A Night Of Terror Opening chapters of our spooky new serial

PART 1: A group of strangers gathered in the haunted house of a deceased writer… what could possibly happen?

It didn’t take long for the woman’s nimble, gloved fingers to pick the lock. “You should be a jewel thief,” murmured a burly man in an overcoat and homburg hat as he kept watch in the shadowy corridor.

“To catch your prey, you must think like your prey,” the woman replied in a slinky, cut glass accent. “Now let’s be quick, before she comes back.”

The Mayfair flat was furnished but stripped of personal possessions.

“Looks like we’ve missed her again,” the man sighed, opening an empty wardrobe.

“That slippery eel!” The woman opened an empty writing desk. “But wait. Maybe she left a clue.” She fished a newspaper from a wastepaper basket. It was folded in four at a prominent advert. “The late Silas Jessop invites you to… A Night of Terror.” The woman read aloud. “Enjoy – if you dare – a night of ghost stories, seances and ghostly visitations at the home of Silas Jessop, renowned author of spine-tingling mysteries, reclusive paranormal enthusiast, and recently deceased owner of the most haunted private house in England. Price includes dinner, breakfast… and a sleepless night.”

The house loomed from the mist, its many sharp gables stabbing the dark sky. Tall railings, sharp as spears, formed a forbidding perimeter.

“Can that really be the place?” Felicity huddled in her coat and bell-shaped hat. It felt like they’d been driving through nameless fenland lanes for hours and she was stiff with cold.

“It looks like the setting for one of his books!” enthused Bertie, leather gloves on the wheel and a sharp tweed cap on his boyish blond head.

“I don’t know how you can read those awful stories.” Felicity cringed.

“I’ve loved them since I was a boy.” Bertie looked hurt. “But the main thing is we’re away for the weekend. Together.”

“Yes, together!” Felicity forgot her misgivings and snuggled against him.

She was sure their first trip away meant a proposal was on the cards. Although she wished he’d chosen a more salubrious venue, she loved him so much that she would forgive him almost anything.

“Well, the lights are on and there are cars on the drive. The other guests must already be here.”

Bertie drove in, between towering gateposts topped with devilish stone gargoyles.

The front door was opened by a tall man in a funereal tailcoat. His shock of grey hair stood on end in every direction, as though he had been electrocuted. His moustache and eyebrows resembled a trio of unkempt Old English sheepdogs.

“Good evening, sir and madam,” he intoned in a sombre baritone. “I am Merlin, the late Silas Jessop’s butler and your host for this evening. May I see your tickets?”

“You certainly may,” Bertie enthused. “I cannot believe I’m actually stepping inside the home of a literary giant!”

“You’re among the first strangers to cross the threshold of this house in three decades,” said Merlin.

Judging from the dust and cobwebs, Felicity doubted that a cleaner had crossed the step in that time, either.

Something big and black scuttled through a nearby cobweb and she pressed herself more tightly to Bertie’s arm.

“Polly will take your coats and cases to your… adjoining rooms.” Merlin gave Bertie a knowing wink. “Please follow me to the drawing room for drinks.”

A young maid with light brown hair and a pretty face gave Felicity a reassuring grin and mouthed something like, “Don’t worry about him.”

Felicity was grateful that Polly looked so normal. Merlin gave her the shivers.

“Overcooked potboilers!” declared a crusty Scottish voice as Felicity entered a gloomily lit drawing room on the arm of Bertie, in his dashing yellow sweater and white Oxford bags. “About as appetising as last week’s porridge!”

The speaker was standing by the crackling fireplace in a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. Thick salt and pepper hair was brushed back from a florid face, and round glasses flashed in the dim light of a dusty chandelier.

In a winged armchair, a young blonde woman in a salmon pink, ankle-length dress lounged in an attitude of languid boredom – until she set eyes on Bertie.

“I’m so glad there are some other young people here!” She sprang to her feet and sashayed across the carpet, smile as dazzling as the jewels at her throat. In a whisper, she added, “I thought I’d be stuck with these charmers the whole weekend.”

Felicity noticed a second man, lurking in a shadowy corner. Tall, thin and fortyish, he was studying a bookshelf, pulling spines forward then pushing them back into place. The forearm of his dark green suit was dusty from the process. His grey eyes roamed boldly up and down Felicity’s dress and a smirk played on his lips before he turned back to the books.

“Kitty Malone, delighted to meet you.” The blonde offered her hand to Bertie, back uppermost, for him to kiss.

“I’m Felicity,” said Felicity, but Kitty didn’t even glance at her.

“Are you a Silas Jessop enthusiast?” Bertie asked, his cheeks pink.

“Ever since I was a girl!” Kitty gushed. “All those secret passages and ripped bodices!”

“And there’s the great man himself!” Bertie gazed in wonder.

The portrait above the fireplace showed the author in his fifties, at the height of his fame, at the turn of the century.

“Nae wonder he’s smiling,” the Scotsman chuckled dryly. “Never did a man make so much money from such leaden prose.”

“If you dislike Jessop so much, why are

“I’ve never felt an atmosphere tingling with so much psychic energy!” Millicent enthused

you here?” Kitty challenged him.

“My newspaper sent me to write up this sorry wake.” The Scot offered a fleshy hand to Bertie. “George McDuff. Literary critic at the Herald.”

“McDuff, McDuff…” Bertie scratched his chin in thought. “Didn’t you once write a book yourself? I’ve got it! TheCaseofthe WaxenDoll.”

“Well, that was a long time ago, laddie,” McDuff preened, his florid cheeks growing even redder.

“The Case of the Wax en Doll ?” Kitty circled the critic, like a cat with its prey. “That caused quite a stir, didn’t it?” “I wouldna say that,” McDuff muttered. “Oh, but I remember the reviews.” Kitty smiled. “How did they describe it, again? Oh yes… A cheap imitation of a Silas Jessop pot boiler of which even Jess op wouldbeashamed.”

The elegant blonde wafted away with a tinkly laugh and McDuff fixed her back with a murderous glare.

A chilly draught came from the hall as Merlin admitted another guest.

“It really is as haunted as they say!” A fortyish woman with ginger curls burst into the room, wearing a purple evening gown and matching elbow-length gloves. Eyes wide, she flung out her arms in a theatrical manner. “I’ve never felt an atmosphere tingling with so much psychic energy!”

“Do you think she’s part of the entertainment?” McDuff asked Bertie. “Some kind of costumed character?”

“Oh, no!” the man in the green suit said.

“Not Mad Millicent, the village witch.”

“Roger Hardacre! What are you doing here?” Millicent demanded.

“The same thing as you, I expect.” Roger smirked. “I bet there isn’t a soul in the village who wouldn’t like to have a nose around inside this place.”

“A nose around?” Millicent bristled. “You may speak for yourself, but I can assure you that I am here purely in the interests of psychic research. And I am not a witch. I am a medium!”

“Have it your way,” Roger laughed. “I know what you’re really looking for.”

“I take it you two know each other?” Merlin said, deadpan.

“We’ve lived at opposite ends of the village our entire lives,” Millicent told him. “Unfortunately,” Roger added.

“Locals, eh?” the puppyish Bertie cut in. “Did you see much of Silas Jessop around the village?”

“Not so much as his shadow.” Roger indicated the painting. “Believe it or not, that’s the first time I’ve seen his face.”

“It’s a shame he was such a recluse,” said Millicent. “With our shared interest in the spirit world, we would have had so much in common.”

“You might even have wormed your way into his affections and got your hands on his fortune, eh, Millie?” Roger sneered. “Well, really!” Millicent huffed.

“I heard Jessop left not a penny in the bank,” Bertie said sadly.

“In the bank, no.” Roger winked.

“Do you think he stashed his fortune somewhere else?” Kitty’s blue eyes sparkled, playfully.

“Well, he didn’t spend it on the upkeep of this place. It’s falling apart around us.”

“Do you really think the house is haunted?” Felicity asked nervously.

“Can’t you feel it?” Millicent clutched the girl’s arm. “There are spirits in this very room.”

“I think we’re going to need them.” McDuff raised his glass to his lips and realised it was empty.

“More wine, sir?” Merlin offered. “Or would you prefer a whisky?”

“I’ll have a wee dram, since you’re offering.”

When Merlin returned from the drinks trolley, McDuff said, “Be honest, do you nae think this is all a wee bit tasteless? Dragging tourists through the house when the old fella’s barely in his grave.”

“On the contrary, sir, it was Mr Jessop’s final wish that I organise this evening. It was his greatest ambition to prove that ghosts exist, by coming back as one himself.” Merlin put his nose an inch from McDuff’s. “There’d be no point in returning without witnesses, would there?”

The critic gave a derisive snort. “So, you’re saying old Jessop will be putting in an appearance himself? Aye, well, I’ll nae hold my breath.”

Returning from Bertie and Felicity’s bedrooms, Polly went to the drinks trolley to make sure everyone was topped up.

“Did Jessop keep you under lock and key?” a voice asked.

Polly turned to find Roger blocking her into the corner, a wolfish smirk on his face. “I beg your pardon, sir?” she squeaked. “I wouldn’t have forgotten your pretty face if I’d ever seen it around the village.”

“I only came here to help out tonight.” Polly only just stopped herself revealing that she was really an actress. “The, um, agency sent me from London.”

“Well, if you’re off duty tomorrow, maybe I could show you around the village in my motorcar.”

“May I borrow you for a moment, Polly?” Merlin’s commanding tones cut across the room – along with a glare aimed at Roger. “Would you put on some music?”

Glad to be rescued, Polly skipped over to the gramophone.

“Ah, the foxtrot!” Kitty gushed. “Will you join me, Bertie?”

Before the young man could demur, Kitty swept him into a dance.

Millicent stood toe to toe with

George, jutted her chin towards his and said, “Care to shake a leg?”

The Scot drew back with a shudder. “I’ll sit this one out.”

“Looks like you’re left with me.” Roger took Felicity’s hand. The girl paled but acquiesced. Watching from beside the gramophone, Polly didn’t envy Felicity dancing with the caddish Roger, but she couldn’t help envying the swish of Felicity’s sapphire ankle-length dress – and Kitty’s, too. The satin garments flashed like flames through the gloom, as did the jewels at Kitty’s throat. Kitty, in particular, danced with an assured flamboyance that only came from a life of wealth and privilege.

The country was in the grip of a worldwide depression, but it was clearly still a nation of haves and have nots. And although Polly’s maid’s dress was only a theatrical prop, she had no illusions as to which side of the social divide she had always been on. She couldn’t imagine herself ever feeling as at home as Kitty looked in a grand house such as this – even one as neglected as Jessop’s.

“Ahem!” Merlin cleared his throat and snapped her out of her thoughts. He made a small gesture with his white-gloved finger and. remembering that she had work to do, Polly slipped unobtrusively from the room.

In the adjoining study, Polly took a dust sheet from a large gong. With a pair of padded mallets, she began a rumble that built to a crescendo.

“Thunder?” said McDuff, in the drawing room. “I did’na think there was a storm forecast for tonight.”

Polly stepped through the study’s French doors to a misty terrace and turned on an outside tap. A hose with a sprinkler began spraying water against the drawing room’s leaded window.

“Sounds like rain,” Millicent observed. Merlin leaned towards McDuff. “The perfect weather for a haunting, sir.”

At that moment, the lights flickered out and plunged the room into darkness.

“Ooh, how exciting!” Kitty clutched Bertie in the flickering glow of the fire.

“Don’t worry, my dear, you’re perfectly safe.” Roger clutched Felicity a little more ‘protectively’ than she would have wished.

“Interference with the electrical supply is a classic sign of a supernatural presence!” Millicent declared.

“Or a sign that somebody hasn’t paid the bill,” McDuff quipped.

“The storm may have brought down a power line,” Merlin intoned. Just then, the lights flickered and then came back on. “Ah, it’s back on,” he observed.

With light restored, Felicity pushed herself from Roger’s unwelcome embrace.

Bertie shot Roger a frown. And Felicity shot Bertie a look of equal consternation; he was still in Kitty’s seductive clutches.

“Now you’ve all got to know each other,” Merlin intoned, “Please follow me for a tour of the ground floor, after which there will be time to relax before dinner.”

In the entrance hall, the butler gathered the group at the foot of a staircase with banisters carved like serpents.

“When you climb the stairs to your rooms later, beware the ghost of a young maid said to have been murdered by –”

“AAAAARGH!” A female scream from upstairs was echoed by one from Felicity.

“Don’t hurt me!” a girl’s voice shrieked from above.

“Oh my giddy aunt!” Millicent grabbed Roger for support.

A trammel of footsteps filled the hall as Polly ran across the landing in a white maid’s dress and long white wig, her face and hands powdered to match.

“Bravo! That was rather good!” Bertie clapped, as the ‘apparition’ ran from view.

“I’m so glad you’re here to hold onto, Bertie!” Kitty laughed. “That really made my heart race!”

Felicity, who was clutching Bertie’s other arm, leaned around his chest and glared at Kitty, but the blonde simply took no notice.

“So much for our fearless psychic!” Roger mocked.

“I knew it was an act,” Millicient grumbled. “It gave me a start, that’s all.” “Looks like it’s going to be one of those nights.” McDuff rolled his eyes.

“We’ll now move on to the library,” said Merlin.

The grandfather clock in the dining room chimed nine times. “Before dinner,” Merlin announced, “Millicent has kindly agreed to host a seance… to ask Mr Jessop if he would like to join us for the evening.”

“Och, not more parlour games,” moaned McDuff.

“Are we all here?” Merlin looked around the table.

“Apart from that local chap,” said Bertie. “What was his name? Roger?”

“I haven’t seen him since we went to our rooms, earlier,” said Felicity.

“Perhaps he’s found a secret passage,” Kitty said playfully.

“Maybe a ghost has got him,” McDuff chuckled.

“He’s more likely to be searching for the fortune he believes is hidden somewhere,” said Millicent.

“In that case, he’ll be disappointed,” Merlin murmured. “Perhaps we should start without him.”

“Aye, let’s get this nonsense over, so we can eat,” said McDuff.

“Very well. Please turn down the lights, Polly,” Millicent asked.

Polly, back in her normal maid’s uniform, flicked some switches, leaving just the glow from a standard lamp.

“How cosy! Shall we hold hands?” Kitty grabbed Bertie’s hand without waiting for an answer.

Watching from beside the door, Polly’s skin prickled as Millicent appeared to go into a trance. She knew it was probably just a trick, but seances had always spooked her. In fact, the whole house scared her more than just a bit. Earlier, as she’d changed into her ghost costume, she’d been convinced that someone – or something – was watching her.

“Silas Jessop,” Millicent intoned in an ethereal voice. “If you are with us, let us know. Please knock.”

Just then a violent hammering shook the house and Polly nearly screamed the ceiling down!

NEXT WEEK… Has the ghost of Silas Jessop really returned?

Earlier, when she was changing her costume, Polly was certain someone was watching her