What we witnessed isn’t easily explained. Occurrences such as this don’t often happen, those snippets in time when we imagine the possibility that the supernatural, the paranormal—whatever you like to call it—exists. Often, we dismiss these as mere tricks of the brain, flashes and sparks of miss-signals, miss-communications between the grey matter. Few people accept them for what they are. When they happen, it is vital to take note; and there was no mistaking the ominous nature of what we had witnessed.
Evil lay at the root of this, and it had risen to greet me.
I’d written as much. My book was a document of these unexplained happening. The section on the Priory's history, the truth as I knew it and stories, I’d felt first-hand. In my dreams, I had witnessed the validity of all those generations who had suffered before me. When writing, I put aside the fact that I had memories that belonged to my forebears; they flowed in my blood and out through my fingertips. The irony was that my own memories were no clearer than mud. Putting my feet back on home soil only cemented my certainty that I was about to throw some clarity on my memories—a prospect that terrified me to the core.
‘So, what now?’ Fisk handed me the leather object, his hands on his knees to catch his breath. He eyed me over his brow. ‘Do you want me to drive you to the station?’
‘The answer should be yes, shouldn’t it?’ I said. ‘No man in their right mind would want to go any further. I know what lies beyond this point. The oak tree is just the edge.’
‘That didn’t answer my question. You do have a choice.’
‘Do I? To be honest, I’m not sure I have ever had a choice over any of it. Life keeps throwing me curveballs. The past has a habit of catching up with me.’ I ran my fingers through my hair, relieved I still had any. ‘Gloria is a fine example of that.’
Fisk’s brow furrowed. He stood and rubbed his hands together for warmth. ‘What has Gloria got to do with your past?’
‘She was there. So was Josie, though I can’t recall her. Vera, the woman who took me into her home and raised me as her own, was Gloria’s sister.’
‘Oh, I see. And what does that mean?’
‘It means that I never really left Suffolk. That my new life in Yorkshire has always been tethered to my past. I never outran it.’
‘Maybe you’re reading too much into it.’
‘Perhaps. Except, we both know that’s unlikely. So, if I went back now, ran away again, it would be pointless, wouldn’t it?’
Fisk nodded with a swift smile. ‘Sooner or later, it would catch up. You’re no longer Oliver Hardacre, the outsider.’
‘Exactly.’ I placed the object next to my heart.
‘Well, come on then,’ Fisk said. ‘I suppose if you’ve made up your mind, there’s no time like the present.’
‘Are you coming with me?’
‘I’ve come this far. What kind of man would I be if I just left you here? Especially after witnessing that,’ he exclaimed, pointing to the tree, shaking his head.
‘A sane one.’
‘Quite.’ Fisk glanced at his watch, then at the sky. ‘It’s a little past eleven—not that you’d guess by the look of it.’
The steel-blue sky was dark, a few shades gloomier and thick with thunderous clouds blocking the sun. We were still standing in the great oak’s shadow. Fisk’s car and the road were visible from here. Beyond it lay the barren fields. There hadn’t been another car for at least ten minutes as we stood talking; we were utterly alone in the ominous, deafening silence.
We looked at each other for a few moments, pondering on the next move. Aware of the sudden temperature drop, I shivered, my teeth chattering inside my skull. I patted my breast pocket for reassurance and walked to the old lane.
‘You have it safe?’ Fisk asked.
Feeling my resolve, I nodded, then retrieved the leather object from my pocket for a second check. I held it between us. The storm clouds split in two—not with the expected rain, but with sunrays. A shaft of blinding gold light hit the leather object and cast it in a warm amber glow, clarifying the seal; every line, every carved contour of the wax matrix refined until it was as clear as on the day it had been made. I’d seen it before.
‘Well, will you look at that? This day is getting more…’ There was a laugh in Fisk’s hesitation.
I smiled in return. The hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention. The eyes behind me, those that were always watching, came closer.
We headed towards the lane, leaving that wretched oak at the crossroads. The sun was bright on our backs, though the ground grew frosty with every step. The debris that would have been a crispy russet only a few weeks ago was a decaying brown and rotting underfoot, edged with glistening white frost. I kicked at it. My toes dug into the mulch as it grew brittle under my soles.
The frost grew slowly at first. Despite the heat of the morning sun, I watched as the leafy ground of the lane whitened before my eyes, a carpet of frozen vines and roots. With every step, coiled creepers and knotted roots unravelled creaked and disentangled to allow us in. Frost grew underfoot until anxiety froze my heart.
We were being invited.
Life outside the Priory’s boundary vanished in our wake. More terrifying was the realisation that we were heading into a place that marked itself outside of time and normality. I feared Nick Fisk wasn’t fully aware of this matter but kept my thoughts to myself. The reality of it would soon rise to challenge our convictions—something that the solicitor had in bounds. I, on the other hand, feared I had lived the past forty years in hiding.
Several minutes of walking passed without a spoken word between us, yet my thundering heart against the object’s warm leather was prominent. The land was white as far as we could see. Trees that lined the lane were no more than sticks that reached up to the murky clouds, piercing the sky with bony fingers. The thick bramble ground untwisted with every step, moving, alive even though it spoke of death.
I have tried many times to put this feeling into words. Coming face to face with the horrors of my nightmares isn’t an easy thing to describe. Words fall short no matter how many times I edit and rewrite them. A child’s vivid imagination is likely to replay a moment in time, snippets of something so terrifying with an intensity much darker than reality. It would be forgivable to think that revisiting those memories as an adult would shed light as only a rational mind could.
Forgivable, but wrong.
With the lane now far behind and Fisk by my side, I stood in the overgrown entrance driveway to my ancestral home.
The ground was now covered in ice. Beneath it, I imagined the gravel I’d known as a child—the sharp, grey stones that orchestrated grazed knees. The landscape around us was low and barren— wild lawns of long ago, sparse, and white. The whole aspect that filled our eyes was one of brash coldness. Central to all stood the ominous structure of Hardacre Priory. Before I could think of what lay on the other side of those stone walls, I pressed my hand to the old wooden door.
Fisk rushed to my side, rummaging in his pocket. He placed the key in my hand—the blasted key I’d been dreading to hold.
‘Can you hear them?’ I pressed my ear to the door.
My companion answered with a shrug and vague look of confusion.
The key slid into the lock, melting the frost around it as it did. My shaking hand turned the iron ring handle until the lock’s heavy bar on the other side clunked.
I stood on the brink, my feet on the worn stone of the deep porch. The door opened inwards with so much ease I wondered if something pulled it from inside.
I smelled the decay—it filled my head—yet all I saw was the lurid image of my crippled childhood. Entering the Priory’s halls was an open invitation—not for me, but for every ill wish, vengeful thought, and wicked deed that ever existed.