Continues...

Then a bell sounded from one of the sentries. We went looking for it to wind back up again but could not find it anywhere. While we pondered what could’ve happened, there was a shout from a couple of members of our party standing outside as they spotted a scruffy-looking man limping up the path towards the house, carrying a bottle of what appeared to be cider. I called for the doctor to render aid and escort the fellow into the house as he clearly needed attention, though he seemed more concerned about his cider being taken by than by his limp. He said his name was Daniel Fletcher and he had fallen onto some rocks and bruised his leg. As the good doctor went to work we asked him if he had seen Cost and Mr. Goode while about. Fletcher had seen Henry in the distance a couple of times but never spoke with him. However, he had spoken to Timothy a few times as the man had asked about local folklore. Fletcher seemed coy about telling what he had said to Goode, and the man showed his true colours by asking for what could only be described as a bribe. We, being gentlemen (well, nearly all of us) bristled at the thought of handing out money to someone who held information that could well save someone’s life. Grub got involved, threatening the man with arrest but that failed to work. A few members handed out flasks of drinks to loosen the wag’s tongue, and after a few swigs he started to brag about knowing what was in the woods and what danger we were all in if we stayed after dark. Our mysterious vagrant, he reveal in-between mouthfuls, was one such unfortunate. He was at one time the local priest, the Reverend Douglas Smithic. He had watched his entire family vanish into the forest while being here after nightfall, and now the poor fellow spent his days hunting around the woods, gibbering in his madness, trying to find his wife and children.

Lots of people had suffered in the woods, he continued, his tongue loosening more. The child murderer, for instance, was an innocent simpleton. He didn’t murder anyone. He stumbled across the children’s bodies and the town people found him there and assumed he did it. They hunted him through the forest and eventually caught up, killing him by the lake. The real murderer confessed to the crime years later but the authorities covered up the mistake. ‘All fools,’ Fletcher snared. ‘As are you all!’

He started to leave but Miss Goode pushed him on why he didn’t help her brother when he asked. Fletcher mumbled his excuses but Jessica become hysterical, blaming him for her brother’s disappearance, and began hitting him! I leaped in-between them, getting a slap in the process, while others grabbed Miss Goode to stop her un-ladylike behavior. As I pushed Fletcher away I noticed an odd bump in his pocket. It was the missing field alarm! I struggled with the damned man to grab the item and others joined in (a bit too quickly for decent folk) to give him a damn good thrashing. I got the sentry from him and sent him away with a flea in his ear.

Excitement over, I dished up tea (Note to the Laboratory: we must get servants. I was only able to get everything done with an extreme amount of help from Miss Goode and Miss Myrtle, god bless them). Talking of Miss Goode, a strange thing occurred at this point. One moment I was talking to her (well, I admit, bragging) about my theories regarding the supernatural and their everyday occurrences in life (she was rapt with interest, I could tell), then I turned my back and she was gone. Before I could open my mouth to ask if anyone had seen her, one of the sentries rang, and then the detector indicated moment to the south. Then outside two screams cut through the air. People milled in panicked confusion, at first no knowing who it was that had disappeared, then wondering how Miss Goode left without being seen, though the Doctor did mention that he saw her leaving. Wondering what could have got into her to go into the woods in the dark, we gathered a small party together to go looking.

Very, very hesitantly, we made our way down the path, almost taking inch long steps. At the crossroads Miss Myrtle found Jessica’s scarf. It was freezing to the touch. We spread out to search for her but were afraid to look too far. Wromthumburg thought he saw a cowing figure behind a rock saying “I’m not here,” but it only turned out to be a shadow. We gave up after a while and headed back to the house, determine to start again at first light to look for Miss Goode though some of us already knew in our hearts that she was gone for good.

While we pondered what could have rationally happened to Jessica, a shape was seen outside shambling about. It was the vagrant again, and he seemed to be taking a keen interest in our affairs. With promises of tea and cakes, Smithic was lured in, shaking with the cold. He fell into a chair while clutching his bible, muttering about us all being sinners (which isn’t nice considering we gave him the last of the fruit cake) and something about the ‘Heathen Stone’. Eventually, people took noticed of what he was saying and asked about this stone but Smithic wouldn’t say, but he did indicate that he would show the way to it.

Yet again we went out into the night, our lamps held high but it did little to penetrate the darkness. The fallen holy man led the way down the path, taking a left at the junction then turning from the trail. He pointed into a small dell, and we could see a stone poking out from under mud and moss. Miss Morewood started to ask him about it but Smithic spat at the stone, managing to miss it and gob over her instead. Charming!

The stone was lifted to reveal some items hidden in its base: a scroll containing sheets of text, an odd ornament and two candles with symbols on. Grabbing everything, we hurried back to the house; well, as fast as we could with Mr. Brunkhurst and Mr. Hare carrying the heavy top stone. On the path we saw a figure coming towards us and all our scary-bit-coming-up hairs on the back of our necks rose. It was Jessica! She pleaded with us to find her brother, her arm outstretched as if to physically hold us to our word. But her face was pale, almost transparent, and no one wanted to get the slightest bit close. She begged and begged until Mr. Callahan, acting as a gent, stood and asked how he could be of service. Miss Goode showed him: she touched his arm, freezing it solid, and his scream echoed through the air! The rest of the group bravely left Mr. Callahan to his fate and ran away, nearly knocking each other out of the way in their rush. I just managed to get around Miss Goode and escort the injured writer back to the house.

As the good doctor treated the wound the detector sounded again. In walked a figure I recognised instantly: Henry! I went to shake his hand but I noticed I could see through him, which wasn’t a good sign. We ran for the back door, but Miss Goode stood there, still asking about her brother. In the mad panic it was everyone for themselves and we scattered.

After time, and after things seemed safer, we all gathered back together. There had been a few more injuries - the cold touch again - but we were alive still, more or less. The house seemed clear of any spirits. Mr. Huxley and Miss Morewood took a look at the writing on the scrolls and, recognising it as Latin, took to deciphering them along with help from Miss Myrtle and Mr. Travers. It was during this time an increasingly jumpy Huxley suffered a funny turn and complained of being freezing, no matter what he did to keep warm. The doctor soon helped, along with a injection, and the man’s nerves became settled. It also eased his stammer, which was nice.

The first scroll was translated, and it turned out to be a spell to provide limited protection from ghosts (handy, that). But upon reading it, it was realised that someone else had done all the hard work and all we had to do was light the candle in the ornament and stay within the light. We did, the light from the odd lantern acting like a shield against the undead.

And not a moment too soon! Cost and Goode attacked again, this time Henry making advances to Quentin Travers; the promises of hard and vigorous man-love adding to his horror (Mr. Cost… who knew? I thought he was just being nice when he rocked me to sleep…) But the lamp was lit and, despite fifteen people occupying a space five foot square, we were safe.

Or at least I thought I was. Cost, seeing he couldn’t get close, said to the party that I, I, knew something and was holding back information from them! It was ridiculous, and I thought it was an obvious ploy by the evilness of the undead. However the next thing I know was Hare has his knife against my throat and everyone was yelling at me to tell the truth! (Note to Laboratory: In future when we do the selection processes for people we’ve really, really got to be more choosy) Luckily, common sense won out and I was released. Phew.

The ghosts soon gave up their pursuit and we were left alone. The second scroll was deciphered, and it was another spell, this time to reveal hidden things. We set about doing the spell, the ceremony being drawn on the floor in salt. Huxley performed the ritual impeccably, and as he said the final word the detector fired. At first it was assumed our ghosts had come back but it didn’t move. Gingerly, we moved outside to look and found an ever-so slight blue glow coming from the cave. Inside was a roll of cloth with more items within, which surprised a number of people as they swore blind they had checked the cave earlier and found nothing.

As we made our way from the cave the detector rang out again, this time detecting moment. Cost and Goode slowly ambled up the path and our group ran together within the candle light. But some kind of madness (well, even more than before) took hold of Smithic, and he charged headlong into the dreadful duo and to his doom. The ghost, seemingly satisfied, vanished back into the night.

We returned to the house with the items but without our mad vicar. Then we found out the batteries had died in the detector. No more early warnings for us!

Inside the roll of cloth were more scrolls, a bottle of odd powder, a strange hand-shaped item that was covered in symbols, and something that I thought was a dried up slug but turned out to be a withered finger. The scrolls revealed much: their author, Nathaniel Fairfax, was behind everything that had happened to us but in a good way. It was he who placed the seal by the lake, trapping a creature that had feasted on human life and been worshipped by a cult of degenerates Fairfax had defeated. It also explained why the thing in the lake was partially freed: any innocent blood spilt on the seal would open it a crack. Our thoughts went back to the wrongly accused man that had been killed by the mob at the lake. That was why there had been so much trouble in these woods for all these years. He had been the catalyst.