The Case of the Haunted Cot

By Mark Bateman

The first book in the Price & Miller Mysteries

Sophie and Keith Fullwood have suffered the worst loss imaginable, and their nightmare is only just beginning. There’s the constant feeling of being watched, the moving shadows just out of sight, and everything else they’ve ever heard about hauntings. But all of those are nothing, compared to the sounds coming through the radio.

The terrified cries they hear have no business being heard this side of the grave, and they carry far too many unanswered questions. It’s more than Sophie and Keith can handle.

Keith, determined to find a less horrifying explanation than the ones presenting themselves, hires Trenton Price, anti-nonsense and anti-social skeptic and atheist.

Sophie, meanwhile, enlists the help of Joseph Miller, paranormal expert and part-time caretaker at her church.

Joseph Miller is determined to do whatever he can to help the Fullwoods and the spirit, and he’ll even do whatever he can to save the soul of Trenton Price. There’s just one thing he doesn’t anticipate:

Trenton Price is every bit as brilliant as he is arrogant.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Bateman
• Release date: Aug 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311995650

Mark Bateman

Mark Bateman divides his time between full-time work, being a father, and writing whenever he can. He runs a writers’ group at one of his local libraries, where he meets and learns from all kinds of interesting and talented people. He loves science and science-fiction. He lives in Buckinghamshire, England, with his partner Becky and their son, Dexter.You can follow Mark on Twitter @MarkWriting and keep up to date with his blogs and news of upcoming books at www.markwriting.com

Book preview

Sophie Fullwood threw back two more ibuprofen, hoping this batch would be the one to diminish her throbbing headache. Replacing the pack on the kitchen work-surface, Sophie left it where it was obvious, fully expecting to return to it later. She was lightheaded, feeling out of touch with reality, but not enough to escape its pain. Maybe if she took a few more pills it would help. Maybe if she downed the whole pack.

Forcing her head up, Sophie was unsure how long she’d been standing in the kitchen staring at the painkillers. She tried to look away from them, but there was little else to focus on other than the cracked kitchen wall tiles.

It was too quiet. For the last several days Sophie had switched between turning on the TV or radio, occasionally both when she was desperate to escape her thoughts. What was on was irrelevant; she never paid attention. What mattered was the noise, the distraction. And conversation was out of the question; the only person she could speak to here was her husband, and there was nothing but awkward silence when they were in a room together. There was simply nothing to say. Although fairly certain he was in the bedroom now, Sophie wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Keith had actually left the flat and she’d failed to notice.

Drifting into the living room, Sophie intended to switch on the TV, to whatever was the loudest channel she could find, most likely a music one. She was almost within reach of it when she heard the first noise. It was difficult to tell what it was, but it sounded akin to several people whispering at once.

It was barely audible, and wouldn’t have been heard at all if the flat hadn’t been utterly silent.

She turned around, the noise having come from that end of the room. There was nothing to see; the room was its usual dark, shadowy self. She’d left the kitchen light on, so there was some light coming through the open doorway, but little of it reached the opposite side of the room where the stereo sat. There were a couple of windows in the living room, but the curtains were drawn for both — and had been almost constantly for the last week — and only a small amount of twilight came through the edges. The only thing that stood out within the room, and she hadn’t noticed it immediately, was the small red light from the radio.

Did she leave that on? No, she was certain she hadn’t. And Keith wouldn’t have turned it on; he preferred the silence.

She started towards the radio. It was large, and almost old enough to qualify as a family heirloom. Soon, with the death of tape and the digital switchover, it would be completely useless, as even the CD player was struggling to do its job.

Less than three feet away, she heard the static, and stopped. It was quiet, but it wasn’t staying that way. As she stood there, she could have sworn it became louder. And why static? If it was still programmed for the last station she listened to, she wouldn’t have been listening to empty static no matter how much she liked noise.

And there was something else.

There.

In the background.

She took the last few steps to the unit, unconsciously placing her hand to the volume knob, turning it up further.

Yes, there was something beneath the static — a strange but familiar sound. Sophie listened carefully. The static increased, but so did whatever was behind it. Was that the radio station she’d listened to last? No, it wasn’t the sound of music. Neither did it sound like somebody speaking, at least not coherently.

As the background sound became clearer, Sophie felt weaker. She started to sweat. Her heart pounded in her chest so hard it might have broken a second time.

It was the sound of crying.

A baby’s crying.

And not just any baby.

No.

Sophie collapsed to the floor, tears rolling down her face. She tried to speak, to shout out to her husband, but it was impossible.

Chapter Two

Joseph Miller and the show’s host sat in the middle of a large stage, facing each other, with several TV cameras aimed at them. There was an empty chair next to Miller, making him wonder if he would have to sit there quietly and politely while she interviewed her next guest. Would they expect him to join in the conversation? The producers backstage had been unhelpfully vague on what would happen after his segment.

‘So do you feel you have seen things beyond science’s understanding?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Miller. ‘Maybe not everything I’ve seen will remain unanswered to science forever, but there are many amazing, incredible things out there that cannot be explained, only experienced.’

‘And you’re a born-again Catholic, right? Did something specifically happen that drew you to Catholicism? It’s not something you go into in your book.’

‘My religious experiences and my paranormal ones, I certainly feel, are linked, but I didn’t want to push those beliefs onto others. The book was about paranormal experiences and evidence. It was never about God and religion, although they matter to me just as much, if not more.’

Feeling the heat from the huge lights, Miller’s armpits became sticky. He hoped it wasn’t obvious to the people watching from home. He could even taste the salty sweat as it dripped down his face.

‘And do you have any difficulty in bringing those two aspects of your life together? What with the church taking the official standpoint of not believing in many of these paranormal events.’

‘That’s a good question,’ Miller said. ‘I personally have not found it difficult in the slightest. There is no shortage of open-minded individuals. I’ve certainly never experienced anything other than support.’

The host’s eyes darted to her left, where her ear-piece was, then quickly focused on Miller again.

‘And your new book — your first book — is out … Friday?’

‘Yes, that’s correct.’

‘Thank you very much for coming on the show,’ said the host, reaching across to shake his hand.

Instinctively, Miller wanted to get up and leave, but he’d been told to stay there until the commercial break. It seemed curious to Miller that nobody would tell him what the next part of the show was, and why it was so important that Miller witness it, but apparently it was.

‘We have a special treat for you next,’ the host said, effortlessly turning from Miller to the currently live camera. ‘Just one of many tonight. He is one of the nation’s best psychics. Please welcome to the stage, Mr Trenton Price.’

There was a thunderous round of applause, which Miller joined in on, despite having no idea who Price was. Apparently he wasn’t alone, as quite a number of audience members were turning to those next to them with a questioning look. Although this wasn’t entirely surprising — the audience was purposely made up of people that hadn’t decided if they believed or not — it did raise the question of just how famous Price could be.

Price came out dressed fully in black, sauntering towards the front of the stage, close to the audience. He looked exactly as Miller expected a TV psychic to look, and Miller wondered how much of that was his doing or the wardrobe department’s.

Scanning the audience members for maybe twenty seconds, Price looked as though he were searching for a familiar face. Eventually, he found his subject. First he pointed to her, not with just a finger, but his whole hand. Then he pressed the same hand against the side of his head, as if he had a slight headache.

‘You’ve lost somebody close to you,’ he said to her slowly, but with confidence.

She nodded, although the motion was unnecessary. The shock on her face was strong enough that everybody knew instantly that Price was right. Miller leaned forward, intrigued; most psychics start off vaguer, uncertain of their messages.

‘I see an older woman,’ Price said. ‘Grandmother, great-aunt maybe. You were close.’

‘My granny!’ the woman blurted out. ‘She died almost a year ago.’

From where Miller sat, he could see Price’s face in profile. All but one of the TV cameras were aimed at him. One in particular had moved in close to Price, focusing on the confident, calm smile.

‘You still miss her,’ Price said. ‘She died before her time?’

‘Yes.’

‘Illness?’

‘Yes.’

‘Cancer?’

The woman in the audience simply nodded, tears welling-up. If Price noticed, he did nothing to reassure her. Miller assumed because he was concentrating on his psychic connection.

‘I’m hearing a ka sound, does that mean anything to you?’

‘Catherine! Her name was Catherine!’

‘I thought as much.’

He is good, Miller thought as he turned back to the show’s host. She was watching Price, smiling, but Miller thought he detected something forced in the smile, as if repressing anger. But there was nothing that might have annoyed her, so Miller assumed he was imagining it and returned his attention to Price.

‘You have a … daughter?’

‘Yes!’

‘She’s lovely. Caring, but feisty.’

She smiled again, while wiping away her tears. A number of people in the audience were becoming emotional themselves; perhaps empathising with her sorrows, perhaps remembering their own.

‘And you’re worried your daughter won’t remember your grandmother?’ Price said. ‘At least not the way you do.’

‘She was an important part of my life. My daughter always found her intimidating.’

‘Your daughter didn’t get on well with her; she never got to see the woman you knew.’

The audience member’s tears were flowing faster now. A small round of applause went around the room. Some people clapped enthusiastically, others did it tentatively, as if their sounds might disrupt his abilities.

‘She’s here now,’ Price said. It was clear from the joyous look on the woman’s face that this was exactly what she’d hoped to hear. ‘She has a message for you.’

‘Yes?’ the woman said, standing up.

Price took a couple more steps forward. Any more and he’d have been in the front row.

Miller took the moment to look at the host again, and this time there was no mistaking it. She was chewing on her bottom lip, and eyeing Price up with a deadly stare. Had he done something to upset her?

Price opened his mouth to begin the message, but it seemed to hang there for a few seconds before he could speak again. His concentration was enough to look painful. Nobody rushed him, though; it couldn’t have been easy contacting the dead.

‘You’re …’ Price started. ‘You’re … an utter brain-dead moron.’

Silence. Everybody in the room stared at Price in confusion as they replayed the words in their minds, waiting for them to make sense. Except, Miller noticed when turning to her again, the host. She was angry — outraged even — but by no means did she seem confused or even surprised.

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