ‘I just wanted enough material for a new novel, that’s all...’ ‘There’s a name for what you’ve done: abduction!’ Ben said coldly. ‘We’ll hand you over to the police when we dock at the next harbour.

He turned to me and asked me to fetch the ship’s doctor. With Norman’s help, he carefully lifted Gracie out of the chest and laid her on the bed, Clark Winter moving out of the way so they could do so. I noticed that Gracie’s fist was closed around something, so I prised open her fingers, and the strange statuette she had shown me before fell to the ground. Almost without thinking, I picked it up and took a look at the ugly thing, feeling the same uncomfortable tingling from it that I had felt the first time. I was sure of it now: it was a piece of Captain Blane’s magic staff! The spot where the pirate had sliced it off with his sword was still clearly visible. It occurred to me that my dreams had only begun after I had touched the statuette for the first time, which suggested this bizarre thing was probably the cause of Gracie’s strange dreams too. Captain Blane’s words echoed in my head: Ye blistering bilge rats have damaged me staff! We all be cursed now! The light flickered and we were suddenly in the dark. ‘The pirates are coming,’ whispered Norman, who was crouching down next to the bed, gently stroking Gracie’s hair. ‘But I won’t give them Gracie...’

***

The ghost ship eerily glided up to the Lady Glamis, which was now drifting on the night-painted sea without lights or engines. Norman and I had gone out to the foredeck, and we stood at the rail, engulfed in fog. An uneasy feeling gripped me when I spied the black silhouette of the pirate ship, coarse voices and muffled thudding wafting across to us on the breeze. I pressed the statuette into Norman’s hand. ‘We must try to break the pirates’ curse,’ I said, my voice shaking. ‘And this statuette is the key. It’s a piece of Captain Blane’s magic staff that is inextricably entwined with his own fate.’ A loud thud shook the Lady Glamis as the ghost ship came up alongside the luxury liner. Norman took a decisive step forward and held up the statuette.

‘I won’t give you Gracie, Captain Blane!’ he yelled into the fog. ‘I love her and I won’t let you take revenge on an innocent person. But I do have something that can finally give you and your men peace. You just have to return it to where it belongs: your staff!’ And with that, he threw the statuette at the ghost ship. For a moment, there was only an eerie silence. I feared my plan hadn’t worked and the ghost pirates were about to descend on the Lady Glamis, but suddenly, the Foxstone drifted away from the luxury liner and headed back out into the open sea. The fog slowly dissipated, and before we knew it, it was all over. The pirate ship had disappeared without a trace, and the wall of mist was replaced by a star-filled sky. I let out a deep breath, letting relief wash over me. The ghost pirates were no more! Now I can finally begin my real holiday, I thought to myself, cuddling up to Ben, my head on his chest. I knew Ben was rarely in London and that our relationship was likely to be a brief fling at best, but I wasn’t worried about that right at this moment. Even Gracie — who had awoken from her deep sleep — came out on deck, walking unsteadily and ed by the ship’s doctor. When she clapped eyes on Norman, she threw herself into his arms. ‘What happened?’ she asked in confusion. ‘That’s a long and complicated story,’ Norman replied with a grin. ‘And when I’m absolutely certain Clark Winter is out of earshot, I’ll tell you all about it.’

***

It was sunny the next day, without a cloud in the sky. I phoned Jim at the London City Observer and gave him the names of the people behind the Cats of Freedom, including those responsible for the attack at the museum. Jim was taken aback when I told him I’d fax over an article on Clark Winter that Stone hadn’t requested. Clark Winter was handed over to the police at the next port. However, the stowaway, Norman Asgard, was allowed to stay on the cruise ship without any legal repercussions. Gracie and I had put in a good word with the captain, who eventually gave in and graciously allowed him to remain onboard

for the rest of the trip. Speculation was rife among the engers about the strange incidents that had befallen the cruise ship over the last few days, but no one other than Norman, Gracie, and myself knew the whole truth, and that was fine by us.

THE END

Ghost Island

A biting wind blew over the breakwater that enclosed the small, bleak harbour, and swept through my hair. The evening sun had already sunk below the horizon and dusk had swallowed the Hebrides, a large group of islands on the west side of Scotland. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, dyeing the stormy sea an inky black, and huge raindrops hammered against my face. The wind carried with it the smell of nearby fish markets, reeking of seaweed, mussels, and salt. Feeling a mite chilly, I crossed my arms in front of my chest and stared out at the tempestuous sea: the small boats in the harbour were being tossed back and forth by the crashing waves, and I could hear the lost-sounding clanging of a buoy in the distance. I let my gaze wander around the small ferry terminal, watching the lights bob up and down, which in turn cast bizarre shadows on the white hull of the ferry that had brought us to the island of Barra just half an hour before and had remained moored up at the dock since, completely unmanned, its job done for the day. It wouldn’t go back out on the water until the following morning. I sighed, raising my gaze to look out at the smaller islands south of Barra rising out of the sea and dotting the horizon like black lumps, with only the blinking of lighthouses to indicate they were in fact islands and not just really tall waves. A gust of wind buffeted me and made my rain jacket billow, and I turned my back to shield myself from the wind, before peering up the cobblestoned street in front of me, at the mouth of which we had parked our rental car — a red Mini Cooper. The small, cramped car had been waiting for Jim Brodie and me on our arrival at Glasgow Airport, and my back was still hurting from its uncomfortably hard seats — though I’d got off lightly compared to Jim, whose long legs ensured he was constantly banging his knees on things, and sometimes even his head due to his height. We had already racked up quite a number of miles in the Mini Cooper just to reach the west coast of Scotland, before jumping on a ferry to get to where we were now in Barra’s harbour. Our journey wasn’t over yet, however: our final destination was one of the smaller islands to the south called Ogg, but because the ferry to Barra had been a good hour late and the onward ferry hadn’t waited for its arrival, the next ferry to Ogg — which we could only catch from the main island of Barra — wasn’t for another three days; a situation that was as

incomprehensible as it was frustrating! I sighed again and looked for Jim. After we had driven off the ferry in our rental and found out we wouldn’t be getting to Ogg today, he had stomped over to the crooked houses on the other side of the street, trying to find another way for us to get to the small island. ‘Next time, I’ll insist we take care of the travel arrangements ourselves,’ he had shouted over his shoulder to me as he crossed the street. ‘I should’ve known it’d go pear-shaped as soon as Stone told us, in his munificence, that he’d taken care of everything.’ A grin broke out on my face as I recalled Jim saying this, because the London City Observer’s star photographer was, of course, right. Our editor-in-chief, Martin T. Stone, treated his employees like galley slaves, always striving to keep costs as low as possible, and maintaining a tight grip on the newspaper’s purse strings. He was also acutely aware of how Jim had a tendency to spend the London City Observer’s money like water...

***

The day before, sometime in the afternoon, Stone had summoned Jim and me to his office, and he glowered at his star photographer, dangling an expenses form between his finger and thumb in front of him, holding it so far away from him that it looked like the paper itself disgusted him. ‘You spent more money on your last assignment than I’d need for a five-week holiday,’ boomed Stone. His brow was deeply furrowed and his dark hair, which was greying at the temples, looked almost messy. Jim had simply shrugged. ‘Then I guess you’re just not very imaginative with your free time,’ he replied cheekily. ‘Or do you spend your holidays sightseeing from your balcony?’ Stone gave Jim a look that made him fall silent. He threw the expenses form on top of the other papers that littered his desk.

‘Well, what’s done is done. Let’s move on,’ he said dourly, fishing a news report out from the chaotic landscape of letters, draft articles, and memos. ‘I want you to take care of this,’ he said curtly, handing over the scrap of paper. I read it aloud: ‘“Shareholder and company founder, Sir Adrian Wilkie, is in the process of buying the Hebridean island of Ogg, triggering a storm of protests by the island’s inhabitants. Laird Wilkie, who obtained his title through marriage to Lady Sophie McIntire, is the fifth buyer in recent years, and like his predecessors, he has promised the inhabitants that he will improve the island’s economy, but the islanders are treating this with deep suspicion and are demanding that antiquated property laws be reformed so that individuals are no longer allowed to purchase an entire island.”’ Jim shrugged, visibly unimpressed by it all. ‘You think the islanders are actually going to revolt this time?’ I asked snidely. ‘From what I recall, those islanders have been fighting to change the property laws for decades.’ Jim took the news report from my hand, and let it float back down to Stone’s desk. ‘I’m currently on the trail of a major scoop,’ he said. ‘Grave robbers were operating in a London cemetery last night, if you can believe it. The men dug up and pinched a coffin, corpse and all. The cemetery guard caught them in the act and even managed to give us a description of one of them.’ Jim took out the sketched likeness of the perpetrator from one of the pockets of his washed-out denim jacket and held it up so we could see it. The bloated face of a forty-something man who was bald on top stared out at us, his large nose and bushy eyebrows in particular standing out. ‘This man is most likely Doctor Flesh, an infamous plastic surgeon specialising in the face who, according to police, is linked to a number of unsolved crimes and is one of Interpol’s most wanted...’ Stone’s expression hardened. Normally, he would never let Jim’s wilfulness get under his skin as he appreciated his star photographer’s stellar work, which made him more willing to overlook his maverick attitude, but his patience had finally run out. He suddenly jumped out of his chair and bent down towards him over

the mountain of papers on his desk. ‘Get that story out of your head!’ he growled at him. ‘Tomorrow morning, you’re flying up to Glasgow. I’ve already arranged everything. A rental car has been booked for when you get there. You will travel to the Hebrides tomorrow, you will take pretty pictures of the landscape and the island’s residents, and you will speak with Sir Adrian Wilkie! Am I clear?’ He then turned his attention on me, his expression softening slightly. ‘And you, Jessica, will write me an evenhanded of the situation on the island. You will be staying at the old castle as guests of Sir Adrian Wilkie, the new laird of the isle.’ It suddenly dawned on me what was going on here, and why Stone was being so brusque. I flashed our editor-in-chief a smile in response: I knew there was a friendly, reasonable man behind that gruff exterior. ‘it it: you don’t like this assignment any more than we do,’ I said. Stone slumped back into his chair and sighed. ‘You know I don’t like it when other people interfere in my work,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘But sometimes, there’s no way around it.’ I nodded to show I understood his situation. ‘Arnold Reed,’ was all I said. The look Stone gave me told me I was right. Arnold Reed was the owner of the London City Observer. He was the ripe old age of seventy and rarely meddled in the affairs of his newspaper, but every once in a while, he would call up Stone and give him some ‘suggestions’ on stories to cover that Stone would have to begrudgingly agree to follow up. This was the same Arnold Reed I had to thank for my job here at the newspaper. Had it been up to Stone, he would have filled the vacancy with an experienced journalist, not one fresh out of university, but my great-aunt, Beverly Gormic — who I’ve lived with since the death of my parents — put in a good word with Arnold Reed, whom she knew personally. He in turn had strongly ‘suggested’ to Stone to give me a chance, telling him that if I could hack it as a journalist, I should get the position. Stone had reluctantly agreed to this, though he did give me an assignment that showed little prospect of going anywhere, but in the end, he didn’t regret giving me the opportunity as I handed him a compelling article, landing the job in the process. Stone had turned his attention to the morning post still lying unopened on his desk, making it clear the meeting had ended and no amount of badgering would

get any more information regarding the assignment or Arnold Reed’s involvement in it out of him. Jim made a show of tearing up the picture of Doctor Flesh and looked at me with a shrug, before we both got up and left Stone’s office. After all, we only had a few hours to prepare for our journey to Scotland...

***

Jim and I had eventually made it to the island of Barra, and my thoughts immediately rushed back to the present as I noticed two dark figures emerging from the shadows cast by the houses and crossing the street towards me. I peered closer at them, and saw the two men were staggering drunkenly arm-in-arm, belting out a Gaelic folk song that sounded more than a little haunting in the stillness. ‘Jim?’ I said in disbelief as I recognised one of them as the London City Observer’s star photographer. The wind and rain didn’t seem to be bothering him anymore, despite his long rant about them earlier. His blond hair looked even more dishevelled than usual, and the ends of his light-blue shirt were poking out through a hole in his jeans. Jim waved cheerfully and shouted across to me: ‘Jess! Lookee! I found us a ferryman!’ The two men stumbled towards me, and as they got closer, I saw that the man at Jim’s side had a weathered face, and he was wearing old clothes made of corduroy that looked just as grubby and tattered as Jim’s jeans. He had short, brown, bristly hair and piercing brown eyes. ‘Aye, hello, lassie!’ he greeted me cheerily, thrusting a calloused hand towards me. ‘Tha name’s Frank Kyle, but fren’s just call me Kyle. I live oot on Ogg. If ye’d like, I can take ye back there wi’ me.’ He gestured to the Mini Cooper parked on the street. ‘But ye’ll hafta leave yon limousine behind,’ he remarked with a grin. ‘I only gots a wee fishing boat, nae a ferry.’

I smiled painfully, freeing my hand from the fisherman’s tight grip, and giving Jim a reproachful look. ‘Why’d you have to drink so much?’ I hissed at him as Kyle stumbled towards the Mini Cooper and began to awkwardly haul our luggage out of the boot. Jim had apparently entrusted him with the keys, and that made me even crosser. The star photographer just shrugged and looked innocent. ‘Jus’ observin’ the local customs,’ he said, trying unsuccessfully to sound more sober than he actually was. ‘In the pub, I was lookin’ for a way to get to the li’ler islands, but no one’d talk to me before I’d drunk a “wee dram” of malt whisky with ’em. What was I s’posed to do? I couldn’t jus’ leave and risk us bein’ stranded on this godforsaken lump of rock, waitin’ for the next ferry to Ogg.’ Jim hooked his arm through mine and pulled me over to the car. ‘Stone’d’ve given us hell if he’d found out we’d got oursel’s marooned. Now he jus’ has to cover the cost of a li’l malt whisky. Or well, a lotta malt whisky,’ Jim said, winking at me. ‘After all, I had t’pay for a few rounds. All on expenses, ‘course.’ I made a show of rolling my eyes — the thought of going out to sea with a drunk fisherman wasn’t an appealing one. On the other hand, Jim was of course right: Stone definitely wouldn’t have been understanding if he’d found out the ferry had left without us. So I accepted my fate and, along with the two drunks, lugged our suitcases and bags back to the rotting docks where Kyle’s fishing boat was moored. We heaved the luggage onto the bobbing boat, and I just about managed to stop Jim from falling headfirst into the water. Kyle grinned mischievously. ‘Ye cityfolk cannae handle yer drink, can ye?’ he joked. By contrast, the fisherman seemed to have sobered up. With masterful skill, he released the lines and prepared the boat for the crossing.

***

The boat’s motor whined and putt-putted as the bow rose and fell with every wave. Kyle was steering the boat towards a small island with a coastline of steep black cliffs, which we were just about close enough to make out. This was the

island of Ogg, and the blinking lights atop the cliffs marked the only village on the isle: Oggmaddy. I was standing next to Frank Kyle in the small wheelhouse and staring out at the sea through the smeared glass. The far-reaching beam from the lighthouse ed over the water at regular intervals, momentarily pulling the rain and the agitated waves out of the darkness. Jim was hunched over on a bench at the back of the wheelhouse, moaning loudly, occasionally complaining that he was nauseous and his head hurt, but neither of us paid him any attention. I had no sympathy for him: he shouldn’t have drunk so much whisky. ‘Yer fren’ was tellin’ me tha’ ye’re from the press,’ Kyle said to me. I nodded. ‘We work for the London City Observer, one of London’s most-read papers.’ Kyle nodded smugly. ‘Nae doobt ye be here a’cause of tha islanders’ protestin’ aboot tha new laird,’ he bellowed against the noise. ‘It’s high time tha press began payin’ attention ta us.’ He gave me a sidelong look. ‘Where will ye be stayin’?’ I cleared my throat nervously, already suspecting the fisherman wouldn’t like my answer. ‘We’re staying with Sir Adrian Wilkie up at his castle,’ I said, feeling more than a little uneasy. Kyle’s expression darkened. ‘Wi’ the new laird? Aye, I see how it is,’ he boomed, obviously displeased with my answer. ‘I’m surprised he’s invitin’ guests into tha’ auld hut o’ his. Tha castle’s very rundown and needs renovatin’ badly. His predecessors hardly e’er came to tha island — just took tha rents for tha estate and dinnae gi’ a wee monkey’s aboot tha island.’ ‘You probably convinced the lairds to have a “wee drinkie” with you too,’ Jim piped up, a big sarcastic grin on his face. ‘If afterwards they felt like I do now, it’s no wonder they never set foot on the island again...’ A strange smile flashed across Kyle’s face. ‘If only it were tha’ easy ta get ridda them,’ he said quietly. Suddenly, I spotted a pale blue light near the cliffs of Ogg. I squinted into the

darkness at it and could hardly believe what I saw: a translucent figure — a woman — in a long blue dress and holding a storm lamp was nimbly jumping from rock to rock. The lamp in her hand swung violently as she leapt about — a dangerous undertaking considering her proximity to the roaring waves which crashed over the cliffs, sending spray high into the air. ‘There’s a woman out there on the cliffs!’ I yelled out in shock, pointing in her direction. ‘She could be swept out to sea at any moment!’ Kyle’s gaze followed my outstretched hand. ‘I cannae see a thin’, lassie,’ he said gruffly. I leaned over the console and stared out through the dirty glass, but I could no longer see the figure either. Even the faint light had disappeared. Had the waves already swept the woman from the rocks? Kyle gave me an odd sideways glance. ‘I ken what ye saw, lassie,’ he said, mysteriously. ‘T’was Angie, tha island ghost!’ I looked at the fisherman sceptically. Was he trying to take me for a fool? ‘Och, ye nae believe me,’ Kyle said, ‘but it’s true. Angie haunts yon cliffs when tha seas’re rough at night. We long been used to tha strange light; she’s just a part of tha island noo — nae different from tha people, tha Scotch, and more’s tha pity, tha laird.’

***

Kyle hadn’t been exaggerating when he had described the castle: ‘ruin’ was the best word I could find to describe the structure that loomed over us. The fisherman had reluctantly offered to drive Jim and me up to the castle as we had no transport to get us there, and since he lived on the island, his car had been close to hand. The docks were in a sheltered part of a wide bay with steep black cliffs on either side, and the road leading up to the village had been a winding one. Oggmaddy had turned out to be a small, cosy-looking village with

picturesque fishing houses, an old stone church, and snaking, narrow alleyways. After ing through the village and leaving it in the rear-view mirror, the landscape had become more undulating, with shallow hills giving way to a wide bog which stretched as far as the eye could see. We had driven south for a while, along a poorly maintained B-road, but thankfully, the car’s soft, worn-out seat cushions had done wonders for my tired bones. Jim had been the only one to complain, still groaning and holding his pounding head in his hands. To the right of us, looking out towards the sea, the lighthouse’s groping finger of light was a constant companion, its bright beam even managing to penetrate the fog that had settled on the bog before dissipating somewhere far off in the night. The wind wasn’t as extreme here and the rain had let up considerably. I longed for a hot shower and a nice, warm — and above all — soft bed, but when I saw the forbidding silhouette of the castle on the hill, I feared I probably wouldn’t be getting any of those. The black building loomed menacingly and sinisterly against the night sky, looking anything but inviting. I could just about make out a large domed roof which seemed to have a huge, gaping hole in the middle of it. Both wings stretching to the left and right of the dome had several small turrets, bay windows, and chimneys — most of which had either fully collapsed or looked on the brink of doing so. When Kyle stopped the car in front of the rusty, cast-iron gate, the castle had nearly disappeared behind the mighty oaks and yews that stood in its gardens. ‘Aye, here we be,’ announced Kyle. ‘I’ll be takin’ ma leave noo. I has nae interest in meetin’ tha laird.’ The fisherman unloaded our luggage and shook our hands one last time. ‘There be a meetin’ in tha village on the morra,’ he said. ‘I’d be glad if ye could be there as representatives of tha press. It’s aboot tha laird and the state o’ affairs on tha island.’ ‘Of course. We’d be happy to come to the meeting tomorrow,’ I replied. ‘Even if we’re staying with the laird, that doesn’t mean we aren’t intending to produce an unbiased, balanced of the situation up here.’ ‘I’ll collect ye in the morn then,’ Frank Kyle promised. ‘After all, ye has nae car and for ye cityfolk, it be tae far ta walk to tha village.’ The fisherman grinned crookedly and clapped Jim on the shoulder, whose only

reply was to let out a tortured moan as he held his head; then he got back into his car and drove off. I watched as the red tail lights got smaller, suddenly feeling very alone and abandoned in this desolate place for some reason, despite Jim’s presence. My travelling companion didn’t seem perturbed in the slightest, though — he just grabbed his suitcase and strolled up to the rusty gate. There was no bell we could see to ring; the only thing here other than the gate itself was the large stone wall it was attached to, towering over us in the darkness, all damp and slimy with moss and ivy. Jim shook the gate, and it suddenly swung open with a loud creaking sound. For a moment, we both looked at each other, unsure of what to do next, but then Jim gave a shrug and set off towards the castle, suitcase in hand. The wet gravel crunched loudly underfoot. The lawn and the edges of the path looked wild and untended, and the large bushes dotted around swayed gently in the wind, casting eerie shadows. After leaving the avenue formed by the oaks and yews behind us, the castle suddenly appeared before us. This close up, it seemed even more sinister and dismal than it had from a distance. Only a handful of the countless windows were illuminated, and there was no outside lighting to light our path. I cast a suspicious glance over at the porch, which was topped with a half-dome ed by thin columns, and between these columns, there was nothing but spooky darkness waiting to swallow us up. Jim didn’t seem to be taking the blindest bit of notice of our unnerving surroundings, stumbling up the rounded, sweeping steps, and striding into the blackness between the tall porch columns. I hurried to keep up with him, but my eyes took a moment to adjust to the total darkness I had walked into. When I was finally able to make out my surroundings, I stopped suddenly: two menacing figures were lurking near Jim, who was standing in front of the arched entrance, completely oblivious to the danger he was in. I instinctively took a step back and let out a scream. ‘Jim, watch out!’ The London City Observer’s star photographer spun around, confusion written on his face, before catching sight of what I had seen. He let out a roaring laugh, stretching out his free arm, and scratching one of the figures on the chin. ‘These scary fellas won’t harm me,’ he said. ‘They’re made of stone. And I’m afraid they’re so old, the sculptor can’t legally be held responsible for giving you a fright.’

I let out a relieved sigh. The strange apparition by the cliffs and the sinister look of the castle had shredded my nerves, and I was seeing danger lurking around every corner, but Jim’s relaxed demeanour — which he seemed to have regained after his little dalliance with the malt whisky — cheered me up quite a bit, and I quickly forgot that I’d been scared silly by these things. I walked up next to Jim, and looked curiously at the stone statues standing either side of the entrance. They seemed to be coarse men wearing simple fisherman garb, their muscular arms stretching up above their heads so it looked like they were carrying the ornate triangular gable with their bare hands. In the absence of a doorbell on the massive oak door, Jim had resorted to using the door knocker, the sound of it hitting the wood resounding dully and hollowly around the walls beyond. It was a little while before we heard echoing footsteps on the other side of the door and it finally creaked open. A weak ray of light attempted to pierce the darkness that surrounded us, and the silhouette of a tall, thin woman with fashionably short, curly hair appeared in front of us. ‘With whom do I have the pleasure?’ she said in a husky and somewhat bittersounding voice. ‘We’re from the London City Observer,’ I replied, introducing ourselves. ‘Sir Adrian Wilkie is expecting us.’ The woman took one step to the side to allow the light from inside to better illuminate us, then raised a pair of spectacles hanging from a gold chain around her neck up to her eyes so she could size us up. ‘Sir Adrian will take care of you,’ she said, before turning and yelling: ‘Darling, the people from the press are here!’ By this time, my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and I could see how elegantly dressed the woman was: she was wearing an expensive-looking ensemble, and her subtle make-up brought out her bright, brown eyes. She smiled wistfully and gestured for us to enter. Jim and I awkwardly heaved our luggage past her and into a high-ceilinged entrance hall which seemed to be covered by the other half of the porch dome. The hall itself was in a bad way: the plaster of the half-recessed columns was crumbling and flaking, and the walls that linked them were yellowed and distorted by large, ugly water stains. A large pile of plaster and broken stone lay beside the winding staircase, which also

looked the worse for wear, its worn steps showing their age. The entire hall was lit by a chandelier, in which a dozen candles flickered and burned. ‘Please excuse the mess in the castle,’ the woman said. ‘We only arrived a few days ago, and it would seem our predecessors unfortunately severely neglected this magnificent building.’ ‘I’ve seen worse,’ remarked Jim irreverently. At that moment, a man came rushing down the stairs. He was wearing a purple dressing gown that, for all its sparkle, did a bad job of hiding his portly figure. His round face seemed good-natured, and his curly hair was thinning. He walked towards us, a beaming smile plastered across his face, and shook our hands enthusiastically, as though we were good friends he hadn’t seen in a long time. ‘Sir Adrian Wilkie,’ the woman said, introducing him primly and properly, but when he made no attempt to introduce her, she subtly cleared her throat and glared at him. ‘Oh, do excuse me, Sophie,’ he said casually, before making a showy gesture in her direction. ‘And may I present Sophie Wilkie, my wife!’ Sophie Wilkie responded with a theatrical roll of her eyes. ‘Lady Sophie Wilkie, née McIntire,’ she added. ‘I am the last of a very old, very noble line.’ Sir Adrian Wilkie grinned, waving his hand dismissively, then took my suitcase off me and placed it down next to the pile of debris on the floor. ‘I’m delighted you made the effort to come and visit me in this remote corner of the world to write an article about me and this magnificent castle,’ he said jovially. ‘Ogg is a beautiful, magical island that has gone neglected for far too long, and it could certainly do with the publicity.’ He flashed us a winning smile and beckoned us towards one of the numerous doors that led off from the shabby entrance hall. ‘Our guests must undoubtedly be hungry and tired,’ he said, turning to his wife. ‘Would you be so good as to prepare them a little snack?’

Lady Sophie pursed her lips angrily, and it was obvious that a snippy remark was on the tip of her tongue, but she quickly regained her composure and headed off towards the kitchen without a word. ‘We haven’t managed to staff the place yet,’ Sir Adrian Wilkie explained to us after she’d gone. ‘The people on this island are remarkably stubborn. They seem to be completely hostile to us, and refuse to have anything to do with us, making it impossible to get them to work for us, so my wife has had to take care of the housework, which has been a great strain on her, as I’m sure you can imagine.’ Jim stayed silent but couldn’t stop a dark grin from appearing on his face. The castle owner led us into a large hall where a fire was crackling away in a majestic fireplace and chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, lighting up the hall with the same warm, romantic candlelight that had bathed the entrance hall. The walls seemed to be freshly painted and old paintings of idylls hung between the columns, the flickering light of the fire giving them a gloomy look. ‘The power lines to the castle are in a sorry state,’ the laird explained. ‘That’s why most of the rooms have no electricity. Though, candlelight is cosier, wouldn’t you say?’ I had stopped in front of one of the paintings, peering closely at it: it was signed ‘Caspar David Friedrich’ and showed a seascape at dusk. In the foreground, a couple stood with their backs to the viewer, looking small and lost in front of the colossal panorama nature had provided them. ‘What a moving painting,’ I remarked. ‘Is it an original?’ The laird had come up beside me. ‘Naturally,’ he said proudly. ‘My wife is a ionate art collector, and paintings from the Romantic period are her absolute favourite. The paintings here are all gifts I have given Sophie on special occasions over the course of our marriage.’ I nodded. The laird led me to a table and offered me a chair. ‘I hope we aren’t putting you out too much by staying in the castle with you,’ I said, feeling slightly awkward. Sir Adrian Wilkie waved his hand dismissively. ‘Not in the slightest,’ he replied,

no hint of pretence in his answer. ‘I’ve been through a great many ordeals in my life. I’m sure you already know that I wasn’t born into wealth. I grew up in Soho, the son of “commoners”, as it were. Every pound that made its way into my pocket had to be earned the hard way, but in the end, I got to where I am today through my own toil. Aside from the title, of course,’ he said, giving me a wink, ‘which I got by marrying my wife. But look at me now! I’m even able to buy my own island!’ He looked at us, his chest swelling with pride, but a sudden, penetrating scream that echoed through the rundown castle wiped the smile off his face. ‘Sophie!’ the laird cried out. Before even a moment had ed, he had whirled around and run towards the door, with Jim and me following behind, fearing that something had happened.

***

The entrance to the kitchen was behind the staircase. Sir Adrian Wilkie pushed the door open and dashed into the dark, desolate corridor behind it, the only light coming from one of the open doors off to the side. The laird ran into the kitchen, which was surprisingly well-lit considering there was only a naked light bulb dangling from the ceiling in there. A modern fridge stood next to the old shelves and cabinets, and I could also see a dishwasher and a microwave on an old countertop. The microwave door was wide open, and a steaming ready meal sat on a plate inside it. The contents of a second ready meal was lying in an unappetising mound on the cobbled floor. Lady Sophie Wilkie, who we had found standing next to the microwave, was white as a sheet. She was leaning on the counter with one hand to herself, while her other hand was clenched to her chest. She was breathing heavily and as soon as her husband laid his hand soothingly on her shoulder, she began speaking quickly. ‘It... It was that horrid ghost again,’ Lady Sophie hissed, the words spewing out of her. ‘I was about to prepare the snack when I suddenly saw this strange blue shimmering in the corridor. I was paralysed with fear — I couldn’t move at all — and then, that wretched ghost woman in the fluorescent dress with the old

lamp appeared in the doorway. I won’t ever forget that deathly pale face and those glowing yellow eyes as long as I live. She whispered to me that the castle belongs to her, and she won’t tolerate anyone else living here...’ She shuddered and looked at her husband accusingly. ‘It’s high time we got those tradesmen you’ve hired in to renovate this castle from top to bottom. Not in a few weeks — as quickly as possible, in the next few days,’ she said sternly. ‘That’ll make the ghost lose interest in haunting it. I’m not allowing anyone to force me out!’ The laird raised his hands in a soothing motion. ‘I’m sure you only imagined this so-called “ghost”,’ he said. ‘It was probably the light from the lighthouse that scared you. There’s no such thing as ghosts.’ ‘Are you saying I’m mad?’ she asked in a low voice. ‘You think I’ve snapped and I’m slowly descending into madness, is that it?’ Her voice was becoming increasingly desperate and I detected a sinister edge to it. Jim and I had stayed over by the door, and we quickly exchanged a look. It would seem we were about to witness a lover’s quarrel, but before the slanging match could begin, I suddenly saw a ghostly shimmering behind me, along with something moving. Startled, I whirled around and found myself face to face with a young man with medium-length black hair and dark brown eyes. He had what could only be described as a distinguished chin and a high forehead with several strands of hair hanging down over it. ‘Mama? Are you okay?’ he asked with worry in his voice. He was wearing a white painter’s smock over ripped jeans and a plaid shirt. His smock was covered in colourful stains and smelled of turpentine and oil paints, and he was holding an oil lamp in one hand. ‘Your mother believes she saw a ghost again,’ the laird answered for his wife. ‘Have you seen anything suspicious?’ The young man shook his head. ‘I was painting in my studio,’ he said. ‘You know I don’t notice what’s going on around me when I’m painting.’ He turned to me and gave me a curious look.

‘My name is Robin Wilkie,’ he said, introducing himself and offering a paintstained hand. ‘You must be the reporter from the London City Observer.’ ‘Robin, would you be so kind as to show our guests to their rooms?’ Lady Sophie said in a frosty voice. ‘I need to have a little chat with your father.’ The handsome young man shrugged and beckoned us to follow him. As we reached the entrance hall to gather our luggage, Lady Sophie’s shrill voice could be heard from the kitchen. Sir Adrian didn’t appear to be saying anything in reply, presumably deciding the best course of action was to patiently let her tantrum blow itself out. ‘Since we purchased this island, my parents have been a little on the jittery side,’ Robin said apologetically as he started climbing the stairs. ‘I have no idea why my father bought this island in the first place. He was crazy about it, and you wouldn’t imagine how excited he was to move into this crumbling castle.’ At the top of the stairs, we found ourselves in a dark corridor. The old wallpaper was water-damaged, even missing altogether in places, and there was no electricity here, so Robin held his oil lamp aloft to light the way. ‘We used to live in a lovely mansion in Glasgow,’ he continued, and I could tell he was the talkative type. ‘I think Papa did all this for Mama. As you probably already know, Mama comes from a very old, very noble line, which sadly, as the decades went by, frittered away all of its wealth: in the end, Mama didn’t even have a bedsheet to her name. She always talks of better times — of how life used to be for the McIntires, and Papa has tried everything to make Mama feel like those days might be here again, with the purchase of this island as the first step in that direction.’ He gave me a sidelong look. ‘I’m not sure it was the right step, though. Mama is always seeing ghosts here, and constantly seems on edge...’ The casual way he said this caused a slight chill to wash over me. The image of the shimmering apparition on the cliffs suddenly came back to me, and I realised that the ghostly apparition Sophie Wilkie had said she’d seen in the castle was an exact match of Angie, the island ghost... Robin opened the door to one of the guest rooms and lit a few candles. ‘Your room,’ he said, turning to me.

I looked sceptically into the room. All I could see in it was a freshly made old wooden bed, a desk with a three-legged stool in front of it, and a laundry chest. There weren’t even any curtains, and the wind audibly whistled past the windows. ‘Your room is right next door,’ said Robin, turning to Jim. ‘The facilities are across the hall.’ He stepped back into the corridor, still holding his lamp. ‘I’m off back to the studio to continue with my work,’ he announced. ‘Papa will probably bring you up some sandwiches so that you don’t go to bed hungry. Good night.’ Jim and I thanked the young man and waited for him to leave before making our views known to each other. Jim just shook his head in disbelief. ‘What family have we ended up in the middle of?’ he groaned, rubbing his temples. ‘We should’ve listened to Kyle and found somewhere to stay in the village. I think I seeing a sign for a bed and breakfast. Instead, we’re under the same roof as a laird who’s about as charming as a second-hand car dealer, a noblewoman whose family has fallen from grace, and an artist son who prefers to splash his paints about at night...’ Jim picked up his suitcase and turned towards his room. ‘But none of that really bothers me right now,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take a cold shower, lie down, get some sleep, and wait to see what tomorrow brings.’ I wished Jim a good night, took one last suspicious glance down the gloomy corridor, then locked the door. I walked over to the window and looked out: the clouds had dispersed and the rain had let up, allowing me to see past the shallow hills all the way to the sea, which was only about a kilometre away. For a brief moment, I thought I could see the blue light near the coast again, but the wide beam of light from the lighthouse scudded over the hills, and any hint of the ghostly apparition disappeared. A chill ran down my spine, and I turned away from the window. I suddenly felt impossibly tired and I gazed longingly at the freshly made bed, realising just how much the long journey from London to Ogg had taken out of me.

***

My dream that night was wild and scary. It was a pitch-black night in my dream too, and I wandered through a surreal landscape of hills and bogs. Thick fog wafted over ground that smelled of mould, and grey clouds hung dismally in the sky overhead. Occasionally, a few stars and the moon peeked through breaks in the clouds before they were quickly smothered again. The fog contorted into frightening apparitions, and I saw terrifying, grotesque figures slowly shambling through the mist, as well as faint spectres that were seemingly dancing to an inaudible melody. Among them, I discovered Angie, the island ghost who was gracefully dancing over the steaming ground with her old-fashioned storm lamp in her hand. As I sleepwalked behind the ghost woman, I heard a soft voice whispering to me, pushing out the fear that was threatening to erupt inside me. I suddenly felt safe in the middle of this strange, dangerous bog. After all, I thought, what can happen to me with Angie nearby? My bare feet sank into the cool mud up to my ankles. The swampy puddles bubbled disgustingly, the pale moonlight reflecting in the water that had pooled between the clumps of long grass — but Angie made sure I never strayed from the right path, leading me safely across the large bog. Sometimes, she’d take a sharp left or right around a bush, then force me to almost go back on myself, and one time, she led me up a hill that was overgrown with thick bushes and blooming plants. I followed Angie over hills and sidestepping sinkholes, to a chorus of frogs and toads that ribbited as we ed. I never once asked myself what I was doing in the bog. Suddenly, the fog-like apparition disappeared, and I found myself all alone on a strange hill. Unsure of my next move, I stopped and looked out over the hilly landscape. Not far away, I could see the churning sea, silver moonlight reflecting off its surface, and a narrow sandy beach that stretched along the coastline, the waves crashing into the craggy rocks nearby. A large plateau rose up in the distance, and on it stood the lighthouse and the lighthouse keeper’s home. Why hadn’t I noticed the lighthouse sooner? Suddenly, a gust of wind sent shivers all over my body and I reflexively rubbed my upper arms, only to find to my surprise that I was in nothing but a nightie — the same nightie I’d put on before going to bed in the old castle!

Was it even possible to feel the wind in your dreams? Whether it was or not, the damp, icy feeling of the wind sweeping across my skin felt extremely real. I looked around uneasily and found the dark, looming silhouette of the old castle on top of a hill a long way behind me. Had I really walked this dangerous path through the bog barefoot and alone? I suddenly doubted whether this really was just a dream. I eyed the rhododendron bushes and hydrangeas growing on the hill beside me suspiciously; their sweet scent was unmistakable. My attention was quickly drawn to something else: I noticed that I was standing in the middle of a large circle of flat, upright stones, and beside me, two altar-like rectangular stones rose up out of the moss-covered ground. I immediately thought of Stonehenge, but the stone circle here on Ogg was much smaller and not nearly as monolithic as the mysterious construction in the south of England. I suddenly heard a sound, and I tore myself away from staring at the upright stones to search the darkness and the fog for its source. At the bottom of the hill, I spotted movement, and peering closer, I could see an old horse-drawn carriage with a single horse pulling it coming out of the fog. Two figures concealed by the darkness sat up front in the coachman’s seat, but I had no hope of making out their faces as the coach’s lanterns weren’t lit. With increasing unease, I realised they were coming up the hill, right towards the strange stone circle I was standing in. I instinctively looked around for a place to hide, quickly crouching behind a hydrangea bush to stay out of sight. The fist-sized flowers wafted a lovely scent into my face that made me forget where I was for a moment, but the sound of the carriage coming closer brought me back to reality. I looked through a gap in the flowers and saw the wheels of the carriage come to a stop as it pulled up in front of the altar stones. Both men jumped down and without a word, they walked around to the back of the coach and unloaded a heavylooking black box. I couldn’t believe my eyes: it was a coffin! The two figures carried the coffin over to one of the stones and put it down on the ground before they both started digging a hole for the coffin to go into. Their strange, dark cloaks fluttered in the wind, but not enough to uncover their faces, the hoods of their cloaks pulled down tightly over them. They carried out their macabre work without making a single sound. This is just a dream, I thought to myself. What I’m seeing isn’t really happening... When the hole was deep enough, the men placed the coffin into it and started filling it in again. By this time, the cold had seeped through to my bones, and I

knew I wouldn’t be able to hide among the hydrangeas for much longer because I was frozen to the core, and the scent of the flowers was tickling my nose. All of a sudden, I needed to sneeze. I couldn’t hold it in, but I just about managed to cup my hand around my nose to muffle the noise, though this unfortunately wasn’t enough to stop the hooded figures from noticing. They stood bolt upright in alarm, and looked around attentively, the larger of the two gesturing to his partner-in-crime that they should search the area. I instinctively pressed myself closer to the ground and crawled deeper into the hydrangeas, not even noticing my thin nightie getting dirty and wet as I did so. The gaunt figure approached my hiding place while the other got to work with a chisel and hammer on the upright stone in front of the hole, the sound of metal on stone echoing like cracks of a whip over the hillside. With bated breath, I crouched as low to the ground as I could and looked around fearfully: the stranger was only an arm’s length away from me, the hem of his cloak flapping against the bush as the wind caught it. At any moment, the cloaked man could bend over and check the bush I was hiding in... A ptarmigan suddenly took flight from the vegetation nearby, flapping its wings loudly and whooping as it soared away. The stranger watched the bird go and shrugged, clearly believing it had been responsible for the noise that had made the pair think they weren’t alone up here. I didn’t dare breathe out in relief, though, and before even thinking about taking another breath, I waited for the stranger to finally turn away and re his companion who had finished chiselling by this time. They gathered up their tools and returned silently to the carriage, turning it around and heading back down the hill the way they’d come. I stayed in my hiding place a moment longer, then crawled out from under the large flowers and stood up. The carriage and the two men had already disappeared back into the fog, so I walked over to the fresh grave and crouched down to look at it, an uneasy feeling stirring in the pit of my stomach. There only seemed to be some kind of rune on the makeshift tombstone — no name, no date, not even a blessing for the dearly departed. Shuddering, I stood up and instinctively looked about me: the plethora of other stones that made up the mysterious circle seemed to magically attract my gaze. I hesitantly walked over to the nearest one and saw that it too had a rune on it, indicating that somebody was probably buried there, but this grave seemed much older, as moss had already made a home for itself in the cracks on the unusual headstone. Feeling more than a little queasy, I walked around the stone circle and realised that all the stones save for one had a rune chiselled into them, which could only mean

one thing: this hill was a cemetery! A cemetery for the nameless! And more unnervingly, one grave still lay empty. I turned away, shuddering. I finally wanted to wake up from this scary dream — but was I really dreaming? I wasn’t sure. Nightmares weren’t a rarity for me, and they were often so realistic and intense that it was only when I woke up from them that I realised it had all been a dream. This time, however, I feared this wasn’t a dream. Aunt Bell, who was fascinated by otherworldly phenomena and the occult, was convinced I had supernatural abilities that manifested themselves in my nightmares, but although many of my dreams had ended up coming true, I didn’t really share her belief. Or rather, I didn’t want to believe it, because the sheer thought of it scared me. I suddenly realised there was a very easy way to figure out if I was dreaming or not. I pinched my arm decisively, and the resultant stabbing pain made me yelp: I wasn’t dreaming! The realisation hit me like an ice-cold wave. What was I supposed to do now? I was sure I’d walked through the bog in a trance-like state, because I had no other explanation for how I had managed to navigate the terrain without falling into one of its treacherous sinkholes — after all, if sleepwalkers could walk over a beam as wide as your hand without falling, what’s to say I didn’t sleepwalk my way across an eerie bog without getting into trouble? The ghostly apparitions I had seen wandering across the bog suddenly sprang to mind; even Angie, the island ghost, had been there, and I had got the distinct feeling that she had guided me through the dangerous terrain. Had that part been real too, and not a dream like I had first thought? Since I had no idea at what point I had actually awoken from my trance-like sleep, I couldn’t answer that question with any certainty. I looked over at the freshly-dug grave: I knew for sure that I hadn’t dreamt the incident with the strange gravediggers. The cold was getting to me again, and I realised I had to get back to the castle as quickly as possible. The path back through the bog seemed too dangerous, so I decided to walk towards the beach instead, with the intention of walking along it all the way to the castle. I knew that when I finally reached those crumbling stone walls, my bed wouldn’t be too far away, so I took a deep breath and began the long trek back.

***

My feet hurt and every fibre of my being seemed to ache. It was only with the greatest of care that I managed to pick out a path through this side of the bog, and when I finally made it to the beach, I marvelled that I’d actually got there, barely believing I hadn’t got stuck along the way. My thin nightie was cold and damp, sticking to my skin like freezing fog, but the walk along the beach had done wonders for my body, seeming to chase the chill from my bones. After what felt like an eternity, I finally reached the path leading from the beach to the castle. I hadn’t gone very far along it when I suddenly noticed two lights up ahead, and voices pierced the night air. Two figures blundered into view and headed straight towards me down the path. ‘Jess! There you are! Finally!’ I heard Jim call out. He rushed towards me, the beam of his torch falling across me. ‘I was so worried!’ Jim said accusingly when he reached me. ‘Where have you been?’ But Jim was so agitated, he didn’t let me get a word in edgeways. ‘Half an hour ago, I went to your room to ask you if you had something for my headache,’ he began. ‘I had a killer hangover from all that whisky, you see, but when I got to your door, I saw it was ajar. Of course, I was immediately worried for your safety — even more so when I saw your bed was empty. I knew something must have happened. Incidentally, the shock of it all cleared my headache up a treat, but anyway, I searched high and low for you in the castle but couldn’t find you anywhere. Luckily, Robin was still awake, so he ed the search.’ Robin sidled up beside Jim who had now taken off his denim jacket and wrapped it carefully around my shoulders. ‘You’d left lots of doors open,’ Jim continued, sounding somewhat calmer. ‘When we found the front door and main gate wide open, we knew you must have wandered out of the castle...’ Jim paused and shot me a quizzical look. ‘What are you doing out here at this hour, anyway?’ ‘I... I went for a walk,’ I said simply, looking at Jim innocently. Jim just shook his head in disbelief.

‘In your nightie?’ he said. ‘It was all a bit spontaneous,’ I replied, hooking my arm through his. I was happy we had bumped into each other, but I didn’t feel like talking about the strange events I had witnessed that night in front of Robin. Jim seemed to read between the lines and dropped the subject. Noticing how exhausted I was, he pulled me closer to him so I could lean on him for , and as soon as I sensed his familiar closeness, I suddenly realised how dog-tired I was. I stumbled and stubbed my toe, at which point Jim picked me up in his arms and carried me the rest of the way back to the castle. ‘Thanks, Jim,’ I said softly, leaning my head against his shoulder, my eyelids drooping. I must have fallen asleep in Jim’s arms because when I woke up, I found myself in my bed in the guest room. I saw a figure hunched over in the dark next to me, making me recoil, until I realised it was only Jim who had fallen asleep in a chair beside my bed. It would appear he had stayed in the room to keep watch over me before nodding off himself. I smiled happily and draped a wool blanket over Jim, then went for a quick wash, pulled on a clean nightie, and was back in bed asleep in no time at all.

***

When I awoke again, I felt well-rested and refreshed, the bright sunlight that streamed in through the window telling me it was about noon. I got up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. The chair next to my bed was empty, meaning Jim must have woken up at some point in the night and tiptoed out of my room. How considerate, I thought. I strolled to the bathroom, had a shower, and put on some clean clothes. I pondered the strange events of the night before, but my run-in with the two cloaked gravediggers didn’t seem any clearer to me in the cold light of day. I’d hardly had chance to tuck my white blouse into my kneelength mint-coloured skirt when there came a knock at the door. ‘Come in!’ I called out cheerfully. Jim stuck his head round the doorframe. ‘Feeling rested now?’ he asked.

I nodded and flashed him a beaming smile. ‘Thanks for guarding me so gallantly last night,’ I joked, pointing to the rolled-up wool blanket. Jim grinned. ‘I just wanted to make sure you didn’t get any more silly ideas about going for a country ramble in the middle of the night. If you’d got lost out there and swallowed up by one of those bogs, it would’ve been a good five hundred years before we found you again. We would’ve had to wait for future archaeologists to decide to dig up this island to find traces of their ancestors.’ Jim’s grin spread even wider. ‘Of course, even as a bog corpse, you’d lose none of your beauty, and they’d place you in a shiny, chrome-edged display case so that visitors could come and look at you from every angle...’ I grabbed my pillow and threw it at Jim who purposely didn’t dodge out of the way, allowing it to hit him square in the face. We both laughed, the two of us feeling well-rested and relaxed, but it wasn’t long before I got serious again. Jim had genuinely been worried about me, and that was something he couldn’t hide, no matter how much he joked about it. And he was right to have been worried: something really bad could have happened to me. The thought of one wrong step while walking through the bog putting me in a life-threatening situation made me feel quite queasy. ‘I don’t even know what happened yesterday,’ I said quietly, looking at Jim thoughtfully. ‘I think I was sleepwalking. I experienced a whole host of strange things, and I’m still asking myself what was a dream and what was real.’ Jim took a step towards me and laid his hands on my shoulders. ‘You’re probably just knackered,’ he said soothingly. ‘The tiring journey over and the climate up here aren’t good for your mood.’ I gave a sceptical shrug, but I decided to push all of my more depressing thoughts out of my mind. ‘We should get to work,’ I said. ‘Stone would definitely have something to say just standing around here talking.’ Jim let me go. ‘I took a nose around the castle and the grounds, and managed to get a few snaps,’ he said. ‘I ran into the laird too. At first, I thought he was the gardener, because he had a shovel in his hands and was digging out in the

overgrown gardens...’ Jim made a thoughtful expression. ‘Thinking about it, what he was doing didn’t make any sense,’ he said. ‘He just kept digging these really deep holes without taking the time to fill them back in. When I asked what he was doing making all those holes, he just sidestepped the question and said he was preparing the gardens for new plants. He said he was planning on turning it into a park, which meant he needed to plant lots of trees.’ There was another knock at my door and this time, Robin entered the room. He still seemed to be wearing the stained smock he’d had on the night before. His black hair was dishevelled, and his eyes had dark rings around them. Had he spent the whole night working in his studio? ‘Mama asked me to tell you that dinner is ready,’ he said in a slow, tired voice. ‘We’re eating in the great hall.’

***

I was very hungry and could hardly wait to finally eat something. The laird was sitting at the head of the table, a cosy fire crackling in the fireplace behind him. Robin had sat down next to his father, and Jim and I took our seats across from him. Lady Sophie came in with a steaming pot in her hands, which she slammed down hard on the table. In her white, stained apron and oven mitts, she looked extremely unhappy, and it was quite clear she wasn’t finding playing the cook easy to stomach. She glared furiously at her husband, tearing the apron off and throwing it along with the oven mitts into the corner, before sitting down and smiling sourly. ‘Dinner is served,’ she said in a tone that dripped acid. The laird rubbed his hands together, eyeing the pot hungrily, and started ladling the stew his wife had made onto plates for us. The stew tasted a bit bland and I noticed many of the chunks of vegetables were burnt, but I wolfed it down all the same, Lady Sophie smiling approvingly at the sight. Jim, however, was less enthusiastic about the meal, and slurped the liquidy hotchpotch through pursed lips, which seemed to annoy Lady Sophie greatly.

‘Do you know if there’s a stone circle monument on Ogg?’ I asked the laird, interrupting the embarrassing silence that had settled over the table after Lady Sophie had banged the pot down. The laird looked at me, furrowing his brow. ‘Not as far as I know,’ he said. ‘Bronze Age structures like that can only really be found on the Orkney Islands to the north of Scotland, unfortunately. They’re not as large as Stonehenge, but they’re also not fenced off, so people can go right up to them.’ He sighed. ‘I would love for there to be something similar on Ogg. It’d make the island a real tourist destination, but alas, there doesn’t appear to be anything here besides some barren hills and a few bogs.’ ‘But at least we have an island ghost,’ said Robin. ‘How many other islands can claim that?’ ‘I find your remark in exceedingly poor taste,’ his mother chastised him. ‘Do you think it fair on me to side with your father when I say I’ve seen a ghost in the castle? I feel like you are both teasing me.’ Robin looked at his mother reassuringly. ‘But I really do believe in the island ghost, Mama,’ he said seriously. ‘I would love to meet Angie one day.’ Lady Sophie shuddered. She had gone pale and seemed to be glancing suspiciously around the room. ‘How often has this ghost appeared to you?’ I asked. ‘Four times so far,’ Lady Sophie replied uneasily. ‘It is like a curse. Angie always seems to appear when I am by myself, which happens rather a lot in a castle as large as this.’ Sophie shot her husband an accusatory look as she said this. My mind turned back to the previous night: while I was out wandering through the bog, I thought I had seen Angie, but it could just have been the fog playing tricks on me. I shuddered inwardly. Surely it wasn’t a bad idea to try to find the hill with the stone circle again? Maybe there really was an ancient site somewhere in the bog that the islanders had forgotten about over time? The topic of conversation had taken a different direction while I was lost in my thoughts. Lady Sophie announced that she would be inviting several nobles’

daughters to visit the island once the castle had been renovated. ‘You are almost at marrying age,’ she said to her son. ‘And since noble blood flows through your veins, only a woman of a similar standing will be an acceptable match.’ Robin made a show of rolling his eyes. ‘Mama!’ he said awkwardly. ‘Your views are hopelessly outdated.’ Lady Sophie just shrugged. ‘I am sure it cannot hurt for you to take a pretty little thing with a title as your wife,’ she simply replied. ‘Ask your father. He wouldn’t have been nearly as happy with another woman as he is with me!’ The laird smiled sourly, but immediately covered it up by blowing his wife a kiss across the table, saying: ‘Right you are, dearest.’

***

‘Maybe this ghost is just someone playing a bad joke,’ Jim said when we were alone in my room half an hour later. ‘It’s no secret that the lairds aren’t the islanders’ favourite people in the world...’ ‘You think someone from the village could be pretending to be a ghost in order to scare off the Wilkies?’ I asked, looking thoughtfully out of the window. ‘We could set a trap, wait for Angie to fall into it, and rip off the mask to reveal her true identity,’ Jim suggested. ‘It’d certainly spice up the rather thin-looking article on the island we’ve got so far!’ I nodded, deep in thought. The strange events of the night before were still occupying my thoughts, and I felt I would never forget the sight of those two gravediggers. I suddenly noticed a car approaching the castle, and as it got closer, I could see it was Frank Kyle’s car, which reminded me that we had agreed to go to a meeting in the village that Kyle had invited us to the previous evening.

‘He’s here to pick us up,’ remarked Jim who had also noticed the car. Unlike me, it sounded like he hadn’t forgotten the arrangement. ‘I’ve already gathered our things together,’ he said. ‘We can leave right away. And this time, I won’t be touching a drop of that whisky!’

***

The meeting was being held at — where else? — the pub. The pub in question bore the imaginative name ‘The Heart of Ogg’ and occupied the lower floor of an old, slate-roofed two-storey house. The floor of the pub was covered in a soft red carpet, and the low ceiling was painted black. Photographs of the island and the lighthouse adorned the yellowing walls. Most of the tables were already occupied when we got there, and the air was filled with thick smoke that mingled with the smell of whisky to form a toxic cloud. When Jim and I walked in, the assembled islanders made room for us so we could sit right in the middle of everyone and participate in the conversation. Jim had taken out his camera and was busily snapping a few pictures, the bright flash seeming almost like a foreign object in the dark, dingy pub, and even I felt out of place sitting there, with several people giving me suspicious looks. Our presence appeared to be especially irritating for a short, gaunt man, whose piercing gaze I could almost feel, such was its intensity. He was hunched over his glass of malt whisky like a grouchy ogre. His thin, shoulder-length hair was unkempt and greasy, and some strands fell into his leathery, weathered face. I tried to avoid the man’s stare and instead concentrated on the chatter around me. Nearly all of the conversations seemed to be about the new laird, but occasionally, there was mention of the previous owners and anecdotes about what they had done in their time as lairds of the island. I took out my notepad and feverishly started taking notes. Then, suddenly, an older fisherman with a neat white beard and grey hair approached the bar and asked for quiet. My neighbour at the table I was sitting at told me the man’s name was Stirling, and he was sort of a spokesman for the islanders. In a sonorous voice, Stirling filled everyone in on the latest updates regarding their situation: the islanders had started a petition and sent it to the relevant authorities, but their representative had claimed he was unable to help, and that changing property laws would be a long and arduous process. The

people in the pub started murmuring: they didn’t seem to like what old Stirling was telling them because it looked as though there was no way they could change the status quo. The old fisherman stretched his hands out in a placatory manner. ‘We have two journalists here among us today,’ he announced. ‘They work for a well-known London newspaper. Maybe the authorities’ll work faster if the public’s made aware of the situation here on Ogg. We oughta give them the opportunity to ask us questions.’ Agreement echoed around the room, and Jim and I exchanged a fleeting glance. It looked like it was up to me to take the initiative, so I got up and smiled at the islanders, and after thanking them for the invitation to attend their meeting today, I asked my first question. ‘I already know a great deal about your grievances surrounding the ownership of your island,’ I began. ‘But our readers would no doubt be interested to learn about a whole new side to Ogg that they won’t already know about. I’ve heard tell that there’s supposedly a ghost on the island. I’d like to know more about her.’ The people in the pub just stared at me in confusion — it would seem my questions had gone in a direction they really hadn’t expected. ‘There’re very few who know anything about Angie,’ replied Stirling. ‘If you’re really interested in the subject, you’ll have to talk to ol’ Short. His granddaughter’s sitting next to you.’ He gestured to a young woman who was sitting at my table, her light-brown eyes looking across at me. She was wearing a colourful jumper, and she had curly, dark blonde hair and a subtle beauty mark above her top lip. ‘My grandfather will be pleased to see you, I don’t doubt’ she said quietly. ‘I live with him on the little island with the lighthouse. If you’d like, I’ll take you to see him after the meeting is over.’ I nodded to say that would be fine and thanked the girl. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to know?’ Stirling asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’d like to know where the cemetery is.’ A low murmur broke out again and even Jim looked at me quizzically this time, but I had no choice. The mysterious events of the previous night were still plaguing my thoughts, and I wanted to find out more about the strange gravediggers. ‘Our dead are buried in the cemetery next to the church,’ Stirling answered patiently, looking at me strangely. ‘And there’s no other cemetery on Ogg?’ I asked. The old fisherman just grimly shook his head. Unsure what to ask next, I looked around and noticed with no small amount of unease that everyone’s eyes were fixated on me, apparently expecting me to finally ask them something about the laird’s shortcomings. However, I already had more than enough on that for my article, and besides, I felt that the islanders had somewhat misjudged the Wilkie family. Sir Adrian Wilkie didn’t seem the type of laird to simply collect all the rents and never be seen on the island. After all, if he was intending to do that, why would he and his family have moved into that rundown castle? I had to it, I still wasn’t quite sure what Sir Adrian’s end goal actually was, but in my opinion, that was up to the islanders to find out. I smiled ruefully and gave a vague shrug of my shoulders. ‘I’m afraid I can’t think of any other questions at the moment,’ I said. ‘I already got most of the information I need from Mr Kyle...’ I sat down and felt a number of suspicious looks on me as an indignant murmuring spread around the room. ‘I tol’ ya these reporters weren’t good for nothing!’ yelled the gaunt man who had been glaring at me the entire time. ‘They’re staying with the laird which tells ya everything ya need to know!’ Cries of agreement rang out around the room, and I suddenly became aware that the atmosphere in the pub was threatening to turn on us. At that moment, Frank Kyle pushed his way over to our table, looking worried. ‘It be best if ye leaves the pub noo, lassie,’ he said quietly. ‘Or would ye rather these folk take their anger oot on youse?’

Jim and I shook our heads in unison and I suddenly felt uncomfortable. The pub seemed very small and claustrophobic, and it dawned on me that I was surrounded by a lot of people who were staring very angrily at me. Frank Kyle made a route for us through the crowd. Someone shoved me, but Jim instinctively laid a protective arm around me. He looked grimly at the fishermen and ushered me towards the exit. ‘Ye’ll hafta excuse their behaviour,’ Frank Kyle said when we were finally out in the street. Dusk had laid its cloak over the island and thin clouds lazily drifted across the sky, with a few gaps between them allowing stars to twinkle down at us. ‘What do those people expect from us?’ asked Jim. ‘Are we supposed to solve their problems for them?’ ‘These folk’ve reached tha end o’ their ropes,’ Frank Kyle said. ‘Life as a fisherman or a farmer nae be easy, laddie. Some has great difficulty payin’ the high rents a’cause e’ery square metre o’ this island belongs ta tha laird. Our houses’re ramshackle a’cause tha owner does nae care, an’ we be completely powerless!’ ‘Maybe the Wilkies are different?’ I said, offering my estimation of them. ‘After all, they did move into the castle.’ Frank Kyle made a dismissive gesture. ‘Wha’ever made Adrian Wilkie move here... I cannae say if his interest in tha island is true, but we been watchin’ ’im an’ tha only thin’ he does is dig holes on his land. No company we ken has gots a contract to do up his castle.’ Jim and I looked at each, our brows furrowed. Hadn’t Sophie Wilkie said contracted tradesmen would be coming any day now? ‘We’ll look into that,’ I promised the fisherman. Frank Kyle nodded in relief. ‘Och, I ken I could count on ye. But noo ye oughta go pay ol’ Short a visit. Wee Beckie’s already waitin’ for ye.’ With a nod of his head, he gestured behind us and when I looked around, I saw the girl in the colourful sweater with the curly, dark blonde hair standing on the steps of the pub and looking at us expectantly with her light brown eyes.

***

Beckie Short had a small boat with a powerful engine moored up in Ogg’s harbour. ‘A girl who lives on a small lighthouse island needs a motorboat,’ she explained as we sat down in the boat and she started up the engine. Then we set off, picking up speed as we bumped over the waves. Beckie steered the boat close to the cliffs without slowing at all, and I worried just how easy it would be for the boat to crash into one of those razor-sharp rocks... But Beckie seemed to know the safe route through the jagged rocks like the back of her hand, and the boat didn’t hit a single obstacle. The lighthouse finally hove into view. It was in operation, its piercing light dancing over the agitated water which sent the waves crashing against the steep cliffs leading up to the plateau and reaching several metres up. I instinctively looked over at the island’s coast, along which a wide, long beach stretched, and beyond it lay the scrub-covered hills and the steaming bog. ‘This part of the island is largely barren,’ Beckie shouted over the noise of the engine. She’d apparently noticed how intensely I was staring at the hills. ‘The hills can’t be used for sheep grazing, y’see,’ she added. ‘Even the islanders seldom go out there. It’s a no-man’s land.’ Beckie steered the boat around to the side of the plateau facing the island of Ogg where the water was calmer, then veered into a small cove. She expertly manoeuvred the boat between large, bizarre-looking rock formations before finally mooring at a narrow jetty. The water was still and mirror-like here. We got out and Beckie led us up some stone steps that had been hewn into the rock face itself, twisting and turning up the side of the cliff. Feeling a little queasy, I followed her up, with Jim close behind me. The narrow steps were slippery and worn, and I clung onto the rope railing for dear life. I couldn’t help thinking that this staircase must get very dangerous on stormy nights. We finally reached the plateau in one piece and found that only a simple bungalow, a small outbuilding, and a lighthouse occupied the flat, stony surface. The ground was made of a dark stone with only the occasional clump of grass or flowers peeking up through the crevices in it.

‘The only thing I’d like about a home like this is its unobstructed view,’ Jim said dryly. Beckie chose to ignore his sarcastic remark and headed straight for the bungalow. Only one of the rooms seemed to have the light on, and the dark silhouette of a gaunt figure could be seen at its window. Beckie waved at the figure who responded with a tired gesture. ‘My grandfather,’ Beckie said as way of explanation. ‘He re a time when this lighthouse had to be lit manually every night. Of course, everything’s automatic now.’ She opened the door and invited us in. ‘Carl will be happy to have visitors,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Not many folk come out here to hear him talk about the old stories and legends.’ We soon found ourselves standing in the living room with a cosy fire crackling away in the fireplace and yellowed photographs of the lighthouse on the walls. The whole room was full of old tools a lighthouse keeper would once have needed for his trade, but had since become obsolete. In a large armchair next to the window sat an old man who had the same curiosity-filled light brown eyes as Beckie. With great effort, he lifted himself out of the chair and walked over to us. He was wearing a plain pair of dark tros, and a reddy-brown jacket with large brass buttons on it. The tros and jacket were worn and wrinkled, but seemed to complement his wrinkled face and crooked fingers. He was bald on top, with a crown of grey-brown hair hemming his bald pate and framing his sunken face. Beckie introduced us to each other, and I learnt that Carl Short had learnt his trade from his father. After Beckie had explained to her grandfather why we were there, his expression brightened considerably. ‘So ye want to know about Angie, do ye?’ he said in a hoarse voice, slowly lowering himself back into his armchair. ‘There’s no one on the island that knows more about her than I. My father knew her personally!’ Jim and I took seats across from the old man and looked at him expectantly. ‘But fair ye be warned,’ Carl said, raising a crooked finger to emphasise his point. ‘Angie was the daughter of a witch. Aye, her ghost can be awful evil if you get too close to her. There was once a professor who came to the island

about fifty years ago, give or take, to research the island ghost. He believed she was merely some kind of weather phenomenon, and went about trying to prove it.’ The old man laughed quietly. ‘Angie lured him to the cliffs one stormy night, and he was grabbed by the waves and tossed around all over the place. Aye, he ended up with several broken bones, and he only just made it out alive because a ing fisherman plucked him out, otherwise he would’ve surely drowned. Since then, no one has tried to find out the secret of Angie.’ He looked at me with his attentive light brown eyes as though trying to figure out why I was so interested in Angie’s fate, and it suddenly felt like the shadows in the room were moving closer to me. The silent witnesses of the past that lurked in this room seemed menacing and sinister, but then Carl Short broke the tension by giving a slight nod, not taking his eyes off me. ‘Aye, I’ll tell ye all that happened to Angela Waithe,’ he said mysteriously. ‘But believe ye me, it’s a sad and tragic story indeed...’

***

‘Nobody knew where the strange woman carrying just a bundle on her back had come from,’ Carl Short began. Beckie had made some tea for us all, and after making sure we were all comfortable, she chucked a new log on the fire. I cupped my hands around the hot drink and breathed in its sweet aroma, the fire crackling quietly away in the background. ‘The stranger must’ve made quite an impression on the islanders, and an odd one at that. Ye see, normally, the fishermen are friendly folk who welcome outsiders in without prejudice, but this lass who washed up in the harbour one stormy night in a rotten auld rowboat received a very different welcome, aye.’ The old man slurped down his tea and looked intently at Jim and me over the rim of his cup, seemingly checking that we were hanging on his every word. He seemed satisfied with what he saw, so he continued in a rough, breaking voice.

‘The fishermen probably thought it odd this lassie had been paddling across the sea in a leaky rowboat all by her wee self. She was wearing a lilac cape over her tattered clothes, and it seemed to have some kinda strange rune stitched onto it. When the fishermen realised what was in the bundle the strange woman was carrying on her back, they must’ve been well and truly gobsmacked, because in it was a wee bairn! It had blonde locks and was sleeping peacefully.’ Carl nodded seriously. ‘Aye, of course, nobody could’ve predicted the catastrophe that awaited this wee bairn on Ogg who, if ye hadn’t guessed by now, was Angela Waithe. And I dare say that if just one of those fishermen had known the misfortune that innocent bairn would bring to the island, they would’ve chased that lassie right out of the harbour there and then. Alas, none did, so history turned out the way it did. By this time, a few of the fishwives had come down to the harbour, curious at the new arrival, and the sight of the wee sleeping bairn melted their hearts, making them overlook the strange woman’s appearance and offer to help her, but the stranger rudely rejected their offers of . She announced that her name was “Uda Waithe” and she’d “decided to live on Ogg”, and with that, she set off up the steep, winding road, strode through the village, and disappeared into the vast, barren bogland beyond.’ Carl Short paused while his granddaughter poured out another cup of tea for him. He gave Beckie an affectionate stroke of the cheek, looking at her with sparkling eyes, before turning his attention back to us. ‘Aye, Uda must’ve built a hut or found someplace to shelter in the bogland a‘cause she lived there with her bairn and folk only e’er saw her in the village when she came to buy fish and other provisions — which, in truth, was extremely rare. Uda always paid for these goods with coin, which the fishermen found odd and deeply suspicious. They would ask questions like: “Where’d Uda get the money?” and “What’s she doin’ up in the bogland?” But none of them had the courage to go into the bogland to find out, nor e’en just ask Uda when she came down to the village.’ Carl’s face darkened. ‘Back then, an awful unfriendly laird lived on Ogg. He was one of those lairds who barely took care of the residents of the island, and his contempt for the

islanders was clear in the poorly-maintained road leading from Oggmaddy up to the castle. The laird rarely e’er used the road a’cause he had his own jetty down on the coast and did all his business far from the village. And with good reason too. My father, who was the lighthouse keeper at the time, would often observe strange ships along the coast at night, and my father was no eejit: he could tell the laird was involved in some sorta smuggling operation. Of course, he talked of what he saw down at the pub, so in no time, all folk on the island knew the laird was a smuggler, and it seemed obvious to everyone that Uda Waithe was involved too somehow, which explained where she got all her dosh.’ Carl leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. Recounting the story seemed to be a lot of effort for him, but the ruddy colour in his cheeks showed he was enjoying it. ‘Since no one wished to start trouble with the laird, folk were careful who they told the rumour to,’ he continued. ‘And so, several years ed, and Uda Waithe was all but forgotten. It wasn’t until one fair summer’s day when a bonnie young lass showed up in the village that all the stories about Uda were suddenly on everyone’s lips again. For this lassie was Angela, Uda Waithe’s daughter!’ The old lighthouse keeper shook his head sadly. ‘Aye, that was the day tragedy would strike. Angela had gone down to the village without her mother’s permission — the lassie was bored in the bogland, y’see, and wanted to be around other folk, so she snuck away and went to Oggmaddy. By sheer coincidence, all the young laddies had gathered in the harbour that day, repairing their fathers’ nets and chatting away in the sun. Angela approached the young laddies and watched them with undisguised curiosity. One of the laddies by the name of Tom, who was the strongest of the group, seemed to draw her gaze as if by some kinda magic.’ The old man smiled thoughtfully. ‘The young laddies instantly noticed the bonnie — if somewhat scruffy — lassie staring at them, for Angela stood out like a sore thumb, a’cause she was barefoot and wearing only a plain, fraying dress. The laddies watched her suspiciously and began whispering about her and snickering, but Angela wasn’t bothered a jot by their behaviour. Aye, quite the opposite, in fact. She laughed along with them and enjoyed the attention she got from folk her own age — but suddenly Uda

stormed into the village, looking noticeably older and more haggard than the villagers ed, but still wearing the strange lilac cape with gold runes on it. Poor wee Angela didn’t notice her mother approaching a’cause she was transfixed by the young laddies, so it came as a real shock when Uda spun her daughter around violently and slapped her across the puss. Angela just stood there, as though paralysed, no sound ing her lips, no tears running down her girlish cheeks. She stared calmly at her mother, and when she took her daughter by the hand and dragged her away, the lassie yielded no resistance. Aye, that wee spectacle stayed with the village folk and was the topic on everybody’s lips in The Heart of Ogg the next day. Some folk felt sorry for wee Angela, but most agreed the witch’s daughter had no business coming to Oggmaddy.’ Carl Short sighed and shook his head, as if judging the prejudicial attitudes of the generation before his. ‘If the fishermen believed Angela wouldn’t dare return to the village after that embarrassing incident, they were dead wrong. She came back to Oggmaddy sporadically over the weeks that followed, and it seemed like she’d got much better at sneaking away, as her mother ne’er came chasing her after that first time. Angela’d sit on those hard wooden boards of the dock and watch the laddies, though her eyes were always drawn to braw, strong Tom. The adult folk tolerated Angela well enough, though many would’ve liked to see her dragged back to the bogland by her ear by Uda — but her mother ne’er came, so Angela’d sit there for hours, sometimes all the way to dusk, just watching the comings and goings in the harbour. The laddies started getting nervous a’cause they weren’t used to being stared at by a lassie, so one day, Tom, the bravest of the bunch, went up to Angela and asked what she was doing there. But instead of receiving an answer, Tom had a smacker planted on his lips a’fore Angela giggled and ran off with just her bare feet to carry her!’ The old man’s face seemed to darken even more. ‘Young’uns can be very cruel, mind, when confronted with things they don’t understand — or rather, don’t want to understand,’ he said gruffly. ‘Aye, Angela’d learn that lesson in the days that followed. An outsider falling in love with Tom, their bold de facto leader, was in clear violation of the teens’ rules, and the young’uns all agreed that Angela was the daughter of a witch, no less. After all, they knew the stories the adult folk told about auld Uda, and how she earned her money working for the smugglers and the laird all the islanders

despised. Angela was treated with contempt the next time she returned to the harbour, the young’uns insulting her and someone e’en throwing a fish!’ Carl stared straight ahead, looking thoughtful. ‘Aye, it was strange indeed,’ he continued. ‘My father told me this story many times, but this is the part that’s always given me pause. Y’see, Tom was the only one who didn’t hurl insults at the wee lassie. He stayed by his father’s fishing nets, and when he saw Angela coming down the snaking road to the harbour and the other young’uns running over to her to begin their barrage of insults, he just looked on imively and continued with his task. He avoided Angela’s gaze and the pleading looks she gave him, a’cause she was desperate for him to jump in and help her. The laddies and lassies would surround her and shove her, all the while insulting her, and it took some eejit tossing a rotten fish at her for Tom to finally get up and run o’er to his so-called pals, elbow them out of the way, and stand in front of Angela to protect her. Everyone just gawped at him, utterly dumbfounded by this turn of events, but when they saw his furiously determined face, they all went off and left Tom and Angela alone. What they talked about then, we’ll ne’er know,’ said Carl. ‘But they stood very close to each other, hands clasped together, and Tom stroked Angela’s long, blonde hair. After a time, Tom went with the bonnie lassie to the edge of the village where Angela reluctantly made her way back to the bogland alone. Tom stayed on the road for a long while, waving to her as she went.’ Carl gave a shrug. ‘It was obvious to anyone looking at them that Tom and Angela had fallen in love, but the superstitious fishermen cobbled together a different story to explain their behaviour around each other: they were convinced Angela’d bewitched Tom to make him think he was in love with her. Now, Tom’s father was an honest, hardworking fisherman, and he knew his son better than the other village folk, telling them all that his lad’s love was natural and true. After all, Tom was nearly a man and Angela was bonnie and fair — but the village folk were relentless, reminding him how Uda Waithe was in league with the smugglers and the laird, and any relationship with her daughter would only put his lad in harm’s way. This seemed to do the trick, a’cause Tom’s father became very worried for his lad’s safety and forbade him from seeing Angela again. Tom was bitter about this and he rebelled, but his father was true to his word. Aye, he locked his son away to make sure Tom couldn’t disobey him. For the islanders, Tom’s resistance to his father’s wishes was more proof he’d been bewitched by Angela, and when she came back down to the village the next day,

she was chased off, the village folk telling her Tom had ne’er really loved her and he didn’t want to see her again.’ The flickering light from the fire was reflected in Carl’s light brown eyes. He looked despondent and appeared to have aged years in front of our eyes. ‘Aye, the tragedy was unfolding,’ he said in a hollow voice. ‘But Angela alone wasn’t at fault for what happened next, even though it was she who set the ball rolling. Everyone on the island played their part in the catastrophe.’ Carl sat up straighter in his chair. ‘Now comes the part of the story where my father enters the picture,’ he announced and smiled. ‘The following night, events shifted to this lighthouse island. I was only a wee bairn of around three at the time, and my mother had taken me with her to her sister’s on a neighbouring island. My father had lit the lighthouse early that night a’cause the fog was so thick and many of the fishing boats were still out at sea, and as was usual on nights like those, my father lingered in the lighthouse a little longer than normal, peering out at the foggy sea. He suddenly heard a noise, and when he turned around, he saw Angela standing right behind him with an iron pole in her hands, holding it threateningly o’er her head. She brought it down on my father with a crack, and her aim was good enough to knock my father unconscious. When he came to later, everything was in darkness, and he realised some eejit had extinguished the lighthouse’s lamp. My father got to his feet with a groan and looked at the dark figure standing next to him. “Angie,’’ my father said, “what’re ye doin’ here?’’ — “I’m taking revenge for the fishermen’s cruelty,’’ she said, her voice bitter. “They threw rocks at me...’’ — ‘“If ye does nae relight that fire, the fishing boats’ll crash on the rocks. Many folk’ll die!’’ — “Death doesn’t scare me,’’ Angela replied, “I watched my mother die. Why should the fishermen escape the same fate?’’ — “Yer mother’s dead?’’ my father asked, and Angela nodded. “She died a month ago,’’ she said. “She suffered for a long time with an incurable disease...’’ — “So now ye live all by yersel’ in the bogland?’’ It was at that moment that my father understood how lonely Angela must’ve been and how hard the village folk rejecting her must’ve stung. Suddenly, there was a large crashing sound that echoed around the rocks, together with the cracking of wood and loud, terrified screams. My father went pale. “A fishing boat’s crashed on the rocks!’’ he yelled in desperation. “We must relight the fire this instant!’’’

Carl’s head sank sadly into his chest. ‘But Angela was determined and prodded her iron rod into my father’s chest, tears running down her cheeks, and with her sobbing loudly. My father suddenly had a brainwave: “Tom’s out at sea!” he cried in desperation. “Do ye want him to die too? It’s nae his fault I locked him aways so he could nae rescue ye when the fishermen attacked ye!’’ Angela’s eyes grew wide and her hands started shaking. “Is that true?’’ she asked, sounding more worried. “Aye, lassie,’’ my father replied. “His boat is named the Cyrus.’’ Angela dropped the iron rod, grabbed the spyglass, and rushed o’er to the railing that surrounds the catwalk, searching desperately for the fishing boat. My father used the opportunity to relight the lighthouse lamp, before ing Angela out there, at the top of the lighthouse. The fog was so thick that night, you could hardly see your hand in front of your face, but under the dazzling light of the lighthouse, a black shadow could just be made out, heading straight for the plateau the lighthouse sat on. My father immediately recognised it as a fishing boat: its crew hadn’t noticed the lighthouse island until a few moments before and were desperately trying to turn the boat about a’fore they smashed into the cliffs — but it was already too late. The boat slammed into the rocks, wood splintering e’erywhere and terrified screams rang out in the fog. “It’s the Cyrus,” my father said in a low voice, reading the name of the boat painted on its stern. Angela could only look at him in shock. “Tom!’’ she called out in desperation, grabbing a storm lamp and running down the spiral staircase. “Where’re ye going?’’ my father called out to her. “I have to save Tom!’’ Angela cried back, “it’s my fault he’s in danger!” My father was still in shock at what had unfolded and wasn’t fast enough to stop Angela from doing something stupid, helplessly watching on as the lassie ran over the plateau rocks with the storm lamp in her hand. And that was the last time he saw her alive...’ Carl Short closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Beckie was standing behind him, massaging his shoulders. ‘You should take a wee break,’ she suggested, but the old lighthouse keeper just shook his head. ‘I want to finish the story,’ he insisted, flashing me and Jim a smile. ‘Who knows when I’ll next have such a captive audience?’ ‘Once word gets out about what a good storyteller you are, people will be

battering down your door to come listen to your spellbinding tales,’ Jim joked. Carl gave him a thoughtful look. ‘Ye flatter me,’ he said. ‘But ye’re mistaken if ye think this is just a tale. It all happened exactly the way I’m telling it.’ He took a sip of his tea and continued. ‘Now the lighthouse was operating again, the fishermen were able to get their bearings and save themselves from crashing on the rocks, but two boats were destroyed and three men had died. Though, by some miracle, Tom had survived. Angela was less fortunate, poor lassie: she was found washed up on the beach next morning, stone dead. She’d drowned trying to save Tom. The village folk were aghast at what’d happened and blamed Angela for the tragedy, deciding it wasn’t fit for her to be buried at the cemetery attached to the church, instead choosing to inter her somewhere out in the bogland. Tom was vehemently against the decision, as you can imagine, but his lone voice couldn’t change the minds of those stubborn fishermen, so the next day, my father and one of the fishermen carried Angela’s body into the bogland and buried her in an unmarked grave.’ Carl sighed. ‘My father ne’er said where exactly Angela was buried; all he’d tell me was she was buried a’side her mother on the hill where they’d both lived all those years in a rundown wooden shack. He told me Uda was a witch or a druid or of that ilk, but he never said how he ken that. They burned down that wooden hut, which I suppose means no one’ll e’er find Angela’s burial place...’ I suddenly ed the fog-enshrouded hill with the strange stone circle on it, where the sinister gravediggers had buried the black coffin, but I pushed the image out of my head and turned my attention back to Carl Short who continued with his story. ‘E’er since that day, Angela’s ghost has haunted the cliffs of Ogg,’ he said dramatically. ‘Folk say she won’t find peace till she’s helped a couple who are unhappy in love find each other. Whether that be true or not, I cannae say, but fact is, the islanders of Ogg have realised over the years that their behaviour was partly to blame for the tragedy at the lighthouse. Angela’s been forgiven for her part in it, and if we ken where she was buried, we’d disinter her remains and move them to the cemetery, but no one has any idea where that is, so folk have come to accept that her ghost’ll carry on roaming the island. She’s just a part of

the island now, no different from...’ ‘...no different from the people, and — unfortunately — the laird,’ Jim said, finishing off his sentence by paraphrasing what Frank Kyle had said to us before. Carl Short nodded in amusement. ‘Didn’t take ye long to figure out folk’s mentality here on Ogg, eh?’ he said, grinning.

***

We continued chatting for a while, but the old lighthouse keeper seemed worn out from his exertions, so about half an hour later we said our goodbyes, and I thanked him again for the information he had given me. He looked at me sternly. ‘If ye were an ordinary journo, I woulda gi’en you the potted version of what happened,’ he said. ‘But ye’re somethin’ special, lassie...’ He fell silent and shook my hand. Somewhat confused, I turned away, following Jim and Beckie out of the room that seemed to be stuck in a time warp with all the old tools strewn about in it. Beckie ferried us back to the island in her motorboat; wafer-thin sheets of fog had settled over the water, and the full moon hung low in the night sky, giving the fog an eerie glow, as if lit from within. Beckie dropped us off at the beach directly across from the lighthouse island, and once the keel ran aground, she took off her shoes and jumped into the shallow water. We did likewise. ‘What do you think?’ Beckie asked, as I stood next to her in the shallow water, the waves lapping against my feet. ‘Will the Wilkies stay on Ogg?’ I gave a vague shrug. ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that,’ I replied. ‘But I promised Frank Kyle I’d investigate what they’re up to.’ Beckie had a worried look on her face.

‘I was hoping things would take a turn for the better,’ she sighed. ‘Ogg’s long overdue a good laird. My grandfather’s story shows where fights and hatred lead to. If things continue like this, I’m afraid there’ll be more than one ghost haunting Ogg...’ And with that, she climbed back into the boat and, with the help of me and Jim who pushed it back out into deeper water, she turned it about and sped off again. I watched the boat go as it disappeared into the fog, my head full of thoughts. What had she meant by that? Jim laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘Jess,’ he said, looking at me strangely. ‘Are you finally going to fill me in on why you’re so interested in these peculiar stories? They’ve got nothing to do with our article on Ogg. Or are you planning on doing a report on ghost activity?’ I hooked my arm through Jim’s and we trudged across the beach towards the castle. The grim-looking building wasn’t visible in the thick fog, but I knew the path all too well from my nocturnal excursion through the bog. ‘Something strange is happening on this island,’ I began uncertainly. I hadn’t put my shoes back on yet and was enjoying walking barefoot over the damp sand, feeling the waves lap over my feet. ‘I have this vague feeling there’s more to the old lighthouse keeper’s ghost story than we think. The behaviour of the fishermen seemed strange to me too...’ Jim, who had already put his shoes back on, danced away up the beach slightly whenever a wave approached. ‘You don’t really believe this Angie exists, do you?’ Jim asked. ‘I’m convinced the islanders made it all up to try to scare off the new laird.’ I’d been staring at the ground this whole time, paying no attention to my surroundings, when suddenly I noticed a weak blue shimmer in the fog. Startled, I looked up, and at that very moment, a ghostly, translucent figure emerged from the swirling white fog! Jim stopped dead as though instantly paralysed by the sight of the figure, and an odd strangled sound escaped from his mouth. Just a few metres in front of us stood Angie, her long, flowing dress looking like a

shroud of frozen fog. The woman’s face, framed by long, cobweb-like hair, seemed deathly pale, and her wide eyes glowed yellow, as did the lamp she carried. Jim took my hand and pulled me away from the ghost. ‘Run, Jess!’ he called out in a shaking voice, pushing me ahead of him. ‘I must be going crazy... Angie really does exist!’ I stopped abruptly, causing Jim to crash into the back of me, and turned around. ‘Jim,’ I said. ‘Why are you running? You don’t even believe in ghosts. And besides, Angie’s a friendly ghost.’ ‘I think the professor Carl Short talked about might have a different point of view on that...’ I couldn’t prevent a grin from appearing on my face, as Jim looked fearfully over his shoulder, but Angie had vanished, leaving nothing but white fog in the place we had seen her semi-corporeal form floating. Jim let out a sigh of relief. ‘It... It must’ve just been the fog,’ he said uneasily, pointing to the light from the lighthouse that periodically pierced the fog. ‘After all those ghost stories, and with this fog, it’s no wonder I thought I saw a ghost.’ ‘But I saw Angie too,’ I insisted, not taking my eyes off Jim, whose face had contorted into a pained smile. ‘Then, I guess we’re both seeing things,’ he said stubbornly. ‘I refuse to believe in the existence of ghosts!’ He looked around uneasily, as though fearing his words might provoke Angie into appearing again, but to his relief, she was nowhere to be seen. There was only fog swirling calmly past us and lazily rolling over the beach. ‘Let’s get back to the castle,’ Jim said. ‘On the way, you can finally tell me why you asked all those strange questions in the pub.’ I nodded and hooked my arm back through Jim’s. ‘Okay,’ I began. ‘But don’t go complaining if you start seeing ghosts again. What I’m about to tell you would teach little boys around a campfire the

meaning of fear...’

***

I don’t know how long I had been sleeping peacefully without dreaming when a sudden noise jerked me awake. The full moon was shining directly into my room, and a quick glance at my travel alarm clock told me it was a little past midnight. I heard the strange banging sound that had torn me from my sleep again. ‘Jess,’ I heard a hushed voice say. ‘Jess, wake up. I saw the ghost.’ I shook off my drowsiness and threw back the covers. ‘Jim?’ I said doubtfully. ‘Is that you?’ ‘Shhhh!’ came the voice from behind the door. ‘Not so loud! Someone’ll hear us.’ I quickly pulled on my dressing gown and opened the door to find Jim standing there in his pyjamas. They looked old-fashioned and washed-out: they were dark blue with thin white stripes, and more than a little wrinkled. He looked frankly comical, and the camera slung over his shoulder was the cherry on top. He put his finger to his lips. ‘I just saw Angie in the castle,’ he whispered. ‘Now we can finally reveal the identity of this ghost.’ I gave Jim a doubtful look, but he grabbed me by the hand and dragged me out into the corridor, before pointing towards one end of it and setting off in search of the ghost. Jim crept down the hall, and seeing him trying his hardest to be as silent as possible, I decided to do him a favour and do likewise. We finally reached a large arched door that was ajar, which Jim slipped through with me following just behind. I stopped dead, my breath catching in my throat. We were in a spacious, circular

hall which had a high, domed ceiling. The dome had a gaping hole in it and the marble floor underneath was littered with debris, but the slim, marble columns that formed a kind of gallery around the room and the richly-decorated stucco on the ceiling told me this had once been the castle’s great hall. A wide, silvery beam of moonlight cascaded down through the hole in the dome and illuminated the flowery mosaic on the floor in the middle of the round hall, its beauty barely visible under all the dust and debris. The romantic yet eerie atmosphere in the hall wasn’t the only reason I had stopped in my tracks, though: the much more shocking sight was the ghost woman drifting across the hall towards the island of moonlight. Her thin, blue clothes rippled in the cool breeze and outlined the slender figure of a young woman with her back to us. She was carrying a storm lamp that only gave off a weak yellow glow which dimly reflected off her cobweb-like hair. ‘Angie,’ I whispered, my hand instinctively grabbing Jim’s. When the ghost woman had reached the middle of the hall, she stopped and peered around, as if searching for something. Jim quickly pulled me behind a large pile of rubble where we could observe the ghost woman without being seen. Then, all of a sudden, a second figure entered the moonlight from behind one of the columns, where I presumed he must have been hiding. It seemed this new figure wasn’t afraid of the ghostly apparition — just the opposite, in fact. Slowly but with a purposeful stride, the figure walked towards Angie, who put down her storm lamp and took the hand that was stretched out towards her. ‘It’s Robin,’ Jim whispered in surprise. I too recognised the Wilkies’ son, even though he had swapped his stained smock for an elegant black suit. He let go of the ghost woman’s hands and moved in closer, wrapping his arms around her. The ghost woman pressed herself into his body, and he bent down so they could share a long and ionate kiss. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, but I didn’t have time to ponder on the meaning of this romantic scene as Jim had darted out from our hiding place behind the pile of rubble and started sneaking up on the couple. After a little hesitation, I followed him. The strange couple — the young man and the ghost girl — were so preoccupied with each other, we were able to get within a few steps of them without being

noticed. Jim lifted his camera to his face and cleared his throat loudly. The startled couple spun around to look at us, giving Jim the shot he wanted, the blinding flash tearing the domed hall out of its dreamy darkness. Robin let go of the ghost woman and stomped over to Jim. ‘What... What do you think you’re doing?’ he said to the London City Observer’s star photographer, waving an accusing finger at him, but Jim just shrugged. ‘I’m on a ghost hunt,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘“Laird’s Son Caught Kissing Island Ghost!” That’d be a good headline to go alongside that photo, don’t you think?’ I could only stand and stare at Jim in amazement for how cool, calm, and collected he was being in this surreal, spine-chilling moment when my own heart was beating double-time in my chest. Robin looked guiltily over at the ghost woman who had her back turned to us again. He took her hand and pulled her towards him. ‘I’m afraid we’ve been caught.’ he said in a melancholy tone, and planted a kiss on the ghost’s deathly pale cheek, which must have been corporeal despite the ghost’s outward appearance suggesting otherwise. The so-called ‘island ghost’ used her free hand to pull at her hair, which turned out to be a wig, her long, curly, golden hair falling out from underneath it and shimmering in the moonlight. ‘Beckie Short!’ I gasped in astonishment as I recognised the ‘ghost’ as the lighthouse keeper’s granddaughter. Beckie nodded, looking defeated. ‘I was afraid you’d figure it out,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t think you’d rumble us this quickly.’ With longing in her eyes, she looked up at Robin who had a grim expression on his face. ‘You cannot tell my mother about Beckie,’ he said briskly. ‘She forbade me from seeing her because she has some rather outdated ideas about me marrying someone of noble bearing, but as you can see, my heart already belongs to another.’

He looked lovingly at Beckie who was wiping off her theatrical makeup with a corner of her ghost costume. ‘You’re old enough to make your own decisions,’ I said. ‘At any rate, it’s none of my business, or Jim’s. In fact, I’m much more interested to know why Beckie’s dres like a ghost and running around the castle scaring the living daylights out of Lady Sophie.’ Beckie looked apologetic. ‘It wasn’t my idea,’ she said softly. ‘The people of Oggmaddy gave me the task of scaring away the new laird.’ ‘It isn’t Beckie’s fault,’ said Robin, jumping to her defence. ‘When she first showed up in the castle pretending to be a ghost, she was so bad at it, I immediately spotted her and found out her true identity.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘Beckie actually looked quite fetching in her skimpy dress and horrible makeup. Luckily, my parents didn’t see her like that.’ Robin laid an arm round Beckie’s shoulders and pulled her closer. ‘When I discovered her, Beckie and I ended up crying with laughter. We got on like a house on fire, and I have to it, l fell in love with that clumsy ghost at first sight.’ Beckie rested her head on Robin’s shoulder and smiled blissfully. ‘After that, we met up every day,’ Robin continued. ‘And with every hour I spend with Beckie, I feel more and more sure that I’ve found the love of my life.’ A shadow fell across his face. ‘But I made the mistake of introducing Beckie to my mother, who, as you can imagine, was absolutely furious. She made no attempt to hide her rejection of Beckie, even insulting her for being orphaned and living with an old man on a lighthouse island.’ Robin pursed his lips bitterly. ‘That day, I swore I’d teach my mother a lesson. The villagers were also pressuring Beckie to continue haunting the castle, so I made Beckie look like the real island ghost everyone’s always talking about. This way, Beckie can haunt the castle like she’s been tasked to, while I can teach my mother a lesson for her outmoded way of thinking. But most importantly of all, this allows Beckie and me to meet up in secret every night. That is, until you discovered us just now...’

Jim flashed the young couple a smile. ‘If you don’t want me to, I won’t publish the photo or show it to anybody else,’ he said calmly. ‘Although I have to it, our readers would go gaga for your story.’ Jim gave a shrug. ‘But who am I to stand in the way of young love?’ Robin’s expression relaxed slightly and his hostility towards Jim seemed to drain away, but the London City Observer’s star photographer wasn’t finished with them yet. With a stern look, he turned to Beckie. ‘But what I want to know is why you decided to scare us like you did at the beach after we got out of your boat.’ Beckie looked at Jim uncomprehendingly. ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘The ghost at the beach,’ insisted Jim. ‘Jess and I bumped into Angie. And since you’re the one behind this masquerade, it must’ve been you playing a prank on us.’ Beckie shook her head. ‘I returned to the lighthouse island right after I dropped you off,’ she said. ‘Whoever you saw on the beach, it wasn’t me.’ Jim and I exchanged uneasy looks. Could the ghostly apparition we saw in the fog actually have been a real ghost? ‘Then... Then, there must be a second person running around dressed like Angie, I guess?’ said Jim. Or it was the real McCoy, I thought to myself. I suddenly ed my strange waking dream in which Angie appeared to me in the bog and showed me the route through it. Jim and I said our goodbyes to the young couple and returned to our rooms. How Beckie and Robin went about handling their problems in the future was their decision and theirs alone — after all, they were old enough to manage their own lives.

***

The next morning, Sir Adrian announced he would be travelling to mainland Scotland on business and asked if either of us wanted to hitch a ride down to the village. Jim accepted his offer as he wanted to chat to the villagers again, but alone this time: they likely had little trust in me after all the strange questions I had asked during the meeting, so that morning, Jim and I decided we’d have more luck if we split up. My mission was to carefully scour the bog to see if I could stumble across the strange stone circle again. If a relic like that really did exist on the island, forgotten by time, then its rediscovery would make for a great story, thrusting Ogg into the spotlight, if only for a short time. So far, our article was looking a little thin, which definitely wouldn’t go down well with Martin T. Stone if that’s what we handed him — though maybe our editor-inchief wouldn’t care too much if we returned empty-handed on this occasion, because after all, we had been sent to this isolated island at Arnold Reed’s request, not Stone’s. Robin hadn’t spoken to us again about our night-time encounter, and Jim and I made sure not to make any reference to it. I was interested to see if his mother would be able to change her mind and shed her prejudices concerning her son’s relationship with the lighthouse keeper’s granddaughter. I had to it, I was tempted to write about this unusual relationship for the London City Observer with Jim’s photo alongside, but as the couple had objected to that idea, it went without saying that we wouldn’t do anything to disrespect their wishes. After a rather meagre breakfast, I made my way down to the beach. The sun was hidden behind a thick layer of cloud, and a constant mild breeze blew over the island, banishing the last remnants of the previous night’s fog. I walked quickly and got to the beach in no time. The lighthouse was still half-obscured by fog, and the seagull’s cries sounded shrill and full of sadness. After following the beach for a while, I finally stopped and looked around at where I was, unsure of which direction to head in next. I didn’t exactly where I had exited the bog two nights before — likely because all the hills looked the same around here — but then I ed that I could see the lighthouse when I reached the beach, so the hill with the stone circle on it had to be somewhere nearby. I picked the closest hill to me and headed up it. The ground began to turn soft and damp almost as soon as I stepped off the beach, with moss, reeds, and grass defining the new landscape I found myself in. Jim had warned me to be very careful — though, to be honest, he hadn’t wanted me to go into the bog alone at all, but I’d eventually managed to get my way.

When I reached the top of the first hill, I stopped and looked around. Barren, hilly bogland stretched as far as the eye could see, making me recall Beckie’s words about how even the islanders avoided this area. As I looked out over the infertile land, I could understand why they avoided this silent expanse which stank of mould. The bushes on the hills looked wild and eerie, and in the windless dips between the hills, fog still lingered. Unsure of where to go, I went down the other side of the hill and stared at the marshy area that lay in front of me. Muddy pools bubbled between small outcrops of moss and grass that didn’t look capable of holding a person’s weight, and I suddenly realised how much of a miracle it was that I’d blindly wandered across the bog without ever falling into the mud or sinking without trace. I carefully picked my way around the pools towards another, flatter hill that was littered with thorny bushes. This is hopeless! I thought. I’ll never find the hill with the stone circle! I was about to head back to the beach, but at that moment, a ptarmigan took flight, drawing my eye towards the outline of a shadowy figure in the fog. Paralysed with fear, I stopped and stared wide-eyed at the figure: I saw it was wearing a long, fluttering cloak with a hood, leaving me in no doubt that it was one of the gravediggers from my waking dream. My blood froze in my veins. I looked around frantically for a place to hide, but the stranger was so close, I feared he must already have seen me. The fog swirled eerily around him, and his dark cloak flapped in the breeze. As he got nearer, I could see that his hood was pulled down over his face. He stopped only a step or two away from me — so close now that I could hear him breathing. What was he about to do? Had the gravediggers finally realised I had watched them carrying out their macabre burial? Had one of them followed me here to make me pay? He moved towards me again, but I was still rooted to the spot, and it wasn’t until he was almost on top of me that I took a step back, my foot landing in a sinkhole! I lost my balance and fell backwards towards the bubbling bog, but the stranger’s hand whipped out from under his cloak, and his strong fingers clasped my arm, stopping me from hitting the ground. He pulled me back upright and the bog let go of my foot with a loud squelch. My body cramped with fear as I almost lay draped over the stranger, but all of a sudden, he threw back his hood with his free hand, and I found myself staring into the gaunt, weathered face of old Stirling, the islanders’ representative who had taken the floor at the village meeting.

‘I must speak with you,’ he said gruffly, and his grey eyes showed it was urgent. ‘Your questions at the village meeting got me thinking, and this morning, I paid Carl Short a visit to talk to him ’bout them. He told me everything ’bout you... And I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s good someone finally knows what’s going on here on this island!’

***

Old Stirling had taken off his dark cloak and spread it out partway up the hill for both of us to sit on. We sat for a while in silence, watching the fog swirl past. ‘This bogland holds a horrible secret,’ Stirling began thoughtfully, his voice sounding raw and a little anxious. Just talking about it seemed like a real effort for him. ‘Carl already told you Angela Waithe’s buried up here somewhere,’ he said, his thin lips contorting into a weak smile. ‘And you know the name of the lad who fell in love with Angie too...’ ‘His name was Tom,’ I said. Stirling nodded solemnly. ‘Aye, but you don’t know his surname, do you? Carl purposely left that bit out, ’cause he didn’t want to drag me into the story without asking me if it was all right.’ I looked at him quizzically, not understanding where he was going with this. ‘Tom’s surname was Stirling,’ the old man said, much to my surprise. ‘He married another woman years after Angela’s death: my mother.’ He sighed and nervously played with a blade of grass that he’d plucked out of the turf. ‘My father never forgot Angela,’ he said sombrely. ‘He didn’t speak of her often, mostly ’cause he knew it’d hurt my mother, but when it was just the two of us and he was in a reflective mood, he told me of his first great love and the

devastating consequences this love had wrought.’ Stirling let his wistful gaze wander over the bog. ‘My father often went for long walks in the bogland,’ he continued. ‘It was said he was the only one in the village to visit this creepy, unfriendly place, but he didn’t come here to stretch his legs or ’cause he especially liked the scenery...’ The old man shook his head. ‘What brought him to the bogland was knowing his beloved Angela was buried here somewhere.’ Stirling sighed again and sat up a bit straighter. ‘But my father’s long dead now. He died two years before my mother. I’ve become an old man myself, with three grown-up children living in Glasgow and a grave where my wife is buried.’ He looked at me with his clear grey eyes. ‘My wife was buried at the cemetery next to the church, though,’ he said. ‘I can visit her grave whenever I want and reminisce about the love we shared. My father never had that, so I understand why he was drawn to the bogland to search for the last resting place of his departed lover...’ He pulled a hip flask out and offered it to me, but when I caught the whiff of malt whisky, I politely declined. ‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you ’bout something else entirely,’ he said after taking a long gulp of whisky from his hip flask. ‘You asked ’bout another cemetery on the island? I don’t know why you’d ask that, but Carl assured me you’re special — a woman with extraordinary abilities, he said — and we should count ourselves lucky that fate brought you to Ogg. Maybe now, we can finally get to the bottom of all the strange goings-on on the island, ’cause I’m sure our island ghost’s just the tip of the iceberg.’ I looked at old Stirling uneasily. This talk of ‘abilities’ sounded exactly like something Aunt Bell would say; she never missed an opportunity to bring up my so-called ‘supernatural abilities’. Though, I was more disturbed by his inference about strange things happening on Ogg, only strengthening the vague feeling I already had about the island. ‘It all started around thirty years ago,’ Stirling began. ‘It was a stormy and bitterly cold winter’s night when someone came a-knocking on my door. We had just the one child at the time — a one-year-old who was fast asleep as it was

already midnight. Despite the late hour, me and the wife were chatting away by the fireplace, and I still how startled we both were by the thunderous bangs on the door. I opened the door to find a stranger in a sinister-looking cloak with the hood pulled down over his face on our doorstep — and come to think of it, in the years that followed, I don’t think I saw his face once. Anyway, I asked the stranger what I could do for him, and his voice was hollow and ghostly when he answered. “I need a ferryman,” was all he said. I told him there was a regular ferry that went between our island and the main island, Barra, but he didn’t seem satisfied with that answer. “I’m looking for a boatman with a capable vessel who will travel from Mull to Ogg at night,” he explained. That made me pause for a moment while I considered his request. Mull’s a peninsula on the coast of mainland Scotland, you see, several nautical miles from Ogg; in my fishing boat, it’d take hours to get there. As I was thinking ’bout the logistics of it, the stranger took out a small pouch from under his cloak and handed it to me. “I’ll pay you generously for your labour,” he said plainly. I opened it and could hardly believe my eyes when I saw the number of old gold coins glinting back at me. Of course, I couldn’t let this lucrative opportunity me by, so I agreed to work for the stranger, and he told me ’bout a small harbour on Mull where he wanted me to be the next night. Then, he handed me a cloak which was the same type as the one he was wearing, and as it happens, the exact same one we’re sitting on right now.’ I cast an uneasy eye over the tattered material underneath me. It wasn’t lost on me that the gravediggers had worn the exact same cloaks. ‘“Wear this cloak every time we meet,” the stranger told me, before turning away and disappearing off into the stormy night. My wife, who’d been standing behind the door listening, had gone pale with fear. “That was Death himself,” she said in a low voice. At the time, I laughed at how ridiculous she sounded. It was true that I had an uneasy feeling ’bout the whole thing, but seeing the gold had sent my worries packing.’ Stirling took another sip from his hip flask before continuing: ‘The following night, I tied my boat up in the harbour on Mull. The stranger was already waiting for me, his dark cloak fluttering ominously in the biting winter wind. He had a black box at his feet and my heart nearly stopped when I realised it was a coffin. My first thought was: My wife was right! I’ve made a deal with Death! But it was too late to back out by that point. For one, I still wanted the gold, and for another, I feared what the stranger might do to me if I suddenly broke off our

agreement. So I mustered up all my courage and loaded the heavy coffin onto my boat, with the stranger jumping on board too. Then we began the long journey back to Ogg.’ Old Stirling jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the beach behind us. ‘That’s where I was meant to leave the cargo,’ he said. ‘The stranger demanded I turn off the navigation lights on the boat because he didn’t want us to be seen. We brought the coffin to shore in the rowboat where I was finally rid of that creepy cargo, and the stranger told me to return to my boat and go back home. I didn’t need telling twice, let me tell you. It was an odd image I left behind on that beach, to be sure: the stranger in his flapping cloak standing next to the black coffin. What the stranger did next with the coffin, I have no idea, and I didn’t dare ask him when we met again either.’ A chill washed over me and I rubbed my arms to get some warmth into them. The story Stirling was telling me was no less unnerving than the one about Tom and Angela’s unfulfilled love: both were equally creepy and mysterious. Yet what shocked me most about Stirling’s story was the black coffin: it sounded exactly like the one I saw the gravediggers burying in the stone circle in my waking dream. ‘The stranger visited me at irregular intervals over the next few years,’ Stirling continued, interrupting my thoughts. ‘He always came shortly before midnight, banging loudly on the door. My wife always knew immediately who it was and would rush to protect the children, but the man in the cloak never showed any interest in my family. He simply gave me pouches full of gold coins and said he would be expecting me in the harbour in Mull the following night. The routine was always the same, and after a few times of doing it, I started to fear him a little less. In fact, I was beginning to believe he was just your run-of-the-mill smuggler who used the coffin to hide his contraband. When the stranger left me alone with the coffin for a few minutes one night, I decided I’d finally find out what we’d been transporting all these years. With my hands shaking, I loosened the screws on the coffin lid and levered it off. I nearly screamed when I saw there really was a corpse in the coffin. The body was wrapped in white linen with only the head poking out, and the sight of those hollow cheeks and parchment-like skin pulled tight and thin over the poor sod’s skull will never leave me...’

The old man shuddered. ‘I hurried to close the coffin again, and I’d just finished putting the last screw back in when the stranger came out of the trees and headed over to me. For one long moment, I was afraid he’d left me alone with the coffin to test me, maybe even observing me through the trees... but if he had been, he never mentioned it, and he didn’t do anything different from all the other times we’d done this journey. Me, on the other hand... Aye, I was very nervous after that and the coffin nearly slipped out of my hands when we were carrying it.’ Stirling paused and stared thoughtfully into the swirling fog. ‘How many trips have you made over the years?’ I asked. ‘Six or seven,’ Stirling said. ‘The last one was three years ago, and I haven’t seen him since. Maybe a younger fisherman took my place. The coffins were heavy and it was getting more difficult for me to transport them...’ ‘And you never talked to anyone about these strange trips?’ I wondered aloud. The old man shook his head. ‘There’re things that ought not to be talked about,’ he replied. ‘My reputation in Oggmaddy’d be mud if people knew I’d done business with Death.’ I nodded my understanding. The islanders were not exactly the most tolerant of people, and tended to be superstitious and highly suspicious, though there were exceptions to that rule. The two old men’s stories had shown me that. Stirling awkwardly got to his feet and I quickly did likewise to give him a hand. ‘Thanks, lass,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I finally got to tell someone of the mysterious goings-on on the island. I hope it helps you in some way.’ I gave a vague shrug. The stranger from Stirling’s stories could definitely have been one of the gravediggers I’d seen a few nights prior, but I was still struggling to figure out why he transported those corpses to the island and who the dead were. I let my gaze wander over the hilly, marshy landscape one last time. If only I could find that stone circle again... but it would be nigh on impossible to search for it because the bog was simply too dangerous in this thick fog. ‘Have you spoken to the laird?’ asked Stirling, who had rolled up his cloak and put it under his arm.

I shook my head. ‘I haven’t had chance yet,’ I said. ‘But I’ll go back to the castle now and speak with Lady Sophie. I’ll let you know when I’ve found out more about the Wilkies’ plans.’ Stirling shook my hand and said goodbye, then we both went our separate ways. I walked along the beach towards the castle, and when I looked back one last time, Stirling had already disappeared into the thick fog.

***

When I got back to the castle, I suggested to Lady Sophie Wilkie that I could take care of dinner for her, which she gratefully agreed to after a poor attempt at feigning reluctance. After half an hour in the kitchen, I carried the tray of food to the large parlour where Lady Sophie was sitting at the table, leafing through a lifestyle magazine. ‘Food’s ready,’ I announced, setting the other end of the table. ‘Will Robin be ing us?’ I asked. I already knew Sir Adrian was away on a business trip. Lady Sophie, who was wearing an elegant outfit and whose hair looked freshly styled, got up and walked over to the other end of the table where I’d laid the place settings. ‘I knocked on his studio door and asked if he was hungry,’ she said, peeking under the lid of the pot. Her face lit up as she got a whiff of fresh vegetables. ‘But there was no reply,’ she said, sitting down in front of a plate and looking expectant. ‘He’s probably working on some new piece, I shouldn’t wonder. That boy often cuts himself off from everyone and cocoons himself in his own little world. He specifically told me I wasn’t allowed into his studio.’ ‘What kind of stuff does Robin paint?’ I asked. Lady Sophie shrugged. ‘Oh you know, modern stuff, that kind of thing,’ she said casually. ‘Personally, I adore artwork from the Romantic era.’ She gestured theatrically to the paintings on the wall. ‘Robin’s paintings do find buyers, though,’ she said. ‘There’s a gallery in Glasgow that exhibits them.’

I filled our plates with meat and vegetables, and I wondered to myself whether Robin had spoken to his mother about Beckie yet — though I figured it would be indiscreet of me to ask her directly, so I decided against saying anything about it. Besides, I had promised old Stirling that I would broach a different subject with Lady Sophie. From the way she wolfed down the meal I’d made, I could tell she liked it. ‘I haven’t eaten that well in a long time,’ she said shyly. ‘It’s high time Adrian found us a housekeeper. I’m a terrible cook, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.’ ‘What are your plans for the future?’ I asked. ‘Do you really plan on staying and living here in this castle?’ ‘Well, of course,’ Sophie said, almost indignantly. ‘Why else would we be planning to renovate the castle?’ ‘Sorry if my question offended you,’ I said. ‘It’s just that the islanders are suspicious, after some bad experiences with your predecessors, and when I was in Oggmaddy, they told me they didn’t know of any local contractors who had been hired to do up the castle.’ Lady Sophie furrowed her brow. ‘My husband takes care of these things,’ she said dismissively. ‘I don’t know anything about such matters.’ We ate for a while in silence. Lady Sophie’s face, however, became increasingly pensive. ‘You know, it’s strange,’ she said finally. ‘For several days now, I’ve been asking myself what Adrian has been up to, digging up the garden. His explanation that he was “doing it in preparation for the landscaper” seemed off to me. He’s never been interested in gardening, you see. I thought nothing of it at the time as I’ve got my hands full with the interior decor plans, but now you’ve brought it up, it does seem rather strange indeed that no contractors or gardeners have shown up yet.’ Lady Sophie energetically dabbed her mouth with a napkin and stood up decisively.

‘You and I will go to Adrian’s office right now and find out once and for all whether he’s hired contractors or not!’

***

The laird’s office was a small room with a view overlooking the overgrown garden that was dotted with an inordinate number of holes the laird had dug. Other than an old desk and a chair, the room was empty. Lady Sophie approached the desk and opened all of the drawers. ‘Empty,’ she said, much to her consternation, and continued yanking open drawer after drawer until she finally found something: an old leather-bound book and a few loose sheets of paper which seemed to be the blueprints of the castle and garden. Lady Sophie put on her spectacles, leafed through the book, and looked at the maps, while I stayed in the background. ‘That scoundrel!’ she cried suddenly. ‘That absolute rotter!’ She turned to me, her face a picture of fury. ‘Do you know what he’s been doing this whole time?!’ she said, laughing bitterly. ‘He’s been searching for treasure!’ I couldn’t hide my bewilderment. ‘Yes, you heard right!’ Lady Sophie exclaimed. ‘He’s taken me for a fool this whole time. All that stuff about dreaming of living on Ogg was a load of old guff.’ She held up the book. ‘This is the diary of one of the previous lairds, a chap who lived here some eighty years ago, and it would seem he was involved in some kind of smuggling racket. Adrian got this book at auction — I the day he brought it home. Unfortunately, I never bothered to read it, otherwise I might have suspected what he was up to sooner. I have just skimmed the ages Adrian marked in red, and it says that the laird was murdered by his accomplices, but before he met his grisly fate, he hid a large amount of gold somewhere near the castle instead of sharing it around his henchmen.’

Lady Sophie ruffled her hair. ‘And Adrian, that simpleton, has fallen hook, line, and sinker for this nonsense, and is hunting for treasure instead of sorting out the contractors. When Adrian gets back, I’ll be giving him a piece of my mind, let me tell you!’ Lady Sophie beckoned me to follow her, and we left the office together. ‘I must speak with Robin immediately,’ she announced, stomping off towards her son’s studio. When Robin didn’t answer after several raps on the door, Lady Sophie lost patience. She grabbed the doorknob and pushed the door open. The studio was dark and empty. An unfinished oil painting stood on an easel, depicting a romantic-looking lake with a pair of swans gracefully swimming side by side. Next to it was a second easel, a little smaller than the one with the unfinished painting, and on it, an art book lay open on a photo of a painting of a pair of swans that Robin had obviously copied. Lady Sophie gasped as she approached the smaller of the two easels. ‘It’s a painting by Caspar David Friedrich,’ she said, before bending down to inspect the still-drying oil painting. ‘It looks just like the original!’ Lady Sophie let out a groan and collapsed into a chair. She had turned pale and was staring at me wide-eyed. ‘The oil paintings Adrian gave me... They’re all fakes! Painted by my own son!’

***

‘When I spoke to Arnold Reed, the owner of the London City Observer, and convinced him to send his best journalist to Ogg, I hadn’t counted on all this coming to light,’ said Lady Sophie. I raised an eyebrow in surprise. So Lady Sophie was to thank for our little excursion to Ogg, huh? Because of her, Jim had been forced to give up his

cemetery scoop — he would’ve loved to have got a few snaps of the graverobbers. ‘A photo of Doctor Flesh as he’s bending over a gravestone with a shovel in his hand, digging up a coffin on a foggy London night — that’s what I’m missing in my collection,’ Jim had said on the journey over. ‘Instead, I’ve come all the way out here to photograph sheep and lighthouses!’ Lady Sophie and I sat across from each other in front of the crackling fire in the large parlour. Dusk had begun to settle over the island and heavy storm clouds were gathering in the sky above, lashing rain against the windows. ‘In my mind, I imagined a spell-binding article alongside stunning, atmospheric pictures,’ Lady Sophie explained. ‘I wanted to get people talking about Ogg, so that this lonely godforsaken island and its ungrateful islanders would finally look up to its new laird and his wife...’ She shook her head bitterly. ‘Instead, I discover my husband hasn’t lifted a finger to get this castle renovated, preferring to dig for imaginary treasure in the garden, while my son paints forgeries that my husband then generously gives to me as presents, claiming they’re originals.’ Lady Sophie wiped away a tear, and I suddenly felt sorry for her. She had probably hoped the purchase of Ogg would lead to her once again moving in the kinds of circles she expected of her noble status, but things hadn’t worked out that way so far. Lady Sophie nervously glanced at her watch. ‘Where is Adrian?’ she asked quietly. ‘He should have been back hours ago.’ We suddenly heard a noise in the entrance, followed by footsteps approaching the parlour. Lady Sophie sat up straight in her chair, looking regal, and regarded Adrian with a cold stare as he entered the room. Sir Adrian’s sparse hair was sopping wet and matted to his head. He made a disgruntled face, gave his wife a kiss on the forehead, and turned to me. He didn’t even seem to notice the mood Lady Sophie was in. ‘Your colleague, Jim Brodie, left me standing out in the rain for hours,’ he growled. ‘What was he thinking? We agreed I would pick him up on my way back to the castle this evening.’ I looked at him, confused. ‘Jim isn’t here,’ I replied. ‘I know he can be a bit disorganised at times, but when it comes to his work, he’s more reliable than

anyone.’ ‘So you don’t know where Mr Brodie is either?’ Sir Adrian asked. I shook my head, my thoughts whirring. I couldn’t explain Jim’s actions, but he must have had a good reason for not keeping to the schedule that had been arranged. I looked out of the window, a knot tightening in the pit of my stomach; the rain streamed down the glass and the faint glow of lightning lit up the distant sky. Where could Jim have got to in this horrible weather? Lady Sophie suddenly got to her feet and stepped in front of her husband, her fists planted firmly on her hips. ‘Isn’t it about time you came clean?’ she said, ambushing him, her cheeks red with fury. Sir Adrian just blinked at her in confusion. ‘What are you talking about, dearest?’ he asked with an uncertain smile on his face. Lady Sophie furiously stomped over to the nearest painting, wrenched it off the wall, and threw it onto the roaring fire. ‘They’re all fake!’ Lady Sophie screamed hysterically. ‘How long do you plan on keeping up your little ruse? I want you to finally tell me the truth about why you bought this island and what your plans are for it!’ Sir Adrian looked utterly distraught. He had gone visibly pale, and he slumped into a nearby chair, still staring at his wife. ‘You... You found out?’ he stammered. Lady Sophie nodded angrily. ‘I just cannot fathom why you would do this to me!’ Sir Adrian’s shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘I... I feared this moment was coming all year long,’ he itted quietly before looking up at his wife. ‘But I only did all of this because I was scared of disappointing you...’

‘Get to the point, will you?’ Lady Sophie snapped. Sir Adrian nodded. ‘Business hasn’t been as good as I’d led you to believe. To be honest, we’re nearly bankrupt, but I wanted to save you from the shame of watching your family become impoverished for a second time.’ Sir Adrian covered his eyes with his hand. ‘I asked Robin to make a few copies of some Romantic era paintings. I knew how much you loved those paintings, and I didn’t want to disappoint you by telling you we couldn’t afford to buy any more of them. But my financial situation kept getting worse, and we were plunging deeper and deeper into the red, so I decided I would tell you everything.’ He gave a shrug and smiled bitterly. ‘But then I got my hands on the diary of the former laird of Ogg at auction and found clues in it that hinted at the existence of a hidden treasure trove, just waiting to be found. I didn’t know what else to do. This fabled treasure trove seemed to be the only way out of the financial mess we were in, so I sold our mansion, our stock portfolio, and my ailing company, and bought the island.’ Sir Adrian sighed. ‘I thought I’d find the treasure in no time,’ he continued. ‘But it turns out, I’ve made a big mistake. I fear I’ve spent our last penny on a fantasy. We can’t afford a contractor, let alone a cook...’ ‘And Robin knew the truth the whole time?’ Lady Sophie asked sternly. Sir Adrian shook his head. ‘Only part of it,’ he said, defeated. ‘Where... Where is Robin, anyway? I feel he should be a part of this discussion.’ I took advantage of this opportunity and quickly got to my feet. ‘I’ll go get him,’ I offered. I felt a little uncomfortable having to witness this scene, and if Lady Sophie hadn’t explicitly asked me to stay, I would’ve made my excuses and left the hall a lot earlier. Though, at least this way, I had heard everything from the horse’s mouth. Lady Sophie nodded at me gratefully and I left the room. The dark corridors seemed sinister and scary, so I scurried along them as fast as I could towards Robin’s studio, only to find that it was as dark and gloomy as the rest of the castle. The dimly lit room seemed to stare back at me, the canvases casting

bizarre shadows across the walls. I called out Robin’s name but received no answer. Where could he be? Another secret rendezvous with Beckie? I suddenly heard a loud knocking echoing through the castle. Someone was at the front door. Maybe it was Jim or Robin? I got to it at nearly the same time as Lady Sophie and Sir Adrian, who had brought a candle in a holder from the parlour, its flickering light casting ghostly shadows over the piles of rubble in the entrance hall. ‘Robin isn’t in his studio,’ I informed the couple as Lady Sophie went to open the door. Outside in the pouring rain was Beckie, her pretty face peering out from underneath the hood of a grey rain jacket. ‘Good evening,’ she said politely, looking around uncertainly. ‘Is Robin there?’ she asked. ‘I was supposed to meet him.’ Her gaze was directed at Lady Sophie. ‘We wanted to speak with you...’ Lady Sophie raised a sceptical eyebrow: it seemed she already had an inkling that there were yet more uncomfortable truths she would have to face that night. ‘Robin isn’t home,’ she said frostily. Beckie’s expression darkened, and she shot me a worried look. ‘My grandfather said I should tell you that the ferryman came back to Ogg tonight,’ she said out of the blue, before shrugging. ‘I don’t know what that means exactly, but Grandpa said you’d understand...’ I understood what it meant all too clearly. His mysterious words could only mean one thing: the stranger was bringing another black coffin to Ogg. Old Stirling had suspected another fisherman had taken over from him, and it seemed he was right. ‘I’ll be there right away,’ I said, turning to fetch my jacket from my room. ‘I’ll accompany you,’ Beckie offered. ‘But first, you’ll tell me what you and my son wanted to talk to me about,’

insisted Lady Sophie.

***

Beckie’s face was beset with worry as we walked down the beach, the storm lamp in her hand casting a pale light around us. Rain fell into our faces and the wind pulled at our clothes. Beckie had somehow mustered up the courage to it to Lady Sophie that she loved Robin, and had even confessed to pretending to be the ghost to frighten her at the behest of the islanders. Lady Sophie had listened with a stony face without once interrupting or reproaching the young woman. ‘I wish to be alone now,’ Lady Sophie said when Beckie had finished. She had turned around without another word and had headed back to the parlour. Wringing his hands together, Sir Adrian had scurried after her, stammering apologies, but Lady Sophie had paid him no attention, instead slamming the door shut behind her and locking it. ‘I’m worried about Robin,’ said Beckie as we walked side by side. She raised her hand to shield her face as the wind blew in under her hood and made it billow. ‘Why didn’t he come? I don’t believe he was too scared to tell his mother the truth.’ I couldn’t answer Beckie’s questions, and to be honest, my thoughts were on another man who hadn’t shown up at an agreed time that evening: Jim. Where could he have got to? I was beginning to get worried about him too. Beckie and I walked in silence for a while, lost in our own thoughts. Eventually we reached the place where her boat was moored up. Beckie had pulled it onto the beach to prevent it from being carried away by the waves, and we were just about to push it back into the water when I suddenly froze. Only a few feet away, a ghostly apparition was floating through the fog, carrying an old-fashioned storm lamp. It was Angie! I carefully tapped Beckie on the shoulder and pointed to the ghostly apparition that seemed to be staring at us with her yellow eyes. Beckie let out a shrill scream. ‘Angie!’ she whispered quietly. ‘I’ve never seen her so clearly before.’

The ghost slowly turned around and headed for the hills. ‘I... I think the ghost of Angela Waithe wants us to follow her,’ I commented. Hadn’t she led me safely through the bog to the hill with the mysterious stone circle the first time I encountered her? Maybe she had wanted me to find that stone circle and the gravediggers? All of a sudden, I was sure the ghost woman wanted to lead us to the standing stones again. After all, Beckie’s grandfather had said another coffin was on its way tonight... ‘I’m going to follow Angela,’ I said, and was just about to push Beckie’s boat back into the water when I saw that Beckie had her fists on her hips and was looking indignant. ‘Well, I’m obviously coming with you,’ she said firmly.

***

‘She’s vanished!’ Beckie hissed, looking around frantically. We were surrounded by swirling fog and the silhouettes of nearby hills, with the bog bubbling at our feet. The ghost of Angela Waithe had led us a good way into the marshy bog, but she seemed to have evaporated into the fog, and we knew we would never find our way back alone. Beckie was upset at what had happened. ‘It was a mistake trusting Angie. After all, she was the daughter of a witch.’ I put my index finger to my lips to signal her to be quiet while I listened. Strange noises could be heard over the croaking of frogs and rustling sounds made by other amphibians and reptiles; noises that certainly didn’t belong in a bog. It was then that I caught a whiff of the sweet aroma of hydrangeas in bloom, and I spotted a bizarre, upright stone on the hill in front of us. ‘We’re here,’ I whispered to Beckie and pulled her up the hill by her arm.

We hid behind the standing stone, and I cautiously looked down into the small dip that was surrounded by a dozen or so strange-looking stones. I instinctively held my breath when I saw the strange scene playing out in the stone circle: a figure in a dark, flowing cloak was standing in front of the two altar stones in the middle of the dip, and he seemed to be up to something. The clouds parted and the full moon that appeared directly above the stone circle pulled the small hollow out of the dark, allowing me to get a clear view of the two men lying on the stones, seemingly either asleep or unconscious. The clouds drifted back in front of the moon and it went dark again, but for a fraction of a second, I thought I recognised Jim and Robin as the two unconscious men on the altar stones. But that was impossible! I turned to Beckie and was about to ask her if she had recognised the men on the altar stones, but the girl was looking past me, her eyes wide with fear. With a sinking feeling, I turned around... and found myself staring at another cloaked figure. The stranger, whose face was completely hidden under his hood, was holding a long boat hook threateningly above his head. ‘Get up!’ he barked in a growly voice. ‘I’m takin’ you to the master.’

***

‘Well, well, it looks like we have a few more guests at our small but important ceremony,’ said the cloaked man standing in front of the altar stones who I guessed must be the ‘master’ the other man spoke of. He was probably the same man who’d hired Stirling to bring the first of the black coffins to Ogg. ‘Too bad you won’t be able to tell anyone about it,’ he continued. ‘I’d rather this was all kept hush-hush, if you know what I mean. So I’m afraid I will have to kill you afterwards, even though it pains me to do so.’ Startled by this direct threat, I tried to back away, but the man with the boat hook dug his fist into my back. It seemed fleeing wasn’t an option, and even if it had been, I would probably only have made it as far as the nearest sinkhole. Beckie began to sob.

You have to try to stall! I heard the words hammering in my head. Maybe Beckie’s grandfather or the Wilkies will call for help when they notice we’ve gone missing. ‘What are you planning on doing with Jim and Robin?’ I asked worriedly — after all, even though we were in peril ourselves, the men on the altar stones were our friends. The ‘master’ laughed harshly. ‘I don’t think you’d understand even if I tried explaining it to you.’ ‘I know more than you think,’ I said, trying to get him to spill the beans. ‘You’re burying bodies in front of these stones on this hill.’ The man stiffened and I got the feeling that his eyes were boring a hole into me from under his hood. ‘I don’t know how you found out about our little secret,’ he said suspiciously. ‘But that knowledge won’t do you any good once both you and your attractive friend are buried on this hill with them.’ ‘You’re a cold-blooded killer!’ I yelled at him. ‘Don’t you feel a shred of remorse for all these people buried here?’ ‘I’m not some common killer!’ he said, vehemently denying my accusation. ‘The dead I have brought here all died a natural death, more or less, and I did nothing to contribute to their deaths either. I was simply in with each and every one of them when they were still alive, telling them about this island and the unique qualities of this particular hill. The leader of the smugglers who did business here eighty years ago was a relative of mine, and thanks to his notes, I found this hill again.’ He theatrically stretched his arms wide. ‘The fishermen didn’t understand what they had done when they buried Angela Waithe here. This stone circle is an ancient, magical place. Angela’s mother was a magnificent sorceress who recognised this and used magical incantations to attempt to awaken the dormant forces of this mystical stone circle. But before she could use those forces, she died of an incurable disease.’

I looked around uneasily. So this was where Angela Waithe was buried! ‘Those clueless fishermen cursed Angela’s grave,’ the cloaked man continued, ‘which ended up activating the forces of the stone circle, and ever since, Angela Waithe has been damned to walk the island as a ghost: a fate shared by anyone buried under one of these magical stones!’ The stranger let out another harsh laugh. ‘The dead I have brought here and interred are millionaires, wealthy gangster bosses, or rich, vain little old ladies. All they wanted was a life after death, so I obliged, drawing up contracts with them that said I would dig up their graves after their proper funerals so they could be reburied here on Ogg, in this mystical stone circle. To perform this task, I hired a few superstitious islanders to ferry the coffins from the Scottish coast to Ogg, with another helping me bury them.’ ‘But why do all this?’ I asked. ‘The magic of this place ties the souls of my clients to the mortal realm,’ the socalled ‘master’ explained. ‘They are trapped in the stone circle awaiting new bodies to enter. Tonight, the last coffin has been put in place, which means I can begin the real work now.’ He painted a magic rune on Jim’s and Robin’s foreheads with a strange liquid. ‘Two of my clients will possess these young men’s bodies in just a moment,’ he said. ‘They will be the first of many. This island is full of young people who will soon share their fate.’ He picked a silver cup up off the ground and placed it to Robin’s lips. All of a sudden, Beckie kicked the cloaked man holding the boat hook hard in his shin; he cried out in pain and let his weapon fall to the ground. Instinctively, I threw myself at the ‘master’, shoving him in the chest with both hands. He teetered back and the cup slipped out of his hands, but he quickly regained his balance. His hood, however, slipped back off of his head and revealed a face that looked oddly familiar. The large nose, the bushy eyebrows... I’d seen them before! ‘Doctor Flesh!’ I cried, ing the police sketch Jim had shown me and Stone in Stone’s office. Standing before me was the mysterious plastic surgeon who was one of

Interpol’s most wanted for his involvement in a number of unsolved crimes. Doctor Flesh had last been seen in a London cemetery, where he had dug up a grave and stolen a coffin and the corpse inside. It suddenly hit me that the dead person from the London cemetery was one of Doctor Flesh’s ‘clients’ and by this time, was no doubt reposing under one of these magic stones... Both men were much stronger than the two of us, so it wasn’t long before they had restrained us again.

***

Beckie and I knelt on the ground, the cloaked man’s boat hook hovering threateningly above our heads again. Doctor Flesh poured out some fresh liquid from his thermos into the silver cup, again bringing it to Robin’s lips. ‘No!’ Beckie screamed in desperation. ‘I love Robin. Don’t hurt him!’ Doctor Flesh just grinned evilly. Love didn’t seem to mean anything to him. The fog suddenly parted, and a group of figures entered the stone circle, led by Lady Sophie of all people. The wind had made a total mess of her hair, and her elegant dress was looking the worse for wear, but she had a determined look on her face. ‘Let go of my son this instant!’ she yelled at Doctor Flesh. The fishermen and Sir Adrian then rushed into the hollow, quickly overpowering Doctor Flesh and his henchman. It was all over in a matter of moments. When they pulled back the hood of the man with the boat hook who was still trying to fight back, the gaunt face of the man who had stared at me during our visit to the pub was revealed. Lady Sophie approached me and Beckie, turning to her and looking her straight in the eye before telling her: ‘You are a brave and fearless young woman. Robin won’t find a more suitable wife among the ennobled!’ Beckie got up and ran over to the altar where Robin was still lying, proceeding to cover him in tender kisses.

‘Robin! Robin, come back to me,’ she whispered in desperation. That was enough to make Robin’s eyes suddenly snap open, and when he saw it was Beckie in front of him, he put his arm around her neck and pulled her down towards him, their lips locking in a long, ionate kiss. An ice-cold wind suddenly gusted over the hill, and the sound of loud, hollow, polyphonic moaning could be heard. ‘No!’ screamed Doctor Flesh, trying to free himself from the fishermen. ‘My clients’ souls! They’re free! How can I finish the job now?’ Lady Sophie smiled contentedly and nodded. ‘Angela Waithe will now finally be at peace,’ she said, and when she noticed my questioning look, she added: ‘It was the ghost of Angie that led me and the fishermen to this place. We have her to thank for saving you, Jim Brodie, Beckie, and Robin. And she taught me I shouldn’t stand in the way of the true love my son and Beckie share.’ She laughed weakly. ‘When the apparition suddenly appeared in the hall, I thought Beckie was trying to trick me again, before I realised I was looking at a real ghost.’ She shuddered at the memory. ‘I was paralysed with fear, but then I became aware of this strange whispering. It was Angie trying to tell me something. She told me my son and Jim Brodie were in grave danger, and that I should round up the fishermen. She said she would lead us to the place where both men were being held against their will.’ Lady Sophie gave a shrug. ‘Adrian thought I had lost it completely when I phoned them down in Oggmaddy and gathered all the fishermen together. It was strange, though: as soon as I told the fishermen the real Angie had appeared, they promised they would come right away. When they had all arrived at the castle, Angie led us to this hill in the bog, and it looks like she did so just in time.’

***

Jim and Robin recovered quickly from their ordeals. By the next day, they were completely back to normal, even if they had no memory of the terrible night, with Jim even believing I was trying to play a joke on him when I told him what had happened. The last thing he ed was being lured into a dark alley with the promise of valuable information by the man who had given me evils at the village meeting. As soon as Jim had rounded the corner, he had been struck down. Robin, on the other hand, had been attacked by Doctor Flesh while he was taking a stroll down the beach in search of inspiration. Doctor Flesh was arrested the same night, and the corpses exhumed and returned to their original resting places. The remains of Angela Waithe and her mother were given a new burial in the churchyard in Oggmaddy. When they were digging up all the coffins in the stone circle, they made another discovery: the former smuggler-cum-laird of Ogg’s buried gold. So in the end, Sir Adrian Wilkie did end up with the money to save his family from bankruptcy after all, and the first thing Lady Sophie did was hire a cook and contractors to fix up the old castle. However, Beckie Short and Robin Wilkie were the happiest of the lot, because now nothing stood in the way of their love, and it was all thanks to Angela Waithe. Stone would be positively awestruck when Jim and I returned with so many stories and old legends for our readers, and in a few months’ time, we would return to the island to report on Robin Wilkie’s marriage to his darling Beckie.

THE END

Under the Green Phantom’s Spell

In a spartan plank bed — the only furniture in the room — the young woman tossed and turned restlessly, plagued by terrifying nightmares. The dark stone walls of the old, abandoned castle were cold and bare, and the pale light from the full moon fell through the narrow window, accompanied by a light breeze that could do nothing to chase away the heat of the previous day. The young woman with shoulder-length blonde hair wore only a short, sheer nightie but despite that, she had thrown off the covers. She gasped loudly as her nightmare became too terrifying to bear and finally jerked awake, her eyes opening... and staring at a new, but all too real nightmare. At the end of the bed stood a glowing green figure, and it was immediately clear to the young woman that it was a ghost, for the spectral figure wasn’t standing, it was hovering. It looked as if it had thrown a glowing green sheet over itself with slits for its eyes and mouth, but Gracie Lewis could tell this wasn’t just someone pulling a prank — she could sense that this apparition was indeed a denizen of the shadow world. A curse of some sort immediately took hold of her, and she felt as though she’d been hypnotised. No! Please! she pleaded in her head. No, this... this can’t be happening. Please leave! I don’t know you! I haven’t done anything to you! You’re scaring me! Please leave! Her fear was immeasurable, and as naked panic overwhelmed her, she felt like screaming at the top of her lungs, but she found she couldn’t utter a single sound, no matter how hard she tried. The sound of her pounding heart filled her ears, but outwardly, she seemed calm. Strangely calm, in fact, because in truth, she would have loved nothing more than to curl up into a ball in the furthest corner of the gloomy room. Her body, however, seemed unwilling to oblige. Please just leave! she begged in her thoughts. Please leave! You’re scaring me! The figure eyed her intently, its eerie glow casting a sinister light around the room, before floating over to the heavy, timber door. The spectre beckoned

Gracie to follow it, then simply phased through the massive door. Gracie’s legs swung out of bed of their own accord. What am I doing? she thought to herself. Why aren’t I staying in bed now that this strange figure has left the room? Her bare feet slapped lightly on the cold stone floor as she made her way over to the locked door. She turned the key in the lock and walked out into the corridor, where the eerie figure was waiting for her, waving to her again to follow it. No, I don’t want to! the blonde young woman shouted in her head. I want to go back to my room! I don’t want to see this ghost anymore! What am I doing here? But despite her best efforts to resist, Gracie followed the green phantom. She trailed it all the way to the castle’s desolate courtyard, which was doused in the eerie, silvery light of the full moon. Battlements with towers sprouting from them and small, ading structures loomed up in front of Gracie, dark and menacing. The ghostly figure floated across the castle courtyard with Gracie following close behind to a strange fountain set into a wall that had hideouslooking creatures carved into the stone. Are these strange beings alive? Gracie wondered. In the pale light of the moon, it almost looked like they were. The glowing green figure finally stopped and turned to Gracie, her sheer nightie billowing gently in the breeze, before stretching its arms towards the young woman and wrapping them around her body. No! I don’t want to! Let me go! Let me... Gracie sunk into the blackness of unconsciousness.

***

I was sitting at my desk in the open-plan office of the London City Observer, staring at the slightly yellow-tinged, white partition screens around me. Sunlight

streamed through the slits in the blinds and sketched a bright, stripy pattern on my desk and my work materials. The temperature was almost unbearable by London standards: summer had gripped the metropolis, and the small fan on my desk could do little to stave off the scorching heat that reigned supreme in the tabloid’s offices. Everyone was struggling in the midsummer heatwave, and even the usual hustle and bustle of the office had been stifled out of existence. Only Martin T. Stone, the London City Observer’s editor-in-chief, seemed unaffected by the tropical heat, acting like he always did — as though his journalists hadn’t noticed the plethora of red-hot stories just waiting to be written. Though in reality, it was the exact opposite: the whole city seemed to be dozing in a heatinduced lethargy, and as a result, there was little going on in London to write about. Nearly nothing, in fact. This year’s summer news slump couldn’t possibly have slumped any further. That’s how I found myself assigned to the sports desk of the London City Observer. Carl Shaefer — the guy usually responsible for producing the newspaper’s sports section — was off ill, probably a victim of the summer flu that had been going around, which had become front-page news due to the lack of anything else significant to write about. And you’d think I would have been happy to finally write about something other than the flu ‘epidemic’ or the summer smog, but my first interview as a sports reporter had quickly put a dampener on my initial enthusiasm. Now I wasn’t exactly what you’d call unathletic, and a thrilling sports contest excited me as much as the next person, but conducting an interview with a professional boxer could really put a journalist through their paces. I shuddered as I thought back to the interview: the pro boxer’s name was Todd Niven, nicknamed ‘The Killer’, and he was the son of an English dockworker and an Indian immigrant. He was beefy, as you’d expect, with an angular head, and his smooth black hair clung to his scalp as though clapped to it. The boxer’s facial features were rough-hewn, his narrow nose seeming like a foreign object nestled in the middle of them, and by the looks of it, it had been broken multiple times. His brown eyes shone dimly, and the boxer’s gaze couldn’t exactly be described as intelligent as he looked me up and down — but Todd Niven was a fan favourite and hotly tipped as a world champion in waiting. In the season, he was expected to contest a world title bout, and many boxing fans in England were already hailing him as one of their great champions of the sport. An article on Todd ‘The Killer’ Niven was an absolute must for the London City Observer, and Carl Shaefer had planned the interview long in advance, so that

morning, I had gone to the boxing club Niven trained at, in the hopes of getting a few punchy lines out of him. Sadly, I didn’t really get anything of value. I turned on the dictation machine sitting on the desk in front of me, hoping to find something — anything — in the boxer’s words I’d recorded that might be of use to me for my article. ‘What do you believe your chances are for the season?’ My own voice spewed forth from the device, and I was immediately transported back to the training room again...

***

For the duration of the interview, we stood opposite each other in the boxing ring that took pride of place slap bang in the middle of the room like some kind of pedestal. We were completely alone, and the narrow strips of light that fell through the small windows near the top of the tall ceiling gave the dim, shadowy room an eerie feel. Punchbags, punching balls, and other assorted sports gear lurked like bizarre figures in the semi-darkness. ‘’m the best!’ the boxer replied simply in a gruff, vulgar kind of way. He was dripping sweat as he’d been working out moments before we started the interview, and he stood in front of me like a statue, with only his eyes in constant motion, looking me up and down. Despite the soaring temperatures, I was regretting wearing only shorts and a light blouse, as the boxer’s unconcealed ogling was making me feel very uncomfortable, his broken nose making him look even more unfriendly. ‘Which of your challengers do you fear the most?’ I said, moving onto my next question, my uncertain voice betraying my unease. ‘’m not scared of anyone,’ he growled in response. ‘’m all-conquerin’!’ There was a sudden crackling from the dictation machine, as in that moment, Todd Niven had taken a step towards me and bumped his broad chest into the microphone, which I had been holding protectively between us at arm’s length

like some kind of weapon. I had backed away from him until I had felt the ropes pressing into my back, but the boxer had followed me across the ring, reaching out with his grubby mitts and clasping the ropes either side of me so that I was trapped between the muscular arms. I had let out a disgusted yelp, but that hadn’t stopped Todd Niven from pulling me towards him. The speaker on the dictation machine continued to crackle. ‘Let go of me!’ I yelled furiously. ‘Yer well fit,’ the boxer said, as though he expected this attempt at a compliment to make me melt in his arms. I desperately looked around for a way out of this situation, but we were still all alone in the training room. There was zero chance of me overpowering this man who towered over me, and there was no one around to save me through some act of chivalry. Then I ed a note Carl Shaefer had left about this pro boxer — a note that didn’t seem to fit with all the other notes I had on him, which seemed to focus purely on his sporting achievements. Carl Shaefer had apparently received a tip-off that Todd Niven was involved in illegal arms deals, supposedly with a paramilitary group in India fighting for some obscure religious goals. The note had been very vague, and all my research down that particular rabbit hole had turned up nothing to corroborate the allegation. I had even tried phoning the ailing Carl Shaefer at his flat to ask him about it, but I’d got no answer. I had disregarded the topic when prepping for the interview, but in this moment of peril, my mind turned to this seemingly incongruous note. Maybe asking Todd Niven about it would shock him so much, he’d let me go. ‘Rumour has it you’ve been involved in illegal arms deals,’ I put it to him directly. ‘What do you say to these accusations?’ Todd Niven froze and glared down at me, seething. He finally let go of the ropes and took a step back. I let out a loud sigh of relief — which was clearly audible on the recording — but I quickly realised it was too early to start thinking I was out of the woods. ‘Who told ya that?’ Todd Niven asked accusingly. I gave a vague shrug. ‘Their name escapes me right now,’ I said nonchalantly, and it wasn’t a total lie as Carl Shaefer’s notes hadn’t said who the source of the allegation was. The boxer balled up his fists in rage and shook one threateningly

in front of my face. ‘Anyone accusin’ me of that’ll get this ’ere hammer to the face!’ he growled. ‘If yer plannin’ on using that story to launch a smear campaign against me, my lawyer’ll take ya to court for slander!’ How eloquent and talkative Todd Niven had suddenly become! What I hadn’t managed to achieve with my questions on boxing, I had finally accomplished with the help of a little incidental memo: Todd Niven had come out of his shell. And I wasn’t about to let him off the hook that easily — his reaction showed that there was more to this story than I had initially realised. ‘Are you implying you’re being investigated for weapons smuggling?’ I said, firing off my next question. Was I mistaken or had the sweaty boxer’s face gone a bit redder? ‘’Course not!’ he thundered. ‘Only them cowards who’re gonna face me coulda started rumours like that, an’ I’ll make ’em pay for it in the ring, jus’ ya watch. Anyone spreadin’ rumours about me is gonna feel my wrath! Everyone! Ya got that?’ ‘Are you threatening me?’ I asked coldly, feeling completely in my element again. My interviewee said nothing, which suggested he was smart enough not to threaten me while he was being recorded, but his face, contorted with fury, spoke volumes. He reached for my dictation machine, and tried to take it from me, but suddenly, one of the punchbags moved, and the squeak of the chain it was dangling on could be heard on the recording as a dark figure emerged from behind it. Todd Niven turned away from me in alarm, staring intently into the semi-darkness of the hall. I took advantage of this opportunity to slip between the ropes and jump down from the boxing ring, before I too looked around at the strange figure. It must have been a woman as she was wearing a form-hugging black dress and an elegant black hat with a dark veil that obscured her face. The way the mysterious woman stood there, silent and motionless next to the swinging punchbag, seemed almost accusatory, her veiled face turned towards Todd Niven. ‘What’re ya doin’ ’ere?’ the boxer yelled at the woman, but she didn’t react, which only enraged the boxer even more. My interview had already worn his

patience thin, but the stranger in black mourning attire standing silently and staring accusingly at him seemed to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. Todd Niven leapt over the ropes, and landed softly next to me, then barrelled towards the woman in black. Suddenly, there was a flurry of movement: the woman nimbly grabbed the heavy punchbag beside her and swung it towards the onrushing boxer, who wasn’t able to dodge it. The woman’s reaction had caught him completely by surprise. There was a loud crash as the heavy punchbag careened into his broad chest, accompanied by a gasp as he had the wind knocked out of him, but it wasn’t enough to deter the well-built man. He staggered backwards momentarily, but quickly regained his balance and went to pounce at the woman... who had vanished! I could have sworn she had been standing there between the punching balls moments before, but in the blink of an eye, she had melted back into the shadows. An agitated Todd Niven ran in and out of the punchbags, looking around frantically for her, but the mysterious stranger had disappeared into thin air. ‘If that was one of yer newspaper mates, yer gonna pay for this!’ he screamed at me furiously. I thought it best to make myself scarce at that point. Todd Niven was beside himself with anger, and I had no desire to feel even a third of it. I spun around and rushed towards an exit, stumbling through it and into the corridor outside. I suddenly found myself standing in front of three men — Japanese tourists, as I quickly determined. The three Japanese men were dressed in tailored summer suits, and each one was carrying a camcorder. I guessed they must have somehow got lost while touring the building. When Todd Niven stormed out into the corridor behind me, the three men held up their camcorders and aimed them at ‘The Killer’, chittering excitedly and calling out the boxer’s name, who they had apparently recognised. Todd Niven froze, and a moment later, the furious look on his face had completely disappeared and was replaced by a sour grin. I pushed my way past the Japanese tourists and quickly exited the building. Lost in thought, I turned off the dictation machine and looked at my sparse notes on the desk, realising how difficult it would be to write a sensible article from them. What was bothering me even more, however, was the stranger in mourning attire who had disappeared as suddenly as she had appeared. Todd ‘The Killer’ hadn’t seemed to recognise her at all. Why had she hidden herself away in that room? And why hadn’t she identified herself?

***

When the phone on my desk rang, I was thankful for the brief interruption. Working on this article was boring me to death, and even though I’d nearly finished a draft of it, I wasn’t convinced of its quality. ‘Jessica Bannister,’ I announced into the receiver. ‘Hello, Jess. It’s Norman Asgard,’ a voice said on the other end of the line. ‘Do you me?’ I thought for a moment and then it came back to me. I had met Norman Asgard while holidaying on a luxury cruise liner. He was friends with well-known English actress Gracie Lewis, and during the cruise, there had been strange goings-on which the three of us had inevitably got caught up in. The whole debacle had thankfully ended well, and Gracie, Norman, and I had become fast friends along the way, promising we’d meet up again soon, though we were still yet to arrange anything. My job at the London City Observer didn’t leave me much time for doing stuff with friends, and as the lead actress in a romantic TV series, Gracie faced similar difficulties. ‘Of course I you,’ I replied cheerfully. ‘How’s Gracie? Is she back in front of the cameras?’ ‘Gracie pours her heart and soul into her acting,’ replied Norman Asgard with a chuckle. ‘Which means we don’t exactly get to see each other all that often, but we never fooled ourselves into thinking it’d be any different. Her job makes having a private life nigh-on impossible. I still love Gracie more than anything though, so to make sure I don’t die of longing, I’ve opened an acting agency.’ He paused and I heard him let out a deep sigh. ‘Jess,’ he began again, this time sounding worried. ‘I won’t lie to you. I’m calling for a very specific reason: I’m worried about Gracie.’ ‘How come?’ I inquired.

‘Gracie and her film crew are currently off filming in an old castle near Canterbury,’ he said. ‘It seems strange things are going down there. Gracie feels... threatened, and like she’s being stalked. She hasn’t spoken to anyone other than me about it so far because even she finds the whole thing preposterous, but from what she’s said, it sounds like the castle is haunted...’ Norman trailed off before picking up his train of thought again. ‘I’d go up there myself, but I’ve got to go to New York tomorrow to do some major networking that’ll hopefully catapult my agency into the limelight and make it everyone’s first port of call for actors in London. I wouldn’t usually ask, but other than myself, Gracie doesn’t have anyone else she can trust. As you know, she grew up in an orphanage in London, and doesn’t know her relatives, meaning she’s all alone in the world...’ ‘So you want me to visit Gracie on set, is that it?’ I summed up. ‘Exactly,’ Norman continued. ‘I don’t know who else to turn to. After what we went through on that cruise, you seem to be the only one I can tell about Gracie’s fears, and I know Gracie well enough to know that something really mysterious must be going on in that castle.’ ‘What exactly has been going on?’ I asked. ‘Gracie told me a strange, glowing, green apparition visited her, and she’s hardly sleeping. She’s not having a good time of it at all...’ I thought for a moment, and looked disgruntledly at the sports article in front of me. Maybe I could convince Stone to get some other reporter to cover the sports desk and send me to the set instead. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I said. ‘I can’t promise anything, though. I’ve got work commitments too.’ Norman let out a sigh of relief. ‘I knew I could count on you,’ he said. ‘Call me on my agency number when you’ve found out if you can make it out to the set.’ He gave me his phone number and we said our goodbyes. I had barely hung up the receiver when someone approached me from behind, their shadow falling across the partition screen in front of me. I turned to see Stone’s new secretary: a young woman with short black hair and hard, determined eyes. I couldn’t recall her name, though it was hardly worth committing the names of Stone’s

secretaries to memory, as he burned through them like nobody’s business, changing them nearly as often as regular people change shirts. His last secretary, an attractive blonde, had been fired only a few days before for daring to take a private call while at work. ‘Stone wants to see you in his office this instant,’ said the black-haired woman, her face showing no emotion. I sighed, picked up my draft article from my desk, and followed Stone’s secretary through the maze of cubicles in the open-plan office. When we got to Stone’s office, she knocked on the milky glass that made up the top third of the door and had the legend MARTIN T. STONE engraved on it. I heard a gruff ‘come in’ from behind the door, and the secretary opened it, signalling for me to enter. I looked at the woman with an uncertain smile, noting how practised and cool she seemed, doing everything by the book and making no attempt to interact with the other employees. Probably the best way to stay employed under Stone, I thought to myself, sardonically. Stone was already waving impatiently. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said, obviously in a bad mood, and gesturing for me to take a seat in front of his desk. ‘And Miss Drexler, bring me a cup of coffee!’ he called out to his secretary who had just closed the door behind her. The usual disorder reigned over Stone’s desk: letters, draft articles, and newspaper clippings formed a chaotic mess that only Stone could successfully pick his way through. A secretary once cleaned up Stone’s desk in his absence, causing the entire newspaper to grind to a halt for nearly a day because Stone could no longer find any of his papers. Of course, that secretary found herself cleaning out her own desk by the end of the day. Looking more than a little wolflike, Stone was hunched over his desk, only looking up at me for a moment to fix me with a penetrating stare. He had dark hair that was greying at the temples that framed his handsome, manly face, and he was as impeccably dressed as always. I knew there was a friendly man hidden behind that rough exterior, but as I looked into his piercing blue eyes, I suspected his softer side had taken a backseat for the time being, and his bad-tempered side was holding the reins. ‘What did you do to Todd Niven when you interviewed him?’ he yelled at me.

‘Niven’s manager called me a few minutes ago and put in a complaint. He also told us, in no uncertain , that we couldn’t publish the interview.’ I shrugged nonchalantly, and placed my draft article on Stone’s desk. ‘I figured that might happen, so I didn’t include the interview in my article. It’s not like he said much, anyway.’ Stone’s brow furrowed suspiciously, and he picked up the draft. As he scanned it, I added: ‘Besides, I’m the one who should be complaining about him. He got quite pushy during the interview. Much too physical for my liking.’ Stone looked up at me briefly, his face softening and showing no sign of its previous ire. ‘Well, that would certainly explain why you were so rude to him,’ he said. Miss Drexler came in and put a steaming mug of coffee on the desk in front of Stone. It astonished me that he could even stomach a hot drink when it was so unbearably hot and humid out. Stone absent-mindedly reached for the mug and took a sip, his face immediately lighting up and causing him to look up in surprise. ‘This coffee’s really good,’ he said to his secretary who was quietly making her way out of the office. ‘I can’t when I last had such excellent coffee.’ Miss Drexler was apparently unmoved by the compliment and left the office without a word. Stone just shrugged and smiled thinly, before turning back to me. ‘This article’s dull as dishwater,’ he said, not mincing his words. ‘I can’t print this in the Observer. An article on a crochet competition at a day centre for the elderly would be more exciting than this.’ I nervously tugged at the hem of my blouse, almost feeling like I did on my first day at the London City Observer when, fresh from my journalism course, I’d rocked up looking to fill the vacancy that had opened up here. Stone would’ve preferred to give the job to a more experienced journalist, but my great-aunt,

Beverly Gormic, who I’d lived with since the death of my parents, had used her connections with Arnold Reed, the owner of the London City Observer, to get Stone to give me a chance. Back then, Stone had intimidated me with his prickly, gruff manner, and the first assignment he handed me was one he was certain I wouldn’t be able to get anywhere with, but I had given it my all and convinced him of my abilities as a journalist. ‘I just feel like the sports desk isn’t my bag,’ I suddenly found myself saying. ‘I don’t gel with the in-your-face machismo of boxing champs. What I need is a real challenge. A red-hot story that has more to uncover than the fact my interviewee has more muscles than brains.’ A large grin spread across Stone’s face. Then his eyes narrowed, and he fixed me with a penetrating stare. ‘Spit it out,’ he said impatiently. ‘You’re already sitting on something, aren’t you?’ I nodded. ‘It’s about Gracie Lewis.’ Stone’s brow furrowed. ‘We wrote an article about her only recently,’ he said dismissively. ‘They’re only showing repeats of past seasons of her show on TV at the moment. No, that won’t take anyone’s mind off this damn heatwave.’ ‘Filming just got underway for the new season,’ I said. ‘But things seem to be going wrong up there.’ Stone shook his head and handed me back my draft article. ‘Forget about it,’ he said firmly. ‘Use your time to rewrite your article instead. I want an attention-grabbing sports article on my desk in two hours’ time. Is that clear?’ I took the draft article from him with a resigned sigh and stood up. Stone had already turned his attentions to another article, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to convince him to send me to where Gracie Lewis was shooting her TV series. I left his office feeling decidedly dejected. My head was hanging so low, in fact, I barely clocked the strange look Miss Drexler gave me as I walked past her

desk...

***

I hopped in my cherry-red Mercedes 190 and navigated the narrow streets of London to go see Norman Asgard. The sun had already set, but it was still unbearably humid, and a thick blanket of cloud had formed in the night sky, creating a bell jar of sorts over the city that trapped in the heat. I had put down the roof of the two-seater, enjoying the mild breeze it afforded, and faintly mesmerised by the light from the street lights reflected off the long, curved bonnet. The classic car had been a gift to my great-aunt Beverly — or Aunt Bell as I called her — from her husband, my great-uncle Frank, on their wedding day. Frank Gormic had been a world-renowned archaeologist before he went missing without trace on his last expedition, and was subsequently declared deceased. Since Aunt Bell was never one for sports cars, she had ed the old Mercedes to me when I was old enough to drive. I had phoned Norman again in the afternoon and explained the situation to him, telling him I’d need more information about the strange goings-on on set, because for one, I didn’t want to leave Gracie hanging if she was in trouble, and for another, I hoped to convince Stone of the need to cover the story at a later date, but to do that, I’d need something that would make the whole thing more appealing to my editor-in-chief. A black limousine suddenly came out of nowhere, overtook me, and cut in front of me before coming to an abrupt stop. I instinctively slammed on the brakes, grinding to a halt just centimetres from the limousine’s bumper. Upset with this erratic display, I beeped my horn — and froze. Something about the limousine seemed strange: its lights were off, its number plate was unreadable, and it had tinted windows, meaning I couldn’t see who was inside. A few seconds later, the car doors were thrown wide and three men clad entirely in black were darting towards me. All the men were wearing sunglasses and black hats pulled down so that their faces were largely hidden from view. It wasn’t hard to guess that they meant trouble. I didn’t even have time to put the car into reverse before one of the men grabbed me and pulled me out of my seat by my hair, making me

scream in pain. ‘It’s no good screaming,’ one of the men hissed. ‘No one’ll hear you here. Street’s empty and all these buildings are offices, and no one works in ’em this late at night.’ ‘What... What do you want from me?’ I stammered in fear. ‘We just wanna make sure you’re a smart young woman,’ the man said ominously. ‘I... don’t understand,’ I replied. ‘You’re hurting me!’ ‘This little fleabite’s nothing compared to what’ll happen to you if you don’t keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you.’ The man’s voice was cold and emotionless, and I guessed I was probably dealing with a professional gangster. ‘This is your one and only warning,’ he continued, tugging my hair even harder. His face was inches from mine, and I could smell cigarettes and alcohol on his breath. ‘Keep writing your harmless little articles, but don’t go trying to fill up the sports pages with exposés,’ he said, dangerously quietly. ‘Take my advice and you’ll live longer. And I bet you’re asking what’ll happen if you ignore it: Well, let’s just say, you might find yourself looking up at the radishes from below in your new home, six feet under.’ He let go of my hair, and dropped me back onto the seat, before bending over, taking the keys out of the ignition, and dropping them into his coat pocket. With an authoritative wave, he signalled to the other men who returned to the limousine. ‘Think about what I’ve said. We won’t warn you again. Next time you see us, you’ll find out we always hit the nail on the head, if you catch my drift.’ With that, the man slammed his car door shut, and the limo sped off down a side street, disappearing into the dark. I let out a sigh of relief and rubbed my painful

scalp. The men’s threat had been crystal clear, and I think I knew who I had to thank for the uncomfortable scene that had unfolded out here tonight. It seemed the question about illegal arms deals I had asked Todd Niven had disturbed more people than just the boxer himself. Had I poked a hornets’ nest? It sure looked like it. With trembling fingers, I turned on my hazards and got out of the car, my knees feeling almost too weak to me, like they could give way beneath me at any moment. What should I do? I didn’t have my car keys, so that scuppered any chance of continuing my journey to see Norman Asgard. Then I suddenly ed that Aunt Bell had another set of keys for the Mercedes. For better or worse, I’d have to call her and ask her to take a cab to where I was so she could bring me the keys. Of course, Aunt Bell would be beside herself about the incident, but there wasn’t much I could do about that. I looked around the dark street hesitantly, but there wasn’t a telephone booth in sight. The mobile phone my partner-in-crime Jim Brodie and I sometimes used on assignments was unfortunately locked away in my desk drawer at the office, because I hated carrying that wretched thing around with me. So it looked like I would have to walk around for a while to find a payphone. I slammed the car door shut angrily, and began walking back towards the busy main road. A figure suddenly emerged from the shadowy entrance canopy of one of the buildings nearby, making me freeze in fear. It was the mysterious woman in black! Sticking to the shadows of the buildings, she was hurrying away down the street, but her form-hugging black dress and her fashionable hat were unmistakable. Had she been watching me this whole time? ‘Stop!’ I called out and started heading towards her. ‘Wait! I want to ask you a question...’ But the woman just picked up her pace, and even though I tried to catch up to her, she was already too far away and much faster than me. She had already proven how agile she was in the boxing gym, and I knew I didn’t have a hope of catching up to her. So it came as no surprise when I rounded the corner onto the busy main street and found that the mysterious woman had disappeared into thin air.

***

The restaurant I ended up at bore the somewhat fancy name of ‘Rendezvous’, and as I opened the door, I found myself in a foyer that certainly lived up to the promising name. A velvety-red carpet covered the floor, and burgundy wallpaper with a gold border adorned the walls, with large sweet-smelling bouquets in painted floor vases standing proud in the many corners and recesses. Behind a richly decorated wooden counter — which I assumed was the cloakroom — a smartly dressed woman was handing two guests their jackets, and as the man turned around to help his companion into her jacket, I stood rooted to the spot when I saw who it was. The man, catching my eye, did likewise. ‘Mr Stone?’ I said in surprise. Stone rolled his eyes, and when I saw who the woman he had dined with at this classy ‘Rendezvous’ restaurant was, I understood why. His rather attractive companion was none other than Miss Drexler, his new secretary! She was wearing a tight-fitting red little number that accentuated her curves — not to mention her cleavage — and in her hand, she was holding a small bouquet of red roses. Stone coughed uncomfortably; obviously getting caught having a rendezvous at Rendezvous by one of his journalists was something he found more than a tad embarrassing. ‘I... I just came in to use the phone,’ I stammered, and pointed to the oldfashioned black phone on the wall. I turned away quickly and picked up the heavy receiver, turning the oldfashioned dial which emitted a low whirring sound as it spun. After a few seconds, I got through to Aunt Bell and gave her a brief rundown of what had happened. When I’d finished, she promised she would make her way over right away. Relieved, I hung the receiver back up and turned around to find Stone standing directly behind me, much to my surprise. His expression was a serious one. ‘I hope you’ll keep this little unexpected meeting between us,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I don’t want my staff at the newspaper getting the wrong impression of me, you see. Miss Drexler is an exceptional woman. I hope you understand I don’t usually wine and dine my secretaries.’ The thought had never even crossed my mind. Stone hardly treated his

secretaries like queens, and I couldn’t help thinking that it was far more unexpected that one of those put-upon women would even want to spend more time with the tyrant-in-chief after a stressful day at the office with him. My colleagues would probably think I was playing a joke on them if I told them about Stone’s little date at Rendezvous with Miss Drexler. Of course, I wisely kept all of these thoughts to myself, instead staring imively at Stone, when an idea struck me. Maybe bumping into each other so unexpectedly could be beneficial to me after all... Stone sighed, signalling his defeat. ‘Fine,’ he said, proving just how easily he could see through his employees. ‘Name your price for forgetting what you saw here today.’ I pretended to be offended at the mere suggestion. ‘I’m an upstanding, honest journalist and I cannot be bribed like that,’ I replied, enjoying the sour look on Stone’s face. ‘But... if you’ll let me visit Gracie Lewis at her filming and get someone else to cover the sports section, I’d be prepared to keep my lips firmly sealed over what I’ve witnessed here tonight.’ Stone looked at me for a moment, surprised by my response, before nodding. ‘Agreed,’ he said, even breaking out into a grin. ‘I’m probably doing the London City Observer a favour, anyway: your rewrite of that article on Todd “The Killer” Niven was dire. Go see Gracie Lewis, but don’t you dare come back without an exciting story to tell!’ I felt a weight lifting from my shoulders. I was overjoyed at the idea of getting out of London for a few days — the incident with the three gangsters was still at the forefront of my mind. Stone’s expression went serious again, and I noted that he hadn’t taken his eyes off me this whole time. ‘You look worried,’ he said, sounding almost paternal. ‘I heard what you told your great-aunt. Those guys didn’t sound like they were messing around. How did you get yourself into that mess?’ I told Stone about the memo I’d found among Carl Shaefer’s papers. ‘I don’t have any proof that Niven’s actually involved in arms deals,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure those guys will make good on their threat if I try to investigate it any further.’

Stone nodded in agreement. ‘Stay well away from that story,’ he said. ‘I’ll inform the police and make sure your name doesn’t appear anywhere in their investigation. I appreciate your talent for uncovering mysteries and blowing cases wide open, but in this particular instance, we should let the authorities handle it. After all, what use is a dead journalist to me?’ I laughed acerbically, but it was a comforting feeling knowing I could rely on Stone when I got myself into difficult situations. He demanded the utmost from his journalists, but stood behind them one hundred percent when the going got tough. Stone said goodbye and turned back to his secretary who had kept to the background. She hooked her arm through his, and they left the restaurant together. Just before she disappeared through the door, she looked at me over her shoulder, and I could’ve sworn she had the most peculiar look in her dark, mysterious eyes...

***

I recounted the whole story to an attentive Aunt Bell on our way back to our old Victorian villa in Hampstead. The breeze created by the car winding through London’s streets blew through her grey curly hair, and she regarded me from the enger seat of the Mercedes with no small amount of worry on her round, good-natured face. ‘It’s good you’re getting out of London for a few days,’ she said as we reached the house at almost the same time as I finished the story of my night. The tall poplar trees stretched their limbs high up into the sky, looking like giant guardians protecting the almost eerie-looking building behind. Not a single leaf on them moved in the windless night air. We went inside the house and I wished Aunt Bell a good night — which she returned with a kiss on my forehead — before heading straight up the stairs to my room on the first floor, as Aunt Bell disappeared into the gloomy corridor that led to her rooms. The whole of the first floor was considered my living area, and we jokingly referred to these rooms as the ‘occult-free zone’, since they were the only rooms in the house that weren’t packed to the rafters with archaeological artefacts and objects of the occult. In fact, the downstairs rooms

were more like rooms in a museum than a house, as Aunt Bell developed a habit of exhibiting archaeological finds her late husband, Frank, had dug up before his mysterious disappearance. She also had a penchant for the occult and all things supernatural, collecting everything from newspaper articles to supposedly magic crystal balls, and much, much more. As an illustration of just how odd the decor of the house was, I had to sneak past four peeling, half-rotten figureheads salvaged from ships that hung on the entrance wall just to reach the stairs. There was also a small curio cabinet next to the stairs containing Aunt Bell’s mineral collection; the clear, pointed crystals inside were allegedly for channelling energy and supposedly excellent for necromancy. Aunt Bell took such things very seriously, and believed wholeheartedly in the supernatural, but she still kept her critical faculties and had in fact caught a number of charlatans in the act over the years. My thoughts remained on my great-aunt for a while longer as I got ready for bed. Aunt Bell and her frankly barmy home which I had lived in since the age of thirteen always made me think of occultism and magic, especially as Aunt Bell believed I possessed supernatural abilities and could foresee the future in my dreams. I still wasn’t totally sold on the idea, despite a number of strange coincidences and bizarre nightmares, but I ascribed a lot less meaning to them than Aunt Bell did. When I finally slipped between the covers and had got myself comfortable in my soft bed, I suddenly had an uneasy feeling: I feared I was about to have another one of my terrifying nightmares. Maybe it was the humid night air or the strange events of the day that were making me feel this way... I sighed heavily, and turned onto my side, my gaze falling on the tall poplar trees outside my window. Their stoic motionlessness and the grace with which they rose up against the backdrop of threatening clouds made me feel safe and secure. My eyes finally closed and I sank into an uneasy sleep...

***

The giggling sounded like the laughter of a crazy person, but I knew it wasn’t — though that didn’t stop goosebumps breaking out all over my skin. The terrifying

sound echoed eerily through the wide corridors, until a voice cut across the giggling. ‘C’mon, c’mon!’ the scratchy voice called. ‘You won’t find me! I’m much smarter than you!’ Disgust and anger rose up inside me, and I came to the decision that I would find the little imp and exact my revenge on him. I turned in the direction of the giggling and the voice, but it had suddenly gone eerily silent. He probably suspected I would follow his voice, so figured staying quiet was his best option, but that wouldn’t help him as I’d pinpointed exactly where the giggling had come from. I cautiously walked down the gloomy corridor. Pale moonlight fell through a long arched window at the end of the hall, dazzling me in the otherwise pitch-black corridor. I just about managed to stop myself cursing him out loud. He’d planned it well: I was handicapped by the moonlight and wouldn’t be able to peer into the dark recesses without waiting a few moments to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness each time. Uneasily, I shielded my eyes with my hand. It was scary how much effort he put into his silly little pranks each time. I had reached the first recess and cautiously peered into it, but it was dark and empty. I couldn’t be too careful, though: the little imp often struck when I least expected. I continued on down the corridor, eventually ending up in front of a door that was ajar just wide enough to let me see the ghostly green shimmer coming from within. What did that signify? Surely nothing good. I pushed against the door, throwing it wide, and it slammed against the wall. That’s when I saw the green, glowing figure in the middle of the room! The pale shimmer that surrounded the apparition looked like some kind of unholy aura. Without warning, the door swung back and thundered back into its frame as it latched shut. I felt like my heart was about to stop beating completely. I somehow managed to stifle a scream. He’s got you again! The thought seared its way through my head. This was definitely the little imp again, and this time, he was wearing a glowing sheet! ‘Now I’ve got you!’ I called out loudly to him through the door to shake off the unease that had wrapped itself around my airways. I reached for the doorknob and pushed the door open again, but this time, the room was empty. Though, I noticed the connecting door to a neighbouring room was ajar, and I could just

make out a corner of the shimmering green sheet disappearing into it. How had he managed to make the sheet glow? When I pushed open the connecting door all the way and heard a noise above me, I knew I had made a mistake. A split-second later, a nasty-smelling liquid crashed down onto me followed by a bucket that landed squarely on my head, causing everything to go dark and making me howl with anger. He’d done it again! I pulled the bucket off my head and threw it into the corner. The infuriating triumphant laugh of the little imp was nearly too much for me to take. ‘I’ll get you for this!’ I screamed into the dark, wiping the nasty-smelling, sticky liquid out of my hair. I was almost glad it was so pitch-black in here because it meant I couldn’t tell what the sticky substance was. I was no longer capable of rational thought, driven only by my desire to finally catch the little imp and teach him a lesson. Filled with uncontrollable rage, I ran out into the corridor, pausing for a moment so I could hear which direction the horrid giggling was coming from this time, before hurrying down the corridor towards it. When I got to the stairs, I stopped briefly again. The steps led to another wing of the building that we weren’t allowed in because it needed structural repairs, but the little imp’s taunting made me forget my concerns in an instant. I bounded up the steps two at a time, arriving at a narrow hallway with several doors branching off from it when I reached the top. One of the doors was open, and I could see the familiar green shimmer behind it which told me the little imp had to be in that room. I hurried over to the open door, stepping across the threshold, and into a yawning black abyss! The caved-in spiral staircase! The thought shot through my head, and I instinctively grabbed for a timber beam that had been part of the ruined staircase that once stood here. I held onto the rotten wood for all my life was worth, my legs swinging over the deep, empty chasm below. And then all of a sudden, I saw him: he was standing calmly on a ledge that led around the opening. He giggled and snorted at what he was seeing, and his stupid glowing sheet lit up the stairwell in an eerie way. I chanced a look down and could vaguely make out the debris of the obliterated staircase below. ‘Help me!’ I cried out. ‘I can’t hang on much longer!’ I couldn’t see his face properly under the sheet as he had only cut out narrow

slits for the eyes and mouth, and the black holes in the shimmering garment seemed to be staring back at me, evilly and sneeringly. He’s not going to help you! The realisation hit me like a bucket of cold water. My fingers were slippery from the disgusting stuff that had been in the bucket that had fallen on my head, and I had to keep readjusting my grip on the beam, splinters digging into my skin wherever I put them. ‘You... You’re my brother!’ I yelled in desperation. ‘Save me!’ My fingers couldn’t keep their grip any longer, and I fell into the black stairwell with an ear-piercing scream, the little imp’s crazy snickering still echoing in my ears as I tumbled...

***

A scream escaped my lips as I sat bolt upright in bed, suddenly wide awake. Goosebumps had broken out all over my body and I was shivering. I looked around frantically, trying to make sense of my surroundings, but found I was lying in my soft bed at home in Hampstead, with no rubble or stairwell in sight. I’d had another nightmare, as I feared would happen when I’d nodded off to sleep. The monotonous pattering of rain splashed through the open window, and a gust of wind blew into the room, stirring the drawn curtain. Feeling more than a little chilly, I stood up and closed the window. The dream was still clear in my mind. ‘You’re my brother...’ I said, repeating the last sentence I’d said in my dream before falling into that dark stairwell. I’d never had a brother; was this dream an expression of my desire to have one? Lost in thought, I shook my head, because whatever the truth behind the dream, the strange shimmering green figure in it definitely wasn’t what I would have classed as a good brother. I froze suddenly as Norman Asgard’s words echoed around my head: he had told me Gracie thought she was being haunted by a glowing green ghost! A chill ran up my spine. Could there have been some connection between my dream and Gracie’s experience? I instantly shook my head because I realised I was starting

to think like Aunt Bell. I returned to my bed and lay down again. There was no sense in spending the night pondering and speculating on it. Tomorrow, I would go to Canterbury, meet Gracie on set, and get to the bottom of what was going on with that ghost...

***

The turn-off to the castle was so well-hidden, I managed to drive past it twice before spotting it. The narrow dirt track was nearly completely overgrown, and only a few broken twigs and freshly ground-in tyre tracks in the dirt indicated that it was a road cars could go down — though it was obvious that it hadn’t been driven down for years before the recent activity in the area. Canterbury was still a few miles away, and the landscape here was hilly with patches of thick woodland. A gloomy, cloudy sky hung overhead, and memories of the strange events in London coupled with the mysterious dream I’d had were weighing on my mind. Maybe it was because of my state of mind that I got chills as I pulled into the bumpy, narrow path, which wasn’t helped by the branches and twigs that scratched the top of my cherry-red Mercedes and the shadows that seemed to dart between the forbidding tree trunks. I was just asking myself how the film crew had managed to get all their sizable equipment to the castle on such a narrow lane and fearing I had taken the wrong turn, when the old castle came into view. Its battlements and curtain walls towered over the tops of the nearby trees, looking dark and menacing. Its turrets and countless bay windows cast deep shadows, with the narrow windows looking darkly out over the countryside. Sections of the walls had collapsed, and it seemed like it had been a long time since anyone had taken proper care of the old castle. I could well imagine the kind of atmosphere you’d find inside those eerie walls on a moonlit night... The forest gave way to a large clearing that was nearly completely taken up by the mighty castle, but even here, nature had begun taking back the area once claimed by humans, with tall saplings growing close to the black walls, their fresh greenness in stark contrast to the grim stone blocks. I parked the car at the edge of the clearing near to where the film crew had parked theirs. A footpath led through the tall grass to a gatehouse that was fenced in by two large towers,

and above the arched gate, I could see a rusty portcullis with sharp ends which looked threatening and not altogether trustworthy. I quickly scooted under the relic from a bygone age, and found myself in a large paved courtyard with an old-fashioned fountain in it. It was set into a wall, and a slightly curved stream of water was gushing out of it and into a bowl. Much like the fountain itself, the wall containing the fountain was covered in moss and long, overhanging lichen — no doubt due to the dampness — and terrifying creatures that looked vaguely like frogs and newts were carved into the stone at head height. All of a sudden, I heard voices, and I turned my attention to the far end of the courtyard where the main castle building stood. It was bulky, with turrets and bay windows, and it seemed to be where the film crew currently were. A dozen men and women were standing around the entrance, while a fog machine pumped out swirling waves of the white stuff, which drifted over the steps and surrounded the embracing couple who were standing beneath the arched entrance. The scene was being filmed by a cameraman who was perched on top of a small crane. A young woman with a clipboard under her arm and a pen behind her ear walked over to me and asked what I wanted. I told her my name and explained that Gracie Lewis had invited me — at which point, the young woman offered me her hand to shake and smiled at me. ‘My name’s Daniela Ring,’ she said, introducing herself. ‘I’m the location manager, the person on the production team responsible for scouting out the locations for the show.’ She made a sweeping gesture that encomed the entire gloomy castle complex. Her proud expression reminded me of Frank Gormic, my great-uncle, who had a similar glow in his cheeks when he talked about his digs, even though I’d only been a kid at the time. ‘Gracie already told us you were coming,’ Daniela said. ‘Though you’ll have to wait a little while to see her, because we’re still in the middle of shooting.’ As we talked, we moved closer to the set. The two actors on the stairs made a lovely couple, and I immediately recognised the blonde woman in the short red dress as Gracie Lewis. She was wrapped in the arms of a good-looking, middleaged man who looked very mysterious in his black pair of tros, black waistcoat, and wide-brimmed hat. His lily-white shirt accentuated his sunbronzed skin, and his chiselled face was made even more distinctive by a well-

groomed moustache. The couple were kissing, and the camera crane dipped down so the cameraman could get a better shot of the actors in profile. I smiled as I watched the film crew work, and briefly wondered what Norman Asgard would say when he saw his beloved Gracie kissing a complete stranger, but I figured he probably wouldn’t be bothered by it. After all, these kinds of scenes were key to the romance series Gracie starred in, so it wasn’t like this was a new experience for them as a couple. I suddenly saw a strange shimmer of light on the roof of the main building, which looked a bit like sheet lightning flashing over the shingles. Was this effect part of the filming? I wasn’t sure it was, as the phosphorus green glow seemed eerily familiar to me, and it struck me that the figure from my nightmare had worn a sheet that shimmered just like that. Then suddenly, a tile came loose, sliding down the sloped roof and over the edge without making a sound, and plunging right towards the embracing couple on the stairs! ‘Look out!’ I called out, pointing upwards. Daniela Ring gave me a sour look, and the film crew all looked over accusingly at me for spoiling the take. Gracie extracted herself from her co-star’s arms, and a look of recognition ed over her face as she caught sight of me, but not a moment later, the accident happened. The actor who had just been holding Gracie in his arms, looked up in alarm, and saw the roof tile plummeting towards him. He instinctively raised his arms above his head just in time as the tile hit him, making him cry out in pain as he sank to his knees. A shocked murmur buzzed through the film crew, and the director — a tall, thin man with a megaphone — ran over to the actor and knelt down beside him. Daniela Ring also ran over to her colleagues from where she was standing next to me, but the actor was already getting back to his feet, seemingly having escaped relatively uninjured. His hat and arms must have taken most of the impact. I looked up at the shingle roof uneasily, but the ghostly green light had disappeared. General unrest spread among those present and everyone was loudly offering their views on what had just happened, though with them all speaking over one another, I couldn’t make out a single word of what was being said. Gracie pushed her way through the crowd towards me with a serious look on her face. ‘I’m so happy you could make it,’ she said, greeting me fondly, though she

couldn’t disguise her worried look. She gestured to the stairs. ‘If you hadn’t warned me just now, that tile might’ve hit me,’ she said. ‘There’s been a catalogue of incidents like that, but no one seems to care all that much. They believe these things are happening again and again because the castle is in disrepair, but I think there’s more to it than that...’ She stopped and looked at me uncertainly. ‘Norman told me everything,’ I said. ‘In fact, I think I just saw the strange apparition you told him about. I know it sounds strange, but it looked like some kind of green shimmer was responsible for that roof tile coming loose.’ Gracie’s eyes grew wide, then she smiled uneasily. ‘And here I was, thinking I was slowly losing my mind. Up until now, no one else has noticed the strange light at all. So it wasn’t all just in my head...’ At that moment, Gracie’s onscreen beau came over to us, flashing us a winning smile as he grabbed my hand and brought it to his lips like he was a knight kissing the hand of a fair maiden. ‘I must thank you,’ he said, his grey eyes locking with my own. ‘My name is Rhett Phillips, and I’m usually the one saving beautiful women from dangerous situations — though, for a charming young lady like yourself, I’m prepared to switch roles.’ ‘I fear I may have let you down in my role as your saviour,’ I replied, feeling somewhat flattered. ‘After all, the tile still hit you.’ Rhett Phillips gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘I’ve got a hard bonce,’ he said smiling. ‘But it could’ve been a whole lot worse if the slate had caught me unawares. Luckily, it only grazed my noggin, with my hat taking the worst of it, so your last-minute warning did indeed do its job.’ ‘Gracie! Rhett!’ came the voice of the director through the megaphone. ‘We wish to continue rolling! We’re starting the scene again from the top!’ Rhett Phillips made a slight bow in my direction, then took Gracie by the arm who gave me an apologetic look and a slight shrug of her shoulders. ‘I have to get back to work,’ she said. ‘But you’re free to wander the castle as

much as you like. I spoke with the director and he was fine with having a journalist loitering around on the set. Just don’t walk into shot while we’re filming,’ she joked as Rhett pulled her away. I scanned the faces of the film crew until I finally found Daniela Ring who was making a note of something on her clipboard. ‘Did you see the strange light on the roof when that tile fell too?’ I asked her. The young woman looked at me quizzically before shrugging. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said apologetically before going back to her notes. I looked up in frustration at the roof, but the eerie light was long gone.

***

I decided to take a nosey around the interior of the castle while the crew carried on their filming out front. I’d noticed a small side entrance away from the stairs at the main entrance, and going up to it, I found that the rotten wooden door was unlocked. It creaked so loudly when I opened it that I was afraid the noise might disrupt the filming, but looking back, it seemed as though none of the film crew were taking any notice of me. It took my eyes a moment or two to adjust to the semi-darkness, but when I was finally able to make out some of my surroundings, a strange feeling suddenly came over me. I’d seen this corridor before! The bare grey stone walls and the narrow arched windows looked eerily familiar, and it was then that I realised that this was the corridor from my nightmare! Like a sleepwalker, I walked through the gloomy corridors of the main building, the dim daylight cascading in through the long, narrow windows hardly enough to illuminate the halls. My footsteps were assured, however, as I continued my exploration of the castle, only hesitating when I reached a narrow staircase, for I ed that this was the ‘forbidden’ zone. I took a deep breath, then snuck up the stairs, feeling like a child who was disobeying an order from their parents

and fearing getting caught at any moment. A few moments later, I found myself in a narrow hallway with doors leading off, all of them crooked and rotten. As though in a trance, I walked over to one of the doors and pushed it open, revealing a deep abyss on the other side. The caved-in spiral staircase! I could clearly see the timber beam I had desperately clung to in my nightmare. With a knot forming in the pit of my stomach, I walked up to the edge of the pit, and stared down into the depths. At the bottom of the abyss was what remained of the staircase: splintered wood, rubble, and years and years of dust and cobwebs. I felt a slight dizziness take hold of me. How could my dream and reality be so similar? Was Aunt Bell right in her assertion that I had supernatural abilities? It looked as though she was, even if every fibre of my being wanted to deny and disprove it somehow. I did notice one slight difference from my dream, though: the inside of the castle hadn’t looked quite so rundown and dusty as it did in real life. Years must have ed since the events in my dream and the present day. I sighed audibly. What did my nightmare mean? What was its connection to the incidents that had been plaguing Gracie Lewis? I suddenly noticed movement down by the rubble. A figure was nimbly jumping over the criss-crossing planks of wood down there! I froze when I saw that the figure was wearing a form-hugging black dress and an elegant hat with a veil obscuring her face. It was the mysterious woman in black! A moment later, the stranger had disappeared without a trace. What was the mysterious woman doing in the castle? I highly doubted she was one of the film crew. A scream suddenly pierced the air from somewhere outside the castle, floating down to me through the destroyed windows. There was yelling too, which seemed to get louder until suddenly, there was an ear-shattering explosion!

***

There was chaos on the stairs in front of the main building. The fog machine was in flames, and the special effects people were desperately trying to put the fire out. The director cursed loudly, his blond hair standing on end like the quills of a hedgehog due to him tugging at it in agitation and sheer rage.

‘Something’s going on here,’ someone next to me muttered quietly, and when I turned around to see who’d said it, I found myself looking into the face of the cameraman. He had come down from his crane and was standing close enough for me to see his distinctive light-blue eyes under his dark, arched eyebrows, which gave his chiselled face a certain air of decisiveness and confidence. He had light blond hair, and a few pale yellow strands hung down over his forehead. ‘Someone’s trying to sabotage the filming!’ cried a mellifluous male voice. It belonged to Rhett Phillips, who was standing on the top step, towering over everyone in his stately attire. ‘I haven’t counted all the incidents that have befallen this shoot so far,’ the actor continued once he’d successfully caught the agitated director’s attention, ‘but we must keep our eyes peeled for anything suspicious. Someone must be responsible for all of these so-called “accidents”. No film crew could be so unlucky as to have a vital piece of equipment give up the ghost mere moments after the leading actor nearly has a potentially catastrophic accident. There’s a saboteur among us!’ A loud murmur rippled through the assembled crowd. ‘That’s an absurd accusation!’ the cameraman next to me yelled at him. His voice seemed oddly familiar to me, as though the sound of it had already crept its way deep into my heart. ‘How are we supposed to forge a creative work environment if we’re constantly spying on each other and regarding our coworkers with mistrust?’ Rhett Phillips eyed the cameraman suspiciously. ‘I think comments like those make you the prime suspect,’ he replied. ‘How long have you been on this film crew? I heard you were working at another production company up until a few weeks ago: one that competed for the rights to film this series.’ The cameraman seemed unfazed by the veiled accusation. ‘I’ve been part of this crew just as long as you have,’ he countered. ‘Gracie’s co-star in this episode was originally supposed to be someone else!’ Rhett Phillips glared at the man beside me. ‘Are you accusing me of sabotaging my own show?’ The cameraman shook his head. ‘First of all, you only feature in this one

episode, and second, I was simply trying to show the kind of distrust throwing around accusations like you just did will sow among the team. If we have to work under these conditions, this episode will probably end up being the worst in the series.’ Another heated discussion broke out in the crowd, with both sides of the argument being ionately debated, until the director put an immediate end to the discussion. ‘Quiet!’ he roared through his megaphone. ‘Filming’s cancelled for today while we source a new fog machine. We’ll reconvene on set tomorrow morning, and all of you had better have calmed down by then. Frank Powell’s right: we can’t let these incidents drive us all crazy — whether there’s a saboteur in our number or not. You’re being paid to do a job and to do it well, and if you’re not willing to do that, you’re not welcome on this set!’ With that, the director turned away and furiously stomped off towards a small outbuilding that was being used by the film crew as lodging and for storing all the filming equipment. The rest of the cast and crew also scattered, either going their separate ways or huddling into small groups to discuss the incidents that had happened so far that day. I turned to the cameraman, who I’d found out was called Frank Powell. ‘What makes you so sure Rhett Phillips is wrong? After all, there really could be a saboteur on site,’ I said. Frank Powell shrugged. ‘I have a good view of the set from the camera crane,’ he replied. ‘What did you see?’ I asked curiously. Again, he just shrugged. ‘Well, it looked to me like the fog machine was enveloped by this green aura just before it blew up, but I seem to be the only one who saw it.’ My ears pricked up at the mention of a green aura. ‘Had you seen that strange glow before?’ Frank Powell gave me a strange look before nodding that he had.

‘I just haven’t told anyone about it until now,’ he said. ‘But it sounds like you know exactly what I’m talking about.’ I confirmed this with a smile. ‘When that tile fell off the roof, I also saw a ghostly green glow up there.’ ‘Like I said, something’s going on here.’ He looked up at the cloudy sky, his brow furrowed. ‘You’ll have to excuse me now,’ he said. ‘It looks like it’s about to rain, and I need to get this equipment away before it does.’ He flashed me a winning smile. ‘Maybe we’ll see each other later,’ he added. ‘I’d like that,’ came my spontaneous reply. Why was this Frank Powell having such an effect on me? Why did his presence seem so familiar? The cameraman walked over to his colleagues who had already begun packing away the spotlights. I stood watching the young man for a little while longer, my mind racing back to my nightmare and how the halls and corridors of the old castle had also seemed really familiar to me because they had appeared in my dream. I shuddered. Was Frank Powell in that dream too, and I just couldn’t him? Gracie suddenly appeared at my side. ‘Nice guy, isn’t he?’ she said with a grin, poking me in the ribs with her elbow. I looked at her in some confusion. ‘Who do you mean?’ I asked. ‘Frank, of course,’ replied Gracie airily, nodding in his direction. ‘I can tell you’ve got the hots for him from the way you were looking at him.’ Gracie gave me a knowing wink and hooked her arm through mine. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll show you around the castle and tell you everything I’ve been through so far. We haven’t seen each other in such a long time, and besides, I wouldn’t want you to go back to London empty-handed.’ Without thinking, I started walking over to the side door. I wanted to take another look at the empty stairwell.

***

The usual semi-darkness dominated the empty corridors and rooms, with an impenetrable blackness curling up in the nooks and crannies that littered this part of the castle. Cool air wafted down through the smashed windows, as we walked side-by-side down the corridors that were devoid of any furniture or paintings on the walls. I was glad to finally have some alone time with Gracie so we could talk about all the strange goings-on in the castle. ‘When did you first see this green apparition?’ I asked her as we walked in the direction of the caved-in spiral staircase. ‘On our first night here,’ Gracie replied, shuddering and rubbing some warmth into her arms. ‘We were filming a scene outside by the fountain where the heroine meets this episode’s love interest after a coach accident in the forest that kills her coachman. Of course, this all happens at night, and the heroine wanders about in the bleak, fog-shrouded woods, completely lost, until finally she stumbles on this eerie old castle, which she enters in the hopes of finding shelter. Unfortunately for her, it appears abandoned and there’s no one around who can help her.’ We had reached the door leading to the collapsed staircase and pushed it open. Gracie and I stared cautiously down into the abyss, but the lighting was so bad, we couldn’t see anything but gloomy shadows and bizarre, black shapes. I needed to find some way down the stairwell so that I could look for clues that might tell me more about the mysterious woman in black. ‘What happened at the fountain?’ I asked, breaking the silence that had descended when Gracie had laid eyes on the stairwell. ‘The script said I had to crawl, exhausted, to the fountain and drink some of the water in it,’ continued Gracie. ‘As I said, my character thinks there’s no one around, but suddenly a man’s shadow falls across the heroine as she kneels by the fountain, glugging down the water.’ We carried on walking and eventually stumbled upon the great hall, where I

stopped and looked around for a flight of stairs that might lead down to the basement. ‘Well, when I cupped my hands to drink some of the water, I saw it wasn’t fountain water at all, but some sort of green fluorescent substance that had a spooky glow to it. I screamed and flung the water out of my hands, but by that point, the glow had already faded from it.’ ‘Strange,’ I said to let Gracie know I was still all ears even though I was rushing around, opening up every door I could find, while Gracie hung back and raised her voice as I got further away from her. The next door I opened revealed a narrow stone staircase that disappeared into the darkness below. We carefully made our way down the well-worn steps. ‘The ghostly glow in the fountain was relatively harmless, though,’ Gracie continued as she followed me. ‘It was about to get much, much worse. Some of the film crew sleep in that outbuilding you saw, as we often film at night or very early in the morning. That small building has several rooms in it, which the crew use as makeshift bedrooms.’ We had reached the bottom of the stone staircase, and found ourselves standing at the end of a long, dark corridor that was only illuminated in places by narrow cellar windows directly under the ceiling, which were draped with cobwebs and plant roots burrowing down from above. It smelled damp and mouldy down here, and our heads were in constant danger of hitting the low, arched ceiling. ‘On the second night, after finally collapsing into bed, exhausted after a hard day’s work, I slept very uneasily,’ Gracie continued quietly. ‘I dreamt of a ghostly figure shrouded in a fluorescent cloth that glowed green just like the water from the fountain. The figure seemed to only have narrow slits cut into the cloth for its eyes and mouth.’ I looked at Gracie in astonishment. Her description matched up exactly with the ghostly figure from my dream! ‘The strange apparition came to my bed with its glowing cloth billowing,’ Gracie continued, ‘and I just stared at it like I was hypnotised. The ghostly figure waved for me to follow it, and even though I was terrified, my legs swung themselves out of bed and I trotted after it.’

Gracie smiled at me nervously. A chill had run up my spine as she was telling me this, but I tried to hide my own disquiet from Gracie. We stayed close to each other as we walked slowly down the dark corridor, reasoning that it must lead directly to the ruins of the old staircase. ‘It was like I was under some kind of spell,’ Gracie continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘I followed the shimmering ghost all the way to the fountain, where it suddenly stopped, whirled around to face me, and the billowing folds of its cloth swallowed me up.’ We reached a fork in the corridor and at the end of one of the ages was a low, arched doorway. Beyond it, the ruined remains of the spiral staircase could be seen. ‘I don’t what happened next,’ Gracie said in a worried tone. ‘The strangest part is, when I awoke from the dream, I found myself lying in front of the fountain. I guess I must’ve sleepwalked there...’ We ducked under the arched doorway and entered the stairwell. Dull light filtered in from above, allowing us to just about make out the outline of the trusses and rubble in the dark. ‘A strange dream, indeed,’ I said, lost in my own thoughts as I peered intently around the stairwell. Gracie shrugged. ‘I don’t know what to believe anymore,’ she replied nervously. ‘Where are we, anyway?’ ‘A spiral staircase once stood here,’ I answered, taking a closer look at the walls. Except for the corridor we had come from, there seemed to be no other way in. We were surrounded on all sides by a round wall that disappeared into the dark upper floors above us. And yet, I’d seen the mysterious woman in black crisscross the debris and disappear out the other side. Had I imagined the strange woman? Or was there a secret age around here somewhere? Gracie stopped by the entrance and watched me search without ing comment. ‘What are you looking for?’ she asked tentatively after a while. I gave a vague shrug. I didn’t want to worry Gracie any more than was

necessary, so I decided not to tell her about the mysterious woman in black. ‘I’m just being nosy,’ I said as casually as I could feign. ‘These walls are hiding a secret, I’m sure of it. I just don’t know what it is yet.’ ‘You saw the strange green glow too, didn’t you?’ Gracie said. ‘Do you think the castle could be haunted?’ ‘Maybe we’re just dealing with a particularly crafty saboteur,’ I suggested. ‘But then what was my dream about?’ Gracie pressed. ‘I don’t sleepwalk. Why are all these strange things happening to me of all people?’ I couldn’t answer either of those questions. ‘Maybe we should go check out the fountain,’ Gracie suggested. ‘I have a feeling that, whatever’s going on here, it has to do with that fountain.’ She looked at me uneasily. ‘Let’s get out of this spooky place...’

***

It had started raining and deep puddles had formed in the paved courtyard. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, scraping the tops of the trees and obscuring the tips of the old castle’s towers. Gracie and I decided to postpone our investigation of the fountain, and hurried through the rain to the outbuilding the film crew had commandeered. The majority of the crew had already headed back to London and wouldn’t be back until the next morning when filming was set to resume. On entering the communal area, I saw four men and two women standing around Rhett Phillips, who was recounting anecdotes from his life with great gusto. Frank Powell and the director didn’t seem to be around. Gracie and I went over to the others, but I soon found myself bored out of my mind. Rhett was the domineering type who liked to dominate any conversation he was in, rarely dignifying questions with an answer and stopping anyone else from getting a word in edgeways. Daniela Ring, the woman responsible for choosing the filming locations, was about to jump in with her own story from her professional life, which would no doubt have been just as interesting, but the actor snapped at

her and stopped her from interrupting his monologue. ‘My parents recognised my acting abilities at an early age,’ he continued, nodding smugly as he looked at the faces of his audience. ‘My father dragged me from one agency to the next when I was just seven years old, which is how I wound up in my first well-paid roles in ments, and once I’d completed secondary school, I began taking classes at stage school. They were hard times, for sure, but I’m thankful to my father for what he did for me, because after all, I owe my unbridled success as an actor to my father, who saw something in me back then that would be rewarded in time.’ His gaze came to rest on Gracie who was hanging on the actor’s every word. She’d never had a family of her own, which probably went some way to explaining why she found Rhett Phillips’s story so riveting. ‘How did you get into the acting game?’ Rhett suddenly asked her. ‘I’ll bet your parents also ed and encouraged your abilities.’ Gracie went pale. Rhett had opened an old wound with his insensitive question. ‘Well... it was a bit different for me,’ she stammered, and a shadow fell across her face. ‘I... I never knew my parents,’ she said solemnly. ‘It sounds like something out of a melodrama, but one foggy night, I was found as a baby in a large Moses basket on the doorstep of a London orphanage. At the time, it caused quite a stir, and everyone was eager to find out who I belonged to, but my parents were never tracked down.’ Gracie stared sadly at her hands. I stole a glance at Rhett Phillips’s face, and was stunned to find that he seemed to be quietly taking pleasure in Gracie’s painful memories of her less-than-happy childhood, but a moment later, the callous expression on his face had softened and was replaced with one that was more inscrutable. ‘The authorities decided I should grow up in the London orphanage where I was found,’ Gracie said, her voice shaking slightly. ‘I was given the name Gracie Lewis and a date was chosen as my birthday, but I’ve never particularly liked this name, and that date has never really felt like my birthday, even though I’ve celebrated on that day ever since.’ Gracie wiped a tear from her eye and smiled weakly.

‘But life in the orphanage wasn’t so bad, and I had a relatively carefree childhood. Of course, the people working at the orphanage could never replace my parents, but I had lots of friends there who I could turn to whenever I felt lonely. There was also a theatre group at the orphanage that would put on shows on special occasions. When I was little, those shows fascinated me, and when I was old enough, I took part in them too, playing my roles with great enthusiasm. The orphanage management soon noticed my talent for acting, and after some careful consideration, it was decided that I should attend stage school. Then I unexpectedly bagged the main role in the romantic drama we’re filming now about a year ago.’ Rhett Phillips nodded gravely. ‘A most interesting life story,’ he said with a hint of irony. ‘I am sure that you are just at the beginning of your career, and you will no doubt star in a great many films in years to come.’ The door to one of the neighbouring rooms was suddenly flung open and the director stormed in, his face bright red. ‘Oh, help me!’ he yelled, absolutely beside himself as if someone was trying to kill him. ‘Something terrible’s happened! You won’t believe what I’ve just seen!’

***

‘What’s happened now?’ Gracie asked, getting up from her chair. ‘It’s the film reels!’ the director cried, pulling his hair out. ‘They’re all a mess! Everything we’ve shot is unusable!’ He stumbled over to the makeshift bar at the front of the room, fished out a whisky bottle, and frantically whipped off the bottle top before necking down the liquid inside. Gracie waved for me to follow her and together, we entered the room the director had just rushed out of. It was in darkness, and a white screen had been stretched over the bare stone wall. A film projector was rattling away to itself, and I could just make out the silhouette of Frank Powell who was sitting in one of the folding chairs that littered the room. On closer inspection of the

screen, I realised what had caused the director’s reaction: on it, a scene with Gracie and Rhett Phillips standing close to each other on the castle wall’s battlements was playing. They were looking out over the wooded valley below as the sun set in the background. The scene was all very stirring and romantic, but the picture was covered in green flecks of light that darted back and forth across the screen like will-o’-the-wisps, making it look like an old film that had aged badly over time. ‘What... What is that?’ Gracie asked, her face looking unnaturally pale in the light of the projector. Frank Powell turned to us. ‘I don’t know,’ he said calmly. ‘We decided to take a look at the developed film we got back today, but it appears a lot of what we shot ended up getting damaged somehow. Though, it’s odd... It seems it’s largely just the scenes with Rhett Phillips and Gracie Lewis together that have been affected.’ ‘Maybe the people down at the lab made some kind of mistake when they were developing the film,’ suggested Gracie, but she didn’t sound convinced. ‘These spots...’ I said uneasily. ‘They’re green — the same green as that ghostly glow I saw on the roof.’ ‘I noticed that too,’ Frank said. ‘What’s going on here?’ ‘I’ll tell you what’s going on,’ came the booming voice of Rhett Phillips from behind us. The actor was standing in the doorway and had balled his hands up into fists. ‘Someone is trying to sabotage the filming so that it gets shut down,’ he declared. ‘And he’s doing a mighty good job of it too.’ ‘Don’t start with that again,’ Frank shot back. ‘I doubt there’s anyone here who’d saw off the tree branch they’re sitting on. We’re all getting paid well for this shoot, and no one has any reason to complain.’ Rhett nodded his agreement. ‘Maybe the saboteur isn’t one of the cast or crew,’ he suggested. ‘We should keep our eyes peeled, and as soon as anyone sees anything suspicious, they should let everyone else know.’ As he said that last part, he shot me a fleeting sideways glance. I suddenly thought about the mysterious woman in black: did she have something to do

with the strange goings-on? Up to now, I hadn’t told anyone about her, not even Gracie. The story was getting more muddled by the hour. What was the unknown saboteur trying to achieve with their actions? And what was the deal with that green glow?

***

The mood among the crew who spent the night in the castle was one of mistrust and bewilderment. The director had managed to get bladdered in no time. When Gracie asked him if all the ruined scenes would need to be reshot, his slurred response was practically unintelligible. In the end, he had to be carried to his room by a couple of the men. Eventually, it was only me, Frank Powell, Gracie, and Daniela Ring left in the communal area. The others, including Rhett Phillips, had gone to bed, or simply retreated to their rooms, unable to cope with the oppressive atmosphere of suspicion that lay over the cast and crew. ‘What do you know about this castle?’ I asked Daniela Ring, the person responsible for choosing this eerie place as the setting for the episode, and who must have sought permission to film here. The young woman shrugged. ‘Not much,’ she itted. ‘I came across the castle purely by chance. I have an old map that belonged to my father who used to work in an old military archive, you see, and it had a lot of things on it you wouldn’t find on an ordinary map. That’s how I discovered this castle.’ ‘Who did it belong to before him?’ Gracie enquired, actively trying to help me in my investigation. ‘Now that, I couldn’t find out,’ replied Daniela Ring. ‘There must’ve been some kind of military activity or something here twenty years ago or so, because I found a file on the castle in my father’s archives, but what exactly happened isn’t clear. It seems the castle was occupied back then, though.’ ‘Maybe they used the castle for military exercises, then abandoned it,’ suggested Frank who was sitting next to me.

Daniela shrugged. ‘I tried to track down someone in the military who could tell me if we could film here or not, but I couldn’t find anyone who felt the castle fell under their remit, so I convinced one of their guys to issue me with official authorisation to film here.’ Gracie looked at me expectantly to see if this information was helpful at all, but I just shook my head slightly in response, which made her sigh. She was afraid of the ghostly apparition and its mysterious green glow, and I knew there was no obvious answer to the riddle of what it was. Did the saboteur Rhett Phillips was adamant existed have something to do with the green glow or was there more than one threat lurking in the castle? We had nothing but questions, and no answers in sight. We all eventually retired to our rooms. ‘Sweet dreams,’ said Frank, who had accompanied me to my room which was right next to his and even connected by an internal door. ‘Thanks,’ I replied, and moments later, I collapsed into bed, feeling completely wiped out.

***

This was my last chance, but this time, I’d make sure that little imp paid for what he did to me! He thought I’d gone to my room to pack my things, like our father had told us to, but in reality, I’d hidden myself in the old chest in the corridor. I could see a large section of the corridor through the keyhole, and I was expecting the little imp to come scampering past at any moment. I’d dislocated my arm and broken a rib falling down the stairwell, and when I took a deep breath in, pain shot through my chest. It hadn’t been easy to explain to the others how the accident had happened, as I wasn’t about to it the truth and tell everyone the little imp had got me again. So I’d bit my tongue and waited for an opportunity to get my revenge, and that moment was finally here. We were set to leave the castle forever, taking only a few necessities with us and nothing else. I was in no doubt that the little imp would want to bring that horrid glowing sheet with him, which he’d hidden somewhere I wouldn’t find it, in a secret hiding place. Suddenly, I heard a sound. Instinctively, I held my breath and peered through the

rusty keyhole. There he was. His scrawny figure was clearly visible in the light cast by the chandelier. How small and puny this little imp was — and yet, he was superior to me in other respects. I desperately tried to get my rising anger under control; we were nearly grown-ups, but the old rivalries and jealousy still smouldered between us. Why didn’t I just show the little imp what my fists could do? I was taller and stronger than him, but I just couldn’t bring myself to beat up my own brother. I knew I wouldn’t feel proud of myself afterwards, and in the end, it’d just weigh heavily on my conscience. The little devil shuffled slowly past the chest I was hiding in, but he didn’t turn to go to his room like he had been told: he went off down a small, unlit side corridor instead. He’s going to his secret hiding place, just like I suspected he would! I thought to myself triumphantly, waiting patiently until he had disappeared into the darkness before opening the chest and following the little imp on tiptoe. This time, I’d outsmart him. This time, I’d find his hiding place, burn the sheet, and pour all of that glowing substance down the plughole! My brother wandered the corridors of the castle for some time, and I made sure to keep my distance, hiding in dark recesses and peering cautiously around corners, all the while not letting my tormentor out of my sight, until finally, we reached the arched basement. I hesitated. The little imp was heading into the ‘forbidden zone’ again, and our father had told us over and over that this part of the main house was dangerous and in disrepair, and we weren’t allowed to come down here. Would the little imp have had the cheek to set up a hiding place in this part of the castle? It definitely looked like that was the case, as he was heading directly to the stairwell where the spiral staircase had collapsed. He carefully clambered over the rubble and stopped in front of the far wall. I pressed my back against the wall nearest to me and peered over at him uncertainly. Being down here was a painful reminder of my fall. That little bastard had left me lying there, and I’d had to haul myself to safety with a cracked rib and a dislocated arm. Anger swelled up inside me again, and I was tempted to throw myself, fists flailing, at the little imp who had his back to me at this particular moment in time, but I clenched my teeth and stayed where I was, shaking with rage in the ageway to the side of the stairwell. What was my brother doing down here? There was only one way in and out, and other than the rounded wall he was staring at, there was nothing else here. His hiding place couldn’t possibly be in here!

Then suddenly, he stretched his hand out in front of him and touched one of the large stone blocks in the wall. There was an audible click and the block slid back into the wall as if moving by itself. Spellbound by the sight, I held my breath. My eyes were burning from squinting into the semi-darkness of the stairwell. All of a sudden, an entire section of the wall moved aside to reveal a gaping black opening that the little imp walked into without hesitation. So this was his hiding place! My blood began to boil, anger gushing through my veins. How close I’d been to his hiding place as I lay writhing in agony after my fall! That little imp must have been sure I wouldn’t discover it, but I’d finally found out his little secret! Somewhere deep in the black opening, a weak light began to glow. I immediately made my move, sprinting over the rubble, and slipping into the spooky opening. My heart was beating double-time, because in just a few moments, I’d be getting my revenge on that little imp. Seeing his big brother blundering into his secret hiding place would be a body blow to him, and I was already looking forward to the look on his face when I surprised him. I groped around in the dark, trying to carefully feel my way through what I presumed must have been a large chamber. I could just make out an old desk at the other end with a figure hunched over it, its back to me. It was wearing a loose-fitting, wide sheet that shimmered green in the darkness. I stopped. That little imp had changed damn fast. He was probably hatching some new plan to trick me and embarrass me in front of everyone, but this time, I’d be the one to come out on top! I tiptoed over to the figure. I couldn’t see what it was doing at the desk, but it wasn’t important. In a flurry of movement, I grabbed hold of the glowing sheet and yanked it from the little imp’s head... but what I saw next made me jump back in horror, and I barely managed to stifle the scream that rose up in my throat. Under the sheet was a skeleton! Had I been wrong? Had a real ghost been tormenting me all this time, not my brother? It sure looked that way. I stumbled backwards, fear overtaking me. My throat had closed up, and I wanted to scream, but I could only manage a meek croak. Suddenly, crazy giggling broke out behind me, and I whirled around in alarm to see the little imp, who had been standing waiting for me next to the secret door the entire time. Realisation hit me like a ton of bricks. I grabbed the skeleton, and found its bones were made of plastic — the little imp had got me again! He had let me believe I’d got one up on him just so he could deliver yet another devastating blow.

I flung the glowing sheet to the ground as my anger overtook me. He was going to pay for sure this time! I rushed madly towards the little imp, but with one swift leap, he darted through the opening, and pushed a stone that caused the door mechanism to whir into life again. ‘No!’ I yelled, but the heavy stone door quickly slid back into place, and I reached it just as it ground shut with a reverberating click. Darkness swallowed me up, and the only light in the claustrophobic chamber came from the eerily glowing sheet. I pounded the cold stone of the secret door with my fists in desperation, but all it did was produce a dull, barely audible thud. I screamed for my brother, begging and pleading for him to open the door, but the damn wall didn’t budge an inch, and I wasn’t even sure the little imp on the other side could hear my yells. He probably just wants me to sweat in here before he lets me out, I tried to convince myself. He’ll be back soon to release me from this creepy vault. Even as I told myself this, I kept yelling until my throat was sore, finally sinking to the floor, exhausted...

***

‘Jessica! Jessica, wake up!’ The voice penetrated the darkness and tore me loose from its grasp. I was suddenly wide awake, my eyes opening to find Frank Powell’s handsome face leaning over me. I was frozen. I could still see the terrifying images from my nightmare in front of my eyes. Frank gently pushed a stray strand of hair out of my face. ‘You had a nightmare,’ he said. ‘I thought I wished you “sweet dreams”. You didn’t listen, did you?’ An encouraging smile spread across his lips. His presence was comforting and seemed to chase away all the horrible shadows that were lingering in my conscious mind. Two hours later, I was walking with Frank along the castle walls. I hadn’t been

able to get back to sleep, and Frank had suggested an evening stroll. We gazed up at the full moon that was peeking out from behind thick, black clouds, the large, glowing orb floating serenely over the treetops. Frank suddenly stiffened and looked over my shoulder at the courtyard. His eyes had grown wide, as if he was witnessing something terrible. I extracted myself from his warm embrace and turned around to see what he was looking at... and froze in fear! Gracie had wandered out of the outbuilding, and was walking across the uneven slabs in her short red dress, displaying all the signs of sleepwalking. Directly in front of her was a green figure shrouded in a fluorescent sheet with narrow slits for its eyes and mouth: the ghostly apparition from my nightmare! Frank instinctively pulled me into the shadows with him, and we stared down into the courtyard at the scene unfolding below us. Gracie and the ghost slowly moved towards the strange fountain, the sound of its gurgling water reaching all the way over to us even from this distance. The frog-like carvings on the fountain looked almost like they were alive in the light of the moon, which only added to the eeriness of the scene. When the glowing green ghost reached the shallow basin where the water from the fountain jets collected, it turned around to face Gracie. The ends of its sheet billowed as if a mighty wind was blowing through the courtyard, even though the air was completely still. Not a leaf stirred, and the clouds hung heavy and motionless in the sky. Gracie was swallowed up by the billowing folds of the sheet — in exactly the way she had described to me. Frank made to run to Gracie’s aid, but I gripped his arm to hold him back. ‘Wait,’ I whispered. ‘I think the ghost — or whatever it is — isn’t trying to hurt Gracie.’ Frank went to reply, but the scene unfolding by the fountain gave him pause. The ghostly glowing sheet had nearly completely surrounded Gracie’s body by this point, and it almost looked like the apparition was hugging the young actress. Then it picked Gracie up and spun her around in circles, cradling her in its slender arms. Frank and I looked at each other in bewilderment. Gracie was floating in mid-air, held up by this mysterious ghost. After a while, the ghost stopped spinning, and carefully placed Gracie back onto the slabs in front of the fountain. Suddenly, a corner of the spectral sheet seemed to be sucked into the hole that supplied the fountain’s water, and within a few moments, the fluorescent apparition had disappeared completely into it.

Frank rubbed his eyes. ‘Whoever’s responsible for these special effects deserves an Oscar.’ I looked at Frank, my eyes wide and a knot in my stomach twisting and making its presence felt. ‘I don’t think that was a trick,’ I replied. Frank sighed softly. ‘Me neither,’ he itted. ‘But... what else could it be? A ghost?’ ‘I don’t know,’ I itted. Then, all of a sudden, I spotted a third figure in the shadows cast by the walls, heading directly for the main building. A stray moonbeam momentarily lit up her black dress and veiled hat: the mysterious woman in black! But before I had chance to alert Frank to her presence, she had disappeared out of sight. ‘We should take a closer look at that fountain,’ he said. ‘But first, we need to go take care of Gracie.’ He took my hand and pulled me with him.

***

Gracie woke up just as Frank was about to pick her up and carry her back to her room. She looked around in confusion, but as soon as she saw me, she relaxed. ‘Jess... Jess... I... had that horrible nightmare again,’ she began. I nodded knowingly and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘We saw everything,’ I said. ‘The ghostly apparition from your dream is real. Don’t worry, Frank and I will figure out what’s going on here.’ ‘I’m so glad you came, Jess,’ she said in a tired voice. ‘I knew you’d get to the bottom of this mystery.’

I smiled weakly. We were far from getting to the bottom of anything, and truth be told, I wasn’t sure we were ever going to figure it out. I had plenty of information, but it all seemed to be of questionable value or only half a story, and crucially, none of it seemed to be adding up. We took Gracie back to her room and tucked her in, then Frank grabbed a torch from his room, and we returned to the fountain. We illuminated the strange water feature a millimetre at a time, the creepy frog-like carvings in the stone seeming to watch our every move. ‘Nothing,’ said Frank after a while, shaking his head. ‘Except for its strange construction and those scary-looking creatures, the fountain seems completely normal.’ Instinctively, I looked over at the main house, its silhouette looming large against the night sky in all its dark, eerie majesty. ‘I might know somewhere we can find some clues,’ I heard myself saying as I pointed to the main building. Frank looked at me in surprise, but I’d already set off towards it. It was time to find out if I could rely on my nightmares. I had decided to take a closer look at the stairwell, and if there really was a secret door there, I would have to start giving Aunt Bell’s long-held belief that I had supernatural abilities some serious thought.

***

Frank went on ahead with the torch, and I followed him through the dark, dank basement, telling him which way to go. The cobwebs hanging from the low ceiling shimmered dully, and in the dark nooks and crannies, we could hear scratching and scurrying. ‘Looks like there are rats and mice down here too,’ Frank commented as one of the furry rodents scampered across the corridor in front of us. We finally reached the stairwell, the rubble of the old spiral staircase forming a bizarre, unsightly heap in the darkness.

‘Now what?’ Frank asked quietly. Instead of giving him an answer, I started climbing over the debris and carefully picked a way across it until I was standing in front of the stone wall on the other side. ‘Point the torch at the wall,’ I told Frank, who’d followed me despite being astonished by my actions. Goosebumps crept up my arms and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. The wall looked exactly like it had in my dream. I quickly located the stone block the little imp had pressed, and with some hesitation, I stretched out my hand and pushed it. At first, I felt some resistance, but then, it suddenly slid back, the edges of the block scraping on the stone around it, causing splinters to fall to the ground. ‘What are you doing?’ asked Frank, who gave me a strange look that only darkened when part of the wall suddenly disappeared to reveal a gaping black hole. ‘Even if I tried to explain, you wouldn’t understand,’ I replied, flashing him a winning smile. ‘Don’t worry, you can trust me. I’m not this mysterious “saboteur” people keep talking about.’ I took him by the hand and dragged him into the dusty opening. I walked a few steps into the darkness, then suddenly looked nervously over my shoulder at the door. What would happen if the door suddenly closed like in my dream? Could the opening mechanism even be activated from this side? If it could, I’d have to find the switch on my own, as my dream hadn’t seen fit to tell me where it was. Frank let the light of his torch sweep across the room, and what I saw allowed me to forget my worries for the time being. We were in a tunnel-like vault, its low ceiling ri from the ground on one side to form a flat arch overhead before melting back down into the floor on the other side. The large stone slabs that made up the ceiling were black, but unlike on the way here, not a single cobweb hung from them, and even moss and lichen seemed to have avoided this area. As the torch beam swept around the chamber, it illuminated a rotten desk with a chair beside it, both of which stood against the back wall which seemed to mark the end of the tunnel. I noted that it had partially caved in at that point. In my dream, both pieces of furniture had still been intact, but here and now, they

were little more than a pile of rotten wood, which served as another indication that many years had ed between the scenes I’d seen in my dream and the present day. I wasn’t sure what to make of that fact, though. I suddenly noticed movement in the shadows. Startled, I let out a quiet scream, and Frank placed himself protectively in front of me. The torch beam illuminated a person squatting in front of us, her face obscured by a black veil, and I realised immediately that it was the mysterious woman in black. Like a big cat, she had crouched down and was ready to pounce...

***

‘Who the devil are you?’ Frank yelled, his voice sounding ghostly and hollow as it echoed around the strange vault-like chamber, but the woman didn’t answer. Instead, she lunged past Frank towards the door, but I had already anticipated her reaction and blocked her path, causing her to barrel into me. As I fell, I grabbed hold of the stranger so she wouldn’t be able to escape. Frank was at my side by this point, and had also got hold of the woman, who thrashed about to break free, making her hat slide off her head. The face that appeared from under it wasn’t one I’d seen before. The woman had long brunette hair and a narrow, distinctive face. Her many wrinkles and almond-shaped eyes hinted at her being on the older side, and the deep lines around her heavily made-up mouth suggested she had been through a lot in her life. ‘Jessica Bannister,’ she rasped when she recognised me in the light of the torch. ‘Who are you? And how do you know my name?’ I asked. Frank helped the stranger to her feet as she seemed to have given up on the idea of escaping. ‘My name is Sue Hatcher,’ she said in a gravelly voice, her piercing eyes looking right through me. ‘And I know who you are because Martin T. Stone chose you to cover the London City Observer’s sports section.’ Frank helped me up too, standing behind me and placing a protective arm around

me, all the while eyeing the woman suspiciously. ‘When I first saw you in action, I already suspected you’d become something of an inconvenience to me,’ she continued. ‘You are an excellent journalist with exceptional talents.’ Sue Hatcher turned around and walked over to the end of the wide tunnel, where she lit an old oil lamp that had been lying around, and in its light, I could see the rotten table and chair weren’t the only furniture in the chamber: there was also a narrow camp bed with a large suitcase underneath. Frank switched off his torch, and we both went over to the camp bed where the oddly-dressed woman had taken a seat. Sue Hatcher sighed. ‘I’m getting too old for this job,’ she groaned. ‘It’s about time I quit. But first, I have to come to with the tragedy of my life, or I’ll never find peace.’ She looked up at me, her eyes sparkling coldly. ‘I want my revenge, you understand? Someone’s going to pay for everything I was denied in life — and that someone is Rhett Phillips!’ I didn’t understand what she meant by this and was about to ask her to explain, when Frank jumped in before I could. ‘So you’re behind all the mysterious goings-on in the castle!’ he said furiously. ‘You damaged the film reels, and you’ve been trying to sabotage the filming from day one!’ Sue Hatcher shook her head. ‘You’re mistaken,’ she replied. ‘Sabotage isn’t my style. I’m not interested in the film crew or in the work they’re doing here. All I’m interested in is Rhett Phillips. He uses his acting career as camouflage.’ Frank looked at the woman in confusion. ‘Don’t you think it’s about time you told me why you’ve been following me for the last few days?’ I asked, hoping to finally get some clarity.

The stranger nodded. ‘I wanted to protect you from the men who harassed you after your interview with Todd Niven, Jessica. I hate it when innocent people get caught up in my plans, but sometimes, I don’t have much choice. In your case, though, I felt personally responsible for you. That’s why I came out of my hiding place when Todd Niven started getting physical with you after you confronted him about his illegal arms deals. And if those men in the black limo had shown any sign of wanting to do anything more than frighten you, I would’ve stepped in.’ ‘So it wasn’t just a rumour that Todd Niven is involved in arms deals?’ I asked. Sue Hatcher nodded. ‘I was the one who ed that information onto Carl Shaefer. He was supposed to ask Todd Niven about the weapons to set things in motion which would finally allow me to get my revenge, but he got cold feet and backed out. He preferred to let you stick your hand in the fire.’ ‘I’ll be sure to thank Carl Shaefer for that,’ I murmured. ‘What does Todd Niven have to do with getting revenge on Rhett Phillips?’ Frank asked, who had been closely following the conversation. ‘And how is it that you’re privy to such explosive information, like this story about the illegal arms deals?’ Sue Hatcher laughed softly. ‘Pull up a pew,’ she said. ‘It’s time the public finally heard what happened in this castle twenty years ago — and it feels right for you, Jessica Bannister, to be the one to get the exclusive on it. But what I’m about to tell you will take more than three sentences, so if you don’t want your legs to give way under you, you’d better take a seat.’ She gestured to the bed, but Frank and I opted to sit cross-legged on the hard floor instead. The cameraman laid an arm across my shoulders and I cuddled up to him to chase away the cold, because the atmosphere in the basement was giving me chills. Sue Hatcher took a deep breath and looked at us, from one to the other, the lines around her mouth seeming to deepen. ‘I’ve worked for the British Secret Service for years,’ she began. ‘I am, in common parlance, a secret agent. Or a spy, if you’d rather. Listen close and I’ll tell you how I came to find yourself in this unusual occupation, and what I’m doing here in this musty chamber...’

***

‘It all began many years ago in this very castle,’ Sue Hatcher said. ‘My father died in a factory accident when I was a little girl, and after his death, my mother came to work for Sir James Higgins as a housekeeper here. Sir James was a friendly, good-natured man who lived alone with his two sons, his wife having died many years prior of an incurable illness, and so it fell to my mother to care for both boys when Sir James went away on business, which tended to happen quite frequently. The elder of Sir James’ sons was called Michael, and the younger one was called Roger. They were both around my age, and we grew up almost as siblings, but as we got older, I started to develop feelings that I found very confusing in the beginning until I finally realised I had fallen in love with Michael. He was a strong, good-looking boy, and just as good-natured and noble as his father. Roger, however, was a different proposition entirely. He was thin, almost scrawny, with a pale, sickly face, and he often played cruel jokes on his brother, always managing to get his father to scold Michael who was usually the innocent party. Michael could never stay mad at his brother for long, however, and even though his brother could whip him into a fury, Michael always forgave him.’ I started feeling a little uncomfortable. Why had the thin figure in the glowing sheet suddenly popped into my head? ‘Michael and I grew closer, and I soon discovered that my feelings for him were ionately reciprocated,’ Sue Hatcher continued. ‘We met in secret, exchanged sweet nothings, and made plans for the future.’ Sue sighed, and I could see a flicker of grief in her cold eyes, but it quickly disappeared again. ‘We would have been so good together, and I’m sure we would have made each other very happy,’ she said, her voice sounding raw. ‘But fate had different ideas. One night, Michael came to my room with a sprained rib and a dislocated arm — his left, if I correctly. I was very worried about him and went to go fetch my mother — Sir James was on a business trip at the time, you see, so my mother was in charge — but Michael stopped me. Instead, under the cover of

darkness so that she wouldn’t find out, we took my mother’s car and drove to the nearest doctor. On the way, I pressed Michael to tell me what had happened, but he wouldn’t say...’ ‘It... It was that little imp,’ I whispered. Sue Hatcher’s story had dragged me under its spell, and I could see the scene from my nightmare playing out so clearly in front of my eyes that it was like I was experiencing it for myself. The woman on the camp bed stared at me, wideeyed. ‘Little imp? That’s what Michael used to call his brother,’ she said in astonishment. ‘How did you know that?’ I shuddered. My throat had gone dry, and I couldn’t get a single word out. With this information, I was certain I had dreamt about Michael and Roger Higgins, seeing the events unfold through the older brother’s eyes. I had even experienced Michael’s feelings and thoughts as if they’d been my own. Frank stroked my shoulder to soothe me, and I immediately felt calmer and safer, but Sue’s piercing eyes were still fixated on me. ‘Please... continue,’ I stuttered. The mysterious woman shrugged and carried on with her story. ‘I pestered Michael all the way to the doctor’s until he finally caved and told me what had happened. His younger brother, Roger, had set a trap for him, which was how he’d sustained his injuries. His brother had stopped playing practical jokes on him a long time before this, but had seemingly started up again in the days before the incident. Only this time, his pranks were meaner and a lot more dangerous. Michael told me the reason for this: his little brother had also fallen in love with me, and he saw Michael as “competition” he had to get rid of. I was very surprised when I heard this, because Roger had never shown any sign that he was interested in me. Besides, that skinny, scrawny little runt wasn’t my type at all. I said to Michael he should beat his brother up to teach him a lesson, but he just shook his head. He was having none of it.’ Sue shook her head too, and a happy smile ed across her lips as she reminisced, but her facial features quickly hardened again before her story continued.

‘Several weeks later — two days after my eighteenth birthday — Sir James returned to the castle. He seemed nervous and said we had to leave the castle as quickly as possible and never return. He dropped the portcullis and ordered us to pack only what we needed as fast as we could. The suddenness of this made us all very nervous and worried, but Sir James didn’t say a word about why we had to leave so unexpectedly. Then, that night, all hell broke loose.’ Sue Hatcher’s voice had suddenly started breaking. Her lips were trembling, and she was visibly trying to retain her composure. ‘I was in my room, waiting for Michael who had promised he’d come see me, but it was starting to look like he had stood me up. It was raining heavily outside, and I was staring longingly out of the window when the lights suddenly went out in the castle. Not a moment later, armed masked men swarmed over the outer walls and stormed the castle, the sound of gunshots echoing around the stone walls. Shaking like a leaf, I hid under the bed and held my breath, hoping that any strangers who barged through the door wouldn’t find me there, but it was Sir James who came into my room and pulled me out from under the bed. Beside him stood Roger, who was paler than usual and bleeding from several wounds. He was swaying back and forth, and it looked like he could hardly stand. Sir James didn’t waste time explaining what was going on, he just grabbed me and the younger of his two boys by the hand and yanked us out into the corridor. He stopped in front of a wall, pressed one of the stone blocks, and to my astonishment, part of the wall opened in front of us to reveal a secret age. “Quickly!” Sir James said, pushing us into the dark, dank-smelling corridor. I resisted, however. “My mother!” I cried, my voice shaking. “Where’s my mother?” Sir James looked apologetic and stroked my cheek. “You must be brave now,” he said, as solemn as I’d ever heard him. “Your mother’s dead. She was shot. But you and Roger will live if you go now. Follow this corridor. It’ll bring you out in the woods at the foot of the hill. You’ll be safe there.”’ Sue Hatcher had to choke back a sob. ‘Tears came quickly to my eyes, as you might expect. I refused to accept what Sir James had told me, but some horrible feeling deep inside was telling me I’d never see my mother again. “Michael!” I yelled. “Where’s Michael?” Sir James stepped out of the secret age and back into the corridor. “I’m off to look for him. I’ll meet up with the two of you later.” The secret door suddenly slid shut in front of me, leaving me standing in the ageway with Roger. “What are we

going to do now, Roger?” I asked him in desperation. Michael’s younger brother gestured down the dark tunnel. “We have to go,” he insisted, and began limping down the corridor, but he didn’t make it very far. All of a sudden, he collapsed and lay gasping on the cold stone floor. I pulled him to his feet, and half-carried, half-dragged him down the tunnel — to this day, I still don’t know how I did it. My senses had gone completely numb, but I managed to get us both to safety somehow, even though there was no light in the tunnel, and Roger was unconscious. It was horrible. At some point, we emerged from the tunnel and found ourselves in the woods, like Sir James had said we would, at which point, I eased Roger down onto the soft soil. It was raining heavily that night, and lightning zigzagged across the sky. Exhausted, I looked up at the castle that loomed menacingly over us, ominous against the night sky as each flash of lightning illuminated it. All I could think to myself as the rain mixed with the tears rolling down my face was: Michael... You can’t die!’ Sue Hatcher discreetly wiped a tear from her eye. Frank and I hadn’t moved an inch from where we were sitting on the floor, looking up at her, absolutely riveted by her emotional tale. Sue’s world must have crumbled around her that day, and I hoped beyond hope that Sir James had managed to save Michael. ‘That night was a long one,’ Sue continued. ‘I was completely out of breath, so I lay down next to Roger on the woodland floor, and sobbed bitterly. I wasn’t able to think straight, and I pleading with some invisible power for it all to be a bad dream. There I was, a young, inexperienced eighteen-year-old girl, completely helpless in a nightmare I’d got lost in... Then suddenly, I heard footsteps approaching. The armed men were threading their way through the trees, getting closer to where we were lying. I screamed and tried to defend myself, my hands and feet flailing, but the men didn’t come near me. Instead, a woman came up to me, crouched down beside me, and explained to me gently that I had nothing to fear — that they were here to rescue us. Two of the men took care of Roger, who was lying unconscious, half-dead on the ground next to me still, and we were both carried to a black van, where the woman gave me a sedative and I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep...’

***

For a while, we just sat there in silence, each one of us lost in our own thoughts. I could sense Frank’s closeness and was thankful for it as I pondered what to make of Sue Hatcher’s story. She still hadn’t told us why the castle had been attacked and who the men who had captured her and Roger were. There were also plenty of other questions I wanted to finally get some answers to, such as: Why had I dreamt of the two brothers in the first place? Why had I witnessed events specifically from Michael’s point of view? And what did all of this have to do with the events we had witnessed in the castle and the ghostly apparition? I was desperate for answers to these questions, but I didn’t dare to ask Sue Hatcher directly. She had put her hat back on and pulled the veil down over her face. She sat hunched over on the camp bed, and in her figure-hugging black dress, she looked like a creature of the night who had sought refuge from its fate in this dark, vault-like chamber. After a moment or two of circumspection, she lifted her head again and looked at us through her veil. ‘When I awoke, I found myself lying in a bed with the woman who had rescued Roger and me in the woods standing beside me,’ she said, picking up from where she’d left off. ‘She introduced herself to me, and explained that she was a British Secret Service operative. The way she looked at me made it painfully obvious that I hadn’t dreamt the terrible events of the night before, but she had only sympathy in her eyes as she told me that Sir James was dead. The Special Forces unit that had found me and Roger in the forest had gone on to storm the castle and retake it from the men who had originally laid siege to it, but they’d all escaped before the unit could make it inside. Other than my mother’s and Sir James’s, they found no other bodies in the castle, leading them to suspect that Michael had been taken by the enemy agents.’ Sue Hatcher let out a weary sigh. ‘My world fell apart that day,’ she said solemnly. ‘I felt listless, sitting in that hospital bed, barely listening to what the agent was telling me, though it must have gone in somehow, because I later recalled her explaining to me that Sir James had worked for the Secret Service for a long time, and that his so-called “business trips” were actually covert missions sanctioned by the British government. Sir James had managed to steal a top-secret substance from a Soviet lab, which he had then hid somewhere in the castle with the intention of ing it on to a go-between at a later date. But the container with the substance had mysteriously disappeared, and the enemy — who had discovered Sir James’s identity by this time — had laid siege to the castle in order to recover it.’

Sue balled up her fists. ‘Later, when I had regained both my physical and mental strength, I finally realised the significance of what I had been told, and when I was offered a position in the Secret Service, I jumped at it immediately. After all, I had nothing left to lose. The only hope I had to cling onto was that I would one day find Michael...’ Sue shook her head sadly. ‘But that last solitary hope was stolen from me by Roger Higgins, Michael’s younger brother. I hadn’t seen him after we were both released from the hospital. He had been in a coma for weeks, and the doctors weren’t sure he was going to pull through, but he did eventually wake up and slowly worked his way back to full health. By that time, I was already in a training facility as a fully signed-up member of the Secret Service. Roger also ended up becoming an agent, but our paths didn’t cross again for a while — though fate wouldn’t keep us apart for long. Sometime later, when he was working as a double agent, selling information to the highest bidder, I ran into him again during a mission in East Berlin, back when the city was still divided. Me and a number of other British agents had been lured into a trap and ambushed by Soviet spies. We returned fire, and in the ensuing firefight, I fled into a nearby alley. There, in the middle of that stinking, filthy back alley, lay one of my Soviet counterparts. He’d copped a bullet and the wound looked like it was going to be fatal. I cautiously approached him as he lay there, writhing in his death throes, and knelt down beside him. As I got closer, I saw that it was Roger on the ground in front of me! Michael’s brother looked up at me like a ghost from the past, and in a rasping voice, whispered that fate must have brought me to him. I bent down closer so I could make out what he was saying. “Michael,” he said, “He was trapped in a hidden chamber when the castle was attacked. I’d lured him there to play one last trick on him before we left.” Roger started cackling, but his laugh quickly turned into painful coughing. “Before I could set Michael free, the armed men stormed the castle and I got shot, only surviving thanks to my father. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell him where Michael was.”’ Sue let out a pained sob. ‘Devastated, I looked down at Roger. “You knowingly led your brother to his death?” I realised aloud, my voice rising. His face contorted in pain. “I stole a

container from my father that had this mysterious, shimmering green substance in it, and used it to play practical jokes on my brother. I was too ashamed to it I’d stolen it. How was I supposed to know armed men would show up looking for it?” Roger broke off at this point, his body shaking as a bad coughing fit took hold of him. “What happened to Michael?!” I yelled, grabbing Roger by his lapels. “I... I never went back to the castle... Those three months I was in a coma... Without food or water, there was no way he could have survived in that chamber. I wanted... I wanted to spare myself from the sight of his corpse...” Then Roger’s body contorted one final time, and he went limp. I could only look down in disgust at Roger’s lifeless corpse, but disgust was soon replaced with tears as they rushed up to sting my eyes. Roger had taken my last hope away from me. Michael Higgins, the only man I had ever loved, was dead.’ Sue Hatcher’s voice failed her, and even I had to choke back a few sobs at this point. This woman had really been put through the wringer by fate. ‘After surviving the incident in East Berlin, I returned to England and visited this old castle again,’ Sue continued once she’d regained her composure somewhat. ‘I’d obtained an old map of the castle that showed all its secret ageways. I opened the secret door in the stairwell, and as I entered the musty, dank room we’re sitting in now, the light from my torch fell on a human skeleton. Were these Michael’s remains I had found? For a moment, I thought they were, but on closer inspection, I realised the bones were in fact plastic. There was no sign of Michael down here. To this day, I haven’t been able to find out what happened to him.’ I nervously looked over at the opening, through which the rubble that had once been a spiral staircase could just be made out. I could clearly how, in my dream, I had seen the locked secret door through Michael’s eyes, and had banged on the stone with my — his fists. ‘What does Rhett Phillips have to do with all this?’ asked Frank. ‘He led the assault squad that killed my mother and Sir James,’ Sue Hatcher replied. ‘It took me a long time to track him down. Rhett Phillips was also a double agent, and he still uses his connections from back then to set up illegal arms deals to this day. Rhett’s a very dangerous man, and cunning too, but his ion for acting means he understands how to hide his real identity behind a mask. Catching him will be my crowning achievement as an agent.’

Sue threw back her veil, and I could see a strange glint in her eye. ‘Rhett Phillips sold weapons to Todd Niven who then ed them on to a paramilitary group in India, though at the time, I only had hearsay and uncorroborated rumours to go from to link Rhett Phillips to the deal. That’s where you came in, Jessica. You started asking Todd Niven questions which put the willies up him, and he made the mistake of ing Rhett Phillips’s men to tell them about the interview. Those were the men that threatened you in London. They thought they’d got rid of the problem, but I happen to have a helper at the London City Observer: a young, able agent by the name of Natalie Drexler. She made sure that a short item about Niven’s business dealings appeared in the Observer.’ I looked at Sue, wide-eyed. Natalie Drexler, Stone’s new secretary, was a spy? I couldn’t see the London City Observer’s editor-in-chief being too chuffed about this development. ‘After Phillips’s men saw the missive in the newspaper, they sent a man to see their boss to tell him about the trouble they were having with Niven and the London City Observer. Everything was going according to plan. I hid in the castle and waited for his henchman to turn up, so I could get their conversation on tape. And now that I have a recording between the two of them, I finally have the proof I need to take Rhett Phillips in. All I need now is for Natalie Drexler to testify at his trial, and Phillips will be behind bars where he belongs. He should rot in prison for everything that he’s done to me!’ Frank suddenly jumped up. He held up his torch, switched it back on, and pointed it over at the secret door. As the beam of light fell across the opening, it illuminated Rhett Phillips, who let out a hideous, braying laugh. ‘You should never underestimate your enemy!’ he called out, malevolence dripping from every syllable. ‘Don’t they teach you that in the Secret Service?’ As soon as he’d finished talking, the secret door shut with a loud screech. I sprung to my feet at the same moment as Frank, and almost in unison, we rushed over to the section of the wall that had been wide open only seconds earlier, but all we could see was solid stone, and there was no indication there was a door there at all. Frank banged his fists against the stone in frustration, and goosebumps broke out all over my back: it was just like in my nightmare! I

turned to Sue Hatcher, who had stayed in the middle of the room and was standing there with one arm reaching up towards the ceiling. ‘There’s a mechanism here to open the door,’ she said calmly and pushed one of the stone blocks above her, but the door didn’t budge a millimetre. On seeing this, even Sue started to get nervous, her face going white as a sheet. ‘The wretch has blocked the door!’ she said. ‘We’re trapped!’

***

While Sue and Frank scrutinised every inch of the secret door, trying to figure out if they could somehow remove the blockage, I stood rooted to the spot as though paralysed, just watching them go about their inspection, which seemed senseless to me. We were trapped in this chamber just like Michael Higgins had been many years before us. I looked up at the ceiling and asked myself whether Michael had found that mechanism when he was trapped in here, but because of my dreams, I felt like I had a good idea of what would have been going through Michael’s head, which is why I doubted he would have discovered it, given how well-hidden it was. Instinctively, my gaze wandered to the caved-in area at the back of the tunnel-like room. From what I could , the wall hadn’t been damaged in my dream and, curiosity getting the better of me, I walked over to the pile of rubble. Part of the wall seemed to have been smashed outwards, and the hole had been filled in with loose stone and damp earth. All of a sudden, I noticed something green shimmering between the stones. At first, I thought it was just the oil lamp or Frank’s torch reflecting off the water that was seeping down the stone, but then I realised it had the same glow as the eerie ghost! I bent over and rolled away some of the heavy stones, letting out a gasp and taking a step back as a piece of the glowing sheet the little imp had used to play tricks on Michael came away in my hands. Thanks to Sue’s story, I now knew the glowing substance was originally the product of a Soviet lab which Sir James had stolen before his youngest son had used it for his own practical jokes. Thoughts rattled around in my head: Why was the sheet hidden under this rubble? Had Roger left the mysterious substance in this chamber when he’d locked Michael in? Had Michael tried to dig a tunnel to escape?

I turned to the others. ‘What’s behind this wall?’ I asked Sue, as she’d supposedly seen an old map of the castle and would hopefully be able to answer my question. ‘The fountain,’ she answered curtly, without stopping what she was doing. Suddenly, there was an audible screech as the door slowly opened a crack before locking into place again. The gap it had created was large enough for us to escape. ‘We’re free!’ yelled Frank. ‘Quick! We have to hurry!’ Sue said. ‘Rhett Phillips knows I’m on to him, and he’ll do anything to save his skin, which means the cast and crew are in grave danger!’

***

One after another, we squeezed through the gap: Sue first, then I followed. My jacket caught on the jagged edges of the stone and a massive rip appeared in the very expensive material, but I could handle the loss of a jacket. It was a small price to pay for our freedom. Plus, I was just glad we hadn’t suffered the same fate as Michael had in my dream. We waited for Frank to squeeze his way through the gap, which was substantially more difficult because of his muscular frame, but he finally managed to wriggle his way out. Sue was already moving, nimbly climbing over the rubble in the stairwell, when I suddenly noticed a dim green glow up in the hall from where Michael had fallen into the stairwell twenty years earlier. A ghostly shimmering figure was hovering in the arched opening: the green phantom! I held my breath, spellbound by the sight of the ghostly apparition. My throat was suddenly dry, and I couldn’t seem to make a sound. The apparition raised one of its arms, holding it up in the air as if trying to warn us. A moment later, a thunderous crunching and creaking seemed to be coming down at us from out of the darkness.

‘Watch out!’ I yelled, but the rotten beams were already almost on top of Sue. Frank managed to pull the agent out of harm’s way at the last moment, just as the mighty, old beams crashed down onto the pile of rubble with an earshattering thud. A cloud of dust and mortar rose from it and clouded our view. Frank inhaled a lungful of the dusty air, making him cough and sputter. ‘It was that damned ghost again,’ he wheezed. ‘I saw the green glow up there and knew immediately something was about to happen. It was just like when we were filming: first, there’s the green glow, then something falls out of the sky or explodes!’ ‘You’re wrong,’ I replied. ‘It was different this time. I think the ghost was trying to warn us.’ Sue got back to her feet, and as the dust settled, we managed to get our bearings again. ‘What are you talking about?’ said Sue impatiently. Apparently, she hadn’t heard about the ghost. ‘This was obviously Rhett Phillips’s doing. I should have known he’d set a trap for us just in case we managed to get out of that chamber.’ She brushed the dust off her black dress and motioned for us to follow her. Dim light cascaded down through the narrow slits just below the basement ceiling, and the beam from Frank’s torch cast ghostly shadows all along the gloomy corridor. Squeaking loudly, the rats fled as they heard our hurried footsteps approaching. Goosebumps broke out all over my arms, and I stayed as close as I could to Frank, constantly keeping an eye out for the green glow of the phantom. Just the thought of falling into another one of Rhett Phillips’s booby traps at any moment made me feel sick to my stomach. The ghostly apparition in the glowing green sheet had warned us last time, probably saving our lives in the process, and I hoped the phantom would come back to warn us again if we were in danger. The apparition didn’t appear again in the basement, however, and shortly after reaching the stairs, we burst out into the entrance hall. The door leading outside was wide open, and I could see the ghost again, hovering in the middle of the courtyard. It waved at us once more, but this time, its gestures seemed impatient and demanding. It was an eerie sight — so creepy it made my blood freeze in my veins.

Sue’s eyes flitted around the hall, and in her scrunched up hand, she was holding a handgun that she had taken out from one of the folds in her black dress. It seemed she hadn’t noticed the eerie green apparition in the courtyard, however. ‘We have to tread carefully,’ she warned us, quite unnecessarily. ‘I don’t know what Rhett Phillips will do next. He might be lurking around here somewhere, lying in wait for us to come bumbling past, so he can leap out and shoot us in the backs!’ The nightmarish apparition’s waving seemed to be getting increasingly urgent. The whole scene seemed surreal, like something out of an old horror film. A chill ran up my spine as I continued to watch the strange creature from the realm of the dead frantically waving at us. Was the ghost trying to show us where Rhett Phillips was hiding? ‘Rhett Phillips isn’t here!’ I suddenly burst out, bolting towards the open door before Frank could stop me. Sue looked on in dismay as I ran, but when she noticed that I hadn’t attracted a hail of bullets and I’d almost made it to the door unmolested, she followed me, albeit with some hesitation. ‘What makes you so sure he’s out here?’ she asked when she and Frank had caught up with me. ‘How do you know Rhett isn’t inside?’ I gave a vague shrug. There wasn’t time for a lengthy explanation, and besides, Sue Hatcher wouldn’t have believed a word of it, as the mysterious apparition had already disappeared again. Was I the only one who’d seen it? At any rate, I’d clocked which direction the green phantom had been pointing in, and I motioned to the outbuilding where the cast and crew were, in all probability, sound asleep, oblivious to what was going on. ‘Rhett Phillips is hiding somewhere over there!’

***

Sue ran on ahead and we followed close behind. Dawn was beginning to break, but heavy rain clouds shrouded the sky, and the courtyard was doused in an ominous grey light that made the dark buildings around us look sinister and ominous. We were just a few metres away from the outbuilding when the door was suddenly thrown open, and Rhett Phillips came out into the courtyard. But he wasn’t alone: he had taken Gracie Lewis hostage and had a gun to her temple. His other arm was around Gracie’s throat, and he was using her as a human shield as he edged out into the courtyard. Gracie looked over at us, her eyes filled with terror, and it was clear she had no idea what was going on nor why Rhett Phillips had suddenly gone berserk. Sue coolly raised her handgun and took aim at the ex-double agent. ‘The game’s over, Rhett!’ she called out confidently. ‘Let the hostage go. She’s no use to you now!’ Rhett Phillips grinned at her just as confidently. ‘Oh, but you’re so wrong,’ he said as he slowly started edging his way towards the gatehouse with Gracie between him and us. ‘I won’t hesitate to kill Gracie if you get in my way!’ To make sure we knew he would follow through with his threat, he pressed the barrel of his gun under the young actress’s chin, causing her to cry out in pain. ‘I’m still not letting you go, Rhett!’ Sue announced coldly, her gun trained on the actor. ‘I’ve been waiting too long for this moment!’ ‘Oh, you will let me go, and you’ll never make a move against me again!’ Rhett bit back. ‘No one will stop me from leaving the castle, and there won’t be a single newspaper article written about me. Or would you rather sacrifice this girl here just so you can get your revenge on me? She’s your daughter, Sue! Your daughter!’ Sue stared at Rhett, utterly dumbstruck, before eventually managing to find her voice again. ‘You lie!’ she screamed. Rhett calmly shook his head as Gracie’s eyes grew wider.

‘You heard right!’ yelled Rhett Phillips, continuing to shuffle backwards towards the gatehouse. ‘Gracie’s your daughter! I’ve long suspected that you were on my trail. I’m not some rank amateur at this, you know. I have a good idea of how these things play out. So I tried finding out everything I could about you, and lo and behold, that’s when I discovered your little secret. Yes, Gracie Lewis is your daughter! You left her on the doorstep of an orphanage when she was just a baby!’ Gracie’s gaze was glued to Sue who she’d seen for the first time only seconds earlier. Her eyes glistened with moisture, and her lips mouthed a single, silent word: Mother. She suddenly broke free of Rhett Phillips’s grasp and started to run towards Sue, but the ex-double agent grabbed her again, pulling her violently back into a chokehold. He pressed the barrel of his gun painfully into Gracie’s temple again. Sue cursed under her breath. The inscrutable expression on her face was beginning to flicker and twitch, and the hand holding the gun was starting to shake ever so slightly. ‘I used every last one of my connections in the film and TV industry to land a role on Gracie’s show,’ Rhett Phillips continued, revelling in his triumph. ‘After all, I wanted to be close to her just in case you, my dear Sue Hatcher, got too close to me. You can only blame yourself for what happens to your daughter next. I’m taking her with me, and she’ll forever be under my control. Call it security, if you will.’ He laughed scornfully. ‘Is Gracie really your daughter?’ I asked Sue. She looked at me uncertainly. ‘I... I was pregnant with Michael’s child,’ she said rawly. ‘The first I knew about it was when I was recuperating in the hospital after the attack on the castle. At that time, I was determined to become an agent, and I thought a child would only be a hindrance, so I gave birth, put the child in a warm basket, and placed it on the doorstep of some orphanage in London. I never knew what became of the child after that, and I did my utmost to forget about the whole thing. It wasn’t like I could visit or the kid without putting the poor sod’s life in danger, so I never found out what happened to my daughter...’ ‘She became a talented and successful actress,’ I said quietly. I knew Gracie’s life story inside out, and Sue’s version of events seemed to line up with it

exactly. Rhett had reached the gate by this point. Gracie’s tears didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest, and I was almost certain he wouldn’t spare her life if it came down to it. ‘Mother!’ Gracie called out in desperation. ‘Mother, help me!’ Sue Hatcher stood frozen to the spot, staring at Gracie with tears in her eyes. ‘He’s going to kill her,’ she said as her voice failed her. I suddenly noticed the green glow again, up near the rusting portcullis. The ghostly, glowing figure was in one of the arched windows of the gatehouse — and this time, Sue saw it too, the hardened agent letting out a hysterical scream as she stared up at it, boggle-eyed. Rhett Phillips was suspicious, though. From his scrunched up face, I could see he wasn’t sure whether Sue was trying to trick him or not, but his curiosity won out in the end, and he looked up, only to freeze at what he saw. As soon as he craned his head upwards, several roof tiles came loose from the gatehouse and hurtled down towards Rhett Phillips, making the ex-double agent curse loudly. He jumped to one side, still clutching Gracie tightly, and the tiles thundered to the ground mere millimetres from the two of them. Wasting no time in exacting his revenge, the arms dealer brought his gun up and fired several shots at the ghostly apparition standing in front of the glassless window. The window was very narrow, but Rhett Phillips was an excellent marksman, and every bullet hit its mark. The figure in the green glowing sheet, however, showed no reaction, the bullets simply ing straight through it. It stared down at the gunman through the slits in the sheet, silent and accusatory. ‘What sort of game is this?’ Rhett Phillips roared, his gaze flitting frantically back and forth between the ghostly phantom and Sue. ‘Your little tricks won’t do you any good!’ Sue had gone visibly pale. ‘I... I don’t have anything to do with that thing!’ she cried. Rhett Phillips hurried with Gracie under the gatehouse to safety, and not a moment too soon as more roof tiles came crashing down, shattering as they hit

the stone paving slabs below. Under the arched gateway, Rhett Phillips was safe from the falling roof tiles, and he backed away, visibly tense, through the gate towards the outside world. Then, something terrible happened: the portcullis suddenly shot down towards the ex-double agent, too quick for him to get out of the way. I cried out in horror and turned away from the grizzly sight. Rhett Phillips died instantly, but Gracie somehow escaped unscathed, tearing herself free from the dead man’s arms and running across the courtyard. ‘Gracie!’ Sue cried, tears of relief welling up in her eyes. ‘Thank god you’re alive!’ Sue dropped her weapon and ran over to her daughter. They collapsed into each other’s arms. ‘Oh, Mother!’ Gracie cried, her joy overtaking her. ‘I... I gave up all hope of ever meeting you long ago...’ Whatever else she wanted to say was drowned out by her tears. They stood there, hugging each other tightly, as Gracie pressed her face into Sue’s shoulder and cried uncontrollably. Frank and I exchanged a look. Rhett Phillips had met the gruesomest of ends, but the sheer, unadulterated happiness of mother and daughter finally meeting for the first time seemed to outweigh the shock and horror we both felt. The cameraman wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me towards him. ‘We don’t even get touching endings like this in our romantic serial,’ he said. I suddenly noticed movement out of the corner of my eye, and I abruptly pulled myself out of Frank’s embrace. It was the ghostly apparition floating down slowly to the courtyard from the window in the gatehouse. Its green shimmering sheet billowed, giving the apparition a majestic quality. Even Gracie and Sue had become aware of the green phantom’s presence, and they looked up at the spectre as it stretched out its arms towards them and a moment later, landed on the two women, the sheet enveloping them completely so that only their faces were left uncovered. The green glow itself completely engulfed Gracie and Sue, but their facial expressions showed neither dread nor horror. Quite the opposite, in fact: they seemed to be beaming with joy and positively exuding happiness.

‘Are you seeing what I’m seeing?’ Frank asked, with a hint of nervousness. I smiled and snuggled deeper into Frank’s arms. ‘The family’s finally all together,’ I whispered. ‘Just like Gracie always wanted.’ Frank looked at me quizzically, but at that same moment, the sun finally broke through the thick layer of clouds, its warm, golden rays flooding the courtyard and immersing the three figures still locked in their tight embrace. The green phantom let go of both women and started floating upwards, becoming more and more transparent as it rose. It waved to them both one last time, and Gracie waved back while Sue merely stood there, her mouth gaping in disbelief. The green ghost rose higher and higher until it eventually dissipated like fog in the morning sun and was gone. ‘If I hadn’t seen that with my own eyes...’ Frank said. ‘Do you have any explanation for what happened here?’ I nodded. ‘Yes. That must have been the ghost of Michael Higgins,’ I said, lost in thought. ‘Now that he got to see his family one last time, he’ll hopefully be able to find peace. He must have sensed all along that Gracie was his daughter and Rhett Phillips was trying to hurt her. That’s why he did everything he could to chase Rhett away.’ Frank looked at me in astonishment. ‘You believe Michael’s ghost was behind all those strange incidents during filming?’ I nodded, fully convinced of it. ‘Yup, and I’ll prove it to you,’ I said. ‘Hold on to your hat. There’s a few more surprises in store.’

***

After Rhett Phillips’s lifeless body had been taken away by the police, a number of officers began taking apart the fountain, one piece at a time, after Sue, Gracie, and I incessantly badgered the inspector in charge into dismantling it. Of course, we couldn’t tell him about the ghost who had led us to it — he would’ve thought we were all completely bonkers if we had. The officers’ tedious work was eventually rewarded when they discovered a caved-in hollow room underneath the fountain, and in it, they found a corpse — just as I’d suspected. The dead man had a strange green sheet beside him, torn to shreds and shimmering mysteriously, as well as a glass cylinder containing a mysterious substance. An autopsy would later reveal the dead man to be Michael Higgins, but I’d already known that when the body was found. Michael had desperately tried to dig his way out of his claustrophobic prison, but the makeshift tunnel he’d excavated ended at the fountain. The water from the fountain had caused his tunnel to collapse in on him, burying him alive. But now, at last, he could finally receive a proper burial. Gracie’s lover, Norman Asgard, was at the ceremony, and the young actress was falling over herself to finally introduce him to her mother — though the fact that this introduction took place at her father’s funeral gave this joyous meeting a more sombre sheen than it otherwise would have had. Peace returned to the old castle once the episode of Gracie’s TV series was in the can, this time with another actor as Gracie’s co-star.

***

The day after Rhett Phillips’s death, I returned to the London City Observer offices and confidently strode towards Martin T. Stone’s office. His secretary’s desk was empty: Natalie Drexler had immediately quit her job as soon as her assignment here was completed. I knocked on the frosted glass bearing the editor-in-chief’s name, behind which I could clearly make out Stone’s voice in the middle of a swear-littered tirade. The door was whipped open, and I found myself staring into Carl Shaefer’s unusually pale face. Stone already had my full, finished article on his desk, and he let a smile break out over his face as I entered his office, until he was literally beaming with uncharacteristic joy as he came over to me.

‘Your article’s wonderful!’ he said, praising me to high heaven. ‘The best you’ve ever produced!’ I gave a nonchalant shrug of my shoulders. ‘It was a short memo in one of my colleague’s papers that put me on the trail of this red-hot story,’ I said, giving Carl Shaefer a withering look. The sports reporter lowered his gaze in shame and went a bright shade of red — he knew exactly what I was talking about. I turned back to the editor-in-chief. ‘I have a little, how you might say, rendezvous this evening with a cameraman I know,’ I said, just loud enough for him to hear. ‘We want to go out for a meal somewhere, but I thought it was probably best to ask you which restaurant I should avoid, so I don’t accidentally put you in the awkward situation of having to bribe one of your journalists again.’ Stone feigned shock, then winked at me and whispered the name of an expensive restaurant on the banks of the Thames. ‘If you do have the audacity to show up at that restaurant, you might find yourself in trouble with the Secret Service,’ he whispered conspiratorially. I just shook my head. ‘I don’t think I want to be crossing paths with anyone from the security services again anytime soon,’ I said defensively, and with that, I left the hallowed grounds that were the editor-in-chief’s office, feeling on top of the world. But I’d hardly closed the door behind me when I heard the loud, badtempered tirade starting up again. ‘And Carl, my dear, dear fellow — for the time being, you will only be covering court cases as an observer. Todd Niven’s court case concerning his illegal arms deals starts in an hour, and you’ll be there to interview him after the hearing. I expect nothing but cold, hard facts, and I want you to be uncompromising in getting them. And I don’t want to see a single boring line in your article, or you’ll be out on your ear, looking for a new job!’ Feeling pleased with myself, I strolled back to my desk and looked forward to seeing Frank again that evening.

THE END

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Copyright

Jessica Bannister and the Cursed Seas (Jessica Bannister Volume 2)

By Janet Farell Translated by Tiger C. S. Nicholaas Edited by SMR

Cover by ttl

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Cologne

English translation rights arranged with Bastei Lübbe AG, Cologne English translation © 2021 by J-Novel Club LLC All rights reserved.

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