Spectre of Springwell Forest

By Simon Dillon

Lily Henderson has a horrifying secret buried far in her past. She hoped it would never be revealed. Now she has no choice.

To save her family, Lily must keep them from returning to the village of Springwell, where she lived with her first husband and young daughter decades previously.

In the past, after moving to Springwell, Lily encounters secretive locals, government scientists, and rumours of a ghost haunting the forest.

Are they linked to the mysterious deaths of local children? Do paintings by a local artist predict when tragic events are getting closer? Will Lily’s daughter be next?

“Two were taken. More will follow.”

A riveting, bone-chilling ghost story from the author of The Birds Began to Sing and The Thistlewood Curse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Dillon
• Release date: Apr 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005377885

Simon Dillon

I was born the year Steven Spielberg made moviegoers everywhere terrified of sharks. I lived the first twenty or so years of my life in Oxford, and am pleased to have spent so much time in the place where some of my favourite writers wrote their greatest works (including JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis, and Philip Pullman). I like to think I can write a diverting tale, and as a result I have penned a few novels and short stories. I currently live in Plymouth in the UK, and am married with two children. I am presently brainwashing them with the same books that I loved growing up.

Book preview

Spectre of Springwell Forest

By Simon Dillon

Copyright 2018 Simon Dillon

Cover Design by Yasmine Nuoraho

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Bonus Content: Prologue to The Irresistible Summons

Bonus Content: Chapter 1 of The Irresistible Summons

Chapter 1

Exeter, 2010.

These days, the run-up to Christmas feels bittersweet. As a young girl, I looked forward to the season with unclouded excitement. Upon reaching adulthood, I adopted a more cynical view. This ancient pagan festival that had once been appropriated by the Church now seemed dominated by capitalist interests. Yet, there came an all too brief time, during the early part of my first marriage, when these misgivings all but vanished, due to becoming a mother. Seeing festive celebrations through the eyes of a child triggered a temporary truce with the more commercial aspects of the season. Cynicism, in those years, took a back seat.

That was before the events of Springwell Forest.

I have long since come to terms with the past, but the way Christmas is here today and gone tomorrow has a melancholy bordering on cruelty, reflecting the cruelty of what took place all those decades ago.

Such thoughts lurked in my mind like background noise, amid the bustle of crowds in the busy pedestrianised streets at the centre of Exeter. A bitter frost clung to the pavements and windows, and I found myself shivering beneath the baubles, wreaths, and coloured lights decorating the streets. My husband, Andy, sped up a little as we walked; his gloved hand in mine, keen to get out of the cold.

Usually when driving to the centre of town, we park in one of the side streets, but on this occasion, the sheer busyness of the place rendered the usual benefits of local knowledge useless. We were forced to park in the multi-storey car park, which meant a brisk ten-minute walk to the cinema. Andy kept glancing at his watch, concerned we might miss the start of the film.

I didn’t particularly care if we did. It was only a silly Hollywood horror film, one of those daft supernatural possession stories with loads of jumpy moments. I find them funny rather than frightening, perhaps because they are so far removed from the horrible reality I once experienced.

After taking a few short cuts through cobbled streets, we arrived, rapidly purchased our tickets, and rushed into the screen at the Exeter Plaza. The main feature had not yet started, but trailers were running as we brushed past other customers in the dark and settled in our seats, trying to get our breath back. I took Andy’s hand in mine and squeezed it, fully expecting the film to be nonsense, but enjoying our time together.

To my surprise, it turned out to be quite good, although still ludicrous. However, one brief sequence, involving a possessed character painting the demon presence responsible for the mayhem in the story, caused a slight flicker of unease I had not experienced in years. It dissipated quickly once the silly scares and gore were piled on, but that small moment of discomfort awakened dormant, dark memories.

I have often been questioned by those who dislike horror films as to why I would put myself through such an unpleasant experience. I confess I have no clear answer other than I find them oddly reassuring. Imbecilic though so many of them are, these macabre thrills provide a form of catharsis. I have heard it said that Holocaust survivors do not avoid dark films. I would not dream of comparing myself to one of them, but perhaps I don’t avoid horror films for similar reasons. It is possible they enable me to come to terms with my own much more appalling real-life experience.

That brief moment, involving the demon painting, definitely touched a nerve. For a mere second, I saw in my mind’s eye the disused railway tunnel and again recalled how for so many years afterwards I had dreading the coming of Christmas. But by the time the credits rolled, my general good humour remained intact, and I felt ready to take some refreshment at the café on the other side of the cinema lobby.

I sat waiting for Andy to bring my usual cup of tea and slice of lemon drizzle cake, looking around at the other café customers. The Plaza seemed to attract a certain crowd that enjoyed having their opinions about the film loudly proclaimed, so others could hear how cine-literate they were. I didn’t mind this since it all added to the atmosphere. It was one reason why I liked the Plaza so much. The place felt light-years removed from the soulless modern multiplex, and much more akin to old town cinemas; with art deco design beautifully restored, red carpets, and an old-fashioned ticket office and snack counter in the foyer, where lobby stills were displayed with the usual posters. The café was situated on a mezzanine floor reached by a stairway on the right-hand side, overlooking the lobby and street beyond the large glass windows at the front of the building. It had polished wooden surfaces, walls decorated with framed classic film posters, but most importantly delicious smells wafted ceaselessly throughout, making it a warm, comfortable place to stop for a post film chat.

‘Well, that was ridiculous,’ said Andy, returning with our order and sitting down opposite me.

‘But enjoyable,’ I said.

For a moment we sat in silence, sipping our drinks. One of many things I love about my husband is the way he doesn’t feel the need to cram every second with conversation.

‘Did it scare you?’ I asked.

He grimaced. ‘Bone-chilling. Kept jumping out of my skin. Why do horror films never seem to get to you?’

‘Most of the time, they’re so unrealistic.’

‘That bit with the painting was terrifying.’

‘Well, yes. I’ll admit that scene did make my skin crawl a bit…’

‘I thought I detected you recoiling at that point.’

I felt the urge to change the subject. ‘So… We’re almost done with the Christmas shopping. Paul will be thrilled with that rare first edition we tracked down, and Kimberly should love her Lego.’

Andy beamed at the mention of Kimberly. Having a grandchild has really put a spring in his step. For the last five years, he has enjoyed thoroughly spoiling her, as have I.

Our children had already left home when we got married in 1997. My daughter Olivia was working on her PhD, and Andy’s son Paul (from his previous marriage) had just started a job at a publishing company in London, having recently graduated from Cambridge. At that point, I had been divorced for nine years, and Andy had lost his first wife six years previously to cancer.

‘Kimberly is terrifyingly clever,’ he said. ‘All those scientific questions at such a young age.’

‘Like mother, like daughter,’ I said with a sigh. ‘When Olivia was a teenager, she traumatised younger children by explaining, with scientific accuracy, why if Santa Claus had ever existed, he was now dead, because the rate of speed required to deliver presents to all the good children in the world would cause him to spontaneously combust.’

Andy laughed. ‘That sounds like Olivia.’

‘An ardent rationalist, like her father. I just wish I knew what to get her for Christmas. I’m totally stumped, and to be honest, whatever I get probably won’t be well received.’

He reached for my hand, his expression kind. ‘She’s thawed a great deal in recent years.’

‘Oh, she did that for you,’ I said. ‘She’s always liked you. Never saw you as a wicked stepfather at all. You’re a lot closer to her than Tom, who barely speaks to her now. Or so I understand.’

‘I must say, I’ve never quite understood why you and Olivia fell out so badly,’ said Andy. ‘I mean, the divorce would have been tough, and teenage children can be difficult, but for her to be as hostile as you claim for so long…’

‘She said I mollycoddled and suffocated her.’

‘So do lots of children.’

‘Not like this. With Olivia, it was different.’

We both fell silent again. Despite melancholy reminiscences over my estrangement from Olivia, I took solace in the fact that she and Kimberly are rational, logical people untroubled by existential concerns; finding the physical, tangible world absorbing enough without asking the metaphysical questions I foolishly asked earlier in my life. Paul doesn’t have quite the same lack of interest in what lies beyond our three-dimensional world, but he is an academic, more interested in his scholarly endeavours than anything else. I idly wonder what his children will be like, should he and his wife Charlotte ever decide to have any.

‘Speaking of Olivia, there’s something I forgot to tell you,’ said Andy. ‘She called when you were out last night. She had some interesting news.’

‘What news?’ I asked, wondering for a moment if she was pregnant again.

‘She’s moving. James got a job in Plymouth. Apparently, it’s a really good promotion, but it means they need to relocate from Wiltshire. So, despite what you say, she obviously doesn’t mind living nearer to you.’

Initially I felt pleased. ‘That’s interesting news. Has she looked at houses yet?’

‘She said she looked online a little, and liked the sound of some of the villages just south of Dartmoor, because they reminded her of where she grew up.’

‘Did any villages in particular interest her?’

Andy nodded. ‘Springwell as a strong possibility. I know you lived there for a while with Tom, and she likes the idea of going back.’

The word Springwell hit me like a slap in the face. In the time it took him to say the name of that village – less than a second – I felt as though the bottom had suddenly fallen out of my world. I became dizzy. My stomach tied itself in knots. Memories long since buried resurfaced with a vengeance.

‘Are you alright?’ he asked.

I nodded. ‘Sorry, I just drifted for a moment.’

Andy looked amused. ‘Am I boring you?’

‘Of course not. Did… Did Olivia say whether or not she was interested in any other villages?’

‘Well, she mentioned one or two, but I think she really has her heart set on Springwell. Can’t say I blame her either. It’s a very pretty little village. But then, you know that already.’

Andy took another sip of his drink then stood up. ‘I’ll be back. Call of nature…’ He smiled then wandered off to the toilets.

I remained at the table, still reeling from the news. My eyes welled up. He didn’t mean to upset me. Andy didn’t know the real truth about Springwell. I had kept that to myself for years, and intended to take the secret with me to the grave. The idea of Olivia moving back there filled me with the same sickening dread that haunted virtually every waking moment during those terrible events in late 1979. She had to be stopped. I had to persuade her to live somewhere else, but how could I do that without telling her or Andy the unbelievable and appalling truth?

I tried to eat my cake, but couldn’t swallow. The dizziness increased, and my head began to spin. The café seemed so stuffy all of a sudden. I needed fresh air. Without really thinking, I found myself on my feet and putting on my coat. A few other customers shot curious glances at me as I staggered past the other tables, as though drunk. The staircase made my head hurt, and with every step I took extra care, holding the bannister lest I trip.

I reached the cinema door and stumbled out into the bitter air. Christmas decorations gleamed amid the failing late afternoon light, but the sound of crowds and traffic seemed muted. I strode along the pavement, down a slope and around the corner to the street that led back up into the city centre. I gradually increased my pace, not quite sure yet where I was heading. I crossed the street, almost walking in front of a car. The driver honked his horn and shouted something I could barely hear. None of the sounds seemed to register. The cold closed in, crushing me. Tears filled my eyes, which I hurriedly wiped away. I felt angry. Why was this happening now? Why after all these years had the same crippling fear and panic seized me?

I recalled bleak memories of where I used to go during those horrible times, after Springwell, when my grief and guilt became unbearable. I sat in cathedrals and churches. Anglican churches, Catholic churches, Pentecostal churches, Salvation Army churches… Anywhere with an atmosphere of quiet, sombre reflectiveness. In such places I had found brief respite from the crushing sensations of enveloping darkness. The pain itself had always remained, but had often seemed duller.

Seizing on the memory of using church buildings as band aids, I decided to head for the cathedral – not out of any sense of deep religious conviction, but due to past habits, and because I always enjoy visiting it in any case. Years ago, I had once fainted outside Exeter cathedral and been helped inside. That occasion marked the beginning of finding solace in places of worship, and the turning point in my despair.

A few minutes later, I stood on the lawns at the square outside the cathedral, staring up into the gothic spires and bell tower. I waited for a few seconds then headed for the main entrance.

The act of entering the cathedral and staring up at the vast, vaulted ceiling felt like stepping back in time. I lingered for a moment near the back, casting my eye down to the stained-glass windows, and across to the rows of pews. Further in, I heard a service taking place. Beautiful sounds of a choir singing Christmas carols reached my ears, and I felt drawn inward. My anxiety began to ease, but at the same time, the old sadness rose within me.

I started a slow meander around the pillars on the left-hand side, passing the great stone tombs. The sombre, reverent, candle-lit atmosphere felt soothing, and sounds didn’t seem muffled anymore. I moved closer to the service, lingering on the outskirts of where a small congregation sat in an enclosed area at the centre of the cathedral. They joined with the choir in song and I let the music wash over me.

A number of sights, sounds, and smells seemed to accompany the music. In my mind’s eye, I saw the abandoned railway tunnel… I heard the thumping of my own heart, the same way I had in those final, terrible moments decades previously… That hideous burning smell… A stench from flames and blood that burned themselves into my memory… I remember willing the frost and the darkness to consume me… To freeze was better than to burn, and I wanted to flee into the cold, cruel night.

The choir reached a crescendo and as they sang, I found myself on my knees for a brief second, before slumping against a pillar. The cold granite felt strangely refreshing and the dizziness began to lift. But I remained motionless, my heart still racing. I thought about the conversation with Andy, and Olivia’s news.

Moving to Springwell.

I knew I was overreacting. There was every chance she would move somewhere else, if there were no suitable properties in Springwell. Besides, even if she had moved there, the chances of her ending up in the same horrible situation were surely all but impossible.

Yet familiar fears crept into my mind. Was I still cursed? Would history repeat itself? I tried to tell myself I was paranoid, but perhaps that too was part of the curse. It had taken me years to find peace again. Why now was it so easily shattered by mere news that my daughter might move to Springwell? I brushed my tears aside, furious at how weak I felt.

I tried to think the problem through logically and consider what action, if any, I should take. I could say nothing, but then the matter would fester in my mind. Besides, if Olivia and James ended up moving to Springwell, I would have to say something. I would have to warn them. The alternative was unthinkable.

I could try to discourage the move, and suggest to Olivia that she consider living nearer to us, in Exeter. But that would mean a longer commute for James. She would almost certainly want something closer to Plymouth. Why not encourage them to settle in the city instead?

But she would want to know why I kept suggesting alternatives to Springwell. She would want to know why I kept deliberately steering them away from the village where she had grown up. Such discussions could put more stress on our already fractious relationship, not to mention my relationship with my son-in-law. No, the more I thought about it, I realised I had no choice.

I would have to tell her the truth.

But how could I do that? Not even Andy knew the truth, much less Olivia. That part of my past I had not spoken about, for decades. Many of those who knew the truth were now dead or had moved away from Springwell. Besides, I knew they would keep their silence because they had good reason to do so.

If I wanted to warn Olivia, I would have to tell Andy everything first. Would he even believe me? Would he think I was crazy? Certainly, my story defied rational explanation, but what other choice did I have?

Feeling as though my carefully constructed life was falling apart at the seams, I put my head in my hands. The beautiful choral music could not assuage the misery that engulfed me in that moment. It seemed the darkness, so long kept at bay, had returned to devour me once more.

‘Lily?’

I turned and saw Andy looking down at me, his face a mask of concern. I tried to speak, but no words came out, merely an anguished sob. He immediately offered me a hand and gently pulled me to my feet, putting an arm around me.

‘Darling, what’s wrong? Why did you run off like that?’

‘Oh Andy… I’m so sorry… I…’

I realised I couldn’t possibly talk to him in the cathedral as other visitors began to glance in our direction.

‘Not here,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll explain everything at home. Can we just leave?’

‘Of course.’ He looked understandably worried, but remained completely calm as we made our way back to the entrance.

‘How did you know I was here?’ I asked.

‘Guesswork,’ said Andy. ‘I know you love the cathedral.’ He smiled.

I looked away, feeling ashamed. We headed out of the building and back to the car in silence. He held my hand all the way, and I wondered whether he would still feel this tender toward me later, once I confessed the appalling truth. How would he take it? I pictured one scenario after another; some in which he forgave me immediately and told me not to worry, others in which he became angry, and others in which he felt it was his duty to involve… No, I wouldn’t consider such an outcome.

My stomach twisted throughout the journey back in the car, along the busy Exeter roads, toward our home on the outskirts of the city. Darkness had fallen by the time we reached the front door of our semi-detached house. As the key turned in the lock and I stepped over the threshold, I knew I would not leave this place again until I had explained the full truth. I had no alternative. Not with Olivia at stake.

Andy switched on the lights in the hallway and strode through to the sitting room, whilst I prepared cups of tea. When I entered the sitting room, he had lit a fire and the place felt warm and comfortable. I settled on the sofa, staring around at the bookshelves, paintings, and ornaments. These familiar surroundings represented the life I had made for myself. Now I was about to risk it all by telling the story I had hoped never to tell a living soul.

‘I’m really sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t know where to begin…’

I could feel a sob rising in my throat, but Andy’s eyes were kind. ‘It’s all right. Take your time.’

I nodded, wondering whether to get the worst part over with first. I decided an upfront admission was the best policy, as he would then hopefully not be angry, but curious as to why I had kept this from him all these years.

‘Andy, I’ve got a terrible confession… There’s something I haven’t told you about my past from when I lived in Springwell. I’ve kept this a secret for years, and no one else knows, other than those who were personally involved. Olivia has no idea, for one thing. I know I should have told you, but I had my reasons for keeping quiet about this, and I hope you’ll understand, even if you can’t forgive me…’

He frowned, but his face remained compassionate. ‘Easy, Lily… Tell me what’s bothering you.’

‘She doesn’t realise it, but if Olivia moves to Springwell, she will be in serious danger. She must not move there.’

My words were so emphatic that for a moment, Andy looked shocked. Then his face softened, and I had a horrible feeling he was humouring me.

‘Alright…’ he said. ‘Let’s start again. You say you’ve got a confession. Please help me understand.’

‘I didn’t tell you what really happened, when I got depressed,’ I said. ‘I didn’t tell you because I was so frightened. For such a long time afterwards, my life was nothing but horrible grief and regret, day in and day out. All colour went out of the world. It felt like my brain had split in two, like I was being crushed by darkness, like I wasn’t myself anymore…’

‘You’ve told me this,’ said Andy. ‘You told me when we first met.’

‘Yes, but by then, I was just starting to get my life together again. It took me years, and meeting and marrying you helped me rebuild and forget the past. But I didn’t tell you everything.’

‘So, you lived in Springwell with Tom. What really happened?’

I paused and took a breath. Andy wasn’t angry, but I could tell his patience was wearing thin. He wanted answers. I stared into his face, still rugged and handsome after all these years.

I love how tall he is. I love the way he can fix anything. Plumbing, wiring, electrical appliances, cars, computers… Given his job at a computer research and development firm, the latter is hardly surprising. He’s such a solid, capable, dependable man, thoroughly grounded in reality, in what can be seen, heard, smelt, tasted, and touched. Yet here I am, about to ask him to take a leap into a world of the metaphysical, inexplicable, uncanny, and extra-dimensional. I’m asking him to believe in something I cannot understand or explain properly myself.

‘I’ll tell you,’ I said, ‘but you have to promise two things. First, that you will not interrupt me, and you’ll keep an open mind. What I’m about to tell you will make me sound insane, but it happened exactly as I’m about to describe.’

Andy smiled, but I could tell beneath his warm expression the serious concern for me remained.

‘Now you’ve really got me intrigued. What’s the second thing you want me to promise?’

‘When I finish my story, no matter how angry or upset you are that I didn’t tell you this before, even if you don’t believe me, even if you think we need to go to the police, you have to help me fix this. You have to help me persuade Olivia. She cannot move to Springwell. For God’s sake, she absolutely cannot.’

Andy could no longer disguise his alarm. He considered for a moment, then nodded.

‘Very well, Lily. I promise on both counts. Now, tell your story.’

Chapter 2

Springwell, near Plymouth, 1979.

At the time, moving to Springwell seemed like a dream come true. As the final items were unpacked from the removal van, I stood outside our new house and surveyed it, feeling a sense of deep satisfaction. I had finally found a home where I would put down roots, raise my daughter Olivia, and generally enjoy life. I felt invulnerable.

I took deep breaths of the cool, refreshing air. Autumn had truly arrived with golden and brown leaves adorning the ash, oak, elm, and horse chestnut trees that populated the area. I can still recall the scent of burning leaves on the bonfire in the neighbouring garden, and the smell made me think ahead to Guy Fawkes Night. Olivia loved fireworks, and this year Tom had promised her we would visit the famous display at the Plymouth Hoe.

Our lawns and flowerbeds were well tended, and as I gazed up at the whitewashed walls, the slate roof, and chimneys, I had no inkling of anything sinister lurking within. The house seemed completely benign; an idyllic and cosy place perfect for raising a family. I imagined myself growing old here with Tom. I even imagined our children visiting for Christmas with the grandchildren.

At heart, I have always valued family above everything; certainly above career, which I had previously enjoyed, but not found particularly fulfilling in the world of PR. After giving birth to Olivia six years previously, I left my job and threw myself into being a full-time mother. Not an easy task, especially in those early, sleep-deprived baby months, but one that ultimately made me more satisfied. I suppose that made me a pretty poor feminist, but I didn’t care. I certainly didn’t give a damn if I failed to live up to a political ideal. Besides, I’ve never really been one for causes, campaigns, political agitation, and the like. I just think people should do whatever makes them happy. What made me happy was my family. I knew I would do anything for them, and above all, I knew I would do anything for Olivia.

I watched my daughter running around her new garden, so excited to be in her long-awaited new home. Her brown dress seemed to blend