Centurion

By S. R. Woodward

A live event at Gosbecks Manor, run by paranormal TV show, That's My Ghost!, opens a portal to the past and the spirit realm of the Celts.

The show's medium becomes possessed by the spirit of a centurion, whose only goal is to kill the last remaining descendent of the Celtic warrior who'd murdered his general.

Unknown to Mark Royce, he is that last remaining descendent--and he's sitting in the audience. "Gripping paranormal thriller" -- Derek Murphy

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jan 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781528947473

S. R. Woodward

After working consistently in IT for 29 years, Simon decided it was time to forego the strictly logical world of computing and take up writing in his spare time. He doesn't think he'll truly get to grips with this literary world but he's certain he'll have great fun finding out. That said, he believes his wife, Yve, is not so enamoured by his frequent requests, asking, 'What do you think of this?' Without his wife, Simon knows his two horror novels, Centurion and When Evil Wins, plus his horror short story collection, Dark Matters, would never have seen the light of day.

Book preview

Epilogue

About the Author

After working consistently in IT for 29 years, Simon decided it was time to forego the strictly logical world of computing and take up writing in his spare time. He doesn’t think he’ll truly get to grips with this literary world but he’s certain he’ll have great fun finding out. That said, he believes his wife, Yve, is not so enamoured by his frequent requests, asking, ‘What do you think of this?’

Without his wife, Simon knows his two horror novels, Centurion and When Evil Wins, plus his horror short story collection, Dark Matters, would never have seen the light of day.

Copyright Information

Copyright © S. R. Woodward (2019)

The right of S. R. Woodward to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781788782647 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781788782654 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781528947473 (E-Book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgements

Special thanks to:

My wife, Yve Woodward, for her much-appreciated input and corrections.

Barry Withers for his insights regarding killing and resuscitating people.

Many, many thanks to Jon Orford (one ‘f’) for his help on police procedure, SOCO and ‘unrevived’ people.

www.ClassicalTurns.com for the proper Latin (esp. Dr David Butterfield)

Dan and Sophie Evans for their insights into teenage years.

Jamie Evans and all those at Impala Films.

And finally, Scarlett Pearson and Tony Withers, who chose to help me with my typo problems, run on sentences and other literary ticks I have.

Prologue

The young woman got out of bed and put on her pink dressing gown, although mid-morning, she had no concerns as it was her day off. She ran the palm of her hand up her forehead and back through her blonde hair, fingers splayed. She stared at the breezer bottles on the coffee table in her lounge. There were a lot.

The room was dingy, its curtains drawn against the mid-morning sunshine. The room still smelt of sandalwood and patchouli, although the incense sticks had burnt out.

Her mouth felt dry. She knew she was dehydrated and she knew why. But she couldn’t figure out what had possessed her to drink so many of the Bacardi Breezers.

She sat on the sofa opposite the coffee table and clasped her round pale face between her hands as she leant forward, elbows on knees. She looked at the circle of small torn paper squares, each inscribed with a letter. Others had numbers, and two had single words written on them; both different: YES and NO they said.

Her heart began to beat faster. Where was the glass? she thought. It should have been upturned and still in the middle of the circle; her makeshift Ouija board. But then she noticed the spiderweb of cracks across the screen of her LED TV. It sat on the low oak sideboard against the room’s right hand wall. The glass panel that covered the TV’s picture elements was cracked at its centre, and from that centre the fine jagged lines emanated. On the floor, against the base of the sideboard, lay a broken glass. It’d been the one she’d used for her séance.

The young woman walked around the back of her sofa and made her way back to her bedroom. She found her pumps and put them on. The last thing she needed was glass in her feet.

For some reason, all her muscles ached, as if she had taken part in a marathon. But she knew that couldn’t be right. She wondered whether she was coming down with a case of the flu.

In the lounge, she opened a cupboard and picked up the brush and dustpan, then made her way back to her TV. She bent over and started to sweep the pieces of broken glass into the dustpan. She was worried.

A broken glass during a séance was bad news. It could mean the spirit she’d communicated with, during the session, was now stuck in her flat; the Ouija circle portal it had entered through having been smashed closed, before it had had a chance to return to the other plane. Worst of all the spirit could have deliberately smashed the glass for its own reasons. She shook the thought from her head. She couldn’t bear thinking that.

What made her more worried was the fact she couldn’t remember anything from the previous evening. She recalled getting home after work the day before. She remembered ordering a pizza—she looked towards her kitchen hatch; balanced neatly in the hatch was the pizza box.

She continued to brush the pieces of glass into the dustpan. She had no idea what she was going to do about her broken TV. Insurance would probably cover it, but if they asked her what had happened she wouldn’t be able to give an answer—at least not an honest one. Everything after the pizza was a blank. Tears welled up in her eyes. She shook her head in an attempt to dispel her misery, then nodded to herself. She would think about it later, after she’d cleared up. She had to do something to stop feeling so lost.

Once she’d made sure there were no remnants of glass left on the floor, she got up and emptied the dustpan into the kitchen bin. She’d tackle the coffee table next.

She put the dustpan and brush back into the cupboard and gazed at the messy coffee table, and sighed. She collected the breezer bottles, all seven of them, and put them in the recycling, then made her way back to the coffee table. As she moved past the cupboard, she opened it again and pulled out a black rubbish sack.

Barring the torn paper squares there was one more piece of paper sitting on the top of her coffee table; a full sheet from her jotter. Scrawled in a hand she didn’t recognise were the words; Manor Mews, Manor Lane. She shook her head for the third time that morning. She’d no idea who’d written them, nor what they meant.

She swept all the pieces of paper up in her hand and scrunched them into balls, then chucked them into the black sack. She took the sack into the kitchen and dumped it there, ready to take out to the estate’s refuse area, the next time she left the flat.

It was only when she’d gone back into the lounge she noticed that her laptop, on the small desk in the corner of the room, was powered on. The Internet browser was open and the page it displayed was the homepage of a paranormal TV show showing the programme’s dates and times.

She covered her mouth with the palm of her hand. Tears welled up in her eyes and she began to sob. She had no idea, at the very least, no recollection, of turning on her laptop, let alone browsing the Internet.

At that moment, she understood something was going on, and it was something she had no control over.

Chapter 1

It had been three months since he’d been discharged from the hospital, and for some unfathomable reason, one of his work colleagues had thought it a good idea to send him the tickets—or so he thought.

Mark Royce made his way to the front door of his rented apartment. He bent over, picked up the brown envelope from his bristle doormat and opened it as he stood in the hallway. There were no indications on the envelope’s front as to what was contained within. He pulled flimsy cardboard tickets from the envelope and sighed heavily as he read what show they were for.

Since his time off work there’d been no let up. Although he’d explained many, many times a lot of what he’d gone through was the result of the tumour he’d had removed during his stay in hospital, still the claims he’d made of facing apparitions and dealing with poltergeists, whilst his body had been battling the growth in his head, came back to taunt him. And although they were his friends and colleagues, they still couldn’t let it rest, and now some wit had decided to send him tickets for a show that was currently running on a new paranormal digital TV channel; That’s My Ghost!: Live, the heading on the tickets stated.

Mark ran a hand through his, now restored, almost shoulder length hair wondering how to tackle this jest his friends had so obviously set him up for. Either way he looked at the problem, he couldn’t win; if he declined, no doubt his friends would believe he was too afraid to go through with it, giving the impression he believed in all that clap trap, and if he accepted, again it would indicate he believed in all that clap trap. He shook his head, smiling. You bastards, he thought.

Mark walked out of the hall and placed the tickets on his kitchen counter, along with all the other ‘to do’ paper work.

He sat back down on the brown leather sofa in his lounge, and picked up the coffee he’d been drinking before the letter box had clunked shut, telling him his Saturday post had arrived.

He considered his options. Certainly he wasn’t over enamoured with the thought of going to some show that promoted the idea ghosts were real. And, conversely, he wasn’t happy with the thought his friends could perpetuate the myth he believed in all that stuff, if he didn’t go. What to do?

He looked at the two tickets. If he went, dragging one of his work colleagues with him, perhaps John, then, possibly, that would be the end of it once and for all. He made up his mind and decided he would go, and John, for all his foibles, would be going with him as he was certain John had organised this little jape. That would teach the little prick, Mark thought affectionately.

* * *

Mark’s Monday morning alarm buzzed and as he awoke he smiled to himself. He couldn’t wait to get into the office and tell John what they would be doing next weekend. He smiled again, imagining the look on his manager’s face when he laid out the plans for the following Saturday evening.

Mark parked his car and entered the plush foyer of Associated Computing Solutions, nodding at Pearl, the company’s receptionist, as he made his way to his office.

He swiped his entry card across the face of the small metallic grey strip, which would validate him as an employee. Within seconds the automatic glass doors to an open plan office slid back along the foyer wall, and he walked in.

Halfway through the department he glanced briefly at John’s glass walled office, it was dark; his manager was not on site. Before going to his desk Mark wandered into the department’s small tea-room, filled the kettle and put it on. As was his habit, he couldn’t start the day without being infused with caffeine.

* * *

While he was working his way through his emails, a red icon in a panel next to his email window, turned green; the ACS instant messaging system showing him that John was now in and his computer was on. Mark finished the email he was working on then made his way to John’s office.

Morning, John, Mark said, as he stood in the office doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.

Hi, Mark. Have a good weekend?

In a way, Mark replied, closely scrutinising his boss’s reaction.

Oh! Not good then? Your head been playing you up? John said, smiling.

No, for a change, it hasn’t. Much as it hasn’t been for the last few months.

That’s good to hear. Anything I can do for you?

In a way, I suppose there is. Are you free next Saturday evening? Had an idea it would be good for the team to go out. You know, a team hug, that kind of thing, Mark said, as he constructed a very good reason for his boss not to decline the invitation.

That’s a good idea, Mark. We haven’t done that in a while. Let me just check my calendar. The slightly balding, sandy haired John Sommes sat behind his desk in his dark grey pin striped suit and checked his appointments. Well, it looks like I’m a free man. The wife is at work and I’ve nothing else on. Why not?

Mark hid his astonishment. He’d been certain that John had been the wheeze behind the tickets he’d received over the weekend.

That’s great, though I wasn’t thinking about the whole team, just supervisor and manager, that’s all.

Sounds good to me. What d’you have in mind?

Mark paused for a moment not quite sure he ought to suggest what he was going to suggest, especially as his boss seemed to genuinely have no idea about what he was going to say next. Deciding there was a probable double bluff going on he continued, I’ve got two tickets for a live TV show. He didn’t say anymore as he wanted to determine his boss’s reaction before going any further.

A TV show! That’s pretty different. Which one is it?

Mark decided he’d got it wrong about John, and that his boss had no part in the joke being played upon him. "It’s called That’s My Ghost!: Live," Mark said.

What? That ghost bothering show—if you believe in that stuff—do you, Mark? I’m surprised, John said without waiting for a response.

Mark had to own up. No I don’t, but the way I’m teased all the time… Anyway I’ve got the tickets. How about it?

I’ve got nothing on for that night. Why not? Where is it?

Gosbecks Manor.

Where’s that then?

Just outside Colchester, it’s only about an hour’s drive from here.

Okay. Let’s make that a date then. What time do we have to be there?

By seven in the evening.

How are you getting there?

I thought I might drive. D’you want a lift?

Hey, forget the lift, Mark. As this is a corporate event, team building and that, let’s have the company driver pick us up and take us. We could make an evening of it then. That okay with you?

Damned right it is. What time will the car be?

Let’s say five thirty Saturday evening. The driver can collect us then.

Okay. Done.

Mark left John’s office and went back to his own, now, sort of, looking forward to the weekend and the event. One thing still sang out in his mind; who had sent him the tickets? Whoever it was, one way or another, he would smoke them out.

Although uneasy about the whole venture, he dismissed the negative thoughts his mind was trying to conjure up. Perhaps doing this would, once and for all, remedy the taunts from his colleagues.

Chapter 2

It was the production team meeting and three days before they would be setting up for the live show, in the grounds of Gosbecks Manor, purportedly one of the most haunted houses in England. Though ‘house’ was not really an accurate description, it was more derelict than that.

After their early evening meal, the team gathered in the restaurant of The King Cunobelin Hotel, just on the outskirts of Colchester. The team’s production manager had determined it was the nearest place for them to stay whilst preparing for the forthcoming show. Out of all the places in the UK they’d been, they’d never, live or otherwise, been to Gosbecks Manor and had no idea how the show would pan out.

As the team sat around one of the larger mahogany-coloured tables in the bar’s lounge area, with their drinks in hand, Rachael Darby, the show’s presenter, a lithe and long blonde haired woman with penetrating blue eyes, started discussing the approach to the programme she wanted to take.

As with the other shows, we know what we’re here to do. Re-iterating the point she expounded the show’s goals. We’re here to determine whether this place has warranted its status as one of the most haunted places in England. We’re not here to support or dismiss the claims. We’re just here to collect evidence one way or another.

Rachael’s sister, Emily, one of the team’s research assistants, piped up. Rach, that’s what you always say.

Sis, of course it’s what I always say. I just want to make sure that this show has some credibility and that we can’t be accused of pandering to the local tourist requirements. We know we don’t do this on any show we do, but it’s important that everyone involved understands this clearly and doesn’t forget it. And, dear Emily, I will repeat this at the start of every investigation we carry out.

Emily brushed back her dark hair, as if for comfort, feeling a little chastised by her elder sister’s comments.

Rachael continued, I need to introduce and welcome, formally, Janus Malik, to the team. He has been with us since the preparations for this show got started a little over three days ago. No doubt all of you have spoken with him during the course of the last few days, since he was asked to come on-board. But I’d like to say, since the departure of our last paranormal investigator, Janus joins us with an extremely impressive set of credentials.

Rachael glanced at the trim and silent new team member before she carried on. Janus nodded his acknowledgement. "Janus comes from a background of historical research which he’s tied in with his interests in the paranormal.

"He’s had one of his investigations published; a book that’s now recognised as a leading format for investigations of this type.

For his own reasons, ones he’s expressly stated, he’s no longer interested in publishing the work he does. He just wants to focus on clarifying what the paranormal is: which, without a doubt, is what we want to do. Janus, do you want to add anything? Rachael looked over the table at the new team member.

"Thanks for the introduction, Rachael. All I’d like to say is that I’m fully committed to this programme’s endeavours, and will do all I can to put any findings on a scientific and logical basis.

"For sure, in this world, there are a lot of unexplained phenomena, but as my experience suggests, the majority of these are mainly due to wishful thinking and ignorance.

"However, it’s important not to forget that, in the main, the people who experience and report these strange occurrences usually are not doing it just for their own recognition; they absolutely believe something otherworldly is happening to them.

"In these circumstances, these people need to be reassured, gently, that what they’re experiencing is purely down to explainable and natural phenomena. Not doing so would dismiss these people as nutters, when they’re clearly not, and further remove their ability to interact with normal society as a whole.

My belief, my job, in these matters is to give reassurance and when the explainable has been exhausted, provide a clear approach so these people can live their life without fear, and allow them peace of mind.

There was a short silence as the team took on Janus’s views. Then the team’s medium, Hilary DiAngelo, a short rotund man with spiked, thinning grey-white hair, spoke up as he adjusted his light grey suit jacket by its lapels. Janus, dear, on behalf of the team, I would like to formally welcome you. You obviously have a clear view as to what is required from your role, but I do detect a slight cynicism.

"Hilary, I sincerely appreciate what you’re saying and make no bones about it; I am a cynic. However, my experience has shown, in the majority of cases I’ve had the fortune to investigate, there’s been no real reason to believe anything has been due to other-world phenomena.

When there’s been times I’ve not got to the bottom of the person’s experience, this has mostly been due to the fact the person in question has not wanted me to carry on with the investigation, Janus concluded. He wanted to focus the group’s attention on the times his investigations had revealed nothing more than natural and explainable reasons.

In the past, he’d confided to close friends that he had an ability, call it psychic if you will, but those past times were gone and had only brought him, and those around him, pain and suffering; he’d learnt very solemn lessons. Now was a different time, and the lessons he’d learned had taught him to keep the knowledge of his ability very much to himself, even if it meant misleading those around him.

The evening carried on. As the drinks flowed, discussions on the practical business of carrying out the show’s fifth live event gradually slipped into an anecdotal ping-pong, each team member recounting their own paranormal experiences.

Rob Baker, the show’s skinny and close-cropped cameraman, began to laugh. And what about when Andy, he started, referring to the programme’s slightly overweight and long curly haired soundman, got knocked over because his recording equipment got flung in his face. Reckon that was more to do with the nudes in the art gallery, rather than any ghoulies, ’scuse the pun. Rob elbowed his best friend from school.

Andy scowled at his mate. That knocked me over and nearly knocked me out, you great twat. Getting excited was the last thing on my mind. Anyway, I couldn’t see any of the paintings, it was too bloody dark.

Ah! So you admit you would’ve got excited if you could have seen them then—you perv.

Don’t be so bloody stupid, Robby. Anyway it was all got on camera. My equipment just lifted itself up.

Rob couldn’t contain himself after his mate’s last comment and started laughing even harder, tears streaming down his face. Andy rolled his eyes and shook his head at Rob, not knowing what to say.

Janus had been quiet and thoughtful throughout the whole exchange. He was about to get up to leave, when Emily asked him a question. What about you, Janus? Ever had anything happen to you?

Janus stood up. Not really, he lied. And if you will all excuse me, I’m going to turn in for the night. The group nodded and Janus left the table for his room.

Where did you get him from, Sis? He’s as miserable as sin, Emily queried.

He came highly recommended. And whether he’s a happy chappy or not, what’s important is his credibility. Anyway, I quite like him, actually, Rachael replied.

Emily pulled a face. Oh!—Rach—Him!?

* * *

Janus sat on the edge of his bed in one of the smaller rooms above the pub. It had everything he needed, including a bijou en suite. The few pieces of furniture in the room were all of the same period, probably Georgian, if not faux Georgian. But at least the mattress was modern, something he would be able to sleep on with comfort, if he could sleep at all.

Since he’d landed the job with the TMG programme a growing sense of foreboding had started to envelop him. Something was not quite right about this investigation. He’d had a sense that somehow it was predestined and neither him, nor the rest of the TV crew, were going to be able to do anything about it, whatever it was.

Janus stared at the small dressing table opposite his bed and against the wall, as he attempted to figure out the source of his unease. On the table was a tray. It contained the usual two china cups, a kettle and a bowl with packets of sugar, coffee and creamers placed in it. At either end of the dresser, there was a small plain lamp, each with a nondescript shade covering its bulb.

As he wondered whether he should do what he was considering, a sudden loud cawing made him jump out of his mental soliloquy. He looked around the room, certain that the crow’s call had been too loud to come from outside the room’s window, but there was nothing, not even the flapping of a trapped bird. He sat silent, waiting, listening, but all he could hear was the quiet shush of the wind in the trees at the back of the pub; nothing else. He paused a little longer—still nothing.

His thoughts returned to his decision and then he acted upon it. Turning on the two small lamps he killed the rest of the lights in the room and sat back down on the bed, reticent to follow through.

What is this? he thought. What is stopping me from doing this? He didn’t have the answers. His mind was telling him he just needed to do it, but his gut was saying otherwise.

What will I learn? Janus wondered.

After a pause, he shut his eyes and swallowed, he knew what he had to do.

Janus got up from the bed and pulled one of the chairs in the room across the floor then placed it in front of the dressing table and its wall mounted mirror. He sat on the chair and began to focus on his reflection.

He’d rarely attempted scrying, but when he had he’d used a mirror of polished obsidian. But during those times he’d only received an indecipherable mess of information, delivered to him by grim and horrific phantasms; ones that replaced his reflected image with their own. This time the mirror wasn’t obsidian, just regular metallised glass plate, and his head was telling him the time was right.

He stared into the mirror. Little by little all that was in the periphery of his vision, the reflection of his surroundings, faded to a misty grey—the only thing left to see was his face, but that didn’t last for long.

Soon his face became waxy, as if heated by a flame; his features did not run, to follow gravity, they rippled and changed in situ; his pale face becoming tanned, and stubbled; of someone who’d spent many years working in the open air.

And as he continued to stare into the mirror his face, likewise, continued its transformation. His cheek bones became firmer, more pronounced; his nose longer, more arched.

Silver, metallic sideburns appeared, but not sideburns; cheek guards of a helmet. And then his eyes changed to eyes that were no longer his. Eyes that were all pupil. Completely black. No iris visible. As they stared back at him, a knowing depraved smile formed on his face, and it mocked him.

* * *

The landlord of The King Cunobelin Hotel rang the final bell in the public bar and the TV crew finished their drinks.

Okay, guys, Rachael began, "before you lot crash for the evening, don’t forget what we’ll all be doing tomorrow. We must make the most of the time we’ve got here. Tomorrow will be the day for getting out into Colchester, finding out anything the locals know about Gosbecks Manor; any anecdotes, local legends, or whatever. Right?"

Okay, Rachael, the crew chimed. It wasn’t as if this was their first investigation. They knew the drill very well.

Good, Rachael said as the team got up to leave the bar, to make their way to their rooms for the night.

After they’d disappeared up the stairs, Rachael walked over to the bar. Any chance of a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses? she asked the landlord.

As yer staying here, I don’t see why not, he said. Any particular wine?

A bottle of fairly decent white will do. Can you put it on my room?

Of course. The landlord reached into the chiller behind the bar, removed a bottle of Pouilly Fumé and handed Rachael the bottle and two glasses.

Rachael left the bar then wandered slowly up the stairs to the guest rooms. She wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do, but as she walked along the upstairs hallway and noticed a dim light coming from the gap at the bottom of Janus’s ill-fitting door, she decided to knock.

Janus. Are you still up? she whispered, leaning in close to his door. There was no response, but as she was feeling brave, probably due to the small excess of alcohol she’d consumed during the evening, she knocked again. Janus?

Janus recoiled from the images he’d seen, the mesmerising stare that’d kept him focused on the mirror against his own wishes.

Yeah? he mumbled.

Janus, you okay? You seemed a bit distant earlier. Anything you want to talk about?

No thanks, Rachael. I’m okay, Janus answered through his door. See you in the morning, eh?

Rachael flushed. What’d she been thinking? At least he hadn’t opened the door to tell her to her face. Yeah! Of course, she replied. See you in the morning, Janus.

Quickly she left Janus’s closed door and entered her room not sure what she was going to do with the bottle of wine. Still, she was curious, what was it about this guy? There was something special, nothing she could put her finger on, and not necessarily something special in the normal connotations of the word, probably special was not the right word. She put the bottle and the two glasses on the room’s dresser and prepared for bed.

Chapter 3

Not much was said during the course of the TMG team’s full English breakfast. Most were nursing sore heads after the previous evening’s over indulgences.

Even Rachael was the worse for wear. After her faux pas with Janus, she’d found it difficult to sleep, so she’d opened the bottle of Pouilly Fumé and got through another two glasses of wine before sleep became accessible.

Out of the entire crew only Janus was not suffering from over consumption. But he too was not firing on all cylinders. Sleep had evaded him for most the night after his battle with the face in the mirror.

But, after their breakfast and two or three strong coffees, the team perked up and polite conversation ensued.

Rob jumped as his mobile phone rang out, he pulled it from his coat pocket and flicked the flap open, putting it to his ear. Hello?—Yeah—Not long—About thirty minutes. That okay?—Good. Rob finished the one sided conversation and turned to Andy. The technical team’s already on site. I told them we’d only be another half hour.

Andy