HOUR OF THE WITCH

It was a question of which of them, if any, would still be there by daybreak.

John McQueen sat at his desk, idly going through the mail that had gathered over the last few days. He had been away from work suffering from a heavy cold, but now that he was back and feeling much better, he thought it was high time that he started to make some money. For the past twelve years he had hired out his services as a private investigator, and although he had never had any significant cases, his profession had earned him a steady income.

Most of his mail was humdrum: enquiries regarding whether or not he was available to assist in locating missing dogs, discovering the whereabouts of stolen property, and even one letter from a suspicious wife seeking help in tracking down an errant and undoubtedly unfaithful husband. He was just about to consult his logbook of old unresolved cases when the office door opened and Mark Forsyth, his assistant, entered with a dark-haired woman, slim and pale with dark eyes and an oval-shaped face. She looked to be in her mid-forties.

“Mrs. Eleanor Campbell,” announced Forsyth, ushering the woman inside.

Somewhat surprised, McQueen got to his feet. “Good morning. Please, take a seat.” He could see that the woman was nervous, her eyes never still, taking everything in.

“Mrs. Campbell has got quite an interesting proposition.” Forsyth drew up a chair, sat down, and took a notebook and pen from his pocket.

“Well, Mrs. Campbell,” said McQueen, “if you’ll tell me what your problem is, I’ll see whether or not I can help.” Once she had sat down, he too took his seat.

“Just over a year ago my husband, Cameron, disappeared.” Mrs. Campbell removed a handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at her eyes before returning it. “He was an investigator like yourself, with the exception being that he delved into the supernatural. A paranormal investigator is what he liked to be known as.”

“Professor Cameron Campbell?” inquired McQueen, trying to remember some of the details of the disappearance of the renowned parapsychologist that had made the headlines. “I recall reading something about that in the newspapers. Didn’t something happen to him on one of his investigations?”

“Not just Cameron, but his entire team of researchers from Glasgow University. Five of them in total.” Mrs. Campbell shook her head, clearly trying to come to terms with just whatever it was that had happened. “They’d carried out investigations at alleged haunted sites all over Britain, hoping to discover evidence to prove the existence of the supernatural. Cameron had been the team leader, an expert in the field of parapsychology, the one who did all of the research in tracking down places of psychic interest. If only he hadn’t found out about that awful house on Jura.”

More details of the case were slowly filtering back into McQueen’s mind. “Yes, I’m remembering more about it now,” he said. “It was quite big news. All of them just disappeared, didn’t they? The police carried out an intensive investigation both of the house and the surrounding area, but no one was ever found. Without doubt, a very mysterious case.” He gulped as a little shiver of uncertainty went through him. “You’ve obviously come to me to ask whether or not I’d be willing to carry out my own investigations regarding their disappearance, yes?”

She nodded. “I was informed that you had some experience in such cases.”

“Not recently,” said McQueen. “In fact, these days I’m something of a sceptic when it comes to the supernatural. I guess you could say I’ve seen too much but experienced too little. However, I must say I am rather intrigued by this, and have been ever since reading about it. Clearly, something happened out there at that godforsaken place, something that resulted in the disappearance of five people. Just what…well, clearly there was something that the police were unable to discover.” He scratched at the day’s growth of stubble on his chin.

“So you will help me? You’ll take the case?”

McQueen took out a packet of cigarettes from a drawer, lit one and took a drag. “What do you say, Forsyth?” he asked, looking at his assistant. “Sounds interesting, doesn’t it?”

“Certainly does,” replied Forsyth. “Although I don’t really see what new light we’ll be able to shed on this. I guess the first thing we should do is head out to this house and see if there’s any evidence to be found, anything which the initial investigation may have overlooked. If we turn up nothing, then perhaps we might get some valuable insights into the minds of those who vanished by tracking down any friends and relatives.”

“Maybe a look at the initial police report might help as well,” added McQueen.

“Yes,” agreed Forsyth. “Although you know as well as I that ever since that new Chief Inspector took over, getting our hands on such documentation has proved increasingly difficult.”

McQueen nodded in agreement. “Yes, that may prove tricky.” He stubbed out the remains of his cigarette in an ashtray. “But first, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your husband, if I may, Mrs. Campbell. I guess the most important question is; do you yourself have any notion regarding just what may have happened to him and his team?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m as baffled as everyone else. There was absolutely no reason for Cameron to go missing. And as for the others, well, I’ve been in correspondence with some of the relatives and they’re just as confused as I am. The last year has been sheer torture for me not knowing what’s happened. Sometimes I can cope with it, but—” She broke down into a sobbing fit, reaching for her handkerchief once more. After a few moments, she looked up, her eyes tearful. “Please, I need your help in this. I’ve come to expect the worst, but it’s the not knowing—that’s what’s really painful.”

McQueen and Forsyth exchanged concerned yet uncertain glances. Was it something they could handle? McQueen seemed to think so, although he doubted whether their investigations would reveal anything of merit.

“I’m imploring you,” pleaded Mrs. Campbell. “Please help me find my husband. I don’t know who else to turn to. The police are no longer interested. I’ll pay you whether you find anything or not. I’m certain there will be something that the police have overlooked. Some small clue which may reveal what happened to them out there.”

“Very well, Mrs. Campbell,” said McQueen. “I will take this case on, although I can’t make any promises regarding the outcome. I’ll also add that it is a little outside my usual field of experience. However, I will give it my full, undivided attention. Now, how soon do you want me to start?”

“As soon as possible. The sooner the better.” A bright intensity shone in Mrs. Campbell’s pale face, now that she had told her tale and had secured the private investigator’s service. It was almost as if she was a different woman from the one who had entered the office a few minutes earlier. “I plan to travel to Jura myself within the week. I trust that’s not too much short notice for you?”

It was certainly short notice, but McQueen had the suspicion that this case could well be a significant one. If he were to discover the true explanation behind the disappearance of Cameron Campbell, then he would be made for life. An opportunity like this did not come knocking every day, that was for certain. “Very well, I’ll see to it,” he said, reaching for another cigarette. He lit up and inhaled the smoke, drawing it deep into his lungs. “In the meantime, I’ll see what I can find out about this house. What was the name of it again?”

“It has no name. Only a reputation. You see I’ve done my own research, and from what I can gather it’s not really even a house. More of a ruin. A crofter’s cottage, which has now been reduced to little more than four walls and a shattered roof.” Mrs. Campbell reached into a coat pocket and removed a small photograph that she handed over. “As you can see, there’s not much of it still standing. It was once the property of a Mr. Tam McSweeney and his wife, Aggie. My husband’s reasoning for it being haunted was based on some research he’d done which had suggested that the previous owner, an old crofter, had been killed by his wife sometime during the last century. She was reputed to have been a practitioner of the Black Arts, a witch.”

Looking at the photograph, nothing immediately suggested itself to McQueen. It was, after all, little more than a tumbledown farmhouse. The white walls were barely standing and the roof was sagging, just a jumble of criss-crossing timbers in places. Two small square windows and a dark doorway completed the unimposing structure. And yet, the more he looked at it, the more a strange sense of unease filtered into his mind. For a long time, he sat there, unable to think clearly, unable to wrench his eyes away. Whether due to some strange quirk of the lighting, shadows seemed to crouch around the deserted building where shadows ought not to be, and he felt mild nausea arising from the pit of his stomach as he continued to stare at the image. This he immediately put down to an association of facts; nothing more than an acknowledgement that something inexplicable had happened to five people there. It was this alone, he reasoned, that caused his unease.

“Not much to look at, is it?” said Mrs. Campbell.

“No, I guess not.” McQueen handed the photograph to Forsyth, who looked at it with measured interest. “So, Mrs. Campbell, I’ve told you that I am willing to take on this case. It will necessitate quite some organisation, but I’m pretty confident about being able to join you at the weekend. Just to let you know, I always work with my assistant; in fact, some would say he’s the brains of the outfit.”

“And you’re the brawn?”

McQueen smiled. “Hardly. So don’t go expecting any gumshoe-like behaviour from me. I don’t drink cheap whisky, and as you can see, I don’t operate from a sleazy backstreet office, nor do I carry a gun. Unfortunately, the law in this country forbids me from using one, not that I foresee the need for one, for if I see anything ghost-like I’ll be first out of the door.”

* * * * * * *

Four days later on the ferry crossing from the mainland to Port Askaig on Islay, McQueen stood next to Forsyth looking out across the churning grey water as the Paps of Jura, the name given for the three island mountains, loomed before them. It was cold, slightly foggy, and very damp. And for those who had lived all of their lives as city-dwellers, it was an imposing, foreboding, and not particularly welcoming sight. It was no longer hard to imagine that something utterly inexplicable could have happened out here. It seemed as though they were going back in time, back to a remote past long-shrouded in myth and legend.

Having talked with the few passengers on board, most of whom were inhabitants of Islay, the closest island, they discovered that there were probably fewer than fifty islanders on Jura, and that they would have to cross on the Feolin Ferry to reach their destination, where it was planned they would rendezvous with Mrs. Campbell.

“Quite an impressive sight, wouldn’t you agree?” commented McQueen. “Though just why anyone in their right mind would want to live out here beats me.”

“I daresay you get used to it after a while. The solitude, the cold, the rain. In summer, one of the men downstairs was telling me, the midges here are diabolical. They’re like mosquitoes. The sooner we’re away from here, the better. I don’t like it one bit.”

“Well, although we didn’t manage to get a look at the police report, if we can find something of significance regarding the disappearance of Cameron Campbell and his team, we’ll be famous. Think of that while you’re having to put up with the hardships. Besides, I think our investigations will only take a day or two at most. We’ve got sufficient camping gear to stay in that place in reasonable comfort, and then we’ll be back in Glasgow. And like Mrs. Campbell said, we get paid whether or not we find anything. So it’s a win-win situation for us.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever considered the possibility that there just may be something behind all of this? You know, something weird.”

McQueen lit a cigarette, cupping it in his hand to shield it from the strong wind that was blowing. He eyed the other strangely. “You mean, do I believe that Cameron and his associates fell foul of something supernatural?” He shook his head fiercely and took a drag from his cigarette. “No, of course not. I don’t buy that as an explanation. Something undoubtedly did happen, but I’m certain it didn’t have anything to do with ghosts or demons. Five people cooped up together in a deserted building in the middle of nowhere—all it takes is for one of them to go mad. Kills everyone in their sleep, one by one, disposes the bodies somewhere they’ll never be found and then makes good their escape. Or, maybe, two of them working together. That’d be easier. Now clearly, I don’t know just why they would do something as despicable as that, but people being people, it’s not out of the scope of possibility as an explanation. To me, it sounds far more feasible than bringing in the supernatural.”

The ferry was now fast approaching the small harbour where they would be disembarking. Several small cottages dotted the coastline, and seagulls cried and circled overhead. After ensuring that they had their rucksacks with them, they headed downstairs and waited for the announcement from the captain to instruct them that it was all clear to get off the ferry. When it came, they were the first in the queue to walk down the metal gangplank, where they were somewhat surprised to find Mrs. Campbell waiting for them. She was accompanied by two men: a stocky, middle-aged man with a short white beard who from his attire was clearly a priest, and a younger man who bore some resemblance to her.

“Welcome to Islay,” greeted Mrs. Campbell. She gestured to her companions. “May I introduce my brother-in-law, Father Archie Campbell, and my son, James.”

For a moment McQueen was lost for words. He had not expected there to be others involved in this investigation, although he saw no reason why their presence should complicate things. Indeed, it could make things easier, providing they knew what they were letting themselves in for. After making his greetings, he and Forsyth followed them to their car.

“So just what are our plans now?” asked McQueen, unslinging his rucksack and handing it over to James Campbell, who had opened the car-boot.

“From here, in about half an hour’s time, we’ll catch the Feolin Ferry over to Jura. Then it’s just a relatively short drive along the only road, until we get to the point where we have to head off across country. If the weather stays reasonable, it should take us about three hours to get to the house,” answered Eleanor Campbell.

* * * * * * *

McQueen shivered and turned up the collar of his coat as he stood beside the parked car and gazed out at the desolate moorland before him, the dark grey masses of the three mountains barely visible in the low cloud, which threatened to descend and engulf everything. He shivered at something more than just the coldness of the early afternoon air. It was as though an invisible, clinging mist had seemed to rise up out of the ground beneath his feet bathing him in an aura of impending horror. With an effort, he told himself fiercely that he had to forget that, to keep his mind on the job that lay ahead, and that somewhere out there on the other side of the island there was a ruined house that kept its own mysteries.

A chill light drizzle began to fall.

“God! What a place.” Forsyth tightened his bootlaces and then hoisted his rucksack onto his shoulders.

“It’s fairly inhospitable, I agree,” commented James. Like the others, he was outfitted in a large raincoat, and both he and Archie carried rucksacks as well. “How my father persuaded the others to come out to this godforsaken place I don’t know.”

Tightening a strap on his rucksack, McQueen strode over to join him. “Did he really believe that the most haunted place in Britain was out here? I’d have thought somewhere like Edinburgh Castle or Highgate Cemetery would’ve been more his kind of thing.”

“Cameron did indeed think that the place we’re going to was the most haunted,” answered Eleanor, before her son could answer.

McQueen glanced upwards, noting that the drizzle had now turned to a cold rain. “Might be best if we waited in the car until this rain’s stopped.”

“Depending on how long the rain’s going to last, we might not make the house before nightfall, and the path’s hard enough to find in daylight,” reasoned Archie in his thick, gruff accent. “No, I think we’d better head off now, rain or no rain.”

With no further talk, they set off across the bleak, uncompromising landscape, their boots squelching through the thick, peaty sludge of the barely discernible path. After about a mile the path degenerated into nothing more than a trail, and in the gathering mist it became increasingly difficult for them to stick to it. The atmosphere had now become oppressive, cold, and damp and it did not take long for the imagination to run riot.

Half-formed, tenebrous images seemed to lurk just on the periphery of McQueen’s vision, leading him to think that there were things out there, unfriendly things which even now were observing their progress with a malign intent. The mist had become thicker, almost suffocating, the only sounds that of the occasional curse and splash from one of the others. As they progressed through the murk and the gloom, the notion that perhaps this was not one of his better ideas came to his mind, and that despite what he had said to Forsyth about enduring the hardships for the sake of fame, perhaps it would be best to turn back whilst that still remained an option.

With some measure of inner resolve, he took a hold of himself and trudged on, the ghost-like form of James, who he was following, just visible up ahead.

After the first hour or so, the conditions deteriorated further so that, at least as far as McQueen was concerned, it seemed as though the very elements themselves were conspiring in an attempt to drive them back. A strong wind had now picked up, ice-cold fingers clawing at exposed skin and stabbing sadistically through their waterproofs. With it came an almost horizontal rain that drove at them with a vengeance that seemed born of an elemental fury.

The sky darkened with each passing minute, and ill-looking black clouds now replaced the ubiquitous greyness.

A cold sweat trickled down McQueen’s spine, an iciness somewhat colder than the rain. On several occasions he was convinced that he heard hideous wails on the wind, as though nature itself had become corrupted, and had now found some fell voice with which to shriek at them, to warn them perhaps of an impending doom. The ground become soggier, the going more treacherous as deep pools of standing surface water now lay all around, and one wrong step would result in an immediate drenching from which hypothermia could easily develop.

The others cursed and struggled on, each absorbed in their own thoughts and nightmares regarding where they were going.

They stopped briefly for a cheerless break, sipping from their flasks and devouring their packed lunches before setting off once more, hoping against hope that they were still heading in the right direction. In the thick fog it was now nigh on impossible to be certain, and McQueen dreaded to think what would happen to them if they were to become hopelessly lost out here, for he did not think that there were any adequate search and rescue teams based on the island. Similarly, at least as far as he and Forsyth were concerned, neither of them possessed any appropriate survival knowledge nor, more importantly, had they informed anyone else of where they were going. The latter was an unsettling thought that, unwillingly, plagued his brain for the remainder of the trek.

Thus it was with some relief that, just as darkness was encroaching, James let out a jubilant cry that he could see the house up ahead.

At first McQueen could see nothing through the veil of water that curtained off his immediate surroundings. Then, spectrally, the ruined cottage just seemed to materialise out of the fog before him.

* * * * * * *

By torchlight, they began sifting through the detritus and rubble, stooping occasionally to take a look under many of the heaps of contorted woodwork and jumbled heaps of bricks. What remaining furniture there was lay mostly wrecked and decaying: a bookcase devoid of books against one wall and a few splintered chairs. It was clear that someone had been here, certainly within the last few years, for there were small piles of cigarette butts of a brand McQueen knew to have been only released relatively recently. When he had questioned Mrs. Campbell, she told him that her husband had been a non-smoker, however they could have belonged to members of his team or indeed to the police who had searched the place after the disappearance.

After an hour or so of fruitless ransacking, they decided to camp up—McQueen, Forsyth, and Father Archie Campbell setting up base in the ruined main room, whilst Eleanor and her son retired to one of the small side rooms, one which had clearly served as a bedroom of some description.

Outside, the wind and the rain battered without mercy at the derelict building as though trying to outdo each other in terms of ferocity. Despite their hasty, patchwork attempts to provide shelter and make the place somewhat habitable the interior was cold, the atmosphere lugubrious.

“So what do you think happened here, Father?” McQueen asked as he unrolled his sleeping bag and looked for somewhere comfortable to lay it down.

“The Devil’s work,” came the gruff reply. “What else could it be?”

“Would you care to be more specific?”

“I always told Cameron that no good would come of his meddling with things which are best left alone. But would he listen? No! All the time he said he needed to have the proof to substantiate his beliefs. I repeatedly told him that faith should be enough—but alas, it was clearly not enough for him and for those other misguided fools who followed him out here.”

“So I take it you think something unnatural happened here?” asked Forsyth from where he sat, shining the torch all around, making the grotesque shadows dance like wraiths.

“Without doubt. It’s one of the main reasons why I agreed to accompany Eleanor. There’s evil here. I can sense it. It lives in the very bricks and timbers of this old house. When it shows itself, I have all the means necessary to combat it and make it pay for whatever it did to my brother and the others.”

“Are we talking about an exorcism here?” asked McQueen.

“Exactly.” The priest grinned. “For whereas Cameron sought only to prove the existence of such foul things, I believe it is my duty to permanently destroy such Satanic entities. As I said, I have come prepared. Crucifix. Holy water. Bible. Communion wafers.”

“What are you—some kind of vampire hunter?”

“No. Simply a humble servant of God. One on a crusade to stamp out the Dark and restore the Light to its true brilliance.”

“And what if nothing happens?” said McQueen. “What if we just end up spending a couple of miserable, cold, and wet nights in this deserted shell of a cottage—what then?”

“Ah, but that won’t happen. You see it’s my aim to draw out whatever evil resides here. Tonight, at the stroke of midnight, I’ll conduct a séance to try and do just that.”

“Wait a minute!” protested McQueen. “Who mentioned anything about holding a séance? That’s completely out of the question and I want no part of it. What a ludicrous idea.” He lit a cigarette, his strong features visible for a moment in the flaring match-light.

“Scared of something?” taunted the priest.

“Scared? Of such a stupid thing as a séance? No, I’m not scared, but—“

“But what?”

“Well, it’s just that I don’t have any belief in anything like that. I don’t see the point.”

“Surely we’ve got nothing to lose and potentially something to gain,” ventured Forsyth. “Besides, it’ll pass the time,” he added flippantly.

“Yes,” said the priest. “And perhaps as another incentive, think on this: we may gain an insight into just what happened here on that dismal night over a year ago. If I do manage to contact the spirit world, perhaps I can find out what really happened to Cameron.”

McQueen had not factored anything like this into his plan of operations. But he might as well humour the man, and besides he thought it highly likely that Eleanor, who was paying for his services, would want him to participate. So disagreeing would be counter-productive. Later on, after the séance had failed, he might be able to work the conversation round to his theory that one or more members of Cameron’s ill-fated team had gone berserk and murdered the others. In the shadowy light, he could see from his watch that it had just gone nine o’clock, so that left nearly three hours in which to get some rest in readiness for midnight and whatever insanity that might bring.

* * * * * * *

The exhaustion from the three-hour trudge across the island struck McQueen with a fierce suddenness, dragging him off into a dark slumber as soon as he climbed into his sleeping bag. Almost instantly he was struck by a terrible plethora of dark mental images, each nightmare worse than the one before. Horrible, grinning skull-like faces swam into view before melting away into a swirling mass of blighted wickedness. Surreal, unnatural beings, neither man-like or animal-like, danced crazily through his silently screaming mind, insane shapes which seemed to fold and unfold before him.

And then, it seemed no sooner had he drifted off into a troubled sleep that he was awakened by James.

“It’s getting close to midnight. My mother was hoping that you’d join her and my uncle.”

“What?” asked McQueen groggily, temporarily unsure of his surroundings.

“They’re planning on holding a séance in the next room. I can’t say that I’m all in favour of the idea, but there we are. I don’t approve and I don’t think it’ll help in finding my father.”

Everything rushed back, colliding inside McQueen’s brain like a dark tide battering at a sea wall. “Yes. I must have drifted off for an hour or so.”

“More like three hours,” commented Forsyth, entering the abandoned room. The light from his torch made everything seem frightening and insubstantial, shadow-shapes seemed to slink away from the beam of light as though possessed of some sentient quality. “I guess that hike across the island must’ve really taken its toll on you.”

McQueen got out of his sleeping bag and followed the others into the adjacent room. A small wooden table has been set up, around which five chairs had been placed. Eleanor and Archie Campbell were already seated, clearly awaiting their arrival.

“When you’re ready,” said the priest, gesturing to the others to sit down in the vacant chairs. Once they had taken their seats he continued: “Let us all link hands whilst I try and reach out to the spirit world.”

They linked hands as instructed. In his left, McQueen held Eleanor’s delicate, long-fingered hand and in his right he grasped Forsyth’s. Inwardly, he could not help but think that he was being a gullible fool for even considering participating in this occult nonsense. He had come out here in order to conduct a rigorous and methodical search for any evidence pertaining to the disappearance of Cameron Campbell and his team and now, here he was, gathered around a table joining in with their mumbo-jumbo! He would have to see about asking for extra pay as compensation for this insult to his common sense.

“Is there anyone out there?” intoned the priest. “Does anyone care to tell us what happened here?” He asked his questions with a quiet deliberation.

McQueen grimaced, his face a portrait in sceptical annoyance. Of course there were people there—themselves.

“Cameron. Are you there, brother?”

“Look, this is getting—” complained McQueen, getting ready to rise from his chair.

“Wait.” Eleanor threw him a sharp glance.

The room was suddenly very still. All sound ceased abruptly, as if someone had drawn a thick, impenetrable curtain across everything. Utter silence. A finger of ice traced strange patterns along the muscles of McQueen’s back. His skin itched and crawled as though a thousand ants were creeping across it.

“Cameron, can you hear me?” In the dim torchlight the priest’s face was half-bathed in shadow, giving it a sinister and slightly demonic look.

McQueen felt Eleanor’s grasp on his hand tighten, her nails threatening to dig into the flesh of his palm. An eerie atmosphere crowded around them and the temperature dropped noticeably, so that he was shocked to see that his breath was now steaming. A long moment passed. There was a low ringing in his ears now and somewhere, at the very edge of his vision, he detected a growing brightness coming from the corner of the room. He clenched his mouth shut to keep his teeth from shaking.

Within the darkness, in the corner of the room, a greenish, dense fog began to gather. The fog began to assume human form, condensing and then solidifying into a tangible being—perhaps not a true flesh and blood one, but a being nonetheless. The ghostly face was lined with pain and torment. Its eyes were tinged crimson and sunken, its face etched with deep lines, and its hair was wild and unkempt.

It was the tortured spirit of Cameron Campbell!

“Cameron!” cried Eleanor.

“You must all flee!” wailed the spectre. “There is a dark spirit here. It will destroy you all as it destroyed me. Your only hope resides in the fireplace. Save my soul and your own lives.…” Its last cry was a bloodcurdling, fading scream from the netherworld, a truly terrifying caterwaul that shook all of them to the marrow, temporarily paralysing them with fear. Then, his warning given, Cameron’s spirit was drawn back into whichever dark beyond it had temporarily been summoned from. It was compressed to a single glowing point, before blinking out of existence.

“What the hell was that!?” cried Forsyth, his eyes wild, his hands trembling visibly. Most of the colour had drained from his face.

A gripping terror clutched at McQueen, forcing him to swallow a lump in his throat. He could feel his heart begin to hammer inside his chest like a caged animal, and a cold, damp sweat now leaked from his forehead. He could offer no explanation for what had just transpired; no reasoning enabled him to come to terms with what he had just witnessed with his own two eyes. He had known, instinctively, that what he had seen had been real. It was no trickster’s hoax or phantasm generated by a troubled mind, for all of the others had seen it too. It had been something that had defied his logical ordering of the world and all within it, something that his practical, pragmatic outlook on life could not accept—and yet it had happened. He had seen it!

Father Archie Campbell was the first to regain some semblance of composure. “It was the doomed soul of my brother. May his spirit rest in peace.” He broke his hold on those seated next to him and, shakily, made the sign of the cross.

“The fireplace—I wonder what he meant by that?” voiced McQueen, turning his gaze to the ancient, half-collapsed hearth. Charred fragments of wood and an overturned coalscuttle rested close to it, but apart from that it looked completely ordinary.

“And what about this dark spirit?” asked Forsyth nervously.

James got up from his seat and strode over to the fireplace. “There must be something here,” he said, kneeling down in order to examine the ash-strewn contents of the hearth. A moment or two later, the priest and Forsyth got up to assist him.

They searched around the wide hearth, removing the iron-cast grate and checking for any loose bricks that might conceal any hidden cavities or such like.

“Doesn’t seem to be—” Forsyth stopped mid-sentence as there came a loud crash from the main room. It sounded as though someone had dashed the rotting bookcase to the ground.

All eyes turned in the direction of the doorway.

“What was that?” asked Eleanor.

“Damned if I know,” replied McQueen. He found himself being held by thoughts that he had never believed existed in his mind, an almost tangible fear that was making him now believe in things that he had long consigned to the realm of superstition. Savagely, he tried to throw his gaze into the darkness of the doorway, to try and see whatever might be lurking beyond the shadowy opening. He stood rigid, his heart thudding within his chest.

“We’d better check,” said James, his voice tinged with uncertainty. Hesitantly, he advanced towards the doorway, directing his torch beam in front of him, holding it as though it were a talisman capable of keeping the things of the Dark at bay.

“I’m with you, lad.” Gripping his crucifix, the priest went first, venturing through the shadow-filled doorway. The rest followed.

The room beyond was much as they had left it only minutes before, with one noticeable and horrible exception. An exception that shocked and stunned them all, so that for the best part of a minute there was utter silence as they stood gawping, shaking, unable to react as fear paralysed them, gripped them, and froze them to the spot.

In the torchlight, written on the nearby wall in what looked like dripping blood was:

I’M GOING TO GET YOU!

It was McQueen who was the first to break free from the hypnotic hold the grim lettering had on them. “Right. I’ve seen enough. That writing wasn’t there a few moments ago and none of us could have done it. This place is haunted. Let’s get our stuff together and get the hell out of here.”

“Too right,” agreed Forsyth, staring around him, his eyes wide. “That’s enough for me. We should never have tried that stupid séance.” He moved towards his sleeping bag. “I’m not staying here a moment longer. This place gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“This is blood,” said James, after testing the viscous red liquid with his fingertips.

“That does it! Get the equipment packed up as quick as you can. Then we’re getting out of this house of horrors.” McQueen turned to Eleanor. “Sorry about all this, but I hope you understand this goes far beyond what I’d bargained for. If you’d all take my advice, you’d leave too.”

“What makes you think you can leave?” asked the priest.

“What?”

“I said, what makes you think you can leave?” The priest fixed the private investigator and his assistant with steely eyes. “Maybe this ‘dark spirit’ that Cameron warned us about won’t let us.”

“That’s rubbish.” Hastily, Forsyth crammed his camping gear into his rucksack. He hoisted it onto his shoulders and stomped over towards the front door. All eyes watched him as he turned the handle and opened it.

A strong, cold gust of wind and rain blasted forth, but nothing untoward occurred.

“See,” said Forsyth. He closed the door and turned to McQueen. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’d much rather traipse across ten miles of wilderness than stay a moment longer in this hellish place.”

Once McQueen had all of his gear packed, the two of them stood by the door, ready to go and face the elements.

“Are you sure about his?” asked Eleanor, concernedly. She herself was in two minds about leaving, but whilst there remained the slim chance of discovering something about her missing husband she felt compelled to remain. She was scared, more so than she had ever been, but she felt some level of reassurance knowing that Father Archie and her son were with her.

“Damn sure,” said McQueen. He gestured to Forsyth. “Come on, let’s go. If we can get back to the road then—” He was interrupted by a door slamming shut somewhere along the small corridor that led to the partially destroyed kitchen.

“That’s it. I’m out of here.” Forsyth opened the front door and stepped out into the pitch-blackness, his torch illuminating little but dense shadow. No sooner had he done so than the door slammed shut behind him as though blown by a terrible squall.

“What the hell?” yelled McQueen. He reached for the handle and tried to open it. It was held tight as though some fiendish strength on the outside was keeping it shut.

Then came the screams, awful, bloodcurdling cries that hinted at some evil beyond mortal comprehension. And still, despite McQueen’s desperate attempts, the door would not yield.

Now they were one down and trapped.

* * * * * * *

For the past ten minutes McQueen had sat on his rucksack, slumped and shivering by the far wall, unable to fully take in the fact that they were now at the mercy of powers beyond his wildest nightmares. Despite repeated attempts to open the front door, it now seemed that escape was impossible—not that any of them had the desire to venture outside after hearing the soul-wrenching screams of Forsyth. The windows could have been broken down, and in some places escape could have been gained via clambering through the wrecked spaces in the roof, but none had even considered them.

“Perhaps we should search the fireplace again,” suggested Eleanor, her words cutting through the dark melancholy that had now fallen about them.

Checking his watch, McQueen was surprised to find that it was only twenty-five minutes past midnight. It had seemed as though time had become distorted, detached almost from the bizarre reality in which he now found himself. Shaking his head from side-to-side, he tried in vain to accept that something truly hideous and undoubtedly gruesome had befallen Forsyth. Just what, well, that was something he tried not to think about.

All around them the dilapidated house creaked and groaned, the sound of the storm outside adding to the sense of overall horror and isolation.

“Let’s go back into the other room,” said the priest. “It’s clear that there’s no more we can do for our friend who went outside. Perhaps if we can find whatever it is that Cameron told us about, we may find a means of defeating this evil.”

With no further words, they retreated into the other room whereupon James started a more intense search of the fireplace. After a few minutes during which both he and the priest had dismantled the surrounding structure, it became abundantly clear that nothing was going to be found around the exterior.

“There’s nothing here,” said the priest. “Nothing at all.”

“I’ll see if there’s anything inside.” With that, James stooped low and, torch in hand, squeezed into the narrow flue so that he was now invisible to those outside from the knees up.

McQueen could hear the sounds of scrabbling coming from inside and he watched as a heap of soot and dust fell from within and piled around the young man’s feet. He heard a cough and, after a few seconds, a dislodged brick tumbled into the hearth along with the shattered remains of a small, brown earthenware pot and some other small bits and pieces. “What’s that?” he cried.

Then, before any of them could react there came a horrendous scream from somewhere close by. And then, suddenly, James was hauled off the floor.

“Oh my God!” Eleanor screamed.

The priest made a desperate grab at his nephew’s feet, to try and pull him back. He caught hold of one boot and it came off in his hand. And then, screaming, legs kicking frantically, James was wrenched out of sight, dragged up the narrow chimney! His second boot fell into the hearth, landing alongside the pot shards.

“No!” Eleanor staggered forward, her eyes staring, disbelievingly. She fell into the priest’s arms even as McQueen stood staring, unable to help, unable to think clearly.

This was not happening, he tried to tell himself. It was a nightmare, a long and involved nightmare from which he would soon awaken. It was the only explanation his fracturing mind could offer in order to explain all that he had seen since setting foot in this accursed place. He felt as though his scattered wits had been thrown to the dogs, remorselessly shredded and devoured. Something completely outside all of his previous experiences now assaulted him. Whatever this foul thing was that they were now facing, he knew it was an evil thing, spawned out of Hell itself. Fear pulled and tugged at his mind.

Crouching low, McQueen steeled himself to peer inside the hearth but apart from the soot, crumbled brickwork, one boot, bits of pottery, and a few spiders, there was nothing. No trace of James. “The fragments of that small pottery jug and those other things. It may be what Cameron was on about.” He stooped to snatch them up before hastily pulling back.

The priest loosed his hold on his sister-in-law, who was now bordering on the inconsolable, tears streaming from her eyes in great wet sobs. James’ boot was still in his hand and he stared at it, stupefied. His nephew was gone and this was all that now remained of him.

McQueen examined the contents in his hand with mild revulsion. For, amidst the shards of broken pottery was a small wool-like ball of what appeared to be human hair, a few human teeth, and some nail clippings. Then realisation dawned. He held in his hand the shattered remnants of a witch-bottle, a vessel used to imprison evil. No doubt Cameron and his team had found it, and perhaps unwittingly someone had broken it, unknowingly releasing the evil power that now dwelt here. And as long as the pot was broken the evil could not be contained.

As though that power had now become aware of his understanding, it launched a fresh assault at the house. The doors and the window frames shook with a sudden ferocity. Plaster fell from the ceiling and a mass of bloodied brickwork fell into the hearth.

“In the name of God, I cast you out, foul spirit!” shouted Father Archie, his crucifix held aloft. “Begone! Leave this place and never return.” His holy declaration resounded around the rubble-filled room. He began to sprinkle holy water around the place. “By the power invested in me as a servant of God, I cast you out!”

A high-pitched keening scream reverberated around the small room. It was a truly hideous noise, a wild ululation, a banshee’s wail that conjured up horrible images and made the three remaining shrink back towards the dark opening of the doorway. The dreadful howl echoed all around, piercing their ears and stabbing into their minds, instilling within them a terrible, brain-numbing sense of dread and despair.

Gritting his teeth, Father Archie fought back against the dark power, chanting the opening words of the Lord’s Prayer. Fiercely, he gripped his crucifix, sweat now running in tiny rivulets down his face. Tiny electric pulses were dancing erratically down his arms as he strived to keep the holy symbol aloft, to push back and repulse the demonic entity that now threatened to consume them all.

It was a titanic struggle, and for one dreadful moment McQueen thought that the Dark was going to prevail. But then, with a savage grunt from the priest, the unearthly, cacodemonical scream stopped and, temporarily at least, some level of normality returned.

McQueen shook his head in order to clear the insane sound that had assaulted it. For a moment he felt he had been psychically wracked, mentally tortured to the verge of madness. Shaking, he checked his watch, realising that it was now almost ten minutes to one. The witching hour was almost over. Whether that would bring an end to the supernatural malignity directed against them he knew not, but it was a small hope he had to believe in. He doubted whether any of them could survive a night filled with this eldritch insanity.

A deep hush fell over them all.

“Do you…do you think it’s over?” asked Eleanor, tremulously.

“I don’t know,” answered the priest.

“I think you did it,” said McQueen. “By God, I think you—”

The evil power resumed its attack on them.

Accompanied by a mad cackling laugh, a barrage of bricks was launched malevolently at them. McQueen ducked, but Eleanor did not react quickly enough to avoid getting struck by them. One struck her raised left arm whilst another cracked against her left knee, instantly drawing blood as well as a cry of pain.

A nearby window imploded, showering the priest with flying glass.

“Oh my God!” McQueen rushed forward and grabbed Eleanor, shoving her out of harm’s way as a further bout of poltergeist activity brought a large roof beam crashing down, smashing into the floor where she had been only a moment before. Had it struck her, she would certainly have been killed.

The three of them withdrew out of the small room. McQueen slammed the door shut. Hastily, they made their way down the small interconnecting passage towards the rear of the cottage.

The sound of cruel, insane cackling pursued them. The walls splintered and cracked. Great ragged zigzags appeared in the coarse stonework.

A hurled brick smacked painfully off McQueen’s left shoulder blade. “Do something,” he screamed hysterically at the priest.

“Quick! In here.” The priest grabbed him and together they stumbled into the small bedroom in which Eleanor and her unfortunate son had set up camp. Archie slammed the door shut. “I’ll try and secure this room,” he said, sprinkling holy water over the door.

Eleanor sat, huddled in an almost catatonic state, her arms wrapped around her knees by her son’s rucksack. Her eyes were blank and it was clear, yet not entirely surprising, that something within her mind had finally snapped.

A loud thump smacked against the door.

“Can we defeat this thing?” asked McQueen. “I’ve got the pieces from the witch-bottle but I don’t see what good—”

“That’s it,” said the priest. “If we can contain the personal items belonging to this fiend, this witch, then we may be able to trap its spirit. We’d be able to force it into a physical form. Only then would we be capable of truly destroying it.”

“Is there anything we can—” McQueen’s searching eyes were drawn to the small thermos flask lying by the rucksack. “That flask! We’ll use that.” He rushed over and snatched it up, emptied out the dregs of tepid coffee and, after a reassuring nod from the priest, delicately dropped the hair, the teeth, and the nail clippings inside.

“Just to make doubly sure.” Archie decanted a splash of holy water into the flask making the contents within hiss and steam.

The screams and curses in the corridor grew in intensity. The door shook and rattled like an aggressive lunatic in chains. It was thumped repeatedly. The handle turned repeatedly, but thankfully the door would not open.

McQueen screwed on the lid and the priest made a small blessing over it.

The screaming stopped abruptly.

For a long moment there was an unearthly silence, the only sounds that of their laboured breathing and the incessant thumping of their hearts. It seemed as though even the storm that had raged outside all night had finally abated.

“Is it over?” McQueen stared at the door as though half-expecting it to crash open in a violent explosion and for some horror born of nightmare to appear. He looked down at the flask in his hand. Was it just his imagination or did he feel something shift inside? For a moment he thought about magic lamps and trapped djinns. Was there a similarity? He checked his watch. The witching hour was over and with it, he hoped, the terror that had plagued them.

“I think it is.” The priest listened at the door. Nothing. Slowly, he turned the handle. The door opened a few inches, then met with resistance as though something on the floor was blocking it. He pushed harder and—

In the light cast from his torch, there, lying on the hard stone at his feet, was the grisly, ragged remains of some withered being. It was partially desiccated, the limbs and much of the skull-like face decayed and worm-eaten. Filthy, tangled greying hair crawling with ticks sprouted from the head. A crude burial gown was draped around it. One skeletal hand was on the door handle.

It was the corpse of Aggie McSweeney, dead for over a hundred years!