The Legend of Kirsty Turner

By Simon Houghton

There is an urban legend based in the village of Asquith about a girl, killed in a motorcycle accident thirty years ago, who still haunts the deserted country lane where she died. The legend tells of a phantom motorbike tearing up the lane at lighting speed in the dead of night, its engine howling and its spectral rider clinging on. 
The story is well-known throughout the village but becomes very personal to Charlie who struggles with normal teenage relationships and goes to the lane for peace and solitude. But his presence there is not entirely of his own free will and he is drawn into the mystery surrounding her death which is closer to him then he realises. As the momentum of the mystery starts to claim the lives of his school friends, Charlie may already be involved too far to turn back. 
Kirsty Turner has returned to the scene of her death. And she won’t be leaving alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Nov 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781800468276

Simon Houghton

Simon Houghton is a Civil Servant and regular commuter into London which provides him with the opportunity to read many books. This inspired him to write his debut supernatural thriller “The Legend of Kirsty Turner”. “The Blackriver Highwayman” is his second novel and continues his love of mystery and horror.  

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Copyright © 2020 Simon Houghton

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Thank you, Jo,

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Contents

PROLOGUE

THE LEGEND OF KIRSTY TURNER

It was on a hot summer’s night in late July 1978 on a lonely country lane which wound through dense woodland that the legend of Kirsty Turner was born. It was part of the local history and a story we all grew up with. Most of our parents knew something about it first-hand as they were at the same school when it happened. Like many legends, the facts of the event decayed over time and were victim to the embellishments, exaggerations and innuendo that many stories succumb to when there is no one around to defend the truth.

The scene was Mill Lane, named after the mills – now long departed – it used to provide access to. It was a quiet, leafy lane about five miles long that ran through the woodland on the eastern side of the village, behind the church and the cemetery. There weren’t many features on the road. A hairpin bend about halfway up was known as Hay Point, named after Hay Lane a few hundred metres from it that twisted down the steep embankment and joined Beaconsfield Road which ran parallel to the village. An old house stood towards the top of the lane near the railway line and was owned by Henry Brookes, a widower and something of a recluse. During a summer’s day, it was an idyllic location which summed up the picturesque English countryside and was a popular route for a bicycle ride. Motor vehicles rarely plied the lane now and it was embraced by the trees that provided respite from the heat of the summer sun. However, at night it was a very different place. With no street lighting and the dense canopy of the trees blocking out any natural light, there was nothing to penetrate the heavy, inky blackness. The gentle rustle of the trees would turn into a more sinister, scratchy whisper that spoke of a dark secret only they knew. It was punctuated by the frantic foraging of night creatures in the undergrowth of mouldering leaves on the ground which sounded like it came from a creature much larger and stronger than would normally frequent the English countryside.

It was on this lane that the events of that fateful summer unfolded and left an imprint on the village and its occupants that still persisted to this day. It was all anyone would talk about at the time, but no one talked about it now. Except for kids who were excited by delving into a tale now prohibited by their parents from dinner-table conversation. I heard the legend from school friends and often asked them to repeat the entertaining tale. I never realised at the time the role I was to play in it or the impact it would have on me.

The legend centred on a group of guys from the sixth form who hung out together after school. Not so much of a gang, but a group of friends who all owned motorbikes and whose mobility would allow them to get out of the village after school without needing to rely on the infrequent bus service. They were known to the local police, but not really considered much more than an occasional nuisance. They would ride along Mill Lane and stop at Hay Point which provided a break in the dense trees along the steep embankment overlooking the countryside below, lit up in the night by the lights of farm buildings and the town in the distance. They would hang out until late, talk, smoke and drink. Kirsty’s love of motorbikes drew her to the group. She bought one on her seventeenth birthday and often joined the group on their night-time excursions. They enjoyed speeding along the lane where the darkness and the winding, narrow track provided great sport for motorbike lovers – and of course, the thrill of danger. My dad hung out with them for a time when he was also in the sixth form and he knew Kirsty – that is to say, he knew her name.

No one knew for certain when the legend was first resurrected from the tragedy, but all of us who grew up in the village since then knew of it. The legend spoke of a phantom motorbike riding at lightning speed down a winding country lane in the dead of night. Its monocular light stabbing at the darkness and its tortured engine screamed like a banshee as its spectral rider clung on. Without any pathway and only dense woodland on either side of the lane, anyone in its path could not escape or hope to outrun it. Hell could not contain it nor heaven bar it from its ride of terror. The legend warned of those foolhardy enough to venture down the lane at night on foot, scampering into the dark undergrowth without hope of finding their way through to escape the sound of a motorbike engine, not daring to look back for fear of meeting the gaze of the rider which would surely be a sight they would take to their grave. The legend varied depending on the creativity of whoever told it. Sometimes the motorbike would leave a wake of flames behind it and sometimes it would be accompanied by an unnatural mist that oozed into the lane to herald its arrival. The more religiously inclined storytellers often imparted a motive of divine purpose in the ghost’s appearance and in the selection of its victims.

The actual events were never fully explained as those that were there that night were not really there. Afterwards, they never returned to the lane again; their fraternal retreat now forever tainted with the stench of death and guilt. They gradually drifted apart, grew up, got jobs, had families and forgot the recklessness of youth and the consequences it could have on a life. They avoided questions about it from their children and admitted only to having a vague awareness of the details. They felt sensitive about the legend but, in a way, were also grateful that it painted a dark fairy tale over the events which obscured the uncomfortable facts. However, the events had not forgotten them and would not stay buried forever. The night of 21 July 1978 would return to haunt those who had chosen to forget they were there. That was the night Kirsty Turner died.

1

THE END AND THE BEGINNING

Today was a momentous day. It was the last day of term and six weeks of leisure lay ahead of me. I felt excited and exhausted at the same time. I got up early, washed, dressed and went downstairs for breakfast. My dad was already at the table, reading the morning paper.

‘Morning, big day for you.’ He greeted me enthusiastically.

‘Yep, my last day of the school year.’ I exhaled in overstated exasperation.

‘Ah, you’ll miss it,’ he kidded.

I put some bread in the toaster.

‘Have you had enough?’ I indicated to his empty plate.

‘Um, I could go another round, if you’re making it,’ he replied.

I put a couple of extra slices in the toaster.

‘They’re having an end-of-year party for the sixth form this year,’ I added conversationally.

Dad shook his head as he continued to read the sports section.

‘Good grief,’ he exclaimed. ‘Are you going?’ he asked with a tone which suggested he already knew the answer.

‘Probably not, it sounds pretty lame. I’ve got better things to do than spend an evening with a bunch of over-excited, squealing girls.’

He glanced up at me with a disapproving smirk.

‘You know Emma will want to go, and the other guys probably will too.’

Emma had been one of my close friends for as long as I could remember. Jonathan, or Jon as he preferred to be called, and Benjamin, or Ben, formed the other part of our quartet and none of us could remember a time before we had known each other. Our parents came from the village and we were all born and raised here. Emma was the unofficial leader of our little group; she was confident, outgoing and personable. Never afraid to talk to anyone about anything, she had a maturity beyond her years which mixed effortlessly with the exuberant excitement and fearlessness of youth. Growing up, she was more plain than pretty, more outdoorsy than girly and seemed more comfortable in male company than female. Although she got on okay with the other girls in school, her only close female friend was Sophie who was less tolerant of Jon, Ben and me, but hung out with us sparingly when Emma was with us. The end of term party would be an experience she wouldn’t miss. But, with less than a week to go, I was feeling more melancholy than excited. I was not a great fan of parties and found the over-exuberance tiring. The toaster ejected the toast and I handed two to Dad whilst retaining the other two for myself. As I sat down at the table, the doorbell rang.

‘I’ve got it,’ I sighed.

I went to the door and could see Emma’s mum through the glazed panels.

‘Morning, Ms Pembourne.’ I put on my most cheerful expression knowing what was about to greet me.

‘Oh hi, Charlie, is your dad about?’

He always was at this time.

‘Sure, come in, he’s just finishing breakfast.’

She followed me through the doorway and into the kitchen where Dad glimpsed up from the paper.

‘Hi, Sue, grab a seat. Charlie will get you a coffee.’

I switched the kettle on and sat back down to eat my toast before it got any colder.

‘I just stopped by to see if you needed anything.’

Sue sometimes helped my dad out with cleaning and laundry and he reciprocated by servicing and repairing her car.

‘No, I think we have everything we need,’ he replied.

He glanced at me in confirmation and I raised my eyebrows in reply. The kettle finished boiling and I made her a coffee. Sue was a larger than life character who was always in an excessively cheerful mood with a big grin over her face and a voice often louder than it needed to be. She had an excitedly bouncy and energetic manner which could sap most people’s strength if she stayed with them long enough. Most people she bumped into in the street would often check their watches to make a mental note to limit the amount of their time they were prepared to spend talking to her. She was nice, but sometimes too nice.

‘How’s your car?’ my dad asked out of habit.

‘Oh, it’s fine,’ she added although the increased pitch of her tone suggested there was a but coming which would betray the real reason for her visit.

‘But, it’s due for its MOT in a couple of weeks or so and I wondered if you would have time to take a look at it to see if anything needs attention.’ The implied suggestion being that any attention it needed would also be his.

Dad put his newspaper down and looked back at the kettle to see if I had boiled enough water for another cup of coffee.

‘Of course, Sue. I’ll pop over at the weekend and take a look.’

He went over to the kettle and Sue turned her attention to me.

‘So, Charlie. Emma is really looking forward to the end-of-year party.’

Sue’s smile broadened to show that Emma wasn’t the only one getting excited. She looked at me expectantly.

‘You’re going!’ she snapped, part question and part ultimatum.

I paused and exhaled heavily.

‘Not really sure yet, Ms Pembourne,’ I hedged unconvincingly.

She looked shocked and disappointed.

‘Jason!’ she pleaded as she looked at Dad for moral support. ‘Why isn’t Charlie going?’ she wailed imploringly.

Dad stood at the kitchen counter with his coffee in his hand, part way to his lips.

‘Come on, Charlie, it’ll be fun,’ he teased, knowing full well how I felt about it.

‘Emma will be really disappointed if you don’t go,’ Sue continued, never shy of using emotional blackmail.

‘And what about Ben and Jon? Won’t you feel silly if you’re the only one not going?’

Yes, at seventeen years old I would feel silly not going to a party with my friends, I thought to myself sarcastically.

‘I haven’t really spoken to them about it much. We haven’t made any plans,’ I said, trying to avoid providing a direct answer.

‘What’s there to plan? You put on some nice clothes, you turn up and you have a great time with your friends.’

The irony was incredible. Sue would undoubtedly have planned this for weeks, spent hours shopping with her daughter and would already have matching dress, shoes and handbag hanging up in the wardrobe.

‘If it is something Emma really wants to do then of course I’ll go,’ I replied, with a little overacting.

Dad picked up on it, but it went right over Sue’s head. She squealed with delight.

‘Oh, she’ll really appreciate that. What a great boy you’ve raised, Jason.’

She finished her coffee and went over to the sink to rinse out the cup.

‘I know. He didn’t turn out that bad after all,’ Dad said with a wink.

‘What about you, Ms Pembourne?’ I added.

‘What about me, Charlie?’ She glanced back at me with a quizzical look on her face.

‘I know you sometimes help out at after-school events. Will you be chaperoning at this one?’

‘Oh no, honey, I’m much too old for all that. Besides, Emma won’t want her mum crimping her style,’ she replied with a slightly embarrassed look which suggested they had already discussed it and Sue had lost.

My dad smirked behind his coffee cup.

‘It would be sad if you were home all alone while Emma was out partying. Why don’t you and Dad have dinner together or something?’ I suggested.

My dad didn’t need to say a thing; his tense body language screamed his reaction to me in a way Sue would not have picked up on.

‘That’s a great idea, Charlie. Jason, why don’t you come over and I’ll cook for you?’

My dad put the coffee down and looked back at me with a frozen grin across his face.

‘I’d be delighted!’ he said, clearly not wanting an extended silence to betray his reluctance.

‘Great! I look forward to seeing you.’ She glanced at her watch as an excuse to bring the conversation to an end.

‘Oh, God, is that the time? I need to get going.’

She hurried to the door and I followed to let her out.

‘Thank you for going to the party, Charlie, Emma will be really pleased. And I look forward to seeing you for dinner, Jason.’

‘Goodbye, Sue,’ Dad called after her.

I closed the door behind her and went back to the kitchen.

‘You do know you’re going to pay for that!’ Dad assured me.

‘Yeah, I know,’ I replied. ‘I really didn’t think that far ahead.’

Dad chuckled to himself and washed up the rest of the plates and cutlery whilst I went upstairs to prepare for school.

*

I went to school on my scooter which was often mocked by my classmates but it gave me the freedom to move around the sparsely populated village without needing to take the bus or rely on Dad. I was also taking driving lessons and involved in friendly competition with Emma, Jon and Ben about who would pass first. Not that any of us could afford a car yet, let alone insure, tax and run it. I drove through the gates of the grammar school, built in a late Victorian style, even though it was much more modern, to give it an air of history and authority. I parked up and was locking my helmet in the storage compartment under the seat when I saw Ben approaching.

‘Hey, looking forward to our last day here?’ he said, cheerfully.

‘Yes, I am,’ I said with conviction and we walked together to the main entrance.

Ben was just under six feet tall and was thin and gangly. He had a face that just screamed nerd and had the academic gifts to back it up. He had once tried to start an after-school chess club, but couldn’t get enough people interested to make it worthwhile. He was also editor of the school newspaper. He had dreams of going to university and getting into aeronautical engineering. It was as close as he could get to following in his father’s footsteps of serving in the Royal Air Force with his asthma.

‘Has Emma spoken to you about the party?’ he inquired, casually.

‘Not since she mentioned it about a week ago,’ I replied.

‘I’m going, so is Jon,’ he added.

Obviously leaving out the one name which was the subject of this dialogue.

‘I promised Emma’s mum I would go,’ I reassured him.

He looked at me and smiled, his neat, centre-parted haircut framing his face. We passed through the grand main entrance with its faux columns out front, painted in bright whitewash. The large wooden doors gave way to an expansive lobby with a smart red and black tiled floor and a mat at the entrance proudly emblazoned with the school crest. Across the lobby was a hallway which we followed until we reached a stone staircase with a wrought-iron handrail. We took one flight of stairs and passed along a short corridor to our classroom. Mrs Parker was already there and greeted us as we entered. Emma and Sophie were talking together and Emma smiled in acknowledgement when she saw us but did not break away from her conversation. Sophie didn’t look up. Jon nodded at us as we approached the empty seats next to him, in the same places we usually sat.

‘We made it!’ said Jon. ‘Our last day of the year. I don’t know why they don’t just make it a half-day; it’s not as if anyone is going to care much after lunch.’

Ben and I nodded in agreement as the teacher said Good morning, class to bring the assembled gathering to order. The rest of the morning suffered from end-of-year fatigue and most of the teachers realised that it was a lost cause as far as a lesson plan was concerned. Thankfully, it passed relatively quickly and I spent the lunch break with Jon and Ben. We exchanged easy banter and talked about what we could do over the summer holiday. Emma spent lunch separately with Sophie who was also going on holiday with her parents for the next two weeks. I glanced at them talking casually on another lunch table. The afternoon session was double English and dragged on without the welcome break of walking between classes. We were given an assignment to read a book over the summer holidays and write a paper about it of no less than twelve hundred words which was greeted with a groan of outrage at the incursion into our leisure time. Eventually, the school bell rang which merited a great cheer for the freedom it now brought. We all shook hands, or fist-bumped the teacher in Jon’s case, before leaving the school for the summer.

‘Are you going to the party next week?’ asked Jon as we strolled out of the school building. He already knew that Ben would.

‘Yep, I promised Emma’s mum that I’d go,’ I replied.

Jon smiled and looked at Ben who just stared in front of him as he trudged along beside us.

‘Are you taking a date?’ I asked, in mild curiosity. Jon was good-looking and very confident which also made him a success with the girls.

‘No, I don’t take dates to school parties. They only end up wandering off and talking to their friends. All I get out of it is paying for the cab fare.’

Neither Ben nor I had anything to add to this dating wisdom. We continued walking in silence for a short way until we reached the school gates where Jon bid us goodbye and turned to leave. Ben continued walking with me to the car park to collect my scooter.

‘Got any plans over the summer?’ enquired Ben.

‘Finish my assignments early and then kick back. Hopefully catch up with you guys. We could go into town, see a film, have lunch at that new pizza restaurant in the food court,’ I responded.

He nodded in passive agreement.

‘Are you going on holiday this year?’ he continued and I saw the direction of his questioning.

‘No, not this year,’ I answered, without expanding any further.

Ben realised the delicacy of the subject of family holidays and did not press any further.

‘My parents have booked a week in Tuscany. They’ve rented a villa again, like we did last year. It was great. The countryside was beautiful and there was no one around for two or three miles,’ he said cheerfully, clearly looking forward to it.

‘That’s nice,’ I said and a slightly awkward silence followed. We eventually reached my scooter and I retrieved my helmet from under the seat and prepared for the ride home. I glanced at Ben one last time and he smiled back before I rode off.

*

The next week passed without incident. I bumped into Emma after she had taken her dog for a walk across the fields and was returning to the village. Jon and Ben came over to my house for a movie night. The end-of-year party soon arrived and I still wasn’t sure I really wanted to go. However, it would probably be easier to turn up, even for a short while, than run the gauntlet of disapproval from Emma’s mum, especially since I promised her I’d go.

I stood in the kitchen in my smart trousers and a shirt with a pair of casual shoes. I had bought some grey trousers, so as not to be assumed to be wearing my black school ones, and had a shiny dark red short-sleeved shirt. My dad looked at me in a semi-mocking, semi-proud way from his seat at the kitchen table.

‘Look at my boy, all grown up, going on a date,’ he said behind a broad smile.

‘It’s not a date,’ I corrected. ‘It’s just a school party.’

The doorbell rang and I knew instantly that it was Emma and her mother. I opened the door and she bustled in past me without an invitation, her daughter following behind.

‘Hi, Jason!’ she trilled excitedly before stepping aside so my dad could admire her daughter.

‘You look beautiful, Emma,’ Dad said before glancing at me.

‘Thank you, Mr Price,’ Emma replied. ‘I’m glad you noticed,’ before shooting a look at me standing next to her.

I realised that I hadn’t acknowledged her as she came in.

‘Yeah, you look really nice,’ I chimed in agreement.

‘Nice recovery, dufus,’ she snapped, with a pleasant grin on her face to counter her tone.

‘Now, now, you two,’ intervened Sue. ‘You’re dressed like