The Haunter (The Sentinels Series)

Rachel Rubin, an American reporter, is only interested in writing about the war, but England in 1945 is swarming with ghosts who need her help. She is the only person who can help them come to terms with their deaths and finally move on. After Rachel’s husband, Tony, inherits a manor near the Scottish Border, they decide to travel there for a vacation away from all those ghosts. But not before they attend a secret séance led by an infamous medium, Madam Castanos, with their friends, Charlotte and Bill. The medium quickly realizes Rachel is not only a reporter, but that she also possesses special abilities. When they reach the manor, two gruesome events mark their arrival – a death and a disappearance. Unbeknownst to them, Madam Castanos is hot on their heels with warnings that shake even the fearless medium herself! Rachel soon learns of the Beaumont Curse – a legend filled with incredulity. However, after Charlotte is attacked by an evil rotten thing, Rachel is sure the legend is more fact than fable! With the curse hanging over their heads, Rachel and Tony race against time to stop the death and destruction surrounding Furniss Manor. Secrets and betrayal shroud their efforts and expose a malevolent demon more deadly than any of them can imagine. When Rachel discovers the demon’s power is fueled by death, she wonders if the coming battle will signal the end of her short, young life …

From the Inside Flap

Excerpt from Prologue: December 1944...Traven is always careful. He's dressed in thick outdoor clothes, plenty of layers complete with hat, gloves, and heavy work boots. He hears nothing and, reassured, picks up his tool-bag and sets off through the trees towards his objective. The woods are bare and stark in the flat light of a wintry sky; a layer of low cloud covers the entire scene. He casts no shadow and takes this as a good omen. Traven is the sort of man who doesn't like to leave evidence. It's a pity his feet sink into the crisp snow, leaving deep prints. With luck, another snowfall will cover them soon enough. He could also do without the crunching noises his steps make. He has been here once before, 'casing the joint' as his sort call scouting a potential property to burgle. The manor house itself is impressive, and contains a lot of valuable goods. But there's only so much you can do with old paintings, Persian rugs, and Chinese porcelain. Traven needs more portable goods that can be disposed of quickly, for ready cash, and that means precious metal. In wartime, Britain's black-market economy, gold and silver are in heavy demand and there's always someone willing to fence it for you, if you have the right connections. Traven does. So, instead of heading to the large manor, Traven heads for a small building that stands apart from it. A more poetic imagination might see the chapel as standing aloof, an acquaintance of the big house, but obviously not a close friend. Traven is not imaginative, and definitely not in any poetic sense. Although he can imagine that the chapel contains some silver cups or such. It's worth a try, anyway, he thinks. The stuff might be locked up in a cupboard, but that's no obstacle. As he trudges through the trees, Traven takes a diagonal path. When he is close enough to be seen against the snow, among the black tree trunks, the view from the big house will be blocked by the building he's come to rob. It's the sort of crooked thing he does instinctively. Closer now, he can see that the chapel, like the walls of this country estate, shows signs of weathering and neglect. Guttering has fallen or been ripped down, and weeds, withered and snow-covered, have sprouted in places on stonework and tiles. But what of the interior? Traven emerges from the woods and scampers quickly across open ground to the chapel door. It's locked, of course, which isn't a problem for a professional burglar. Traven has known rich pickings in big cities during the blackout. He has done his share of ransacking - lifting objects from bombed-out homes, shops, and warehouses. Once inside, he pauses for a moment to recompose. It's no warmer in here than outside; he can still see his breath. The dimly-lit interior is almost bare. It occurs to Traven that the chapel is an odd shape; it's circular, with a sort of glass dome in the middle of a gently sloping roof. Looking up, he sees that the dome is darkened by a thick layer of snow and wonders if it might give way under the weight. Best keep away from the middle of the room. What little light there is comes through slit-like windows, only half-obscured by snow. But Traven can see well enough in poor light. At first glance, pickings seem thin. A few old benches and wooden chairs are stacked around the walls. He sees no cupboards where valuables might be stored. There is, though, an altar of some kind, opposite the entrance, so he starts to make his way towards it, sticking close to the wall. A sound distracts him, and he stops. The faint noise probably means nothing. But Traven hasn't stayed out of jail this long without being careful. He pulls off his thick woolen cap to uncover his ears. Jesus, it's cold! He can hear it better now. It's the rhythmic squeaking of footsteps crushing snow. Someone is coming, and unless they're stone blind, Traven's tracks will lead them straight to the chapel. "Shit!" he says under his breath. Traven doesn't like complications, but he's ready. He retraces his steps to stand behind the door he's just forced open. He selects a heavy wrench from his tool-bag, puts the bag down, and waits. It can only be the manor house's caretaker. Traven's heard the man is an old fellow. Too bad for him, then, he thinks "Run away!" Traven is not a coward but he emits a barely-suppressed yelp. He has never had such a shock before. A boy is standing right next to him, looking up at him with huge, dark eyes. "Christ!" he hisses. "Where the hell did you come from, kid?" The boy says nothing, just carries on staring. "What are you doing here?" the burglar demands in a more menacing tone. The child still does not answer. Traven is baffled. The kid definitely wasn't behind the door a second ago, and where else is there to hide in an empty, round building? "Run away! He's coming!" The child whispers urgently, clearly afraid of being overheard. Traven notices that the boy is wearing ragged clothes, a dirty cap of some sort, and his feet are encased in, what look like, wooden clogs. The thief knows the folk around here aren't rich, but there's something almost Victorian about this kid, as if he's just escaped from a workhouse. Nobody wears clogs now, do they? And those eyes. So huge, and dark, I can't make out the pupils. The expression in the child's eyes makes Traven pause. Not fear, certainly. He's very familiar with fear. This is something else. "He's coming! Run away!" "Shut it!" Traven hisses, finger on lips. "Shut it now, or you'll get this!" He raises his empty hand. The boy shakes his head. The footsteps in the snow are coming closer, but the pace remains steady, unhurried. Whoever is coming either hasn't heard the whispered exchanges or doesn't care. It's just the old caretaker. I'll take care of him, have a quick scout around, and this kid better not give me any trouble or else! Traven prefers not to think beyond that. He has his limits. He has never killed anyone, and he doesn't intend to start with a child, or some old fart for that matter. But his nerves are starting to frazzle. The squeaking, crunching sounds stop abruptly. Traven can't hear anything, but he sees that the light from outside has been blocked. Someone is standing in the doorway. He clutches the handle of the wrench with both hands and raises it. Then he wrinkles his nose in disgust. Despite the freezing air he gets a whiff of something rotten, as if a small animal has crawled into the chapel and died. He shrugs off the distraction, braces himself again for imminent violence. "It's no good," says the boy in a clear, high voice. "Shit! You stupid little bastard!" All hope of ambush gone, Traven quickly steps out from behind the door and prepares to knockout the intruder, and get it over with. But the brutal blow never falls. "Caught you in the act, thief!" hisses a new voice. "And now you must pay the price for your misdeeds, like the naughty little criminal you are!" For a moment, Traven stands, wrench raised above his head, eyes wide in confusion and panic. He starts to back away, but he's not fast enough. An imposing figure darts into the chapel, hands outstretched, fingers clutching for Traven's face. The burglar takes a wild swipe at his assailant, but the attacker slaps the wrench aside, sending it flying across the chamber. The echoing clank of metal coincides with Traven's scream as the inhumanly strong hands fasten on the sides of his face, and the fingertips begin to penetrate his flesh. "I told you to run away," says the ragged boy, sadly. "They never listen." Then he vanishes.

About the Author

David Longhorn was born in North East England long before the internet, but fortunately they had plenty of books in those days! He enjoyed reading all sorts of fact and fiction in childhood and also became a huge fan of old horror movies and the BBC's Ghost Stories for Christmas on television, despite losing a lot of sleep as a result. He went on to get a degree in English Studies, which somehow led him to a career in local government, which in turn took him into a recording studio where he provided voice-overs, read news, and did a lot of other audio stuff. It's been that kind of life, really - a bit random but quite interesting. All the while he was reading and writing supernatural fiction, influenced by both the classic tales of writers like Ambrose Bierce, M.R. James, and Edgar Allan Poe, but also by modern masters such as Stephen King. He hopes to write a lot more about the world of the dead and undead, assuming they let him...

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