Going down for breakfast had proven something of an event. Word travels fast in villages like this, and the local radio station had marked me as a celebrity staying at The Great Oak. I am no celebrity, but as far as the locals were concerned, I’d written a bestseller about the area’s most celebrated haunted locations, even if the Priory only featured in one meagre chapter. That was the celebrity in this context. I was the mere channel, but I’d been cornered in the restaurant.
When I left my breakfast table, dozens of locals and tourists holding copies of Behind the Ancient Doors of Suffolk had gathered in the bar. Some carried paperbacks of previous history books and novels. I imagined the village bookshop had made a roaring trade this mundane Thursday morning. As long as they didn’t request a book signing later today, we’d be okay. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy meeting readers and signing their books—they were the reason I’m able to write. I actually love hearing their thoughts and beliefs, especially their accounts of hauntings. It makes my blood pump a little faster. It’s that I’m not particularly good at meeting people and making small talk.
I’ve been asked several times over the years—with every new book, to be precise—to do readings and book tours. My agent has stopped asking me now. I had done one early in my career. It was a small affair in hindsight, though, at the time, it was as daunting as jumping off a cliff with no more than my boxer shorts to break my fall. Facing the room of readers, fans, and a select few of the paranormal sector had started all right. I had taken guidance from the shop owners, a large established independent store on three levels, but fallen flat on my face when it came to the reading. I stumbled over words, even those I created on the page.
This particular book was set in a manor house in my hometown of Whitby, one that had burned down in the 19th century. It had been my first novel. Until then, my writing career had been consumed with nonfiction histories. Not much had been documented on the manor, most of its story entangled in the nets of legend, tales passed through generations.
I’d stood in front of the crowd of eager ears and piercing eyes and stumbled over dates and names, strictly because of dreaded nerves. I was called out by a prominent parapsychologist who dissed my novel and said it wasn’t history but a sheer fabrication, a sham. It hadn’t been my finest hour. Explaining my sources had always been a sticking point. I ended the event early with emphatic apologies to the crowd of dedicated readers and fans, who had simply come to get their copy signed. It so happened the local press caught the story the next day, but the parapsychologist came off far worse. Rather than harm my status and then non-existent name as a novelist, it boosted my reputation in the genre. It was an overnight bestseller, and even marked a ghost tour around local sights named in the book: St Mary’s Church and Whitby Abbey.
After that, I’d been adamant that putting myself in that situation again was a definite no.
Deep breaths, lots of smiles, and a steady hand would get me through this breakfast crowd before Fisk arrived. I smoothed my sweater sleeves around my shirt cuffs, fixed my smile, and made my way over to the landlady. Josie had introduced herself when I arrived—confident but not pushy, she was in her forties with shoulder-length red hair and lipstick to match. Pretty. Striking.
‘Good morning, Mr Hardacre. A pen with your coffee this morning, I think?’ Josie smiled. ‘I took the liberty of making you a cappuccino. Does that work for you?’ She winked as she touched my forearm. I looked at her polished red nails on the knit of my black cashmere sweater.
‘That’s very thoughtful, thank you.’ Heat rose around my collar. I didn’t have time for this. I smiled, careful not to make eye contact, and headed to a square table with a white cloth and one of the tall-back dining chairs pulled out ready. Josie had thought of everything, hadn’t she? That made my skin prickle.
‘There you are. Do you mind if I call you Oliver? I hope that’s not too familiar,’ she winked.
Josie placed the large cappuccino on the table, with two chocolate finger biscuits resting on the saucer. She pulled a silver Parker pen from her jacket pocket. It dangled from her fingers as she waited for me to take it.
‘Thank you, that’s considerate,’ I whispered, casting an eye to the waiting crowd who were beginning to quieten down, their excited chatter dispersing in the dark panelled walls, leaving me feeling exposed.
‘Not at all. It’s not every day we have anyone of real fame in our sleepy little village. You know how it is around here, Oliver.’
I couldn’t help looking at her then. There was a tang of something in that last line. A knowing. But she just smiled back, her red lips parting in a beam that reached her eyes. I glanced at the pen. As I went to take it, Josie closed her fingers around it and watched my hand as it awkwardly hovered between us.
‘I’ll have it back once you’ve finished with it.’
I withdrew my hand, feeling somewhat abashed by the remark. She smiled softly with something unsaid on her upturned lips.
‘Silly.’ Josie placed the Parker on the table in front of me. ‘I’m just teasing you, Mr Oliver Hardacre.’
My hand laid flat over the pen in an easy gesture, but there was no mistaking the steel rod it thrust up my spine. I pressed my back against the chair.
‘Thank you for letting me use your pen.’
She nodded, glancing at my fingers and tapped my hand. ‘Of course.’
I didn’t count how many books I signed. How many personally inscribed dedications I wrote. My face ached from smiling. I’d run out of small talk, my mind an unusual buzz from the endless conversation, although, I must confess, I had enjoyed it. When the book was released, my biggest fear was the backlash, the suggestions, and downright accusations of it being fiction and not factual history at all. Maybe in any other town or village in the country, it had been greeted by scepticism, but the villagers of Raynham knew the history they were part of.
I drained the last drop of my cold coffee, clicked the Parker pen, and imagined the look on Josie’s face if I slipped it into my pocket. I couldn’t help smiling as I rose from my seat and pushed the chair back under the table. I noticed a woman on the other side of the room with an anxious look and a well-read copy tucked under her arm as she leant against the bar Josie stood behind. Something so familiar about them both.
‘Go on,’ Josie mouthed to the woman, pressing her hand on her shoulder.
The woman took an audible breath as if bracing herself. I felt a pang of immense guilt at wanting this all to be over so I could head home to Yorkshire. I waited, but she didn’t move. Okay, there was nothing for it—I would go to her.
‘Hello,’ I mumbled. ‘So many people. I had no idea.’
The woman looked directly into my eyes, nailing me to the spot, engulfing me with a desire to shrink down inside my sweater.
As she went to speak, the grim expression fell to reveal a gentle smile. ‘Hello, Oliver. I don’t think you’ll remember me, but…’
The thunderbolt hit me square on, firing memories at me from every direction. I no longer stood in The Great Oak; I was back in the rustic seaside pub in Whitby, the grief-stricken feeling of loss heavy in my chest as the vision of Vera and Bob flooded in, swiping my feet from under me.
‘Mrs Scarfe?’
‘You do remember. I was hoping you would, but time passes so quickly, and it’s been so many years. You were only a young man then.’ A mortified look fell over her face. ‘You’re still a young man, of course.’
‘Oh, Mum, stop it,’ Josie said. ‘It’s just our Oli. Don’t go all gaga because he’s a big celebrity author now.’
I gripped the edge of the bar. Josie’s words, with a twinkle in her bright eyes, didn’t sink in until the door slammed behind us.
‘Goodness, it’s windy out there. The heavens are sending a warning, of that I have no doubt. It’s a harsh one coming. The skies are clouding over.’
‘Ah, Nick. You missed all the excitement this morning,’ Josie announced with a laugh.
‘The book signing by a local author, was it?’ Fisk headed towards the bar, winking at me as he did.
‘Our Oliver has been obliging us with his time. Quite the hit, especially with all the ladies.’
I gazed at Josie, then at Mrs Scarfe. I blushed. ‘I’m sorry, I’m confused.’
‘You really don’t remember me, do you?’ Josie asked incredulously. I felt my face redden under her gaze.
‘I… you are Mrs Scarfe’s daughter?’
‘Of course, I am, silly. I know it was years ago… I thought you’d remember.’
Guilt and embarrassment—all the emotions I avoided—were overwhelming. This was why I didn’t people well. I was sure it was showing on my face, too.
Josie grabbed my hand. ‘It’s okay. I have changed a lot. But you…’ she teased, leaning closer, her eyes twinkling as they creased a little at the corners. ‘Yes, still the same boy in there.’
I couldn’t tell if that was a compliment. Something about the whip of Mrs Scarfe’s head in Fisk’s direction told me it was nothing of the sort.
‘Well, I just caught a couple of people holding copies of your latest book on my way in. They looked mighty pleased with themselves.’ Fisk glanced Josie’s way. ‘And on that note… One more to sign, if you don’t mind after the morning, you must have had?’
I took the hardback copy, opened it, and clicked the pen.
Fisk turned to Mrs Scarfe. ‘You got yours signed, I see.’
‘Oh, not yet. Sorry, Mrs Scarfe,’ I apologised, closing the cover handing Fisk the book back. ‘What would you like me to write?’
‘Oh, I don’t need it signed,’ Mrs Scarfe said, her cheeks pink. ‘I didn’t come to get it signed. Of course, that would be nice, thank you.’ She handed me her well-read copy.
‘If not to have it signed, then why did you bring it?’ I asked.
Mrs Scarfe hesitated as she looked from me to Fisk, her eyes narrowed. She lingered a little longer on his. ‘Because I need to tell you something.’
The winter’s chill of that night forty years ago was as vivid as Mrs Scarfe’s face as she stared at me. The look in her eyes said far more than her words. There was a panic behind them that her voice didn’t let slip. In that instance, I was a boy again with all those fears crawling up my arms until horror’s devious hands were around my throat, ready to choke me.
Only, it was another’s face I saw, another’s sad eyes.
I needed to get out of there. The dark panelling was swallowing me like all the morning light.
‘Oliver has no time now,’ Fisk said. ‘Don’t you need to get back?’
I swung around to see his face turned from mine, my eyes fixed on the book in his hands. The image of Hardacre Priory stared back at me from the cover. In an instant, the book was no longer in his grip but flying across the room. It struck the mirrors behind the bar. Optic spirit bottles smashed into shards, splintered glass tore through the air. A shower of sticky, wet liquor spattered every surface.
Josie screamed. ‘What the hell?’
‘It wasn’t me.’ Fisk’s voice trembled. ‘I don’t know what happened.’
Josie grabbed some bar towels in a meagre attempt to mop up the mess. Long shards of glass still bombarded the bar in a relentless assault.
‘No! Move, now!’ My voice wasn’t my own, even as I shouted over the smashing glass.
Rows of bottles flung themselves off the mirrored shelves. Spotlights exploded one by one with flashes of fluorescent sparks.
Josie scrambled out from behind the bar with her arms wrapped over her head and threw herself into her mum’s arms. Fisk pulled the women to the far wall. The small leaded windows gave little light to the darkened room, but there was no mistaking the devastation.
I had no reasoning for what I did next, nor could I explain the voice that whispered somewhere inside me, urged me, compelled me. Yet, at that moment, it was the high-pitched cracking that splintered my nerves.
I threw a glance back to the others, seeing nothing except fear, confusion, and pulled my mobile from my pocket. Swiping the torch app, I pointed it towards the long mirror. Most of the surface was dashed with small, shattered areas, but a crack had started from the far-left side. It slowly split, rupturing into fragmented veins. Holding my phone out, I walked around the wooden bar, anxiously pointing it towards the mirror, revealing a shattered reflection of myself. I reached out.
Without comprehension, I pressed the tip of my forefinger to the cold glass. Every instinct told me to pull away; instead, my finger whitened under pressure. Then it grew wet. Red droplets dripped onto the mixed puddles of potent liquor. I pulled my finger through each sharp break, tiny fracture of the broken mirror. The sensation of my ripping flesh jolted up my arm. The sound of splinters cracked beneath the pressure in my ears.
‘Oliver, stop it.’ Mrs Scarfe ran towards me, pulling at my arm. ‘Look at your hand.’
Though loud in my ear, her voice was nothing more than a distant murmur compared to the deafening screams in my mind. I saw her reflection beside me, a face of panic. But I no longer saw me, Oliver—the man I had become—but the terrified boy of that night forty years ago. Mr Scarfe saw it too. She pulled away and dropped her hand. My arm fell, spraying a single strand of red specks over the front of her dress. I stepped back from the glass, my elbows on the bar behind me, and took in what I’d done.
The mirror was cracked from corner to corner, a long splinter of broken glass smeared with blood.
Fisk’s hand was on my shoulder. ‘I think we need to leave.’
I’d never heard desperation sound so urgent.
He pulled my arm. ‘Now.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Josie cried. ‘What have you done?’
It wasn’t until I saw what was on the mirror that her words began to have two meanings. I hadn’t only followed the fracture with my finger, but my blood also highlighted words in the cracks:
You killed him.