The Inheritor

By Peter Storm

An unknown inheritance can be a dream come true. But for Callum Hopkins, this dream descended into a dark nightmare.
Callum is conflicted. He can either seize a chance to find happiness, belonging and power or follow his family’s vows on a path of brutal consequences where only the strong will be left standing.
The Inheritor is a story about a family sworn to protect and serve a secret society and a village determined to avenge a cruel dark past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398426238

Peter Storm

Peter Storm grew up in the west country, living in Cornwall and Dartmoor, where he found the surrounds steeped in folklore, witchcraft tales and the supernatural. After serving with the Armed forces, traveling around the world, Peter discovered dark tales were as much told there as at home. Raising his interest in horror literature. Growing up with Hammer house films, reading Edgar Allan Poe, William Peter Blatty. King Masterton and Peter Herbert naturally found an interest in creating his own brand of modern horror.

Book preview

About the Author

Peter Storm grew up in the west country, living in Cornwall and Dartmoor, where he found the surrounds steeped in folklore, witchcraft tales and the supernatural. After serving with the Armed forces, traveling around the world, Peter discovered dark tales were as much told there as at home. Raising his interest in horror literature. Growing up with Hammer house films, reading Edgar Allan Poe, William Peter Blatty. King Masterton and Peter Herbert naturally found an interest in creating his own brand of modern horror.

Dedication

Dedicated to Tracey Jane Verrall (1967-2020), an inspiration for all mankind.

Copyright Information ©

Peter Storm 2022

The right of Peter Storm to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author 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.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales 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.

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

ISBN 9781398426214 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398426221 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781398426238 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Thank you to Susanna for taking a chance.

Chapter 1

The sudden jolt of the car as it hit the pothole caused his head to hit the side window of the car door. Not so much a painful bang more of a wake-up call. He strained to focus for a few seconds, unaware of where he was, he observed his surroundings. Feeling snug and secure in the warmth blowing out from the heaters, making him stretch his out his arms, pushing them towards the dash of the car, feeling the stretch as he tensed his forearms and shoulders releasing a small yawn as he did so. Clenching his fists to squeeze the last of the catnap sleep from his body. Recalling where he was. Briefly acknowledging the now smiling driver, who was aware what woke his passenger. Forcing a sarcastic smile back. Then he noticed the view that began stretching out in front of the speeding vehicle.

The colours of the trees, stretching away into the distance, were a welcome and different sight from the normal grey cold of the concrete buildings of the city they had left earlier. Autumn reds and browns of the late October leaves merged in a way only mother nature could have designed. Trees were a barrier breaking away from the edges of the city. They filled up the landscape the further they moved away from the built-up tower blocks and offices. Now huge landscaped houses with moulded driveways scattered along the side roads. A neat scattering of fallen leaves lined the edges of the lanes and roads outside the driveways of the large houses. Country pubs, offering carvery service at challenging prices, were noticeable as they stood out more in their spacious surrounds. Unlike the city pubs and so-called gastro pubs, which he noted always seemed jammed into every free city space that was available. Little wine bars surrounded by new flats or cheap rent offices, where they hoped they might add to the punter lists before they went bankrupt.

Every few miles a new pub, most had some catchy name. A duck and bell, or the black-footed dog, over three white horses, and even the Duke of Ellingham, which he was sure was not even a county. Soon the landscape thickened the closer the car took them into the countryside. As the car meandered along the lanes, dipping and riding over hills and valleys, disappearing and turning around sharp bends and forcing Callum into the door inside of the big black Mercedes, which stopped him from slipping into a much-needed sleep.

As they made their way along the lanes, the trees formed a canopy over the narrow track, their shadows now spread over the floor of the country roads, he noticed that the fading light had penetrated the tree tops every few yards, giving the effect that the shadow of the trees now formed fingers, slightly beckoning the speeding car on, as it passed over the lane from shadow into brief light and back into shadow. Callum closed his eyes, wondering how his life had seemed to change so quick and in such a manic way. Each jolt of the car brought him back, and each time the forest seemed thicker, the colours darker and denser, he felt lost, as if he were just driving in circles. The car came to an abrupt halt, as the fading sunset seemed to push on his eyelids, forcing him to open them from his little thoughts. He looked out to his left, still half reclined in his heated seat. A magnificent view of the valley greeted him, stretching down into the most colourful wooded area. Vast hills in the distant rose from the far side of the woods, climbing up into the sky. The view was breath taking, and he set his seat back to the upright position. He lowered the window slightly to take in some welcome cold air to wake himself up.

This is the edge of the village, the driver informed him.

Most of what you see around you is your uncle’s estate, well, yours now, he said matter of factually. Your uncle was a little eccentric, after the death of your mother, Callum, he seemed to lock himself away in the house.

My mother, Callum thought. He had never known the reason or the cause of her death. They told him she had a weak heart. He knew that was not true, even at his young age. They just told him that, then packed him off to boarding school. His uncle paid the term fees. He visited his uncle because he had to, that was until he was old enough not to.

The car pulled over to a small passing, parked on the rough ground, half on the grass verge causing it to tilt as it left room on the minor road to let other vehicles pass. The driver got out then leaned back in to invite his passenger out to view the region; he opened the door, got out and did as he advised him, and half sat on the warm bonnet with his feet resting on the raised verge.

This is a different view from what I’m used to on a Friday evening. The trees, the land 10 miles either way from where you stand, the farms and the houses, all your land and tenants, all yours now, young sir.

He came around to the side of the car, joining Callum, sitting alongside him.

That was when your uncle came to us; we took over the running of the estate, the bills, the income, just about everything.

As he leaned on the bonnet of the car, the cold air filled his lungs and slightly brushed his face. The smell in the air played with his senses, as if he had walked into an apple storage warehouse, fruity and woody.

A harrier hawk was hovering over the field in the distance, getting chased by two cackling crows. Pheasants were creeping along the side of the ploughed field to his right, their red, striking plumage standing out, catching his eye. Wood pigeons seemed to flee from the calm Harrier above. Changing direction, the speeding pigeons shot over the land at breakneck speed. Noises he never really heard or remembered at all. Sights he never saw in the towns and city. The scene could have been from an old biscuit box. The trees formed a security like line from the valley below. Where he could see smoke slowly twisting upwards into the distance, from the buildings hidden in the view.

I have to tell you this, your uncle was a unique gentleman, eccentric yes, a gentleman for sure. Your role now is bigger than you can imagine. Just be aware of who you are dealing with, take nothing for granted. But learn what you can as fast as you can.

He seemed sincere, yet it was as if he were trying to tell him something that he could not explain. Callum considered what he said. However, the view he was looking at was distracting. The smoke rising into the horizon was a vision that he had not seen in an awfully long time.

He really could not recall the last time he sat in front of a proper fire, being a city boy. It was all central heating. This rising smoke in the far-off scenery reminded him of the scene from Mary Poppins. Smoke filled backdrops from the rooftops all that was missing was the sweeps, singing and dancing, replaced here by the sound of the crows up high, trying to fend off the fearsome hawk, and the sound of what he guessed was an early fox barking into the early, cold evening. The smoke from the chimney pots snaked up, into the reddening sky in the distance, as the first signs of the night drew in. Maybe this was what people had fought for all those years ago in the great wars. It was really a fantastic view looking down on the valley.

His concentration broke as the shriek of the crow filled the sky. He looked up, holding his hand to his brow to see better. The Harrier had had enough of the bickering, and he suddenly tilted his wings and his talons flashed out. Sending feathers floating into the wind, as the large black bird fell out of the sky. Then it just found a thermal and circled higher, away into the distance. Callum realised that even in this beauty filled landscape, danger was just a second away. They got back into the Mercedes, then continued their journey for a few miles.

Really, all of that is mine, it feels like a dream, oh is there a village pub? he asked with a smile on his face, but with a touch of sincerity.

An ancient inn, he replied, as he slowed the car. I just wanted to show you where you are, what you own from a fresh perspective, it is easier to take in from up there, you see so much this time of day. However, it will be dark before you know it out here.

They began the drive down the narrow lane, into the village. He looked across at the driver and studied him briefly. Mr Truss, of Truss, Bing and Tibet. Solicitors. Over 100 years of trade to the gentry in all thing’s country. A stocky man, maybe about 60. Well-presented. And well-spoken. He claimed to have been the family solicitor for well over twenty years. Now he said he was to represent Callum. If he so wanted him. Let’s go to the pub for a quick drink then, Callum told him, as the car drove past the first few thatched cottages. The small hamlet they came to was sparse, with hidden buildings along the road. They seemed intentionally hidden from the road, behind trees and high hedges. Also, he noticed there was nowhere to park; the road just seemed to run through the village with no visual sign for any reason to stop. No shops or garage. It looked like an old English hamlet though, from what he could see, big old-style houses with very private land. A place where people liked to hide away, he understood that, no neighbours to moan about the noise. No one was blocking your car in. Or keeping you awake in the evenings when they sit in their gardens chatting into the late nights.

He thought, Yes, I could live in a village like this. We better get to the manor first, the shrill reply came back. A quick drink to see what the inns like is okay, besides, you can always tell what a place is like by its pub.

Callum said, patting the old boy on the shoulder. My shout.

The manor should be the first point of call; we will be there soon, Callum, Truss said dismissing his request.

You worked for my uncle a long time, did you not, Mr Truss? Callum knowingly asked. Looking across at him, knowing what was coming next, truss still replied with hesitation.

I did, as you know!

Well, now I guess, you work for me, and I guess the salary is exceptional, which is why you’re driving me yourself, and if you wish to remain in the families’ pay, I suggest you pull up in the car park of the pub, you decide. Callum pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Still my shout though, he cheekily added.

He smiled across at the old man as the smoke filled the front of the car, blowing up into the warm air from the heater, filling out across the windscreen. They turned off the road into a side road, following the road as it meandered around the hidden village, after a hundred yards the pub came into view. It was a black and white Tudor style building. It needed some work from first glance. Some old weather-stained benches scattered outside with a few hanging baskets, all of which were empty, giving the image of an ill-maintained look. They pulled into the pub, parked in the far bay of a small gravel car park. Truss manoeuvred the car back and forward to fit perfectly in the partially marked bay. He wondered why he did that, whereas any space would have done, as no other cars were present. Well, you are your uncle’s nephew, young Callum, and we have time for a drink. He held out his hand towards him, and as he opened the door and the interior light came on, Callum could see he had a broad grin on his face. Shall we start again? My friends call me Alistair.

Callum could see the sincerity and warmth in his eyes, and they shook hands. As they walked away from the car, Callum noticed how old the pub was, its old leaded windows in need of an upgrade, or a paint job at the least. The inn had seen better days. Old wood slanted sills, the paintwork cracked, splitting here and there, weather torn, needing a fresh coat, maybe some Polyfilla. On the thatched roof, straw, which was dark enough to show that it had been some time since it had replaced. All the ashtrays on the tables outside were collectors’ items now; they seemed so old. Even the bench’s original colour now long gone. It was an old-fashioned inn, locals only he guessed, seeing as it was off the main drag. It all gave the pub an old look, attractive but old.

Alistair slapped Callum on the back, opened the door for him and laughing informed him, Mine is a whiskey, a large one at that.

And they stepped inside, the warmth of the fire was already putting the colour into their white city cheeks. Across the road watching through the old cottage windows, upstairs she watched as the door swung shut behind them. So, it was true. He was back, absent for years, and now he was here again, at the heart of the trouble. Where it all had begun, as it will again. Laughing aloud as if he never left. Then the fact dawned on her, he belonged here; he owned almost everything, but with no idea the price, he will have to pay for it. Her bony, frail fingers ran through her white hair as she looked down at the floor. She wished they stopped this long ago. A tear rolled down her wrinkled cheek. She knew it might be too late now. Far too late. It would be a struggle now. They were not ready; he was not ready. The mad old man had left it far too late. They should have brought the boy home long ago.

Chapter 2

The pub was as he expected any country pub to be. A large fire was roaring away, filling the interior with a warm comforting heat. They decked the walls with brass and old farming peculiar. Old photos, all framed in the same style, hung on every available space on each of the walls. The ceiling had many strange objects hanging or stuck to it. Some of them seemed a little macabre for Callum. Plough blades, and what looked like giant thumbscrews. All made of wood and obviously very collectable. The bar itself had a vast stock of spirits, and more than enough real ale pumps to keep any CAMRA member happy, with even some known brand labels. Like Old Peculiar, the witch’s tit. And many others name he had heard of. Some he knew, others he would no doubt try. Should he stay? Standing at the bar, he scanned the pub. It was dark, darker than he thought a pub should be. Enough light so you could make out your change, dim enough to have an intimate conversation and be oblivious to the other drinkers. The light from the mock wall chandeliers blended well with the fire glow. Casting an eerie, yet romantic, shadow across the walls. No jukeboxes. And no fruit machines that he could see. The landlord, he presumed, looked over to them, and he saw from his face he knew Truss. And his glance towards him, then back to Truss, seemed a bit too obvious, convincing the young man that he knew who Callum was.

Yes, young un, what can I get for ye? he asked in a deep county accent. He was already pouring Truss a whisky.

Double in that one if you would please, Nathaniel. The barman shook his head.

You staying the night then? He placed the drink on the bar as he glanced at the clock on the wall, then looked at Callum.

Morgan spiced and coke, plenty of ice in a tall glass, Callum ordered.

Callum turned his back to the bar, taking in the empty pub.

This is a very nice bar, has it always been yours? he asked.

Not nice, he thought to himself, old yes, nice no.

No, but his family has served behind the bar here for generations, father and father before him. Truss chipped in for the barman.

Who had placed a tumbler of Morgan’s with a small opened bottle of coke on the bar? Then set the ice bucket beside it. Callum never acknowledged either. He drank it neat, and as the barman moved away, he summoned him back, knowing it would agitate him. Same again, no coke this time.

And he gave the barman a knowing smile. If he wanted to play silly, so could he. Not the first introduction he had expected, then again did he really expect them to welcome him with open

Reviews for The Inheritor

[peter verrall · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Really good read. Like his descriptive story telling. Makes you feel like your there watching