Night Of All Evil

By J M Shorney

Freya Monroe used to be part of a circle that engaged in the occult, but has turned her back on it. However the circle are determined to bring her back into the fold, to use her powers for their means, including resurrecting their leader from the dead. The group will stop at nothing to achieve their aims and Freya must call on all her resources to resist the power of evil. But will it be enough?

A tense tale of gothic horror – not for the faint-hearted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J M Shorney
• Release date: Apr 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310806902

Book preview

Chapter One

During a rather mundane conversation, Sir Frederick Murchison’s lived-in old face dramatically transformed into a grinning skull. Freya Monroe couldn’t pretend the sight of it hadn’t given her a start.

Fred was chatting away, unsuspecting that anything should be amiss, but it was as if the flesh had been completely stripped from the bones. Malformed cavernous eye sockets were exposed. The teeth chattered grotesquely, working around the words that asked if she was happy with the new man in her life. Although they had been together for a while, Fred remained concerned for her. Freya was about to tell him that she really was deliriously happy, when it happened.

The rest of him, the shapeless old grey marl cardigan he invariably wore, hadn’t changed. He was still the man she had known for more than ten years, but where his neck, which had grown wizened by age, should have been, there was now a bony hard brain stem that was devoid of flesh.

It wasn’t simply the fact that a skull was talking away as if nothing untoward was happening, the sound of his voice was now inexplicably silenced, as if time had stood still. The aftermath of a holocaust. The conclusion of a world that had ended not with a bang, but a whimper.

Of course to Freya, a woman with extraordinary powers, witnessing someone’s features disclose the skull beneath the skin, she was aware that this occurrence was ultimately sent as a warning. A premonition that this old man was about to die.

In the quiet solitude of his vast Berkshire mansion, the presence of this horrific scenario was indisputably frightening, but not so incongruous. Not there among the dark oak panelling of the seventeenth century abode, the old wainscotting, decor largely unaltered from that time period, in keeping with his lovely home. She discovered herself suppressing an involuntary shiver.

Freya heard nothing as if she had gone deaf. Or as if there had been an unseasonal fall of snow, when every sound is deadened, muffled and cushioned by the blanket of white. Witnessing someone’s features transpose this way had happened once before, when seated in her Grandma’s parlour in her native Ireland. She had been little more than a child and quite naturally she’d become hysterical when her beloved Grandma’s benevolent features had become a death’s head.

But how to explain to Grandma what she had seen, and now to Fred? In this deadened silent world her entire body had grown numb, as if she were paralysed. Her stomach rolled with both nausea and panic. All she could do was hopefully nod and smile in the right places. She longed to close her eyes, shut out the sight of that bony jaw opening, closing, unaware of there being anything wrong. The body leant forward, resting a hand on her arm as the yellowed teeth chattered soundlessly.

She sat there, unable to move her limbs. Guessing that he was asking if Freya was alright, she dealt him a wan smile. Freya muttered that she was okay.

The death’s head, wearing the baggy old cardigan, eased himself from his armchair. Freya entertained the placating strength of his arm coming around her, as the world returned to a semblance of normality.

She was able to hear at last. Fred sported the familiar lived-in face again. Now, after what she had seen and as the coldness enveloped her, all she really wanted was Nick. The supportive strength of her man’s arms around her.

Instead it was dear old Fred enquiring after her health. He was going to die. The premonition, only her inherent psychic powers could possibly conceive, indicated the eventuality. She had no idea when his death would occur, or how.

If she could but warn him. But how could she confess she had witnessed what she had to anyone? Certainly not to Fred. Not if she didn’t wish to alarm him.

You sure you’re alright, my dear? You went so pale I thought you were about to faint. Fred regarded her with such concern, Freya felt close to tears. Her head span with dizziness. The aftermath of a cold, empty feeling and depression. When taking his hand, she pressed it to her lips. The gesture rather took Fred by surprise. He laughed. Steady on, my dear. You don’t want your husband to get jealous, now do you?

The echo of Freya’s son playing catch with Fred’s small dog Scamp, drifted toward her from the open window. Her husband called to him something about how they should go in. The sound of a car’s squealing tyres on the gravel outside.

Meadows, Sir Frederick’s manservant, announced, Master Alan has arrived with a… ahem guest, sporting an embarrassed colour to his face. Shall I serve drinks now, Sir Frederick? The manservant was tall and slightly stooped. The crumpled features of the old retainer smiled warmly at Freya. He couldn’t help but wonder at the stark contrast to the illustrious red/gold hair, she wore upswept, and from which loose tendrils coiled to the shoulders of a dark green knitted dress. The equally green eyes intruded in a face that appeared so deathly pale. As if she had seen a ghost.

You might as well, Fred told him half-heartedly. Oh, and a glass of water for Freya, please, Meadows.

Aren’t you feeling well, Madam? Meadows appeared equally as concerned as Sir Frederick. You really do look pale, if you don’t mind me saying so, he added awkwardly, as if he had spoken out of turn.

If only she could explain. Tears were dangerously close to the surface, which she blinked back immediately as she heard the sound of the others returning. A woman’s laughter, quite shrill, and outdoing the men’s. Nick was laughing too, while calling someone ‘honey’ in his familiar Southern drawl.

You’re not pregnant are you? Fred asked. The familiar crumpled old face that she loved beamed at the prospect.

Not as far as I know.

Nick would love them to have another baby. Because of her inherent psychic abilities, she wasn’t certain that bringing another child into the world would be wise.

You should see a doctor, you know. I thought my angina was nothing but indigestion. You’re young, but you never know.

Dear Fred, believing her ashen pallor to be attributed to either pregnancy or an illness. She longed to confess what she had seen. All she hoped was that when the prophecy was fulfilled, that his demise would be due to natural causes.

Chapter Two

Promising that she would speak to the doctor, Freya doubted that anyone could cure her of the malady of what she had experienced. Besides, she was feeling much better now. If only she could warn Fred of what she had seen, but there was no conceivable way she could do that. Maybe she would talk to Alan, urge him to insist that his father take it easy. Especially if his inherent heart problems were to be the cause of his demise.

Freya was still recovering when Meadows returned to the room in company with Alan. He was in possession of more colour than she had ever seen him. Perhaps it had something to do with the beauty on his arm. For she was, Freya was compelled to admit, expressively attractive. A momentary jealousy coursed through her, because her husband had obviously become acquainted with the girl. For that’s all she was surely, barely out of her teens, and it appeared that Alan hung onto her every word, every inflection of her laughter. Nick too seemed to be taken in by her.

Positioning her sunglasses into her hair, she gaped in awe at her surroundings. Freya loved the beautiful old seventeenth century house too.

Wow! What a fantastic house! she exclaimed; traces of a South London accent were evident.

Fred stepped forward, extending a hand. You must be Laura?

Leona, Dad, Alan corrected his father, a fraction awkwardly.

Leona McCluskey, she said with a detectable purr to her voice.

Freya directed her gaze to her husband. The man she loved with every breath of her. The way she believed she would never love another after Richard Fleming. Despite his injuries, the scarred left eye over which he sported a black leather patch did precious little to detract from his good looks; the dark wavy hair and beard. He was hers and Freya was all too aware that she would fight for this man.

Alan’s told me so much about you, Leona continued in the quaint purring tone, a veritable feline. She accepted the hand Fred practically poured over to her. Obviously, in spite of his approach to his seventieth year, the old boy wasn’t averse to the charms of a pretty girl. I so love your house, she enthused, her expression filled with awe.

Thank you, he said, and when I pop off it’ll all belong to Alan.

Dad, please. Alan was clearly embarrassed. But then Alan Murchison was a man to whom embarrassment appeared to come readily. He was aware of Monroe, a single brow raised with speculation, a bemused grin disappearing into his beard.

I’m glad to see you looking so well, Alan added, not without the trace of sarcasm that was interpreted as ‘you’re showing me up’, especially in front of Leona and Monroe. Not Freya of course. The emerald dress she was wearing, accentuating her slender waist and matching the colour of her eyes, afforded him a wild sense of elation plus the impassioned eternal longing for this woman.

He enjoyed Leona’s company, despite their age difference, but it was Freya whom he really wanted. He had believed himself to be in with a chance after Richard died. Then Freya had gone to the States, returning with her one-eyed Romeo. That, as they say, was that.

I’m fine. I see you’ve already met Captain Monroe. Fred turned to Leona, indicating towards Nick who, having dropped his weight onto Fred’s brocade settee, lifted his son onto his lap.

Yeah, we met when I arrived, Leona said. Didn’t know you were a Captain. Voracious gentian eyes, admixed with amethyst, appeared to practically devour him. Not that Nick minded the attention. Only Freya sensed something about the newcomer, or maybe the feeling stemmed from the proverbial green-eyed goddess. Sea Captain?

Just because he looks like a pirate, doesn’t mean to say he is one, Alan put in nervously.

Thanks, Al. Nick couldn’t avoid his sarcasm. Alan cringed when he called him that. It was as if Monroe had discovered a veritable source of amusement in Alan Murchison. There was no love lost between the two men, all because of one woman.

An inflection of something Freya failed to pinpoint flashed across Leona’s youthful features. Not surprise, of that she was certain. Perhaps it stemmed more from excitement.

Army Captain, actually, Nick said. The Southern drawl, which never failed to stir Freya, well in evidence.

And this is Freya, the Captain’s wife, declared Alan with such pride in his voice that wasn’t lost on Nick, fully conscious of how Murchison felt about his beautiful wife.

Freya wasn’t feeling too well before you came in, Fred told Nick.

Oh? His face drained, accentuating the scar etching part of his left cheek beneath his tan. Reaching for her hand, he enquired what was wrong.

She had a funny turn, Fred interjected.

Simon had cuddled up to his father as Freya played with her son’s fingers.

What kind of funny turn, honey? What happened?

Freya threw him a wan smile. It was nothing. I’m okay now. She regarded Leona, leaning heavily on Alan’s arm. Leona extended a palm Freya’s way. I hope you’ll feel better soon.

I’m sure I shall. Accepting the proffered hand, Freya allowed her words to trail. The slim palm rested in hers. From it, Freya received what she could but describe as an electric shock. The sensation was similar to the one she had received when she had first taken Nick’s hand. The selfsame electrical charge seared the entire length of her arm, which indicated she had blood on her hands. Her future husband had killed in battle. Leona had killed too. Freya did her utmost to suppress a cry of alarm the instant her hand made contact with the other woman’s.

Chapter Three

Freya had no idea how she could possibly prevent herself from fainting, coupled with the precognition that Fred Murchison was going to die.

You okay, hon? Nick regarded her with the utmost concern. Snaking an arm about her shoulders, he cuddled her closely.

All Freya could do was offer him a wan smile and wonder if she should confide in him what she had seen. Most of the time her husband couldn’t fail to understand when she saw the things she did.

Maybe you ought to see a doctor, Alan suggested, concern negotiating his face. He really did care about her.

Alan had had lots of girlfriends during the past few years, all equally as pretty as Leona. Nevertheless none of them failed to remotely come close to this remarkable woman. It had hurt considerably when she had first introduced them to Captain Monroe, and Alan had wondered how she could have preferred the one-eyed man to him.

That’s what I told her, Fred added. Now you go upstairs and lie down. We’ll let you know when dinner’s ready, if you’re feeling up to it, my dear. Or you can have a tray brought up to your room. You really do look pale, Freya.

You will be alright, won’t you, Mummy? Simon asked, clutching at her hand.

Sure I will, sweetheart. I’ll be fine really. It was just a...

Giddy turn. I know, interrupted Fred. Like I said, you can’t be too careful. I thought my heart attack was just a bout of indigestion.

Leona slid onto the settee and folded her arms, no longer the centre of attention. She was uncaring of Freya’s welfare, wishing the men afforded her so much concern. She had already begun to entertain an initial animosity toward the other woman, without actually knowing why. The woman was obviously enjoying the attention, and playing on it.

Perhaps I will lie down, Freya said.

I’ll come with you, honey, Nick said, kissing her, and pulling her close. This woman who felt so light in his arms. Only Freya was conscious of Leona regarding them with a tight lipped expression, making the former feel certain that the girl was out to make some kind of trouble.

The room Nick and Freya shared when they visited the Murchisons was located in the west wing. Simon’s room was next door. Theirs commanded a panoramic view, clear across to the lake. She loved to watch the sun dip below the waters in the evening. The sky darkened to an almost preternatural glow at sunset. There was something oddly mystical about the lake that reminded her of the Arthurian legend. She could easily imagine a slender hand protruding from the waters, holding aloft the magical sword Excalibur.

The marble Adam fireplace had already been laid for a fire. The king-size bed was decorated with a floral quilt that matched the curtains. There was a soft rosebud patterned carpet on the floor. It was a beautiful room. As the eternal romantic, she could easily imagine that she had stepped back into the past. She could pretend that she was a highborn lady of the Stuart period, peering across the crystalline waters of the lake, anticipating her Royalist husband returning home from the War. The entire house served to depict those times. Fred, who loved the house as much as she did, had no plans to change a thing, for which she was glad.

Nick had married her for better or worse. He had no knowledge of her life before, only that her first husband, Richard, had burned to death, seated at the wheel of his car. An incident for which Freya had never ceased blaming herself because of what she was involved in. Nick had neither any knowledge of her previous incarnations, or of the Circle to which she had once belonged. Although they say there should be few secrets in a relationship, Freya was aware that Nick often had nightmares of his sojourn in Iraq and Afghanistan, when sniper fire had robbed him of his eye. Wasn’t she always there for him, as he was for her?

Freya had been born with a caul, a thin membraneous veil that covers a baby’s head and face, which is removed at birth. She was to learn early on in life, that a child born with a caul is believed to be in possession of psychic powers. Which, for Freya O’Mara, was so uncomfortably true.

Most times she regretted the powers she had been given. She had learned to live with the unexpected and the swiftness of the premonitions that made her feel so ill when they occurred.

Freya loved her husband to the point of obsession. Because of that, she was so afraid of losing him. Perhaps she had fallen in love with Nicholas Monroe the first time she had laid eyes on him.

Freya, with her dearest friend, a rather plump lady called Rosa Andretti, had met at St Brigid’s Catholic school in Athenry, Co Galway. Striking up a long-term relationship, Rosa had helped her come to terms with Richard’s death. That was until one morning, when Rosa failed to show up for a lunch date. Freya, receiving yet another premonition, discovered her friend dead of an aortic aneurism.

While conducting a Spiritualist meeting in New York City, she received a message from Nick’s young brother who had OD’d on drugs and alcohol. Nick and his sister had been in the audience. They wanted to meet her. The way that one steady brown eye regarded her as if he liked what he saw. He was tall, a kind of raw-boned athletic build, with his wild unruly dark hair. He’d asked her out for a drink, after the ‘show’. That’s all it was. She believed at first that all he wished to discuss was his brother’s death. Only when she referred to the fact she and Rosa would soon be returning to England did he confess that he couldn’t bear to lose her. She felt the same. A Tennessean by birth, he now resided in New York, where she lived with him for a while, and fell pregnant with Simon.

She promised him that she would lie down. She wasn’t ill. It was only the premonitions that had disturbed her. She positioned herself before the window so that she could gaze upon the lake. The crystal waters sparkling in the late afternoon sunlight. Nick had promised to call her when the evening meal was ready. She had wanted him to remain in the room with her, reassure her, as he invariably did, that everything would be alright. But he had to keep an eye on Simon, so their son would not disturb her. Maybe if she closed her eyes, she could relax. If only the vision of what she had witnessed didn’t continue to haunt her.

What of Leona McCluskey? What had she done to have had blood on her hands? She looked no more than 19 or 20. Maybe she had killed someone in self defence. The sensation she had experienced failed to determine any more information.

Come back to us, Freya. Come back to the Circle...

Freya was jolted from her reverie. What? Who’s there? she asked, her heart beating much too fast.

Join us, Freya. We need you... The words descended softly and as hushed as a gentle breeze wafting through her window.

Return to the Circle, after what they had done to her husband?

She had to escape for her own sanity. The words were whispered, delivered. A wavering echo in the stillness of the room. You must come back. You must… you must... The voice, distinctly female, filtered into the ether.

Who are you? What do you want? You know I can’t do that. I have another life now. She failed to envisage putting her family’s lives in danger. Please, leave me alone.

Who you talking to, baby? Nick peered his head around the door. He had been with this woman for seven years. He would have to have been totally insensitive to the fact she was hurting.

No one. Just myself.

First signs, ain’t that what they say?