Jersey Ghost Stories E-Book

Erren Michaels

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 286

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Step away from sunny Jersey's present day and into the sinister shadows of the past … the island's history is filled with dark deeds and restless spirits. Collected here for the first time are stories that have endured through centuries to chill the blood. This unique anthology gathers together the most famous tales, such as the Ghost Bride and the White Lady, along with lesser-known tales, such as The Lake. Erren Michaels' and Noah Goats' skilful storytelling, along with Ryan Thomas' detailed illustrations, beautifully combine to relate these haunting tales of murder and vengeance that refuse to be forgotten.

Leseprobe

For True, Audrey, Ally and Henry

First published in 2016

The History Press

The Mill, Brimscombe Port

Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

This ebook edition first published in 2016

All rights reserved

Text © Erren Michaels & Noah Goats, 2016

Illustrations © Ryan Thomas, 2016

The right of Erren Michaels & Noah Goats to be identified as the Authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

EPUB ISBN 978 0 7509 7892 7

Original typesetting by The History Press

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

Acknowledgements

Introduction

I

House of Screams

II

The Door

III

The Lake

IV

A House on a Small Hill

V

A Procession at Dusk

VI

The Ghost Bride

VII

The Phantom Dog

VIII

A Light in the Tunnel

IX

The Haunting of Longueville Manor

X

The Lighthouse

XI

The White Lady

Our thanks to all at Jersey Library who helped with the research for this book, especially Marco Campanini, Ed Jewell and Mark Brocklesby for their support, keen sleuthing skills and patience in hunting out every ghoulish tale and ghastly footnote of the past five hundred years.

Our gratitude also goes to Ryan Thomas for his cover art and for the wonderful illustrations throughout the book. A huge thank you to Nicola Guy and The History Press for providing us with this opportunity to spread the heebie-jeebies to all of our readers, and to Emily Locke and Ruth Boyes, our fantastic editors. Thanks to Jeremy Swetenham of Jersey Heritage, and to all at the Jersey Opera House, for their support. To Sheila Johnstone, for her careful and patient reading of the text, and of course to Lizzie Martin and Adrian Smith, for everything.

As a society our fascination with death is pervasive, and nowhere more so than in our stories. Television dramas and modern novels revolve around unexplained deaths and wicked murders. As an audience we are not satisfied until the mysteries of these deeds done in darkness are solved and justice is secured for the victim. Death, after all, must be defeated in some form, if only for a while, and the viewers feel better when the Grim Reaper is put back in his place.

The ancient ghost stories told by candlelight have been replaced in the modern world by horror films. Frequently the aggressor in these movies is supernatural in some way, and death itself has broken its covenant to stay passive. Death’s proxies in these stories are vengeful spirits: zombies, poltergeists and psychopaths. These agents of death roam the night seeking victims: unstoppable and impossible to kill because they have death itself on their side.

It is always in the night that such horrors occur. Our fear of the dark is somehow integral to these tales whether they are ancient or modern. Such stories do their best to tap into that childhood fear that if we leave a limb hanging off of the side of the bed in the darkness, then there may very well be something waiting to grasp it with clawed, malicious fingers.

The island of Jersey is always thought of as a sunny, summertime haven for tourists, and there is no denying that it is at its best in the sun. It has a unique beauty, with glorious beaches, ancient castles, lush woodland and a quaint, bustling town.

The local rose-coloured granite stone, which was used to build so many of the older buildings, gives the island an appearance of sunset warmth at all times of the day. As the sun sinks below the horizon, it bathes the ruins of Grosnez Castle in the west; a place so ancient that its purpose and inhabitants are not remembered by history. The great castle arch still stands and frames the setting sun as it lays a golden path of glittering fire across the ocean, like a pathway to another world, before falling into darkness each night.

And in darkness the island changes.

There are aspects that only the islanders know; the way in which the sea mist can descend so that all sound is killed, enveloping everything like a grey shroud until one cannot see anything further away than a few steps. At night hill fog drifts in tatters like lost souls caught in the headlights of cars, dragging fingers across windscreens, forming shapes that a driver’s eyes change into figures and faces.

The vast castle battlements of Gorey light up in the east, a monolithic reminder of the centuries of invasion that the island has endured, while in the south, the fairy-light glow of Elizabeth Castle glitters in the bay as the tide rises to provide a natural moat of seawater around it.

The island is steeped in history, rich in mythology and scarred with fortifications.

The true horrors that Jersey has seen make its ghost tales seem whimsical and comforting by comparison, and yet the island has many supernatural tales and accounts. There are fragments, reports of impossible footsteps in old houses, doors that will not remain closed and scratching behind walls where corpses have been found walled in. There have been figures glimpsed who could not possibly have been there. The Grey Lady of Grouville is a famous sight, yet why she haunts the manor where she once lived has either never been known, or is long forgotten. There are bizarre reports of copper-faced soldiers marching silently in Vinchelez Lane, and a tale of a window at St Ouen’s Manor that is repeatedly broken by some violent and invisible force.

More recent claims of ghost sightings include German soldiers walking as though on patrol and then disappearing, and claimed sightings of strange lights in certain bunkers.

Like many of Jersey’s ghostly reports, these are merely inexplicable sounds heard and impossible things seen, and they make little sense without context. There are many mentions of screams or whispering in the darkness, and places that fill people with such dread that they cannot bear to remain. Even the least superstitious of us will allow that certain places somehow feel wrong, and fill us with a sense of deep unease.

It is known that there are certain vibrations that cause the human brain to experience dread as well as auditory and visual hallucinations. The human mind is programmed to see the shape of human faces and human forms in what are essentially random natural shapes. Who has not, after all, when alone in their home, startled themselves at the sight of a figure standing unexpectedly beside a door, only to realise moments later that it was just a hanging coat? Yet for that one moment, we were convinced we were not alone.

There are many ways to explain away the experiences of ghostly sightings, but whether every story can be dismissed as a perceptive error, due to fear or hallucination, is uncertain.

Perhaps the love of ghost stories, which extends through all nations and cultures of the world, indicates that we do not really want such things to be explained away. Ghost stories hint that perhaps death can be defeated in some way, and that our finite mortality is not so certain.

And so some tales endure, across lifetimes and through centuries. And whether they are caused by supernatural phenomena or human whimsy, a trick of the light or through false reports, we cannot deny that even the most rational of us enjoy a good ghost story that can chill the blood.

One spirit in particular haunts the footnotes of the ancient history of Jersey. In folklore and accounts there are repeated mentions of a woman dressed in pale clothing: the mysterious figure of the White Lady. Sightings have been numerous, but the White Lady does not seem bound to any one location, rather she tends to appear near the Neolithic menhir stones and dolmens. Roads and areas are named for her, and she is a part of the local culture that defies easy explanation. Some believe her to be a ghost, but others believe her to be a fairy creature slipping between worlds. She may be part of the fanciful terrors of drunks walking home alone, or a shape in the wind-torn mist glimpsed from cars. Or perhaps she is just a trick of the light … a trick that has been seen again and again, for centuries, all across the island.

Christophe had no choice but to leave France.

He had travelled to his father’s home, riding south from Paris to Orleans, to find the door of the house smashed from its hinges. His father’s housekeeper sat silent and pale upon the stairs. Her fingers were laced tightly in front of her knees, her knuckles white with tension.

‘He is gone, Christophe. No!’ She threw out a hand to prevent his leaving. ‘It is too late! He is already dead. Please, Christophe, sit here with me just for a moment.’

She patted the cold stone next to her and Christophe let his legs give way so that he could slump down beside her.

‘When did they take him, Madame Laurence?’ He searched her tear-reddened eyes.

‘It was two days ago, Christophe. He was brave and he stood tall. You would have been proud of him, but now you must run. You must run or die.’

She took his hand firmly in her own. Her fingers were cold to the touch.

‘I told him the same thing, of course, but he would not listen! No Huguenot is safe in France now.’

‘I know.’

Christophe watched a tear slide down her cheek and wondered how it was that his own eyes were dry. There would be time to mourn when the surreal horror had passed. There would be time to cry when he was safe.

‘Do not go home, Christophe,’ Madame Laurence warned him. ‘You take what you can carry now, and you leave France.’

And he had.

Feeling like a thief, Christophe had emptied his father’s bureau and the pockets of his coat. He found coins and a diamond pin, a small chest and his father’s seal. He took such papers as he felt might be important someday, though he suspected he would never return to France.

‘Enough, Christophe! You must leave!’ Fear made Madame Laurence brusque as she hurried him downstairs and added a cloth-wrapped bundle of food to the contents of the chest. She had known him all of his life and had scolded him as a child. Impulsively he pulled her into an embrace.

‘Take what you can from this place before others do, Madame. My father would not want to have seen you destitute.’

‘I have sons to care for me, Christophe. Do not worry for me. Your father gave me a good wage. Protestant he might have been, but he was a good man. He did not deserve such a fate, and nor do you. Such evils men do in the name of religion! They called him a heretic … But what greater heresy is there than to kill in the name of God?’

She wiped the tears from her face.

‘Ride hard, Christophe, and do not look back.’

That had been days ago. Christophe had ridden west to the coast and had booked passage on the first boat that would take him away from his native shore. There had been no boat bound for England until the next day, but for an equally exorbitant fee he had been able to board a vessel carrying lamp oil bound for Jersey. It was an island he had never visited and knew nothing about, but it was the only choice available. It had broken his heart to sell his father’s horse, but it was impossible to take the animal with him. The magnificent creature had paid for his passage.

The boat arrived in a small harbour as the sun was beginning to set and Christophe, feeling utterly exhausted, hauled his worldly goods onto the dock and looked around.

He was greeted with disdainful stares, and muttered insults in a coarse patois that was hard to understand.

‘There’s nowhere for you,’ one man spat at him, ‘you should all go back where you came from. You are not wanted here.’

Christophe was so astounded by the rudeness of it that he could not even formulate a response before the man passed him by.

The quay was crowded with French refugees. Thousands had fled from persecution and the threat of death to all corners of the compass, and the island of Jersey had been flooded with desperate people. Dozens huddled on the cobbles or stood in groups.

‘They say there is nowhere to stay here in St Aubin,’ an old man said to Christophe as he joined the crowd. ‘There might be lodging along the coast within the main town, but the tide will rise high along the beach tonight. We have been advised to wait until morning.’

Christophe lowered his chest of possessions to the ground, and seated himself on the cold stone.

‘Then I shall rest here until daybreak, I suppose. Thank you.’

A feeling of heavy despair weighed him down. However, looking around, he realised that there were many people with far less than him. He saw a mother and child huddled together, shivering. Whatever situation had initiated their own flight from France had not left them with time to take anything other than the clothes on their back. Christophe, after having just hauled his chest from the boat, was anything but cold. Although he knew he might regret his generosity in the chill hours before dawn, he swept off his heavy cloak and took it over to wrap around their shoulders.

‘There are a few coins in the pocket, Madame,’ he said quietly.

‘Merci, Monsieur!’

Her tremulous smile almost broke his heart.

What would become of all these people with nowhere to go? What would they do? He at least had an education and some money to get him by.

Christophe walked back to his chest and sat down upon it, resting his elbows upon his knees and his face in his hands.

He was exhausted, but knew he would be unable to sleep on the hard stones of the quay. He briefly considered dragging his chest around until he could find a tavern, but the heaving throng of people made it seem unlikely that he would be able to find a place to sit. The glares and contempt directed at the Huguenot refugees made it plain that there would be little welcome even for those with coins in their pockets. Besides which, he should probably save what he had for something more important than drowning his sorrows.

He lifted his head and watched the miserable throng around him.

There was one sign of sympathy for the Huguenots. In the gathering dark a woman moved through the crowd with a basket, handing out apples and chunks of bread. Little enough, but the refugees grasped each small offering as though it were solid gold.

‘Excuse me, Monsieur?’

Christophe turned to see who had addressed him: a Jersey man, judging by his accent. He was a small fellow who was neatly dressed.

‘Good evening,’ Christophe unfolded from his dejected slump to stand and politely offer his hand like a gentleman. ‘I am Christophe de Valmont. How may I help you?’

‘Ah!’ The small man smiled as he shook his hand, ‘I am Marcus Vatel, and the question is more what I may be able to do for you, Monsieur. I have a room available at my lodging house, and you look like a man who might be in need of a bed for the night.’

Christophe was unable to hide his surprise.

‘I was told there was no accommodation available, Monsieur Vatel. May I ask …’ He grimaced. ‘May I ask what unreasonable fee you might be requesting for such accommodation?’

Vatel smiled and then chuckled ruefully, ‘A fair expense only, Monsieur, I promise, with a fine meal and a glass of wine included in the cost.’

Vatel named his price and Christophe knew that the man could have asked for far more under the circumstances.

‘There are those in greater need of shelter than I,’ Christophe said looking towards the woman and child huddled under his cloak.

‘But not many who are able to pay, Monsieur,’ Vatel said quietly, following Christophe’s gaze, ‘and I would not have the heart to turn them out again.’ He spread his hands apologetically, ‘A man must make an honest wage.’

‘Of course,’ Christophe shook his head. ‘I am being a fool. We cannot help everyone, but perhaps, if you had another room, I could pay for them to–’

‘Only one room available, Monsieur de Valmont,’ Vatel interrupted firmly, ‘and it would not be proper for me to have an unchaperoned woman under my roof. Besides,’ he shook his head as though embarrassed, ‘I could not have a child there, sir. I will admit to you now that my boarding house is rumoured to be haunted. It is absurd of course!’

Vatel laughed at Christophe’s expression of disbelief.

‘I know, but some of my guests have sworn they have heard things in the night. Some, like me, hear nothing at all, but others will not stay more than a single day before they move on. That is why I have a room available. Do you still want it?’

‘Of course,’ Christophe smiled, ‘I am not a man who jumps at shadows.’

‘I did not think that you were, Monsieur. Come, let me help you carry your things.’

‘Is it far?’

‘No, Monsieur. Not far, but up a very steep hill I am afraid. This way, Monsieur de Valmont.’

Carrying Christophe’s chest between them, they walked along the curve of the harbour and then turned up a winding hill. It was indeed very steep and their steps were slow. The dying light of the setting sun hardly penetrated the trees that arched above the narrow lane. The branches formed a dark and oppressive tunnel, which showed only glittering glimpses of a sky stained gold and crimson. The hill curved sharply right and then just as sharply left before they arrived at their destination, both of them breathing heavily from the climb.

‘Keeps a man fit and healthy,’ Vatel said as he pushed a key into the lock of a heavy oak door.

Christophe gave a breathless laugh.

The house was gently lit within. Christophe stepped into an unimpressive but tidy entrance hall, and glanced into a parlour room on the right.

‘Your room, I am afraid, Monsieur, is up the stairs,’ Vatel said as they hefted Christophe’s trunk inside.

‘I swear this thing is getting heavier with every step,’ Christophe exclaimed.

The steep staircase was at the end of the hall and took them to a narrow balcony on the second level. There was no sign or sound of other guests.

They made their way along to the second door, which Vatel unlocked onto a simple room with a sloping roof. A large wardrobe and a welcoming bed with a dark cover were made visible by the weak moonlight filtering through a small leaded window.

‘I am sure Monsieur is used to better …’

‘It is perfect, Mr Vatel,’ Christophe interrupted, ‘and far better than I could have hoped for in my situation. I am very grateful to you.’

‘Then please, settle in. There is water in the washstand if you wish to refresh, and I shall prepare a dinner for us. Would you care to eat downstairs with me, Monsieur?’

‘That would be most welcome, Mr Vatel. Thank you.’

‘I have only a simple repast to offer you, I am afraid.’

‘I have not eaten since yesterday, Mr Vatel. I assure you that anything you can provide will seem like a feast.’

Attired in a fresh shirt and feeling somewhat better for having washed and shaved, Christophe descended to the parlour.

Vatel had prepared a thick stew, a little rich and greasy for Christophe’s taste, but more than welcome.

‘Pork,’ Vatel said simply, ‘with some bread and cheese under the cloth there. Would you care for some wine?’

The wine was surprisingly good and Christophe could soon feel the tension of his journey slipping from him. He dipped a hunk of bread into his stew and smiled at Vatel.

‘You heard nothing then?’ the small man asked.

Christophe looked at him uncomprehending for a moment and then laughed.

‘Ghosts you mean? No Monsieur, I assure you I heard nothing.’

Vatel smiled, ‘Nor are you likely to! On stormy nights the wind can howl under the eaves and I have often wondered if it is that sound which so scares my more delicate guests. One night last spring I myself could not sleep for the noise. But tonight the weather is fine and you have a safe roof over your head.’

‘And a fine meal. I thank you for it,’ Christophe raised his glass and Vatel waved his hand dismissively.

‘Tell me how it is that you are come to Jersey.’

Christophe explained his father’s death and they discussed the persecution of the Huguenots in France. Vatel spoke of Jersey and Christophe wondered aloud whether he would settle for a while in the island or travel on to England.

‘I am told that I have family in England,’ Christophe shrugged, ‘and I speak the language passing well. However, I am uncertain how welcome I would be there.’

‘I am biased, of course, but I believe that you will find Jersey to be a beautiful place. Be sure that you see all of the sights before you leave, should you decide to do so. I hope I will have the pleasure of your company for a few evenings at least, Monsieur de Valmont?’

‘Certainly you will. And don’t worry, I have the money to pay, as well as to feed a few of those poor souls waiting by the harbour.’

‘Every day more and more,’ Vatel shook his head. ‘I do not know what will become of them all.’

‘Nor I,’ Christophe passed a hand over his eyes and sat back in his chair, swirling the wine in his glass. ‘What is it that makes men hate those who are different from them? What is it in our nature that we repeat our sins across history again and again and yet learn nothing from the past?’

‘That is a question for a wiser man than me, I am afraid, Monsieur,’ Vatel said as he leant to top up Christophe’s glass.

‘My apologies, Vatel,’ Christophe laughed, ‘I am weary and sad, and your fine wine has caused me to become maudlin. Perhaps I should take myself off to bed.’

Vatel pushed himself back from the table.

‘Of course, Monsieur. How thoughtless of me to keep you up when I know how far and hard your travels have been.’

Christophe dissembled at once, but they made their good nights and he climbed the stairs to his room.

He sighed as he realised that his hasty packing had not included a nightshirt. After locking his door, he slid between the rough sheets, bare-chested, and was relieved that the bedding seemed clean and fresh. He watched the shadows from his candle dance upon the sloping roof and the imposing wardrobe. His meagre collection of clothes would look pitiful hung inside it, but he resolved to unpack in the morning so that he could work out what more he would need to buy in the days to come.

Exhaustion and alcohol dulled his thoughts and he blew out the candle. No doubt everything would seem more bearable after a night’s sleep.

Yet sleep would not come.

It seemed to Christophe that his bed moved with the motion of the boat that had brought him to the island. He was unsettled and the wine had left him with a slight headache despite its acceptable vintage.

Drizzle whispered softly against the window as a light rain began to fall and he felt a nagging guilt over the mother and child that he had left at the quay along with so many others who did not have a roof above their heads or warm blankets to cover them. Christophe gazed through the dirty glass of the window to see ragged clouds drifting across the moon, causing shadows to creep slowly through the room and crawl across the walls.

The old house creaked gently as wood settled. Christophe twisted and turned to get comfortable. The rain tapped the window more heavily, like soft fingers, and the wind gave a low moan. The mournful sound echoed his mood. The sound rose and fell like a tuneless melody of sorrow and then dropped into a low whisper again, as though an urgent voice spoke in hushed conversation with words impossible to make out.

Christophe pulled the covers over his head with a sigh. He had never found it easy to sleep in new locations. He missed his home and his own bed. He missed France and he missed his father.

Christophe finally began to drowse as the wind whispered under the eaves.

Don’t fall asleep …

Christophe jerked awake, half in and half out of a dream. The sound of the wind had risen. The storm sounded like cries of torment. A screaming like the wailing of the damned rose around him. There were voices in the storm … Was there even a storm?

He sat up in horror … just as an axe thudded into the pillow where his head had been resting an instant before. Feathers exploded like a blizzard as the axe was wrenched free and raised again.

With a hoarse cry Christophe threw himself sideways, landing on the floor in a tangle of blankets and sheets. He kicked and crawled to try and free himself. Screaming filled the room and he could not tell apart his own cries or his attacker’s murderous roar amidst the cacophony of voices. The sound was deafening.

Christophe made it to his feet, but the sheets tripped him and he crumpled to the floor again, slamming his knees against the hard wooden boards.

Moonlight fell on Vatel’s contorted features as he moved towards Christophe, hacking at him viciously with the axe.

This time the covers saved Christophe. The axe smashed into his leg, but while the pain was like being hit with a hammer, the blade did not penetrate the thick cloth. Christophe cried out in shock and fear, his voice echoed by others, which seemed to come from the walls of the house as though sung by a chorus of agony and terror.

Vatel wrenched the axe up to strike again, and the blanket went with it. Christophe kicked free and fell against the wall, crying out, ‘Good God, Vatel, what are you doing? Have you gone mad?’

The man did not answer him and instead lunged forward. This time it was Vatel whose feet became tangled in the dark cloth and he stumbled. The axe head buried itself deep into the wall beside Christophe’s head.

The Frenchman gasped and wrenched the bedroom door open to run. His injured leg was numb and slowed him as he limped along the dark balcony. His panicked fingers fumbled along the bannister to find the staircase.

No moonlight filtered into this space except from the doorway behind. Glancing back, Christophe saw Vatel framed in pale light as he pulled the axe from the wall and turned to pursue him.

Deafened by the screaming around him, Christophe gripped the bannister and stumbled down the steps, barefoot in the dark. He felt his way as swiftly as he could, almost unable to hear Vatel’s deliberate steps over the wailing voices churning the air around him. He saw a woman as thin as smoke clutch at his arm. A man like a stirring of dust crawled down the stairs before him. Christophe flung himself through the apparition. He ran for the heavy front door and tried the handle.

It was locked.

He turned, pressing his back against it, gasping with terror. To his right was the room in which he and Vatel had shared their meal. There was no escape there. To the left … It was his only option. He opened the door and then slammed it behind him. A single candle illuminated this room. Its flickering light revealed a desk and chair scattered with papers. Outside of the circle of light Christophe spotted another door. Shadowy figures crawled along the wall as he sprinted across the room. He sobbed with relief to find that this door was also unlocked. As he stepped through and closed it behind him he felt, with something close to joy, a key jutting from the lock.

He fumbled at it desperately, his hands shaking so much that he almost could not make it turn. With a reassuring clunk the heavy mechanism turned over and the door was locked. Christophe moved back from it in the darkness, glancing at his surroundings.

He was in the kitchen. The smell of greasy stew still hung on the air. There would be knives, he realised, things he could use as a weapon.

As he moved towards the dark silhouette of the table, he heard the door handle turn. There was a roar of fury muffled by the heavy wood, and then almost immediately the sound of the axe smashing into the door. The screams coming from the house were now punctuated by Vatel’s steady, deliberate assault on the door.

In the darkness Christophe felt around desperately for another exit. A tiny window afforded a faint silvery light, but no possibility of escape. Clawing along the wall he found another small door. It was probably just a pantry, Christophe thought, but he found the handle and pulled on it in vain until he realised the door opened outwards and stumbled forwards down a low step.

Moonlight streamed through a large window, illuminating the horror within.

Hanging from a hook next to a brace of pheasants, a death’s head gaped at him. The man’s arms and legs had been severed so that only his torso hung against the wall.

Blood, black in the monochrome light, had pooled and congealed beneath the body. A stink like a butcher’s shop assaulted Christophe’s nostrils. In the opposite corner of the small room was a pile of clothing and bags, and of filthy, gore-stained sheets. There was a chest with its lid flung open. Trails of dried blood led to the window.

Hypnotised with horror, Christophe walked across, his steps punctuated by the sound of splintering wood as Vatel’s axe smashed into the oak door in the other room.

The screams surrounding him dropped to mournful howls as Christophe lifted the window’s simple latch and swung it outwards.

There was no escape this way. The window looked out over a sharp drop of jagged rocks and gorse. Below him, where they had been thrown from the window, were bodies in various stages of decomposition. One was the body of a child. The long skirts of a woman were tangled on the thorns of a gorse bush, preventing her body from falling further into the sea below.

Christophe wondered how many more bodies had fallen into the ocean and been washed away. He stepped back, his knees weak, and looked at the pile of possessions.

These people had come to this place, like he had, seeking shelter and solace. Vatel had killed them all. He had handpicked victims from the harbour who looked as though they were carrying all of their worldly wealth as they fled from their homes. Then he had taken their lives so that he could keep their money.

Christophe lifted a jewellery box from the pile and opened it. It held small pearl earrings and a delicate chain: the belongings of a woman of subtle taste and slight wealth. Christophe wondered if it was the same woman whose body hung like a discarded doll from the thorns below the window.

He set down the box and tried to keep his eyes from the dismembered corpse on the wall as he stepped back into the kitchen. Why would Vatel do such a thing? Was it not enough to murder these people that he must also carve up their bodies?

His vision aided by the light from the small room, Christophe moved back to the table, seeking a knife. The surface of the table was wet and sticky with gore, raw meat and a dirty knife … and fingers from a human hand.

The stew.

Christophe vomited, his whole body shuddering with disgust.

Whether it was some consuming greed that led Vatel to eat his victims, or a perverse delight in desecrating their bodies, Christophe knew that the man was a monster. Vatel could not be reasoned with. He would have to be stopped.

Christophe spat bile and dragged breath into his lungs, fighting the debilitating nausea. He had to control himself. There was no way out and nowhere to run. He would have to fight.

He forced himself to pick the bloody knife up from the table. It was slick in his sweaty grasp. He wiped his palms and the handle on his trousers carefully and stepped back so that the table was between himself and the door.

He gritted his teeth. He would wait for Vatel to break through. He would let the man wear himself out hacking at the thick wood. Christophe took slow, deep breaths as the low wails of the voices rose around him, crying with fear, pleading for mercy, shrieking in pain and horror. The sounds, which had so terrified him before, seemed strangely comforting now. He was not alone. The others who had faced this man were here with him. He would fight for them as well as for himself.

He saw the brief flash of light on metal as the axe blade bit through the door. The wood was splintering. The hole around the door handle was widening. Then there was the sound of a boot kicking at the cracking broken mess of wood around the lock.

‘Did you kill them all in their beds, Vatel?’ Christophe called, his voice stronger than he expected. ‘Or was it just the men? Did you drag the women down here alive so that you could kill them with less of a mess? Did you kill the women in front of their children, or the children in front of their mothers?’

The door finally gave with a splintering crack, separating wood from metal, and slammed open against the wall.

Vatel stepped through.