Peter Beamish shoved the leather-bound object into his jacket, patting the navy pinstripe pocket several times to make sure. The high street was dim as he turned the key in the ignition.
Could he make it to the Priory before the ironic coming storm and hell broke loose? The Jaguar purred under his feet as he pulled away, his eyes on the blackening skies overhead. The residents of Raynham had felt the mood change—the village was deserted, all curtains were drawn against the night, all windows were closed, and doors bolted. If he got through tonight, then tomorrow would bring a brighter forecast.
The Jaguar stopped at the crossroads. He pulled into the drive, and the engine died, sputtering as it did. Peter turned the key again. Nothing. His hand hung there while he deliberated his next move. He looked at his watch; a few minutes early, not that it mattered. Then, taking a moment to gather himself, he tried the engine again. Dead. He’d have to walk.
A wild rush of wind and a rustle from above marked his arrival.
Very well, he mouthed.
He locked the car behind him and faced the lane that led to the house. It would have been safer to drive. The thought of walking the Priory grounds at night had never been a welcome one. To witness what was to come, whatever it was… if it could have been done from afar, it would have been better, but here he was, about to be in the thick of it all.
The oak creaked overhead, its boughs and branches twisted, and a shower of leaves scattered over Peter’s head. He ignored the gesture and walked farther up the drive.
Over the brow of the hill, the Priory’s silhouette rose against the thunderous sky. Its windows were dimly lit, though the great door was open. The impulse to run towards it gripped his chest. He turned up the collar of his jacket and patted his pocket again. The object began to hum, sending vibrations through his palm up to his arm and into his ear. But it was more than a hum. It was a voice.
Peter stopped. He pulled the object from his pocket and put it to his ear. The voices didn’t come from it but from everywhere. They filled the space he stood in, the very air he breathed. They urged him on.
He began to run.
The sky split with a shockwave of thunderous roars. A fierce strike of blinding lightning pierced the ground before him, then another and another. It threw him backwards, and he fell onto his back as the object flew from his grasp. Peter scrambled about, feeling his way forwards. Lightning struck twice more, each closer than the last. Bolts of fire scorched the grass, pushed him back as he desperately searched the ground. Finally, he staggered to his feet and examined the horizon for some movement, for help.
The Priory door was still wide, though the light was fainter now. In the distance, he could just make out a figure running towards him. A crackle of lightning lit the skies and cast brightness over the whole of Hardacre Priory. The figure stopped mid-step. Nancy stood in the distance; her eyes wide with fear as she pointed towards him. Peter’s mind went blank, nodded, then shrugged as he looked back to the ground.
I dropped it, he mouthed.
Nancy shook her head, her eyes wild with fear. ‘Run!’
A long, twisted root ripped from the soil, echoing the thunder as it thrashed onto the ground and sent torturous thuds through the earth to his feet. It tossed him backwards through the air, showering down wet mud. Peter landed a dozen or so feet at the foot of the oak tree.
†
Elliot had sneaked past Lizzie up the stairs. Oliver followed, in instinct, but he hadn’t known why. When they reached the gallery, the air altered, thick, suffocating.
‘We need to get out of here, Oli. Right now.’
‘What do you mean? We can’t.’
There was no time to explain. They made it to their bedroom. Elliot quickly shut the door and flicked on the light.
Oliver wandered over to the window and stared into the night. ‘We can’t leave. Mum will kill us if we leave the house. Look, Elliot—it’s dark.’
Elliot stared at his twin. He knew it would kill them all if they stayed, but he didn’t say it. If Oli didn’t remember what happened with the oak tree earlier, he wouldn’t listen now.
‘We need to get Mum.’ Elliot rummaged under his bed.
‘What are you doing? What’s that?’ Oliver scowled as Elliot pulled something out from under the bed. ‘You took it.’
‘I needed to. We need it.’ He stepped his bare feet into his wellies. ‘Best take those slippers off.’
There was a low knock; a slow creak opened the door ajar. The boys jumped, scrambled in panic, and sat on their beds. Elliot put his finger to his lips, signalling his twin and his eyes fierce under his scowl. Oliver nodded, playing with the cuffs of his jumper sleeves.
Lizzie peered through the crack. ‘There you are! You gave me a fright. Please don’t run off like that again.’ She smiled, but Elliot saw the worry at the corner of her mouth and in her downcast eyes. ‘Why not get yourselves into your nightclothes? It’s almost time for bed.’
They both nodded as Oliver pulled off his jumper.
‘Good boys.’
She carefully closed the door. Elliot sat tight-lipped until her footsteps fell out of earshot.
Oliver was already in his pyjamas—knights on horseback. He fastened the last button, stood ready and pushed his feet into his blue slippers. Elliot just stared.
‘What are you doing? We can’t leave in our pyjamas?’
Oliver shrugged. ‘I’m not leaving.’
Elliot huffed, then shrugged, and looked around for his own. He couldn’t find them.
‘I need to borrow some of yours.’ Elliot tugged open the drawers. ‘Why can’t I find my Hulks?’ he growled. He pulled out a pair with cowboys and Indians and scowled and grumbled as he changed, his fingers fumbling with the buttons.
‘I think they look nice.’ Oliver sat crossed-legged on the end of his bed.
‘Don’t just sit there. We need to go.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes.’
There was no plan. Elliot had no idea where they were going, they just needed to find Mum and leave. And now they both stood in stupid pyjamas. Pulling a cardigan over his nightclothes Elliot grabbed the mirror, stuffed it under his top and folded his arms over it. He then nodded towards the door as Oliver carefully opened it.
‘Don’t look at the chair,’ Elliot said.
Oliver stared at him.
Elliot shook his head. ‘Just hurry and don’t look at it.’
They needed to stay calm long enough to get outside. Maybe they could make it to the village road without anyone seeing them.
The boys both gripped the balustrade at the top of the staircase. The great hall was empty, just a vague glow coming up from the kitchen, but the only true light came from the drawing-room. They’d be in there.
Elliot nudged his twin and nodded towards the muffled voices. ‘We need to be quiet,’ he whispered.
Something was different tonight, and his brother felt it, he saw how Oliver’s eyes lingered on the open door of the drawing-room.
Not now, Elliot mouthed and grabbed Oliver’s hand.
They made it to the hallway. Oliver seized the iron ring with both hands and yanked it round. The door gave a low moan as his mother’s voice came from the room.
Elliot shoved his twin outside and pulled the door to. They ran into the night, darting the bolts of lightning as they stabbed the ground ahead of them.
Oliver squeezed his hand. ‘Who is that?’
Elliot froze. The bedsheet figure flittered for attention. He swiped his hand over his eyes.
‘Come on, Elliot. They could help.’ Oliver pulled him towards the grounds.
‘No. No one can help us now. We have to do it.’ His breath was short with panic. ‘We need to get to the village, get help.’
‘Mrs Scarfe?’ Oliver thought of Josie and her big eyes. ‘She’s Mum’s friend, isn’t she?’
‘Okay, but we can’t go near the driveway, or they’ll find us. So, we’ll have to find our way around.’ He looked about the grounds. ‘We can go around the side—I think there’s another gate or something down there.’ He pointed across the bare gardens as the view evaporated into the darkness. ‘Somewhere over there.’ But he didn’t really know.
‘What if we get lost?’ Oliver moaned.
‘We’ll have to make sure we don’t.’ Elliot thrust his foot forwards, gripping the mirror with his arm.
They ran towards the lake, around the side down to the bottom trees. Elliot knew there must be another way out, somewhere. If they had to climb over a wall or dig themselves out under a hedge or fence, they would. They had to.
‘Elliot?’ Oliver’s voice was faint, lost somewhere in the air.
‘Where are you?’ Elliot stopped, his wellies slipping on the sodden grass as he spun around.
He leapt forward and saw Oliver lose his footing at the water’s edge. Dropping the mirror, Elliot flung himself forwards and grabbed his brother’s wrists as his body slipped under the dark water.
Elliot’s chest burned. ‘Hold on!’ he cried.
With his elbows dug firm into the sodden mud, he heaved until he felt some movement. But Oliver kept falling back from his grip. Something or someone was tugging his twin out of his grasp.
‘No. You won’t die like Dad.’
Elliot scrambled to get a hold with his knees. He wedged them behind his hands, with his toes deep in the sticky, slick bank, he tugged. A hand rested on his shoulder, solid and calm. Without turning, he closed his eyes and pulled harder, stronger, more assertive. The joints in his arms strained, his shoulders about to pop from their sockets.
Something gave way and propelled Elliot back, banging his head on the wet ground. Finally, Oliver’s head emerged from the depths, and his limp body lurched forwards. They both lay slumped on the bank, unmoving at the shallow dark water’s edge.
The round oak mirror lay close by, wedged in the mud.
The moon peaked through the storm clouds with a glint on its surface. A swirl of something dark, something sinister and predatory, hovered within its glass. One side reflected the darkness towards Hardacre Priory; the other side reflected the boys of winter.
†
It was raining, every drop the size and velocity of biblical proportions—just what Nancy needed. So bloody ironic. Propelling herself onwards, dodging the lightning strikes, she pressed on with no other thought than the need to find her boys.
Peter Beamish was there, and that bloody oak tree was at it again. She pressed her hand to her hip as a painful stitch twitched her sides. She didn’t have time for this.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ she cried. ‘What else are you going to throw at me?’
Peter lay unmoving, his arm unnaturally twisted beneath him.
‘Can you hear me? Please, can you hear me!’ She tapped his cheek and checked for a pulse. He was alive, that was enough for now. ‘Peter, please, if you can hear me, I promise I’ll get help.’ She pressed her hand to his cheek.
Nancy clambered to her feet and headed towards the oak, that damned, blasted tree. She stamped her boots, creating her own tremors.
‘Where are my boys!’
A lone lightning strike lit the ground before her, casting the tree in an eerie glow. The land at its roots rumbled, and thunder shook her core. She could barely see through the rain. Every drop stung her skin.
‘I said, where are my boys? You won’t have them. Not again.’
‘Such a fierce heart.’
‘Don’t play with me.’ Her throat was hoarse and raw. ‘Go to hell. I’m not playing your games anymore.’
She stamped her foot repeatedly, her hands balled into fists. Anger bubbled up, she screamed. Her boot hit something and sent it flying to the exposed tree root.
The leather object.
Nancy dropped to her knees. She ran her hands around the muddy earth and wiped her jacket sleeve over her face to see. Her long hair stuck in wet lashes over her cheeks as she dug her fingers into the mud.
‘Where are you? If there’s a god, please, will you please help me?’ She thrust her hands into the gaping hole by the thrashing tree root. ‘Please.’ She rummaged in the thick mud, which oozed between her fingers. It was there. She gripped it, but her feet struggled to gain a hold on the slippery ground.
‘Not so fast, Nancy Hardacre.’
She turned towards the Priory. With the leather-bound item in her hand, she marched against the wild wind and raging storm. Droning thunder pressed in on her ears. The wind spun her, stopped her in her tracks, and slowly brought her to a halt.
‘Such determination should not go unrewarded. You may choose one this time.’
‘Go to hell or wherever you came from. Leave my family and me alone. Now, give me my boys.’
Slick with mud, the long, tuberous root gathered itself up from the ground. It wound in the air like a whip. Nancy held her breath, there was no time to brace herself.
‘Very well.’