The Pied Pipers 2: Barons of the Faithless

By John Newman

Mysterious paranormal activities surrounding the hamlet of Heystone are serious enough for Reverend David Durley Hudson to investigate the situation. Sinister creatures crawling out of the shadows have been leaving havoc and death in their wake. In contrast, a stern warning from an exorcism in a faraway land also adds an evil ingredient, and links to a phenomenal being known as the War Witch become apparent. After finding a long-hidden diary containing a soldiers dark experience in the First World War, Durley is shocked to the core. A secret in the diary leads to a dilemma even Durley cannot comprehend, and it will be no easy task for him to convince his sister Sarah to help him. But the only way for him to unfold the truth is to enter the hellish world of the War Witch. But her hell does not come alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496981905

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© 2014 John Newman. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/20/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-8189-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-8188-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-8190-5 (e)

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Contents

Author’s Note: The Angel of Mons

Ghost of Time

Exorcism in the Dominican Republic, June 1991

The Last Four Beds

Slaying the Beast

Convincing Sarah: Two weeks later—June 1991

A Long Cry for the Mischievous Angels

Preparing

The Ascension

The Witch in the Ditch

Souls of Violence

The Eyes of Skeleton’s Cave

Camp Fear

Ghost Fighting

The Lock-In Effect

The Helpless Void

Rise of the Demon Sand Blowers

Cometh the Warrior Angels

The Conclusion

Return to Heystone

About the Author

No one could understand; no one would even dare to try.

But I know the truth… but would you believe me?

—A passage taken from the diary of Lieutenant John Lee Coldie, 1941

Author’s Note

The Angel of Mons

In August 1914, a British expeditionary force came under fire by a vast superior German army near Mons in Belgium. Overcome by the enemy, their fate seemed inevitable. This was the first engagement of many battles to come in WWI, and it continued for days. The British soldiers got little sleep, if any, and they suffered heavy casualties from the fighting. Despite this, they did manage to create a stronghold against the German advance. The Germans were taken aback by their incredible firepower but continuously forced the British further back and immediately called a ceasefire, and at this point the British withdrew.

This is where the strange story begins. News reports swept back to London that the German army had indeed inflicted a bloody nose. Patriotism and victory hit the headlines, causing a surge of volunteers for the British military around the country. Meanwhile, at the Evening News in London, a journalist was asked to elaborate on the story of the courage and bravado of the British forces. This journalist was in fact author Arthur Machen, a gothic horror writer and master of his craft. His works include The Great God Pan, The White People, and many other titles. Machen agreed to write the story, which he titled The Bowmen. He wrote that the soldiers were outnumbered and losing the battle and one soldier called out to Saint George to save their souls, and with this came an angelic intervention in the form of bowmen.

So convincing was his story that many people took it as the truth. To them there was no question about it; it just had to be.

The story was (and still is) controversial, begging the question, did this really happen? Machen quite modestly defended his corner and said the story was indeed imaginary; although the battle actually took place, the ghostly bowmen did not appear. Many people disagreed, and from here the story snowballed. Many believed that the facts were covered up by the military, that the evidence still existed, and that one day the embargo would be lifted. Some believed that the intervention of the bowmen was not actually true. There was no concrete evidence, and no soldier who was there at the time came forth, except one. But that soldier was not a reliable source, and his statements may have been made as propaganda to stir up the Germans by indicating that God was on the side of the British.

The battle itself echoes similarities of the Battle of Agincourt, which took place in 1415 as part of the Hundred Years’ War. In that conflict, the English were outnumbered but celebrated victory as the result of remarkable military achievement. Machen would have been aware of this, as most of the soldiers in that battle were Welsh mercenaries of Gwent, which was Machen’s native home. So with all this in mind, the beautiful supernatural tale of the angels of Mons could, in fact, be the product of the creative imagination of a gifted and talented writer.

Ghost of Time

A secret written in the diary drew Durley’s attention so much he thought himself mad for what he was about to do. Just a few moments before, whilst sitting in the church, by pure chance he noticed a small door just under the pulpit. It must have concealed the diary for a good fifty years. Intrigued by the contents, he was surprised to find how sane and sound-minded the war veteran was, considering the people of this hamlet were under the illusion he was mad. Durley wondered if maybe it had been the soldier’s hope that one day, thanks to the safekeeping of the church, the diary would prove them all wrong. Durley was about to put the secret to the test.

The tunnel reminded him of the last time he had come here, but the circumstances were different back then as a boy; he did it then not to save one life, but many lost souls. And now, at the age of sixty-two, he wondered if he had the stomach to go through with it again. Somewhere hidden in his way of thinking, there was a method to his madness. Droplets of water seeped in from the stream above and found their way to the back of his neck. The water was cold to the touch and most uncomfortable when it reached his backside. As the crow flies, the end of the tunnel was no more than five hundred yards from the church, but down in the semi-darkness it seemed to take him a lifetime to cross the distance. He kept to his deep-breathing routine that had helped him throughout his frustrating years. He caught and dragged in long, deep breaths of air through his nostrils and released them ever so slowly in a harmonious rhythm through his mouth. The gathering of water was now inching over his shoes, but he continued to walk. There was no time to collect his boots; he was too excited with the discovery.

In a short distance he could hear something coming towards him. He stopped for a moment and listened. He turned to the side and perked up his ears as though trying connect to the sound. It seemed to be light but fast running, a sound like bare hands pattering the surface of water, and whatever it was, it was getting closer. He shone the beam from the torch further up, and the light revealed a bend some few feet away. It would be hard to judge the distance if he were standing on the ground above. Several rats skittered over his feet, and he yelled out with shock as the vermin built in their masses and ran like hell through the water. The sound became unbearable, and they kicked up a stink in the wind. There was barely time to move and nowhere for him to quickly exit from the confined space. In thousands they honed in on him and knocked him to the ground. He yelled out and fell whilst they scampered across his head and body.

He had witnessed this before in the jungles of Malaya but not quite this bad. In the sixties he was asked to accompany British special forces in a hearts-and-minds campaign as a missionary. During the first week in the steam of the jungle, the enemy gave away their position. In some strange way, the rats new something was about to happen. They came running from an old, rusty oil drum half buried in the ground. A firefight broke out and lasted several hours. Durley could not disengage with his party; he just dug himself deep into the dirt, as much as he possibly could, and thankfully all four soldiers survived, thanks to the rats. But even still, once past the aftermath the rats showed no fear of man, bullet or bomb and casually ate the remains of the terrorist’s tribe.

Down here in the tunnel, there was no firefight, but for some reason he could feel the tension and fear, and it was getting worse by the minute. For some unknown reason, the rats had been spooked. But as quickly as they had come, they were gone. The beam on the torch remained on; it ended up a few feet away after being ripped from his hand, and he managed to retrieve it. He brushed himself down and continued onward. He felt that he had come this far, so he might as well keep going; there was no point in turning back.

After walking through all the narrow bends, he could see a bright light swirling and pulsating a short distance away. For a moment he stopped and looked on; something beyond the light, like a door or gate, slammed. The tunnel carried the sound past his ears; it made him jolt a little, and yet he got more curious. He pushed on and poked his head through the light and paused until he found the courage to walk through it. And when he did, he immediately transformed. Looking down at his hands, he saw that his freckles had gone. He touched his face and found that the complexion felt refreshed; he felt different but not afraid, young but strangely full of years of life’s experiences. When he looked up, the War Witch was standing nearby, towards the end of the tunnel, her evil eyes rigid with fear. He then saw a pair of feet climbing down a ladder, and when they reached the bottom, a man stood at the entrance. Durley recognised him instantly; it was Lieutenant John Lee Coldie.

The War Witch took a step back. She screamed with anger and ran towards the lieutenant. But a punch to her head knocked her off balance. She got up and grabbed the man by the neck and pinned him up against the wall. He struggled, taken aback by her amazing strength. Holding on to her wrist, he twisted it sharply and used her weight to spin her around head first against the wall. He dragged her into one of the chambers and again punched her to the side of the head. Stacks of wooden boxes fell onto the floor, and as they made impact, grenades spilled out. The lieutenant picked one up and pulled out the pin. The War Witch screamed and started to cry; it sounded like a cry for mercy.

Durley wondered what had happened down here on that day fifty years before. He knew for a fact the soldier would never rest until the time came to destroy the evil woman who had claimed so many innocent lives. And Durley was about to find out. Turning around to check the swirling light, he reached out to touch it. He felt a warm, tingly sensation, and the brilliance of the light seemed to reflect off his skin. When he turned back, he was surprised to see the woman’s features change. She became young; her ugliness disappeared. But her cry became uncontrollable, and she begged the lieutenant for sympathy and asked him to spare her life, but he shouted, You are not fooling me! Her features altered back to her decrepit self. The lieutenant slammed his boot into her chest and pinned her down and shouted, I have a message for you from your sister! He forced the grenade into her mouth. She panicked and fought back but was overpowered. "I will end your evil ways!" At that point the place erupted. A flash of bright light and a heat wave from an explosion forced Durley back through the swirl.

Startled by the experience, Durley found he had already re-entered his elder body. The torch had fallen in two when it hit the ground, and the swirling light had disappeared. Panic set in, and he fumbled along the walls in the pitch darkness, stumbling upon loose masonry. It would be a long while before clues of an exit would emerge towards the end of the tunnel. It had been a while since he felt this scared, and it brought back long-buried childhood memories. But