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  Bronwyn almost yanked the door from its hinges, Cara nervously looking over her shoulder as it slammed against the wall, making a loud cracking noise that echoed around the room and into the hallway behind them. ‘Sshhh! Stop making such a racket, will you? They’ll hear us.’

  Bronwyn wasn’t in the mood for apologising. Ignoring Cara, she peered into the near darkness of the entrance hall and towards the front door. ‘Over there,’ she said. ‘That’s our way out.’ They walked across the hall, more carefully this time given the lack of light. Reaching the door, Bronwyn grasped the handle and tried to turn it, only to find it didn’t want to move. It was locked. ‘Shit!’ she hissed, gripping the handle tighter and increasing her effort.

  ‘Let me try,’ Ben said, handing Chloe to Cara. He turned the handle as hard as he could, but it was no use; there was no way it would open without the key, and the fact that it opened inwards meant there was no possibility of kicking it down from inside.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ Bronwyn looked up towards the heavens for inspiration. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘We’ll have to go back,’ said Cara. ‘We’ll have to find another way out. A window, maybe.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Bronwyn, turning around to head back to the dining room. ‘I reckon we should take the -’

  As she turned around, Blackmoor’s hand lashed out and wrapped itself around her throat; his long, sharp nails digging into her skin. She tried to scream, but he flung her across the room before she was even able to open her mouth, throwing her with such incredible force that she slammed into the wall and collapsed unconscious in a heap on the floor. Blackmoor didn’t even look at her; his stare was exclusively reserved for the little girl in Cara’s arms. All of his customary charm had vanished, his unnerving smile replaced by a gruesome, twisted expression that chilled Cara’s blood as she backed away from him. His hair, usually so well groomed, was scattered in all directions like a wind-blown bird’s nest, giving him the appearance of a lunatic murderer who had escaped from a psychiatric ward of a high-security mental institution. This wasn’t the same Benedict Blackmoor who had previously fooled them all into believing he was some kind of wealthy visiting academic, nor was it the Benedict Blackmoor whose eyes had borne into Cara’s during her first visit to Fellside Hall, making her desire and lust after his touch. This was the real Blackmoor, the fanatical serial killer who longed for the power and control that his black God promised him. The pure embodiment of an evil fundamentalism that gave no quarter to humanity or compassion.

  Ted Wilson and Frank Gowland stood behind him, their vacant eyes staring straight ahead, the force of Blackmoor’s hypnosis still rendering them powerless like rabbits in a headlight; binding the two unwitting apprentices to their dark magician.

  ‘Give me the girl,’ Blackmoor said, his voice almost a whisper, as if he himself was in some type of trance. ‘He needs her.’

  Ben stepped in front of Cara. ‘Back off, you fucking freak. Get away from her before I-’

  ‘Before you what?’ hissed Blackmoor. ‘You have no idea what you are doing…how important she is to me.’

  ‘How important she is to you? What about how important she is to me, her father, for God’s sake. Have you any idea what you’re doing? You’re a fucking psychopath!’

  ‘Get out of my way,’ ordered Blackmoor, taking a step towards them. Cara’s back was now pressed against the door; there was nowhere left to run. Ben glanced down and saw the truncheon in her free hand, and without warning he snatched it from her and lunged at Blackmoor with all his strength. He might as well have lunged at a concrete lamp post; such was the power of Blackmoor, who swept him away with a sharp backhand, sending him reeling to the floor. Although still conscious, Ben remained where he fell, dazed by the force of the blow. Blackmoor glowered at Cara. ‘We can do this the easy way or the hard way,’ he said to her. ‘Give her to me…you have no other option.’

  Cara tried to shield Chloe from him, turning her shoulder protectively as he held out his hands. There was no way she was going to hand Ben’s daughter freely to him. If he wanted the girl, he would have to pry her away from her. ‘Ted, Frank!’ she shouted, deciding to give Blackmoor’s accomplices one last try. ‘Please…don’t let him do this. Don’t let him-’

  Bang, Bang, Bang! Cara screamed as the door behind her thumped into her back. ‘Open up!’ shouted a voice from the other side. ‘Let us in, or we’ll break the door down.’

  ‘Wilf?’ she said, softly at first, then louder. ‘Wilf? Is that you?’

  ‘Cara?’ came Blackett’s reply from the other side. ‘It’s Wilf, Cara; we’ve come to help. Are you alright? Can you open the door?’

  ‘Wilf…thank God it’s you! Help, please help! I’m trapped in here – he’s going to kill us. You’re going to have to break the door down. It’s locked. Please…quickly…he’s here now…he wants to kill Chloe!’

  ‘Stand back,’ shouted Blackett. Cara turned to see a shocked Blackmoor take a step back from the door as the first foot banged against it: then another and another; until there followed seconds later a sharp, metallic snap of the lock’s bolt as it surrendered to the relentless force of the men’s boots.

  Blackmoor leapt back, almost knocking Wilson and Gowland over in the process. His eyes darted left and right as he considered his options; like the frantic eyes of an escaped convict who’d suddenly found himself trapped in a corner by his pursuers. ‘Quickly,’ he said to the two men, deciding that the best option for now was to flee. ‘Back to the Round Room!’ The door slammed open, and Blackett and the others ran into the Hall just in time to see Blackmoor, Wilson and Gowland rounding the corner of the dining room and disappearing into the hallway beyond. Ben cried out with pain as Liam Turner, who in the gloom of the entrance hall had failed to see him lying there, tripped over his outstretched legs and went crashing to the floor. Ben sat up and rubbed his leg. Liam was up as quickly as he had fallen, instinctively rushing to his father’s side for protection.

  ‘What the bloody hell’s going on here?’ Bill Turner asked. He went over to Ben and helped him to his feet, before walking across to Bronwyn. ‘She’s breathing,’ he said, rolling her onto her back and sweeping the hair away from her face with his hand. ‘But she’s out for the count. Looks like her head’s been banged against the wall,’ he said, noticing the swelling on her forehead. ‘What’s happened, Cara?’

  Cara’s strength had almost left her, and she felt the inevitable tears welling up inside her. ‘Thank God you came,’ she said, gently handing Chloe to Ben. ‘He was going to kill us all if you hadn’t got here when you did.’ The first tear rolled down her cheek, quickly followed by others.

  Blackett put his arm round her as she leant against him, appreciating the comforting feel and security of a strong body. She was in no mood for talking now; her body quivering against Blackett as the floodgates finally opened. ‘It’s alright,’ he said, pulling her into him. ‘It’s alright.’

  ‘What happened, Ben?’ Bill Turner asked, maintaining his concentration on Bronwyn as he spoke. ‘What’s going on? Where’s Brian…I mean…Sergeant Jennings?’

  Ben lifted his eyes from Chloe to face the men gathered around him. ‘Those two,’ he said, nodding towards the hallway beyond the dining room. ‘They’re not who they say they are. They’re some kind of devil-worshippers; they wanted to sacrifice Chloe, and they would have if you lot hadn’t have arrived when you did. They killed Sergeant Jennings, and God knows who else, and they would have killed us as well.’

  ‘Where are they now?’ asked Turner, reeling at the news of his friend’s death.

  ‘The Round Room. Wherever that is. I think one of them might be dead…I think there’s only the leader left.’

  ‘I saw Frank Gowland and Ted Wilson with him,’ Jack Cranfield said. ‘What the hell are they doing here?’

  Ben looked at him. ‘It’s not their fault. This sounds crazy, I know, but I think Blackmoor – the professor – has put them under some kin
d of trance. They did the same to Bronwyn,’ he said, following Cranfield’s eyes as they moved across to look at her. ‘But she came round; whatever spell he put her under must have worn off.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell us that these bastards have magic powers?’ asked Turner. ‘You can’t expect us to believe that, can you?’

  Ben shrugged and shook his head. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, but that’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you.’

  ‘Ben’s right,’ Cara said, wiping the tears from her eyes and stepping away from Blackett. ‘Witches, Satanists, occultists: I don’t know what they are. But what I do know is they murdered Sergeant Jennings right in front of my eyes, and it’s more than likely they murdered Reverend Jackson too. And what’s more,’ she continued, deciding that it was no longer necessary to keep it a secret, ‘I’ve a strong feeling that they had something to do with the deaths of Jed and Lee Carter.’

  Several of the men gasped at this news. ‘The Carter boys?’ asked Blackett. ‘What’s happened to the Carter boys?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure. But right now they’re lying dead in the Station’s basement cell.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ whispered Cranfield, who was one of the few farmers in the area to whom Mick Carter would occasionally be civil.

  ‘And if we don’t get to Blackmoor now,’ continued Cara, ‘I reckon there’s a good chance that we’ll find Ted Wilson and Frank Gowland dead too. We need to help them.’

  Bill Turner gently touched the bump that was rapidly rising on Bronwyn’s forehead, before struggling to his feet and joining the others. ‘Alright, you lot,’ he said, removing a long, thick metal torch from his coat pocket. ‘Let’s go and sort this bastard out, eh?’ His suggestion was met with resounding grunts of approval from the others. He turned to Ben. ‘I want you and your daughter to stay here and look after Bronwyn; I think you’ve had enough trouble for one day. Cara, you stay here too.’

  Cara looked at him defiantly. ‘No way. I’m the officer-in-charge here. And I’m the only one out of the lot of you who has any idea where this Round Room might be. Come on…follow me.’

  ‘Alright, have it your way,’ Turner said, following her towards the dining room.

  Chapter 19

  6.30pm: As Benedict Blackmoor ushered Wilson and Gowland past him into the Round Room, locking the door behind him and removing the key, he was acutely aware that he would never leave the room again. At least not alive.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Wilson. ‘Will He help us?’

  Blackmoor spun round and glared at him with disgust, causing them to cower down before him. ‘You fools,’ he said, pulling the spiked pole from the centre of the pentagram and turning it over in his hands. ‘Don’t you realise that everything…everything…that I’ve planned for is destroyed? We were so close.’ He took a step towards them. ‘And now we must pay the price for failure.’

  ‘Will He not forgive us?’ asked Gowland. ‘Will He give us another chance?’

  Blackmoor wiped away the sweat from his forehead; the room was as hot as a sauna. The mist that had earlier filled the air above them had disappeared, but the dark presence remained, circling them. Blackmoor could feel Him moving amongst them, sliding Himself around them like an invisible python. This was the end…he knew it. He also knew that if he was to die, he didn’t want to waste his final moments in the company of the two pathetic imbeciles kneeling before him. He spoke softly to them: ‘Like myself, He does not look kindly on those who fail Him. Weakness cannot be tolerated. There is no spell I can use that will save us now.’ Raising the sharpened pole above his head, he went to bring it down on Ted Wilson, meaning to drive it through his skull and split it in two. Wilson closed his eyes, waiting for the fatal blow to be delivered. When no blow came, he opened them again, but what he saw in front of him made him wish that he was dead.

  The pale blue mist that had been there earlier during Blackmoor’s black mass had returned, but this time it took the shape of a giant fist. At first, the fist hovered above them like a judge’s hammer, threatening to come down hard and crush them under its weight. As they stood rooted to the spot, looking up open-mouthed towards it, the fist uncurled itself and swept down to grasp the pole from Blackmoor’s hand. Blackmoor released it without any resistance, as powerless to hang on to his weapon as a baby that wants to prevent its mother from taking a dummy from its mouth. He put his arms over his head to protect himself. ‘My God! Please forgive me,’ he begged. ‘Give me one more chance to bring the girl to you?’

  A deep, growling sound like that of a wild dog came from the fireplace, blowing the flames into the room. And then a voice that raged like thunder: ‘DELIQUISTI ME!’ - you have failed me – echoed around the walls with such ferocity that the glass roof above them shattered into a thousand tiny shards; pelting down upon them like torrential rainfall. Neither Wilson, Gowland nor Blackmoor appeared to notice the banging on the small door that led into the Round Room, or if they did, they paid it no attention. Flames and sparks continued to shoot outwards from the fire, catching hold of the wooden table upon which the Book of Prayers rested. The book and the table beneath it exploded into flames and crashed to the stone floor, spreading the fire across the room towards Wilson and Gowland. Flames licked at their ankles and caught the hems of their robes; devouring the soft material around their legs. They screamed and leapt aimlessly around the room, trying desperately to quell the fire as it rose higher and higher around them, until eventually it engulfed them entirely: their deafening screams turning to dull groans as agony finally gave way to death and they fell to the ground; the rancid smell of burning flesh and scorched hair permeating the air.

  Blackmoor fell to his knees and wept: for himself, but mostly for what could have been. Witnessing the power of his God’s wrath filled him with fear, but it also filled him with sorrow. If only he had sent King to fetch the girl…if only he had killed her in time…

  But it was too late for regrets. He looked up through the broken window into the night sky above him. ‘Do with me what you will, my Master,’ he said, tears of sadness streaming down his face and dripping onto the cobbled floor. An invisible force lifted him from his knees, suspending him in the air three feet from the floor. Suddenly the small door to the room caved inwards with the force of Wilf Blackett’s boot. Cara was the first to enter, crouching down until she was inside and able to stand up straight. She was followed by Blackett and Bill Turner, whose anger and eagerness to seek justice drained away as they beheld the sight before them.

  Heinous laughter filled the room, and with one final scream from Blackmoor, the hand of mist that still gripped the sharpened metal pole swung back and thrust the pole’s spike up into Blackmoor’s back and straight through his chest. Cara screamed as blood spurted from the wound onto the wall beside her; Blackett yanking her back by the collar as he instinctively retreated towards the door he’d just entered. By the time that Blackmoor’s corpse had been dropped to the floor like discarded waste, Cara and the others had already fled through the doorway and into the corridor. Joined by the rest of their group, they sprinted back through the Hall as if Satan himself was snapping at their heels; stopping long enough at the front door only to collect Bronwyn, Ben and Chloe on their way out.

  Rushing outside and into the freezing chill of a dark, January evening, they stumbled together along the driveway like a drunken group of friends on their way home after a night out, occasionally slipping on the ridges of the ice-hardened tyre tracks made by Blackmoor’s Range Rover. It was only when they reached the edge of the lake that they allowed themselves a brief respite, turning to look at Fellside Hall for the first time since fleeing its grasp. It stared back at them with arrogant indifference, the screaming and chaos replaced by silence and emptiness. There were no signs of life to be seen or heard; merely a crumbling, derelict building that had been left alone to die a long, undignified death.

  Cara’s eyes widened as she saw movement up by the roof of the Hall, only to rela
x as the cause of her concern came into view, a ghostly-white Barn Owl flying silently by; hunting for a kill that would see it through the night. She looked across to Ben and Chloe and tried her best to smile.

  ‘Look!’ said Blackett, pointing to flames coming from one of the windows. ‘There’s a hell of a fire starting. The whole damn place’ll burn down if we don’t stop it.’

  ‘Let it,’ said Cara, her eyes remaining on Ben and Chloe. ‘Let it burn.’

  THE END

  About the Author

  Mark White was born in County Durham, England, in 1974. Like hordes of other children across the globe who grew up in the ‘innocent’, pre-internet days of the 1980s, he spent many an evening curled up in bed (in a literary sense, of course) with horror legends Stephen King and James Herbert. Having spent his twenties and thirties working in a variety of interesting and not-so-interesting jobs that took him well along the road to a mid-life crisis, he decided to do what he always wanted to do, which was to write stories that would remain with the reader long after they had finished the last page.

  Mark is married to Felicity, with whom he has a son, Leo, and a daughter, Imogen. Shepherd’s Cross is his first novel…the second - Career Break - is also available from Amazon…

  Follow him on Twitter at #mawhitewriter or email him at [email protected]

  (If you enjoyed reading this book, I would be very grateful if you could post a review on Amazon.)

  NEW FOR 2015: Enter The Dead – a gripping supernatural thriller about possession, betrayal and the fine line between hope and despair.