Page 2 of The Haunting of William Thorn
“That might not be until tomorrow,” a fresh-faced police officer said, wincing at the reality. “We can’t wait that long.”
“What’s the rush? It isn’t like Robert is in one… I am aware of that.” Callum fought to hold his tongue, trying to feign a lack of discomfort when his insides knotted in the presence of the dead.
“By whose order?” the older officer questioned.
“Not mine. Any issues with what I have said you can take it up with the Sergeant.”
They didn’t argue back at that. No one questioned Andrew Dean, not even Callum.
“What about the–”
Mrs Thomas’s broken-hearted screeches rose in sudden pitch.
They seemed to sing in synchronicity with the storm that ruled the world beyond Hanbury Manor.
Callum’s footsteps pounded across the floorboards, stopping only when he reached the staircase.
He peered down into the dark. From his vantage point, the entire manor seemed to sway from side to side, the shadows dancing, the walls cold to the touch.
“Sounds horrid down there, Inspector,” an officer said, coming to stand beside him. “Poor souls.”
“Poor souls indeed. We should allow them to say their goodbyes in peace,” Callum said, pain cramping his chest just where the telegram waited in his suit pocket.
It would be what he would want if the tables were turned.
“God knows if given the chance of one more night with someone I loved, I would take it.”
“I understand that, I do. But surely we cannot just leave it … here?”
Callum sighed, pinching his eyes closed in hopes for peace but only to see the sway of Robert’s body, his bent neck and the bone poking out of his mottled skin. “His name is Robert, and you would do good to use it.”
The officer crossed himself, silently praying to God as if He had the power to protect him from the dead. “Of course.”
“There is nothing more that can be done for Robert now. The young man is lost. By God’s grace it was in his own home and not on the battlefield.”
The sombre mood of death settled over Hanbury Manor, illuminated by the screams of grief and the silence of the dead body between the two men. There was no escaping the truth of what had happened here, even if it was not entirely clear what happened in the first place.
All Callum knew for a fact was a young man had taken his own life whilst his family prepared supper in the kitchens below. And that the telegram in his pocket had something to do with it. A herald of bad news, bringing only more in its wake.
The storm was bad, but a silver lining was all he had the entire evening to find out who Edward Jones was and why his death would have led to another. If the medic vehicle couldn’t reach the manor, they had no hope of leaving it either.
“See that the body is properly covered, then taken down into the manor’s cellar.
It will be cold enough there for the body to rest without…
issues,” Callum commanded, clapping as he did so.
The sound was so sharp it made his fellow officer jump, and himself too.
“We have a long night before the storm clears, and we better make the most of it.”
“With all due respect, Callum, I don’t think I can stay here. Wouldn’t it be better to walk back to town and return come the morrow with the motor?”
It was strange, seeing a man twice his age give into his fear so easily, whilst Callum wrestled with his own internally.
“No, my word is final.” Callum hated saying it, but it was true.
They had a job to do and a storm to see out.
“Mrs Thomas, amid her grief, has offered for us to stay until this gale passes. No one leaves. If you do, it would be a sure way of having yourself removed from your station. Mrs Thomas, and her husband, are close with the Sergeant. So, if you offend her, you offend him .”
Not a single one of them argued with that.
“From your silence, I trust I have made myself clear?” Callum asked as his officers stared back at him with eyes as wide as Robert’s waiting corpse.
“Aye, sir. Understood.”
“Good. Now, for God’s sake, get a sheet and show that poor lad some respect.
When you’re done, meet me down in the kitchen…
but only once his body has been dealt with…
respectfully.” Callum wanted nothing more than to stop feeling the itch of the deceased’s gaze on his skin.
“I think we all need a drink after tonight.”
It took only moments for Robert’s body to be covered by a sheet torn from an old, forgotten piece of furniture in the attic room. Callum, despite previous orders, felt it was his duty to follow his colleagues and ensure they showed care for Robert’s corpse.
Robert may be dead, but his spirit might still linger on – watching.
Hours later, when Mr and Mrs Thomas had been seen to their bedroom, Sergeant Andrew Dean, Callum and his fellow officers made bed for the night.
Most of them felt uneasy taking Robert’s bedroom when offered.
Andrew, however, didn’t argue and accepted it.
Just the thought of sleeping in the deceased’s bed turned Callum’s insides out.
How his father was so easily without care unsettled him just the same.
Callum and the rest of them set up camp in the grand living room just across the hallway from the kitchen. It reminded him of days back as Scouts when he and his friends would gather together and tell stories to one another. Except this couldn’t have been more of the opposite.
No one spoke as they made bed across the Thomas’s settee and reading chairs, one officer even taking to the floor.
Outside, the storm raged on, but the sound wasn’t so bad now their minds were dull with Mr Thomas’s brandy, which his wife had pulled from the back of a cabinet.
Between them, the bottle was finished quickly, accompanying the chilled soup that Mrs Thomas made – soup her son would never get the chance to taste again.
The kitchen’s AGA did well to warm the house’s lower floor. But Callum knew it wouldn’t be long until the bad weather seeped through the old walls of the manor and wrapped them each up in a blanket of chill and damp.
Callum was just happy to have a blanket and a warm belly – more than his cousin would have. During his quiet moments, his mind always went to his cousin. He pondered at how well he slept in the trenches surrounded by his brothers-at-arms, lulled to sleep by the lullaby of death and gunfire.
He pondered why he wasn’t with him, as all other young men across England were.
From the distaste his older colleagues gave him, he knew that they felt the same, harbouring disdain for Sergeant Andrew Dean’s lucky son who would never see the haunting face of war himself.
It was the treacherous guilt that kept him awake most nights.
Tonight would be no different. As expected, Callum wasn’t so fortunate to find rest. Unlike his colleagues who fell asleep quickly, he didn’t.
No matter how deep he breathed or how far off he sent his mind, sleep evaded him.
His mind warred between thoughts of his cousin and the corpse of another man lying in the cellar beneath him.
Callum lay upon the settee, violently awake as the storm sang beyond the walls, his heart feeling the need to beat in symphony with it. He forced his eyes closed, tugging the woollen blanket to his chin and pretending the thunder was the rumble of sheep flocking towards fences they leaped over.
One by one, he counted, praying sleep would find him.
That was when the crying began.
It was faint at first, coming from somewhere far above him.
He dismissed it as the whimpering of Mrs Thomas, who likely struggled to find sleep as well.
After all, she was the one to discover her only child hanging in the attic of her home.
That was a scene that could break even the strongest of minds.
A breeze filtered into the room, engulfing Callum in a chill so unkind it was like the gawping maw of a deep lake.
The air caressed his face, like fingers tracing shapes.
It was impossible when no windows and doors were open.
And the crying. The torturous, endless crying only grew in pitch and volume.
The sound became so loud that it was no different from someone screaming inches from his ear.
Callum’s eyes snapped open, expecting to find Mrs Thomas in the living room with them.
What he saw was not Mrs Thomas at all.
Callum’s limbs turned to stone, eliminating the possibility of movement completely. He could only stare at a young man’s body hovering vertically above him.
A face he knew well, even if he had only come to know it this evening.
Neck bent. Skin as pale as cooling ash. Wide sky-blue eyes.
Callum gasped, gagging on foul stale air, finding that he could make no sound.
Robert Thomas lay over him. He was still at first, so much so that Callum blinked, expecting the image to dissipate from whatever nightmare he had found himself in. But Robert did not vanish, no matter how hard Callum pinched himself with his nails.
This was no dream or nightmare. It was something worse .
Callum couldn’t do anything but watch as Robert Thomas’s face split open, his lips parting wide to reveal a black, endless hole.
Robert screamed. He screamed and screamed, the noise like nails scoring down a chalkboard. And Callum couldn’t look away. He couldn’t do anything but look into the impossible face of the dead boy. A face that would be resting in the cellar beneath him, covered with a sheet.
Except he was here. Shrieking. Blaring so loud that Callum drowned in the grief and fury of the ballad.
Robert Thomas was dead, which should have made this impossible. Just a trick of Callum’s exhausted mind. A nightmare. But it was not a nightmare, or an illusion conjured by brandy. It was something far worse. Something he had feared from the moment he stepped into Hanbury Manor.
This was a haunting.