A Spookies Compendium Read online

  A Spookies Compendium

  David Robinson

  Kindle Edition

  Published by David Robinson

  Copyright © 2011 David Robinson

  All Rights Reserved

  Edited by Maureen Vincent-Northam

  Cover Design: David Robinson

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  Humour

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  Non-Fiction

  E-book Formatting & Publishing on the Kindle

  A Spookies Compendium

  The Haunting at Melmerby Manor

  The Man in Black

  The Haunted Market

  The Haunting at Melmerby Manor

  Chapter One

  Three men stared down at the battered body on the concrete floor. Blood poured from an open head wound and smeared the stone.

  “That was a stupid thing to do,” said the tallest of the trio surrounding the inert body. “He can’t tell us anything now, can he?”

  The leader shrugged and dropped the baseball bat with which he had done the damage. “I pay you to do as you’re told, not to hassle me.” He opened the cold room door. “Get him in there for the time being.”

  The curly-haired, shorter henchman sneered. “Great. Rack him up with the frozen pies.”

  “It’s a cooler, not a freezer.” The leader grinned. “It’ll keep him nice and fresh until we can get rid of him. Now move it. We don’t have all night.”

  Reluctantly, the two men bent to the grisly task. Suddenly, the blood-streaked corpse groaned.

  “Hey,” complained the taller thug, “he’s not dead yet.”

  “Think positive,” said his boss. “The cold room might keep him alive a bit longer.” He slammed the cooler door on the dying man. “We can move him later.”

  *****

  At 16 Rossington Terrace the curtains were closed; the TV, DVD player, and the electric fire were all off and disconnected from the mains. In the rear kitchen, the appliances were switched off and the only noise was a slight rattle from an old, inefficient refrigerator.

  Upstairs, in the back bedroom, 6-year old Damon Bilks slept soundly beneath a single duvet printed in the red and white of the Arsenal soccer team. All around him, the stars of his favourite Premier League Club plied their skills in stylised pictures, watching over him, standing sentry on one of their most avid fans.

  It was house at peace.

  Almost.

  In the double bed of the front bedroom, Angie Bilks could not match her son’s untroubled slumber. Waking for the fourth time, she checked the clock. 2.a.m. and Bilko was not home.

  Not that she was afraid of being home alone through the night. It was anger that disturbed her sleep. Her errant husband had rung at nine and promised he would be home as soon as he had settled a bit of business. Five hours gone and where was he?

  She knew. Knew that he must have concluded his business, meaning he had money in his pocket, meaning the call of the bar and the wink of the waitress would be too strong for him to resist. Angie also knew that when he came in, he would be smashed out of his brains, and her irritation would have to wait until the morning before she could properly vent it.

  And when she got her hands on him...

  She took a sip of water from a glass on the bedside cabinet, turned over and closed her eyes.

  It was just too bad of him to do this. He knew Damon had school in the morning, he knew she had to be up early to get their son ready, and yet he persisted in staying out till all hours. He was a selfish, lazy, good-for-nothing...

  It was only the slightest tinkle of glass or china, coming from downstairs, but it was enough to bring Angie fully alert. She knew her house, knew the noises it made, and the sound of breaking glass or pottery was not on the list. Bilko had a key, so he wouldn’t be breaking in, although, if he was full of booze, he might well be staggering in. Angie knew better. If he was drunk, he’d have made a lot more noise coming through the front door. It was not Bilko.

  As if to confirm her assumptions, there came a bump from downstairs. Anger fuelling her courage, she threw off the duvet and marched out of the bedroom.

  On the landing, she met her 6-year-old son.

  “Mum, there’s someone downstairs and he’s been in my room.”

  Her anger turned to absolute fury. No one disturbed her son … not if he valued his neck.

  “Go back to bed, Damon. I’ll deal with it.”

  She tromped boldly down the stairs and at the bottom glanced to her left, into the kitchen. No one to be seen. A noise from her right directed her to the front room. The door was closed. Odd. She always left it open.

  Angie crept first into the kitchen, checked the worktops, picked up a rolling pin, thought better of it, and instead took a long meat knife. No point messing about. Threatened properly, the intruders might learn some manners.

  Adrenalin surging through her bloodstream, she hurried back to the living room, to find Damon sitting on the bottom step.

  “I told you to go back to bed. I’ll deal with it.”

  “But Mum, he’s torn my wallpaper.”

  About to charge into the front room, Angie paused. “What?”

  Damon held up his hand with a strip of wallpaper about 20 centimetres long, showing two feet in football boots, a ball between them. “Look.”

  Angie put her most disapproving face; the one her son knew so well. “What have you been doing, Damon?”

  “It wasn’t me. Honest. It was him.”

  “Who?

  “The old man.”

  Angie clucked. The imaginary old man had plagued Damon on and off since they first moved into the house a year ago.

  “Damon, I won’t tell you again. Go back to bed.”

  The boy made no effort to move, and another noise from the living room distracted Angie. She gripped the doorknob, threw open the door and burst in.

  “Right, you …”

  A china nymph flew through the air and silenced her protest. It missed her by millimetres and shattered against the wall alongside her head. She flicked on the light. It promptly flicked off again, but in that fleeting second, she could see that the room was as devoid of burgling scum as the kitchen had been. She was alone.

  A second ornament, a regency woman by Capo di Monte, which she remembered Bilko stealing from some house up near the Memorial Park, flew at her and she had to duck to avoid it.

  The confidence with which she had entered the room evaporated quickly. Now her heart pounded with fear. She turned to leave; the door slammed shut. She yanked at it, but it would not open. Across the room, the TV set wobbled on its stand, lifted a few millimetres, and dropped down onto the carpet; the cable, already disconnected from the electricity supply, squirmed behind it like an angry snake. Angie dragged at the door again. She whimpered, suddenly terrified for her life. A large drinks cabinet, filled with cheap spirits Bilko had bought from one of his dodgy mates, toppled and shattered into a thousand pieces.

&
nbsp; “Let me out, let me out!” she cried, hammering on the room door. She hit the light switch again. The lights came on, flickered momentarily, then went out again. Electric blue flashes circled the ceiling, lighting the chaos. “Damon,” she screamed, “get out, Damon! Get Mrs. Armstrong! Tell her to call the police!”

  A small vase of flowers smashed into the wall above her head. Filthy water showered her. An armchair began to move, swivelling from side to side on its castors.

  Angie stared frantically around for a means of escape. Dull light from streetlamps came through the closed curtains. The window. She looked around. Alongside the smashed drinks cabinet, from where it had fallen, was a model truck. Bilko had stolen it from a secondhand market. It was made of metal. She picked it up, tested the weight, and made for the window.

  The moving chair swivelled before her. She dodged right; it followed. She dodged left; it followed. From somewhere came the sound of booming laughter. She leapt on the chair, rode it like a bucking bronco and reached over to snatch at the curtains. The chair yanked her away. She clung to the drapes, and they tore from their hooks. The chair threw her off. She landed midway between door and window. Scrabbling to her feet, she hovered on the edge of total panic.

  Got to get out, got to get out.

  The door? The window? Got to get out, got to get out! The door creaked open few centimetres. She raced towards it. It slammed shut! She stood by the door, unable to react, tears streaming down her face, her body shaking. She was no longer a rational human being. She was a puppet, dancing on the strings of panic-driven, nervous impulses, unable to think, unable to act.

  Through the all-consuming terror, a chink of logic shone through. The curtains were gone. The window was exposed. She still held the die-cast model. If I can’t get to the window, I can still get this thing through the window.

  She threw it.

  It struck the glass in the centre and bounced off.

  “That’s not how you do it,” cackled a maniacal voice. “This is how you do it.” The telephone flew from its table under the window and smashed cleanly through the glass. The damp chill of a late autumn night flooded into the room.

  As Angie leapt for it, the chair moved in front of her again. Behind her, the door flapped open, and then closed once more. She stared back at it, the sweat of fear running down her face. It closed, opened and closed again! She ran for it, praying it would carry on flapping. It slammed shut! Her heart sank. It opened again; she leapt through. It slammed, catching her arm. She yelled in furious pain. In the hall, her son was straining to reach the deadbolt. Angie snatched him into her arms, fumbled with the lock, snapped it back and yanked the door open, and then tumbled out into the rainy street, away from the pandemonium.

  *****

  Albert Fishwick looked down on the serene face of Sceptre Rand and felt something close to peace. As long as the mistress was safe, he could relax.

  It had been a busy night. This time of year in the Northern Hemisphere, it was always busy. The usual crowd passing over from the cold and damp weather, drunks celebrating Christmas a month early, some of them stupidly driving home, the ever-increasing violence of the streets: it all conspired to form a steady stream making their way over, but as long as Sceptre was not one of them, it was all no concern of his.

  The Light was there. The Light was always there, in the background, twinkling, warm, inviting, calling to them, calling to him. Most of the Incoming understood The Light and went straight to it, on to the next world. There were times when he yearned to go into The Light, but he could not. Not while she needed him.

  Suddenly, he realised, a newcomer had arrived, and he, too, was ignoring the silent call of The Light. The undulating energy form was gripped by an uncontrollable rage, rushing, dashing everywhere. Fishwick had never seen such anger.

  “Calm down, me old sparrow,” Fishwick urged.

  The spirit’s only response was an almost incomprehensible roar.

  “Sounded like ‘wigwam,’” Fishwick muttered to himself as the spirit flew off. Fishwick checked on Sceptre again, and, satisfied that she was fine, he followed.

  He watched in dismay while the furious interloper wrought havoc on the little terraced house, and decided that it was time to intervene. But there was a complication. Another spirit nearby. An old man. This would need handling from both sides of the Great Divide.

  Fishwick returned to Sceptre’s room. “Madam,” he called. “Madam, there is a crisis and I think you may be needed.”

  Sceptre stirred. “Fishwick? Is that you, Fishwick, or am I still dreaming?”

  “No, Madam. You’re not dreaming. We have a situation.”

  She sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes before checking the clock. “Fishwick, do you know what time it is?”

  “Time has little meaning for me, Madam, and it has no meaning for those who would harm others. You are needed, Madam.”

  She yawned. “Oh, very well, Fishwick. Where?”

  “16 Rossington Terrace. I suggest you take Mr. Brennan along. He may be needed, too.”

  Fishwick left his mistress’ bedroom, allowing her to dress in private. Discretion was one of the prime requirements of a butler. It had been drummed into him when he first entered service with the Rand-Epping family. The mistress must have her privacy. Fishwick had forgotten none of his training even though he had been dead for 90 years.

  *****

  Police constable Dave Robb pushed his cap back and scratched his forehead as he read his notes.

  Like most of Ashdale’s police, he knew Bilko … Steven Bilks, to give him his proper name. A small time wheeler-dealer, general thief and fence with a liking for strong beer and even stronger spirits, he had a record as long as a Philip Glass double album, and one that was just as repetitive.

  The trouble was, Robb knew Angie, too. A hard-faced, hard-fisted woman, more than capable of tackling burglars, and if she said there was someone hiding in number 16, someone so violent that he had persuaded Angie to run for the sanctuary of a neighbour’s living room, then Robb had to take it seriously.

  She sat now in the Armstrongs’ living room, still wearing her nightie, with a mug of tea in her shaking hands, seriously afraid. WPC Smedley sat alongside her, and young Damon sat in his mum’s lap.

  “Right Angie,” said Robb, “I’ll go take a look in your place. You want to wait here?”

  Angie shook her head. “I need to see who it is.”

  “I don’t need you in the house while I’m trying to collar the burglar,” Robb objected.

  “I’ll wait on the pavement,” Angie said, and Robb gave up trying to persuade her.

  He led the way out, thanking Mrs. Armstrong, and with Smedley, Angie and Damon immediately behind him, stepped into the street.

  Some of the neighbours had already come out, attracted, like flies, by the flickering blue beat of his car’s emergency lights. Robb noticed that behind the shattered window of number 16, there were more flashes of light, but they were not simply reflections of his car. There was definitely something going on in there.

  Ordering Angie and Smedley to wait there, he stepped cautiously into the hall, riot stick in one hand, his torch flashing nervously ahead.

  He felt irritated. He’d had no plans for anything major on a wet and windy November Thursday night, other than parking up near the Memorial Park and chatting up WPC Smedley, inviting her out to a football match at the weekend. He’d been sweet-talking her for the last two years, and he was sure he was making slow progress.

  When the call came through and he recognised the address, he felt certain they would find Bilko drunk and the disturbance to be nothing more than Angie venting her anger on him. Even when he saw the flashes of cool blue and angry red light coming from the house, even when he spoke to Angie, he was still convinced that Bilko would be behind it all.

  Making his way along the hall, stepping around Damon’s bike, he tried the light switch. Nothing. With a shrug, he passed on, peered into the living roo
m and watched in amazement as the armchair jiggled left and right, twisted and turned like a whirling dervish high on a cocktail of illegal substances.

  He couldn’t see anyone, and no explanation readily presented itself, so he assumed that the Bilks had been fooling around with some kind of electrical apparatus.

  He stepped out of the room again, and a jar of marmalade flew past his head. He ducked back into the room, and other jars followed him, missing his head by millimetres. From the kitchen came the sound of papers being strewn across the floor. Robb could not see anyone. He glanced at the chair, which was now doing a passable imitation of the Twist, then made for the kitchen once more. As he reached the doorway, the oven door opened and a voice echoed from within.

  “BOO!”

  Robb turned and fled.

  Chapter Two

  In the rear seat of Pete Brennan’s estate car, Sceptre watched rows of high density, terraced housing pass by. The casual observer would have considered her calm, serene, but beneath her placid features excitement and anticipation coursed through her. Tonight was the start of a new chapter in her life.

  Aged 25, she had been born into privilege, but circumstances had compelled her to live in the real world. After the North Yorkshire family seat was sold to the nation to pay off debts incurred by her gambling grandfather, she and her mother had moved into more modest accommodations in York. Her father had died when she was a child, and at the time of her mother’s untimely death in an automobile accident, Sceptre became Lady Concepta Rand-Epping Countess of Marston, but there was little left of the family fortune. All that remained of her distinguished lineage was the useless title and a butler dedicated to their service even in his afterlife.

  Coming out of university with only a small amount of money from the sale of the house in York, she was appointed as a tutor in history at Ashdale College of Further Education. Sceptre knew that teaching teenagers was not her vocation. The job was part-time and lacked challenge, but it provided her with a meagre income, sufficient to support her until she could reach her true calling: bringing peace to the bereaved by contacting the spirits of their departed loved ones.