The Witch Hunter: A Gregory Nightshirt Novel

By Raymond S Flex

WATCH OUT THERE'S A WITCHER ABOUT!

 

Reluctant mage, Gregory Nightshirt, is a reader rather than a doer … that is until a witch hunter burns his house down.

With his home gone, Gregory is forced into living with his estranged brother Raymond.

 

Gregory tends to his wounds the only way he knows how: by reading book after book.

 

But as the witch hunter stalks the shadows, creeping ever closer, Gregory soon faces a horrifying choice. One which will force him to choose between a magical or a mortal life forever. A choice which will put countless other lives at stake.

 

The Witch Hunter: A Gregory Nightshirt Novel

• Language: English
• Publisher: DIB Books
• Release date: Sep 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215668450

Raymond S Flex

From fleeting frontiers to your kitchen sink, with Raymond S Flex you never know quite what to expect. His most popular series include: the Crystal Kingdom, Guynur Schwyn and Arkle Wright. On the lighter side of things he also writes Gnome Quest: a high fantasy with . . . yup, you guessed it, gnomes! And not to forget his standalone titles: Necropolis, Ethereal and more short stories than you can shake a space blaster at. Get in touch, keep up, at www.raymondsflex.com

Book preview

THE WITCH HUNTER

A Gregory Nightshirt Novel

Raymond S Flex

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DIB Books

The Witch Hunter

A Gregory Nightshirt Novel

Copyright © Raymond S Flex, 2022.

Published by DIB Books

All rights reserved.

Cover design and layout copyright © DIB Books, 2022.

Cover art copyright © Warm_Tail/Shutterstock, 2022.

This work is fictional. None of the characters or events depicted in this book are based on real life and any resemblance to real events or persons is purely coincidental.

Neither this book, nor any part of it, may be reproduced without express permission from the publisher.

All rights reserved.

Contents

1. NIGHT-TIME STRANGER

Eighteen months later

2. A GUEST OVERSTAYS

3. MASTER OF THE HOUSE

4. AT DINNER

5. MIDNIGHT MOON PEOPLE

6. ARDGERRY MARINA

7. THE RUSTY ANCHOR

8. CAPTAIN TENANT

9. THE SOCIETY

10. SAIL AWAY

11. MONTY DEATH

12. THE BARDOUBLAR

13. MIDNIGHT MOON PEOPLE (REPRISE)

14. MARKET DAY

15. SANDY KINDERBRUDGE

16. NIGHT-TIME MARINA

17. A FRESH SCENT

18. PLAYING THE HERO

19. HALF A LIFE IS NO LIFE

20. A SHOWDOWN LOOMS

21. REINFORCEMENTS

22. ADDITIONAL REINFORCEMENTS

23. RAID ON THE SOCIETY

24. IN THE BELLY OF THE BEAST

25. THE WITCH HUNTER

26. AN UNLIKELY HERO

27. KAIRA

. Chapter

AUTHOR’S NOTE

NIGHT-TIME STRANGER

Out of night-time shadows emerged the stranger.

Wearing a sable robe, with a sack hurled over their shoulder, the stranger slunk through the small orchard at the front of the thatched cottage. Apple and pear trees, judging from the slightly sweet smells hanging in the air. About two or three weeks before full ripeness although a few pieces of fruit had already fallen and uncollected lay at the skirts of the trunks gradually rotting away. The overgrown grass softened the stranger’s footsteps as they approached. Despite the length of the grass, it had a tinge of yellow.

The stranger guessed that it had been weeks since it had last rained.

In the house, the lights had all been extinguished. None of the windows around the front were open. When the stranger had checked around back, there had been one swung open, through which no discernible sound came. The stranger had assumed that this was the occupant’s bedroom.

It had been a long time waiting. The occupier was something of a night owl and the stranger hadn’t wanted to risk getting closer until totally sure that the occupant was fast asleep.

It was a moonless night with a slightly warm summery breeze, about as dark as it got at this time of year. In a few hours’ time, the tangerine glow would once more illuminate the inky-blue sky. Another day coming. If the stranger had their way then that celestial tangerine glow would have some competition by morning.

The stranger got closer still to the cottage, examining the lattices, the rose heads peeping through the diamond-shaped holes. The windows had lattice designs, too. Rose lattices had probably been a design; a way of mirroring the house’s design. The hanging baskets on the porch looked as though they could do with a drop of water or several dozen.

A slightly acrid scent of manure clung to the air from the nearby fields.

Standing on the front step, the stranger inspected the door, seeing that it was oak reinforced with iron rivets. Digging into their robe, the stranger produced a gnarled and rusted ancient lock-picking kit. Gnarled and rusted it may have been but it would do the job. As the stranger cycled through the tools on the ring, it made a low metal-on-metal hiss that hardly bothered a barn owl perched on a garden fence and watching sleepily about thirty paces away.

Coming to the tool required for this specific lock, the stranger went to work on the door, slipping the metal between the door and jamb and then fidgeting with the mechanism. When the lock finally made a click, the stranger gently pushed the front door open on its hinge.

There was no creak.

It sounded as though the occupant disliked squeaky hinges as much as the stranger did.

A light breeze blew in behind the stranger, sending their robe flapping about their ankles. The stranger glanced once over their shoulder, peering up into the night sky, sure they had heard something stir there. But there was nothing.

Nothing except for the barn owl on the fence.

Before going inside, the stranger dug into their robe once more, replacing the lock-picking kit and withdrawing a piece of equipment that looked like an old-style brass compass. Like a compass, the object had what looked like a steel arm, one end daubed in a blood-red ink. The markings about the edge did not give the traditional compass bearings, however.

The arm with the red ink pointed directly at the front door.

This was the place.

No doubt about it.

The stranger crossed the threshold.

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Standing in the entry hall, the stranger allowed themselves a few moments to savour the dusty air. To get used to the tickle down their throat. To prepare themselves to stifle the sneeze that would surely come. When the sensation reached its peak, the stranger brought the sleeve of their robe up to their mouth and nostrils, clamping the material over their airways before any sound had a chance to escape.

The stranger tried not to absorb too much of the décor.

That was just a distraction.

There was a job to be done.

With that said, every last space of wall appeared to be occupied with either a framed picture or some trinket or other. In some ways, it was better that the stranger was unable to make out the exact details of each item. That allowed them to better focus on the task at hand.

The sack was weighing heavy on the stranger’s shoulder—they had carried this load here for miles and miles through the night, across muddy footpaths, past thorn bushes and through wind-swept copses. That was all a matter of comfort, however. The only thing that might’ve put the stranger’s mission in danger would have been rain.

But it had remained dry.

The stranger strode through the cottage, quickly trying to make sense of the layout, to memorise what was what. It did not take long. The cottage was a two-bedroom home, and the stranger could tell immediately that the occupant would be asleep behind the closed door while the other two open doors led to a guest room and the kitchen and lavatory.

Once more, the stranger consulted the compasslike item.

It pointed to the closed door.

Where the occupant slept.

The stranger approached the door. Their ears were pricked for any sound that might come from beyond. The world was as still and quiet as it was going to get.

Now was the time.

Grasping hold of the doorknob to the closed door, the stranger squeezed and lifted the handle, feeling the old-style latch lift up out of its notch. He pushed gently.

And the door swung open.

Just as silently as the front door.

The stranger stood in the doorway, waiting, feeling their warm breath moving through the humid night air. The curtain was only partially drawn and the window beyond was crooked open a little, just as the stranger had seen from outside.

In the bed before them they could see the sleeping form beneath the blankets.

The stranger waited, patient.

Grasping tight to the compasslike device.

A single bead of sweat trickled down the side of their face.

The occupant of the house twitched in bed, twitched again, and then batted open an eye to look out into the darkness. Their eyes narrowed.

Huh … hello? Is there … someone there?

The stranger stood very still.

It was dark enough that if there was no motion then they had a good chance of going undetected. The stranger peered down at the compasslike device in their hand and scrunched up their own eyes, a little like the recently awoken occupant.

It was like the words and sounds appeared in the stranger’s mind without having to think at all. There was nothing written on the device they grasped in their hand.

It was all automatic.

Sleep, was the closest approximation of the word the stranger spoke, although it might have conceivably been a thousand other languages that just happened to make that sound.

The occupant, now raising himself up in bed using his elbow, immediately began to wilt. A flower that’d had too much sun. The stranger waited until they were sure the occupant had returned to sleep before setting about their work.

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The stranger laid the sack they bore upon the ground and carefully withdrew the contents.

Wood. Kindling.

Logs, small and large.

All of them dry and ready for burning.

They then worked to arrange the logs about the periphery of the occupant’s bed in a fashion so that when the spark was struck the kindling would feed the slower-burning logs.

That the fire would burn as brightly and as hotly as it could.

When the stranger had emptied out the contents of the sack, they stood back and examined their work, hands on hips. It was then that they were compelled to examine the compasslike device once more. Again, the messages appeared within their mind without needing to be processed via any of their standard sensory pathways.

It was time to strike the match.

The stranger reached once more inside their robe, withdrawing the book of matches which had been specially procured for this task. They were made of especially chunky wood and there was little chance of them snapping while being struck.

There were dozens more of them just in case.

The stranger gripped tightly to the matchstick they had removed from the book of matches and struck it against the rough strip in the cardboard. A flame rasped to life and the stranger held the matchstick tightly between finger and thumb examining the flame for several moments as though it had the power to hypnotise him in the same way that the compasslike device could.

This was a primeval magic.

And one which would never cease to inspire wonder.

Once more, to be sure, the stranger examined the occupant, seeing he was sleeping.

Just as the stranger had instructed him to do.

The stranger was unsure why they were hesitating.

The instructions were clear.

There was only one action remaining.

Was there some voice … something at the back of their mind … gnawing away … questioning the bludgeoning hand which had guided their own for as long as they could remember.

Who were they?

Who had they been?

It was like someone had flipped a light switch, because—just like that—the dissenting voice was silenced. And once more the path ahead was clear.

The stranger stooped over, holding the lit match to a piece of kindling.

Black smoke wormed upwards.

It tickled their nostrils.

And sent their mind into a spin.

Everything about fire was intoxicating.

And everything about it was powerful.

And the stranger was the one to wield that power.

When the stranger was satisfied that the fire had caught the kindling well enough, that the fire would burn on of its own momentum, that it would continue to spread, the stranger took several steps backwards, watching the room slowly fill with black smoke.

The occupant slept so soundly it would’ve been impossible to believe there was any sort of a threat to their safety. They looked more as though they were taking a nap on a placid summer’s day rather than in the midst of a brewing inferno.

Flames danced through the black smoke.

And the smoke became so thick that the stranger had to take more steps backwards, away from the scene. Before the stranger knew it, they were retreating through the house, back to the front hall, and then through the front door and out into the night once more.

A voice at the back of the stranger’s mind implored them to run, and yet the stranger stood their ground, and checked up on the compasslike device first.

No.

The stranger was to stay.

Rooted to the spot, the stranger remained.

Smoke plumed out of the open front door of the cottage.

The odd flame flickered through the thatched roof.

Again, the stranger felt an urge within that something was wrong.

But the darkness overriding their mind was too strong.

That same darkness had their soul by the throat.

As the smoke got so thick that a cloud lingered above the cottage, as if a heavy rain was due to fall, the stranger was aware of a sudden rush of air. The stranger felt the tearing sensation of talons against their cheek. The coppery scent of blood. On instinct, the stranger brought their hand up to their cheek, felt the welling warmth there between the cracks in their fingers.

A damp sensation turned the stranger’s gut.

A reminder that they were human.

Deep down human … still.

This time when the stranger turned away, there was no resistance.

Grateful to be released from playing witness to this unfolding grim scene, the stranger turned and retreated through the thick vegetation surrounding the cottage.

Returning from whence they came.

Even as the cottage slipped away on the stranger’s heels, flames crackling, working their way through wooden beams and the thatched roof, the image clung to the stranger’s thoughts.

Unwilling to let go.

The stranger would never forget.

Eighteen months later

A GUEST OVERSTAYS

Water gurgled through an unseen pipe in the ceiling above Gregory Nightshirt’s head.

Gregory lay on his back on a single bed. He was in his brother Raymond’s guest room where he had been residing for well over eighteen months now since the unfortunate downfall of the family cottage he had lived in his entire life.

On the bedside table some decomposing orange rind lay on a clay plate. The plate had a greenish-gold rim with half a dozen trefoils painted onto it at even intervals. The orange rind was long past emitting its citric-sweet scent and now was only sweet with the stench of rot. This was a shame because Gregory would have liked some sensory distraction from the taste of burned toast at the back of his throat. Lunch had been cheese toasties. He had thought it was impossible to make a mess of a cheese toastie but he had proven himself wrong. Although Gregory was of a mind to blame the unfamiliar kitchen and the tools available to him, he knew the truth was that at his age—thirty-five years old—he should have done better.

He had been here for eighteen months now.

He really was stretching the definition of unfamiliar at this stage.

Gregory had once read in one of those magazines they published for home owners that it was advisable to spend a night in the guest room. Not being a home owner any longer, but having once been one (at least by de facto) for a significant period of time, Gregory had never taken up this advice himself. The guest room he had maintained at the cottage had been the smallest bedroom around the back, the one with the window facing the septic tank. He had never told the few guests who had slept there about the septic tank, of course … and in any case the tank had been concealed by an extremely thick-growing Himalayan honeysuckle (which was also known as leycesteria formosa, pheasant berry, or purple rain …). Gregory was fairly certain he could count the guests he had had at the cottage on one hand which was a shame because he had never had the pleasure of knowledgeably reeling off the various names of his honeysuckle.

The guest room mattress was a good one, or it had been at some stage. The springs still had a bit of rigidity to them and they only slinked and squeaked very slightly when he shifted his weight. Gregory had never liked soft mattresses and the sound reminded him a bit of mice playing hide-and-seek, desperately trying to keep quiet. The bedsheets looked like Egyptian cotton (although Gregory was no expert) and the slightly mesmerising, orange-and-black crosshatch design was more or less still there despite having been subjected to numberless hot washes over the decades. No, the sheets certainly met, or even exceeded, the standard any self-respecting unexpected guest might demand when turning up unannounced, wishing to bed down for the night.

And Gregory was unmistakeably an unannounced guest.

Or he had been at one stage.

Gregory was reading his third- or fourth-hand paperback copy of Black Magic and its Entreaties by Frankcis Murffitt which he had picked up from Pickering Towers Manuscripts and Antiquities the day before. That had been during one of his infrequent ventures out of the guest room. Gregory had never much been a fan of going outdoors at the best of times and now that he was living in the city in his brother’s home he found it even more of a chore.

He really wasn’t what you’d call a People Person.

The pipe above Gregory’s head did some more gurgling.

Louder gurgling than before.

He arched an eyebrow and peered upwards at it, as if he possessed some form of x-ray vision and was able to peel back the layers of paint, plasterboard, insulation and who-knew-what-else (builders probably did) to see what the current state of the plumbing was (as if Gregory would know by looking at it). Gregory didn’t possess that ability (not the x-ray vision or even the humble DIYer’s instinct upon encountering a Job For A Tradesperson).

Only once Gregory was absolutely satisfied that the pipe had stopped its commotion did he shift his gaze once more downwards to his book.

He never had completely trusted plumbing.

It was nothing personal, only that he didn’t really trust any technology beyond about the mid-to-late seventeenth century.

Someone rapped their knuckles three times upon the door.

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Gregory only really went so far when it came to numerology, but he had found that old maxim about bad things coming in threes to hold strangely true on the whole … which was another way of saying that whenever he had a bad day (say, nearly getting knocked down by a cyclist while waiting for the bus) he was invariably able to tie the grave event to a pair of other unfortunate occurrences which had taken place earlier (say, dropping some change in the gutter or a dog getting a bit too close and barking loudly).

When it came to numerology things were largely open to interpretation.

That was why it was such a charlatan’s dream.

Anybody could see the patterns and interpret them in their own way.

And a pattern is only as good as its interpretation.

With all that said about threes, Gregory gave the only response to a knock that it’s possible to give when you are a guest behind a closed door in someone else’s home.

He looked up from his book and said, Come in?

The door opened out into the bedroom. First through the doorway was a blur of stubby legs and tangled fur. Some sort of terrier. (Gregory had never been a dog fan).

The yipping started.

Tartuffe.

Paws scrabbled the wooden floorboards as Tartuffe bounced about the bed, leaping up to take a look at who was lying there (as if it was still a surprise). Tartuffe was about shin-high and had a curly fringe of matted nut-brown fur constantly flapping up and down covering and uncovering his eyes. Gregory was unmoved. Although he knew Tartuffe could leap up onto the bed, gnash at him if he really wanted to, he knew he wouldn’t.

It was all down to intimidation.

Apparently content that he had pinned Gregory down to a specific, predictable location, Tartuffe proceeded to snuffle about the floor and skirting boards with the relish of a drug-sniffing dog. Gregory tried not to take it personally.

Standing in the doorway behind Tartuffe was his sister-in-law, Alice.

For a moment, Gregory found it jarring to see her there, even despite Tartuffe’s sudden appearance. He was surprised because he had believed—given Tartuffe had been half-asleep in his basket in the kitchen, borderline depressed as he perked his ears for any indication of his owner’s imminent arrival—Alice and Raymond were both at work. Not that Gregory had done anything embarrassing while assuming he was alone (aside from that business with the toaster, but that was hardly something he could’ve saved himself from by being secretive).

What day of the week was it anyway? Although Gregory had no clocks in the room, he judged from the little daylight that dribbled in through the netted curtains that it was that awkward old-fashioned time, about a couple of hours after lunch, still a few hours before dinner.

Right when the post-lunch lull was at its peak.

He supposed that in an earlier age this time might’ve been referred to as tea time.

A lot had changed in the last century.

Mostly that everybody wanted everything faster—faster.

Nobody had time any more.

And certainly no time to sit about drinking tea dishing the latest goss.

It probably followed logically that in the pursuit of greater speed (always equated in this modern world with greater productivity) coffee had become the preferred drink of the Great British populace (and largely the global populace, for that matter).

Alice wore a plum-coloured dress with a V-neck line drawing attention to her pallid chest and throat (and also her delicate birdlike chin and jawline, which Gregory supposed was probably unintentional). The hem of the dress shimmied just above her ankles, where Tartuffe had now returned to skulk, tongue flickering between his jaws like a furry snake with legs and ears and … well a lot of other features that weren’t actually all that snakelike.

Alice was currently barefoot. Gregory had registered this as a quirk of hers when he had started living here. A sort of hippie-Yuppie (Yuppie-hippy?) thing. A kind of nod to an innate happiness that the adult world would never quite succeed in squashing with its heavy and ugly boot heel. Again following the etiquette of being a guest in someone else’s home, Gregory was quick to wedge some pillows up against the headboard and lift himself into a reclined sitting position rather than the crumpled posture he had been assuming. He folded over the corner of the page he was currently reading in Black Magic and its Entreaties and set the book down on the sheets beside him. He pressed on a smile, feeling the muscles in his cheeks ache as he did so. He was not a natural smiler.

He regarded Alice over the tops of his socked feet.

By some minor miracle these socks didn’t have any holes in them. They probably should’ve been regarded as an endangered species and put on a register somewhere.

Alice, he said, What can I do for you?

Neutral-faced when she had appeared in the doorway, Alice flashed a smile that barely crossed her lips let alone threatened to rise to the rest of her face.

Tartuffe continued to flick his tongue in and out—in and out—of his mouth, ears primed as though ready to act on any order his lady master might give.

I thought you might be sleeping. She nodded to the book on the bed beside him. I’m glad I didn’t wake you.

Gregory was not rattled by the comment.

How could he be when it was the undeniable truth?

He was often to be found sleeping …

Oh, no, Gregory replied, turning his polite smile up a notch and waggling his hand at the book. Just doing the old bookworm routine. You know me.

Squinting and cocking her head to one side, Alice aimed a scowl at the book.

Tartuffe copied his mistress’s gesture.

"What are you reading?"

Gregory blushed slightly.

He never did like to explain what he was reading.

Although he knew it was ridiculous to think so, what a person was reading always ended up being a kind of personal reflection. And whatever the interrogator’s original intention in asking the question, they would be unable to do anything but draw some sort of conclusion from the response.

"It’s … uh, about magic," Gregory said, hoping that that word alone would be enough to ward off Alice. Magic wasn’t actually too bad of a succinct summary of Black Magic and its Entreaties by Frankcis Murffitt.

He was speaking to a layperson, after all.

Softening her gaze and uncocking her head, Alice turned her attention back onto him.

Tartuffe uncocked his head too.

Oh, I see, in the most uninterested tone possible. "And will it … you know … help you to … control it better?"

What Gregory wanted to say was of course it bloody won’t but what he came out with—in the spirit of continuing harmonious cohabitation—was, I hope to pick up a tip or two. Gregory decided it was his turn to ask a question now that Alice was two-nil up. Wondering how to put it politely, and deciding there really was no way, Gregory just came right out with it. I thought … you were at work?

Today’s my non-working day, she replied, before adding, It’s Thursday, as though Gregory didn’t know what day of the week it was (he didn’t).

Ah, Gregory said, so back to work tomorrow?

That’s the plan. Alice reached up and rubbed at her left temple while Tartuffe regarded Gregory with his wet black eyes. Just as long as I don’t catch a migraine.

Gregory wondered whether she was insinuating that he might be the cause of said migraine. Again, he decided in the name of continuing harmonious cohabitation that he should overlook this. However it did not appear that Alice was in a conciliatory mood.

Did Ray speak to you? she asked.

Raymond? What do you mean?

Alice sighed hard, crossed her arms over her chest, peering through the vale of netted curtains and out the window at the steadily falling drizzle in the darkening January sky.

It would be night before too long.

Whenever Gregory couldn’t get far enough away from other people, he spent most of the winter overhearing people’s complaints about the winter (about it being too cold, getting dark too early, etcetera, etcetera). Gregory, however, had always quietly enjoyed winter. It meant it was perfectly acceptable to stay in your house all day long and bury your head in a good book.

Or a bad book and a tumbler of whisky … that tended to work quite well too.

The important bit was that you got to avoid other people.

Alice’s eyes shifted from the window to the ceiling.

Gregory wondered whether she had heard the gurgling pipe too. He hoped for her and Raymond’s sake that it wasn’t anything serious.

"Ray was supposed to speak with you before he went to work this morning."

Ah, Gregory replied, before adding, I see, without seeing at all.

Although he and Alice were about the same biological age—thirty-five, as he had to keep reminding himself—Gregory couldn’t help but feel that ever since he had met Alice she had seemed to be several years older and wiser than him. Gregory thought he had read somewhere—no doubt in the same magazine rack he had located those home owner publications—that girls matured at a faster rate than boys. He supposed that meant mentally and physically.

Perhaps that went some way to explaining his inferiority complex around Alice.

Then again it could also be because she was married to someone biologically five years older.

Gregory’s brother Raymond had just turned forty this year and had always held those five years of Unfathomable Experience and Knowledge over Gregory … but perhaps those five years meant that he was at Alice’s level, developmentally speaking … or maybe she had simply been around Raymond long enough that he had made her boring too.

Noting the swelling silence, Gregory decided to pop it with a verbal hatpin, What … did he want to speak to me about?

Alice shook her head, puffing out a breath through her nostrils. She looked away from the ceiling (and the potentially problematic pipe), back to Gregory for a fleeting instant, and then out the window again, as if she might be able to see Raymond strolling down the street, briefcase swinging from one hand, whistling to himself as he came home early from work to come to the rescue of this doomed conversation.

She should’ve known better.

Much better.

Gregory would have loathed admitting it, but he knew his brother Raymond what might have been termed inside and out. And if there was one thing he knew about his brother it was that he was more likely to take off on a whim and fly off to start a new life on some recently emerged Polynesian island than come home early from work. Sure enough, during Gregory’s stay at his brother’s house, Raymond had arrived home at precisely 5.30pm each and every evening, announcing in a semi-musical loud voice, which never failed to cut through and wake Gregory from his early-evening nap, I’m baaaaack!

Finally, Alice looked at Gregory again. Look, Greg, she said.

Gregory decided not to remind her for the nth time that he was not a Greg—never a Greg—but in fact a Gregory.

"We’ve really enjoyed having you to stay with us, and we’d clearly