White Tower (Dark Isle Series Book 2), page 1
White Tower
Dark Isle Series Book 2
Written by David Longhorn
Edited by Emma Salam
Copyright © 2016 by ScareStreet.com
All rights reserved
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Table of Contents
Prologue: Summer on Skara
Chapter 1: 'Do Not Leave'
Chapter 2: Theories and Theorems
Chapter 3: Investigations
Chapter 4: Blood and Water
Chapter 5: Sound and Vision
Chapter 6: Disparate Elements
Chapter 7: Unearthly Powers
Chapter 8: Life and Death
Chapter 9: Tower and Sepulcher
Chapter 10: What Lies Beneath
Chapter 11: Over the Causeway
Chapter 12: Body and Soul
Epilogue: Laid to Unrest
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Prologue: Summer on Skara
“Come on Benjy! Walkies!”
Wilma Reade stood by the back door of her cottage, dog leash in hand. Benjy, her aging greyhound, normally needed no urging to go for his morning constitutional walk along West Beach. Today, though, he seemed oddly reluctant. Instead of leaping up and joining his owner at the door, the dog stayed curled up in his basket in the corner of the kitchen.
“Come on, silly dog! Time's wasting! Lots to do!”
Benjy looked at Wilma with skepticism, as if to say, Why don't you go and do it and leave me alone? Normally, he would have bounded through the door as soon as she opened it. Today, Wilma had to put on his leash and coax him outside.
“It's a lovely day, Benjy,” said Wilma as they crossed the road and made their way through the dunes. “Tide's still out, so lots of space to run around! You may be feeling your age, old boy. So am I, but a bit of gentle exercise will give us a good appetite for breakfast.”
Wilma often talked to Benjy as if he were human, and knew that many islanders found this funny. She was fifty-eight, a semi-retired teacher, and didn't care if people saw her as the local eccentric.
Far from it, in fact, she thought. Better to be known for being yourself than go through life pretending to be someone you're not.
There was nobody to hear her talking to Benjy at the moment. On this June morning, the sun had been up for only an hour or so, and most islanders were still in their beds or struggling out of them. The only person Wilma was likely to meet was Skara's young doctor, Bill Paterson, who took a run up the West Beach every morning. Wilma smiled at the thought of the athletic, good-looking young man racing up the sands towards her.
If only, she thought, his intentions were remotely dishonorable. Ah, well.
Shading her eyes from the low sun she looked south towards the village, but saw no sign of the doctor. Wilma shrugged and turned north, deciding to make her way to Beacon Point, the northernmost extremity of the island. She looked up at the pale shaft of the lighthouse and wondered if Lucy Hyde was awake yet. She waved, just in case, though she was too far away to see anyone waving back from the high windows.
As she strode up the beach in her Wellington boots, Wilma planned the day ahead.
Firstly, there was the meeting with the vicar about the upcoming midsummer festival. Then she would have to send out the minutes from the last parish council meeting. There was her granddaughter's upcoming birthday, and the perennial problem of sending gifts to Australia at today's shockingly high postage rates.
So much to do, thought Wilma. And always so little time.
Just then, Benjy started whining and pulling at his lead. Wilma scanned the beach and the dunes again, but saw nothing that might have bothered the dog. A few sea birds were picking their way along the waterline. Inland there was nothing to see but the usual scrubby vegetation and a few cottages like her own. The only sound was that of the waves breaking gently a few yards away.
“What's the matter now, eh?” she asked.
In response, Benjy whined even more plaintively and pressed his thin body against her leg. She crouched down to comfort him. As she did so, the birds all rose at once and headed out to sea, screeching. Wilma thought of the widespread belief that animals have a sixth sense that can foretell disasters such as earthquakes.
Absurd, she told herself. This is England. The largest earthquakes we get can barely shake an ornament off a shelf.
But then she felt the damp sand underneath her feet begin to tremble. She looked around again, this time expecting to see a heavy truck on the road, something big enough to make the earth shake. There was nothing. Yet the vibration continued to grow, a low rumble that she felt more than heard.
Wilma stood up and decided to get off the beach. As she did so, she felt the beach beneath her feet start to shift, and struggled to keep her footing. Benjy started barking in panic, backing away as a mound of sand rose up in front of them. She felt the leash slip from her fingers as the mound began to take shape, forming into a man-like figure that towered over her. She staggered back, too shocked to think, reacting with instinctive dread. But the entity, for all its huge size, was far faster than her. It took two immense strides and caught her up in cold, gritty arms, lifting her with crushing force. A gray-brown face, its hideous features half-formed, pushed itself into hers.
***
Paterson headed out from the village towards the northernmost extremity of the island. His usual routine was to turn back for home when he was almost in the shadow of the lighthouse on Beacon Point. It was the doctor's way of getting in shape for the day ahead, which involved sitting in his office listening to patients' complaints.
At this time of year, with the holiday season approaching its height, Paterson's patience had been tried more often than usual by lesser problems. There were tourists stung by wasps after trying to swat them away from picnics. Unhealthy sedentary types sprained their ankles after attempting to scale the island's low cliffs. Unwary diners reacted badly to the local cuisine. Then there was his latest patient, a young American academic who had gotten into trouble on the island's tidal causeway. That was just a case of bruises and a mild concussion, fortunately. All required patience, and Paterson's way to stave off irascibility was to get some aerobic exercise before work began.
The West Beach ran along the island's landward shore, and one of the pleasures of today's run was watching the tide come in. Paterson had timed it just right. As he pounded along the hard-packed sand just on the tide line the sea was surging around Beacon Point, the headland to the north. He knew the same thing was happening far behind him to the south, the waters destined to meet in a pincer movement that would drown the narrow causeway in a matter of minutes. Then Skara Farne would, for a few hours, be truly an island before the sea retreated again.
It's a hybrid kind of place, Paterson thought. Neither part of the rest of Britain, but not quite separate from it; a semi-detached community.
He checked his time and saw it was already half past six. He realized he had been dawdling as he looked at the rising sea, and picked up his pace.
No personal best will be set today, he thought, ruefully. But at least I'll get a couple of miles in before breakfast.
He heard barking, then, and saw a moving object appear far ahead of him. It grew, formed into a rangy-looking dog that Paterson recognized.
Oh, great, it's innuendo time already.
Only one other person made a point of using the West Beach first thing in the morning. Wilma Reade, the island's only school teacher, walked her greyhound Benjy. Paterson always greeted Wilma politely, as befits the village doctor. Wilma, by contrast, made a point of flirting with Bill quite outrageously, exploiting what he had come to think of as 'older woman's privilege'.
He braced himself to smile his way through Wilma's banter, which usually ended with 'There's many a good tune played on an old fiddle, young man!' But Wilma didn't appear. The beach up ahead seemed to be deserted apart from Paterson and the dog. Benjy spotted him and came bounding up, and Bill stopped to make a fuss. That was routine.
“Hey boy! Where's Wilma?” he asked, crouching with his arms spread in welcome.
Benjy was acting oddly. At first, the greyhound shied away, eyes rolling, emitting a plaintive whine. Paterson had seen fear often enough to recognize it in any species. Then he saw the dog's leash trailing in the sand, and started to become worried.
“Come on Benjy, come on boy! Good dog!” he coaxed, and after half a minute the dog let him get close enough. He took hold of Benjy's collar and tried to calm him, feeling the greyhound's body shivering under his hands.
The poor beast's reacting to severe shock, he thought. What the hell's happened to him?
He took hold of the leash and stood up, looking along the beach. There was still no one else in sight.
What on earth's happened to Wilma? Is she playing some damn fool prank on me?
Paterson didn't think the teacher's playfulness would extend to upsetting Benjy. He stood up and scanned the beach again. There was nothing in sight but sand, sea, and the craggy nort
hern part of the island. Then he caught sight of something unfamiliar. It was a humped form about a hundred yards ahead. He thought it might be an upturned boat.
No, too small. And it's not a rock, either, because there are none that size on this stretch of beach. More like a mound of sand.
“Come on, boy!” he said to Benjy, and set off at a brisk jog.
The dog didn't want to go, hanging back and pulling on the leash. Eventually, Paterson unclipped the leash from the greyhound's collar rather than try to cajole the frightened animal. This let him get to the odd hummock more quickly. Paterson stopped running and walked round the heaped sand, baffled by what he was seeing. It was a smooth, elliptical mound, about eight feet long by three feet wide. He could see a shallow trail snaking away from it.
That could have been made by Benjy's leash dragging in the sand. Okay, but where's his owner?
A few yards away from the mound was a pit of roughly the same size, which was rapidly filling with water. Had someone been digging with an excavator? But there were no tracks, which one would expect from heavy machinery. Paterson went closer, squatted next to the mound and reached out to take a handful. It was just sand. Someone's idea of a joke?
Then he noticed something brightly colored protruding from the mound. It was like a red and yellow length of rope, and for a moment, Paterson struggled to recall why it seemed so familiar. He was tearing at the hummock with his hands, flinging chunks of wet sand aside.
The 'rope' was the handle of Wilma's purse. He found her hand, then her arm, and after another minute's scrabbling at the sand uncovered her face. Her mouth and nostrils were full of sand. He didn't really need to check her pulse, but did so automatically. She was dead, and her flesh was already quite cold.
Who could have done this? What kind of maniac would kill such a harmless woman? And how long would it have taken to cover her with sand? It makes no bloody sense!
Paterson stood up, feeling numb with shock and confusion. There was no way he could uncover the teacher's body before the tide reached it. He needed help. He looked around again, and still saw no one. He took out his cell phone and tried to call 999, but failed. The transmitter mast on the old fort was just out of range. The doctor turned and started to run back down the beach in search of a signal. Behind him the tidal surge came round Beacon Point and was soon working its way blindly up the beach towards the mortal remains of Wilma Reade.
Chapter 1: 'Do Not Leave'
“Prepare yourself for a dose of British coffee,” warned Lucy, setting a tray down at a corner table. She and Mark Stine were sitting in Betty's, a diner that looked out onto the small village square.
“I've gotten used to it,” he replied, looking at the breakfast she was setting out in front of him. “Are those fresh croissants? Very sophisticated!”
“We're not a bunch of provincial yokels out here,” said Lucy, with mild reproof. “There's plenty of good food on offer. After all, it's vital for the economy. This place would die without summer tourists like yourself. That and the sport fishermen, and some game shooters in the autumn.”
“Game shooters?” Mark asked. “You don't mean deer and stuff?”
She laughed.
“Not in England, no. Just small birds. Snipe nest on the south part of Skara. Poor little beggars, every year they try to settle down to breed and a bunch of macho idiots in camo gear turn up and blast them to bits. They're difficult targets, apparently.”
“Hence the term sniper?” suggested Mark.
“I suppose so,” said Lucy. “Not my cup of tea, killing for fun. But it brings in the money. Without it, Skara Farne would be dead.”
Mark nodded. Looking around Betty's, he saw a couple of young families and several retired couples. Most were studying leaflets and guidebooks.
“I guess I'd better get used to it. I might be here for some time!”
Lucy frowned.
“Do you think that's what the message meant?”
Mark cast his mind back to the bizarre séance held shortly after he arrived on the island. He had been mildly concussed after what was officially a car accident on the causeway. It had been the culmination of a series of strange, terrifying events that had dogged him since he had left Cambridge University for a brief working holiday.
“Well,” Mark said carefully, “what really happened yesterday? Three adults played with a Ouija board and an upturned glass spelled out three words. Do Not Leave. You can interpret that in lots of ways. But it's pretty ominous, given all the other things that have happened.”
“That's not all,” Lucy pointed out. “The spirit identified itself as Montague Summerskill. From what you've told me, he seems to be taking an interest in you. Perhaps he's even trying to protect you. He seems to have been a good man, courageous, very principled.”
Mark shrugged.
“That might make sense, in a way.” He lowered his voice, aware of glances from nearby breakfasters. “Over a hundred years ago Summerskill accidentally triggered the curse linked to this place, and the Follower killed him. I followed in his footsteps, and it nearly killed me. But whether that message was really from Summerskill ...”
He shrugged.
Lucy reached out and put her hand on his.
“If there's any doubt in your mind, you shouldn't leave the island. It's not worth it, now we know for sure that the Follower's not just a monster from an old folk tale.”
The cafe door opened with the jingle of a brass bell and a familiar figure entered. Victor Carew nodded to Mark and Lucy, got himself coffee and scrambled eggs, and joined them.
“I love the breakfasts in this place,” Victor said, a little too heartily. “I'd eat here every morning. If I could afford it!”
Then the smile left Victor's face as he leaned towards them, after glancing around to make sure he wouldn't be overheard.
“Have you heard the latest?” he asked in an urgent whisper. Then seeing from their expressions that they hadn't, he went on, “It's Wilma Reade. She's dead. Bill Paterson found her body on the beach.”
Seeing Mark's puzzlement, Lucy explained who Wilma was.
“Do they know how she died? I mean, was it an accident?” asked Mark.
Victor shook his head.
“Bill's being pretty cagey, but I could tell he was shaken up. He's called in the police, of course. Apparently, the body was buried in sand on the West Beach, just before the tide turned.”
“You think she was killed by the Follower?” asked Mark.
Victor shrugged.
“It's a very bizarre death, and that seems to be its specialty.”
“But who would curse Wilma Reade?” protested Lucy. “She was really popular, everyone knew her. She's taught the island's kids for decades, does lots of good work in the community. Or rather, she did. She couldn't have had an enemy in the world, surely?”
Victor waved that argument aside.
“A month ago, you'd probably have said the same about young Mark, here,” he pointed out. “But someone cursed him out of professional jealousy.”
Mark shuddered at the thought of his false friend, Dylan Morgan, who had set the mysterious Follower on his trail. The curse had nearly destroyed his sanity, not to mention his life. In the end though, thanks to the courage of a young police officer, Morgan himself had been killed by the entity he had conjured up.
“But with Morgan dead, who else is there to trigger the curse?” he objected. “Or are you suggesting it was one of us?”
Victor shrugged.
“No, of course not. But Morgan unearthed the details of the curse in the archives at your college,” he pointed out. “The same information might be found in other medieval manuscripts. We've discovered quite a bit of significant material here on the island already.”
“But we still don't know what the Follower really is or how to even stop it,” objected Lucy. “All we really know is that Abbot Thomas Beauclerc brought it here in the fourteenth century and used it against his enemies.”
“So, he's the obvious candidate if the Follower is still active,” Victor pointed out.
They fell silent, each in their own way pondering the enigma of the curse. Abbot Thomas, a medieval monk, had ruled the island of Skara as an absolute tyrant. His Follower had been raised and exploited by others. Some, including Lucy and Victor, had seen what they believed to be the Abbot's ghost around the island recently.
