Cry of the Rooks

By P.A. Kerry

In the early spring of 2001, deep within Snowdonia National Park in North Wales, a group of people headed into the mountains to attend a Shamanic spiritual weekend, being held in a disused Victorian school that was built in the 1800s. The school itself was built close to a small mining village that had established itself along the foothills of Mount Snowdon, and on the day the group arrived the village was shrouded in the cold, early morning mist that rolled down the slopes of the mountain, eventually burning away with the slow warmth of the midday sun.
The Shamanic weekend the group was attending was a short break dedicated to giving spiritual insight as well as a look inside the mentality of the Shaman people who shared the same beliefs as the tribal priests of North Wales. They also can trace their roots back to the Celtic Druids, in their practising of sorcery and beliefs, especially in the worship of demons. The weekend was guaranteed to broaden the horizons of all who attended into the lives of the Shaman.
The abandoned school, the site chosen to host the weekend, had previously been converted into an Outward-Bound centre many years before, but had been forced to close following the aftermath of a freak tornado. The tornado hit with such force that it had completely ripped away most of the school's roof, as well as completely destroy the heavy wooden stairs that lay below.
It is safe to say that the visitors to this Shamanic weekend got more than they bargained for during the weekend, for not only did they get close to the spirits that walked this land over two thousand years ago, but they found themselves amongst them. It turned out that the school was built over an ancient burial ground, and the forgotten buried beneath would be determined to remind everyone of their continued existence, and to ultimately drive them away.
What follows is an account based on my own experiences. In the course of collecting material and writing this account down onto paper, no less than five attempts on my life have been carried out, all of them in mysterious or unexplainable circumstances. Something tells me that perhaps forces beyond explanation would rather not have this story told!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350947113

Book preview

C H A P T E R

ONE

It started in the middle of a field in the midst of a very cold November evening. A huge bonfire, burning in the centre of the field, provided enough light and warmth for the adults and children that had gathered around it, most of them wanting to watch the fireworks dance across the black sky. Silver embers of the sparklers danced and fizzed in gloved hands of children, whilst frothy and bubbling glasses of cold beer were held in the bare hands of the adults. The fog of spent gunpowder from the rockets combined with the crackling, sputtering scent of meat from the barbeque coated the grassy field in a dense, thick mist.

A firework shot up into the sky, exploding into a deep green balloon of embers, the crackle of silvery sparks making everyone gasp in amazement, with another shooting up to join it. A high-spirited youngster called Christopher threw a firecracker towards us before disappearing into the darkness. We all took a step back as it fizzed, the explosion brief but loud. On a nearby tree a Catherine Wheel span around with yellow flame shooting up into the leaves and down into the grass with ferocity, evoking the gathered crowd to emit the obligatory vowel sounds of awe.

While all of this was going on, I bumped into Carolyn, a dear old friend of mine who, after the initial pleasantries of greeting and discussing what we were now both up to, lost no time in excitedly explaining to me the benefits of the recent course she had just signed herself up for.

The ancient art of Chinese feng-shui? I repeated questioningly. What the heck is that?

It’s the ancient art of balancing the yin and yang energies that flow throughout the household, and all of that kind of spiritual thing. She smiled. I think you’d like it, why don’t you come along for a few classes? I’m sure they can fit you in.

I thought about it briefly, finding no reason not to go. A final rocket blew itself up into the sky behind me, followed by what was the grand finale, with multiple explosions making everyone look up to see stars briefly fill the night sky.

A sudden, high pitched scream pierced the sound of dull explosions, as everyone’s attention now turned towards the bonfire. A second scream confirmed the existence of the first, and suddenly the tone of the party took a much darker tone. People looked around as the dull pops and bangs still echoed around the site but no fireworks leapt up to colour the night’s sky.

What the hell? I asked myself, throwing aside my drink, rushing over to the sound of the screams.

I happened upon the scene as two men dragged what looked like a smouldering sack away from the base of the bonfire. As more people gathered around the scene became muddled, as people looked around to see what the commotion was, spreading around what little information they knew.

Eventually word got to me about what was going on, and it was news every host dread to hear: there’d been an accident, and someone had got burned. I made a point of going to the scene once more, getting a closer view only to find the young boy, Christopher, writhing in pain, screaming so loud it rattled my ear drums. A burst of fire and a loud explosion erupted through his pocket, sparking and sending him into more throws of agony.

Some people hovered, not knowing what to do or whether to watch the unfolding drama. Others scrambled to help, at first trying to pull down his jeans but giving up after realizing the cheap denim had fused to his charred skin.

An ambulance has been called! someone from the crowd said, the estimated time it’d be here being drowned out by more pops and flashes from the pocket.

People now became desperate to end the poor boy’s suffering, throwing their drinks and water from the drink’s coolers upon him, to try and douse the fuses, yet one by one, they irregularly erupted giving him another flare of pain.

Eventually blue lights could be scene flashing against the slight fog caused by the evening’s fireworks. The ambulance arrived, the paramedics immediately telling the gathered crowed to disperse. A stretcher was brought out, the paramedic deftly checking the wound as the last firecracker erupted.

You’re alright, just a few little burns. He told the crying child, as he was taken on a stretcher. Are his parents anywhere? The paramedic asked, with one of the men who first dragged the boy lifting his hand and following him into the ambulance, his face ashen and shaded with shock.

The door slammed shut on the ambulance, the blue lights still flashing away, staining the night’s sky the same way the fireworks did only minutes prior. His pockets were full of them firecrackers. Someone said in a hushed tone. Got too close to the bonfire. Miracle the other pocket didn’t go off.

A sense of normalcy and relief washed over the crowd, as on the ground the bonfire dwindled and died. The cold quickly reclaimed the heat that had been emitted from the dying embers, with people standing around dazed and shocked, others deliberating the accident, most people beginning to leave, almost as if they had come to feel the warmth of the fire and nothing more.

A few days later, whilst trying to remember everything about the evening aside from Christopher’s incident, I remembered Carolyn’s offer, and so I phoned her responding that I’d go with her to a class and see what all of this feng-shui hype was about, keeping an open mind but otherwise not overly enthusiastic. Whilst we were talking, I asked her to keep me updated on the status of the Christopher lad. Apparently he was fine, suffering some burns but they would heal in time. Whether or not he’d go near bonfires again was another question entirely.

A few weeks later, I set out to a small village near Retford, in Nottinghamshire, with Carolyn to attend the first meeting of the feng-shui class. We spent most of the hour travelling, speculating as to where the meeting would take place, and eventually followed the directions to an old Georgian Vicarage. It was a large brick building with high windows, and looking out onto the grounds I spotted a large outdoor swimming pool filthy and unused with leaves and dirt.

As Carolyn and I approached the entrance to the grand building, an attractive middle aged lady, wearing the best hits of fashion found in the 1970’s, smiled when she saw us and asked if we were here for the class on feng-shui, which we said we were. She was a memorable person only because of the clothes she wore, being so ridiculously out of date it was impossible not to make a silent, mental comment. Her dress was a dull, boring brown that had dull orange and black patterns sewn into it, running up and down on one side. Her neck was weighed down by a black and brown necklace of thick, heavy beads that, combined with her dress, did nothing but give her the impression of being a relic of a time that had long since gone.

Other people started to appear and we were all ushered into a large living room with high, ornate ceilings and hard, polished oak wood flooring that was covered by two vibrant Chinese rugs. A magnificent marble fireplace lay flat against the centre of the furthest wall and high windows provided plenty of natural light either side of the mantelpiece. An old pull cord hung in place beside the white painted doorway, which would link up to a butler’s bell elsewhere in the house. It has long been disconnected, but served as a reminder of the elegance of times gone by.

Several rows of chairs had been placed in the room for our convenience, and although the fireplace was unlit, the room was warm enough despite the best efforts of the autumn chill.

The house was obviously privately owned, chosen for its size and suitability for hosting this class. While the house was pleasantly furnished and filled with people who were more than amicable and friendly, I sensed a deep, ingrained unhappiness that attached itself to the abode. On the way in, for example, the leaves that were floating aimlessly in the cold blue waters of the swimming pool, and it was clear from the unkempt frostbitten lawns that it had been a while since it had played host to any form of jovial family gathering, and even longer since it had heard the laughter of young children playing. No photographs of any sort lined the grand, open spaces of the halls, and it was clear to me that the house had been frozen in a time where the happiness had been long gone, and the children had all grown up and moved out.

It would later transpire that the owners were in the middle of a divorce. The husband was an accountant, the dull, straight-laced type. The wife was an attractive, middle-aged woman at an age where people may reflect most on their life so far, asking themselves if this is really all there is, whilst the monotonous beat of the hum-drum routine grows ever louder. It was not surprising that, having completely snapped from the cold seriousness of her husband, she was engaged in an affair with a penniless Native Red Indian called ‘High Cloud’, no doubt having met at other spiritual days out whilst she was searching for her ‘inner peace’.

I remember how, before the main lecture started, the husband appeared, sharply dressed in a suit and tie but wearing a face that could scare off thunder. He stormed through the assembled group, probably with the intent of telling each and every one of us to leave. For whatever reason, he simply made a point of looking cross, before leaving just as promptly as he arrived.

I looked outside through the large ornate window, standing beside a heavy cast iron radiator that was faithfully radiating heat around the large room as other people milled about with cups of hot coffee and tea clasped in their hands. Carolyn and I made our way to the kitchen to try and find some refreshments, and indeed found the source of the coffee and tea. We said odd hi’s and hellos to people as we slid passed but otherwise kept to our own company.

Do help yourself to tea, coffee and biscuits. The lady in brown stood in the doorway of the kitchen, arms outstretched in a very stereotypical gesture of welcome and introduction. I’m Dawn, by the way, and I’m glad you all made it to today’s class. We’re all going to be heading into the front room in about five minutes or so, so please help yourselves and don’t forget to help yourselves to biscuits!

She left the room to a soft patter of laughter as everyone began to look forward to the class with our coffees in hand. We entered the front room that, for the day, had transformed into a lecture hall. Carolyn and I sat down on two chairs and took out our pens and paper as a middle aged, thickset man took to the raised platform and addressed us.

Hello everyone, my name is Harry and I’ll be your teacher for the day. He smiled. He had soft Asian features and silver-grey hair that lay thick upon his head. Beside him stood a flipchart easel, upon which hung a pad of A2 paper. He walked up to it and wrote down his name, Harry Sing. Despite the exotic nature of his surname, he was definitely born in this country and spoke with a fluent English accent. Judging by the features of his skin and his other features, however, I would place his genealogy as being from Nepal or a similar country. He was dressed in an open necked short sleeve shirt, casual trousers and canvas shoes.

Thank you all for coming, he continued. I’m sorry we’re a little bit late starting, but before we crack on and start I’d first like to extend my thanks to Jane for lending us the use of this beautiful house for a few days. There was a small murmur of agreement before Harry continued.

What followed was an in-depth explanation of the term feng-shui. We were told that feng-shui, in the literal sense, means ‘wind and water’, its history going back thousands and thousands of years. It was the earthly equivalent of astrology, with most of the ancient archaeological and written evidence strongly suggesting it was adopted as a way of the ancients to fully understand the link between humans and the universe. Indeed we heard how it originated from ancient Chinese astronomy, with ancient painted sightlines of the night sky used to place settlements and buildings long before magnetic compasses had been invented and used. Some of the earliest known references of feng-shui go back to the ‘Book of Rights’, Harry continued. It was an ancient Chinese record, detailing the social, administrational, and ceremonial rites of the Zhou Dynasty, a feudalistic monarchy lasting from 1046 BC to 256 BC. Ancient feng-shui covered all aspects of architectural work and even death, with graves and tombs being designed all with a strong emphasis on feng-shui. The modern version, Harry told us, was a blend of common sense, logic and oral traditions.

I have to admit that I was not the most attentive pupil attending that day, with feng-shui not being a major interest of mine. After all, I had only attended on a whim at the mild suggestion of a friend. Added to that were the questions I asked, logical questions I felt were on everyone’s mind. One query I put towards an increasingly frustrated Harry was, ‘if the Chinese have been so successful in the pursuit of environmental harmony, inner peace, happiness, personal success and fortune, as you say and as laid out in the teachings which you state a significant proportion of the population follow, how come so many of the followers are living in abject poverty?’

Harry was not pleased, and receiving no logical answer we quickly moved on to studying the twelve branches of the Chinese zodiac.

I wrote down notes in my notepad, along with dutifully doodling crude drawings of stick figures and caricatures, as Harry scrolled through his extensive library of teachings and bite-sized lectures, all arranged on multiple pads of large A2 sized paper hung against his whiteboard.

I stopped writing for a moment to look over at Carolyn, sitting cross-legged on my left. She kept her gaze directly on Harry, her piece of paper mostly devoid of notes, but there was no doubt: she was listening to and absorbing every single word Harry spoke.

It came as a relief to me though when he paused and glanced at his wristwatch, looking over at Jane who had just come from the kitchen and was now standing at the back of the room. A tea towel was draped over her right arm as she apologized to Harry for disturbing the session.

Sorry Harry, she began. Just to say that lunch will be ready in ten minutes.

Thank you, Jane. Harry smiled, before looking back at his students. "Well, after lunch I will be explaining the energies of Yin and Yang, along with beneficial Chi.

I remained seated as the rest of the class moved towards the kitchen. Carolyn remained seated also, but most likely due to the fact she would be unable to get out of the row, unless I got up and moved.

I took the opportunity to ask Carolyn about a few of the points raised by Harry. Right, so we’re saying that Chi ‘flows’ in through the front door and through the ground floor of the house without getting trapped. It then flows up the stairs and then, after visiting each and every room, flows out of one of the windows?

Carolyn laughed at the simple way I put forward my understanding of feng-shui. Yes, well, that’s more or less all there is too it. You should also be aware of dead spots, though.

So, how do you get rid of dead spots?

Carolyn sighed and smiled. I don’t know really, put a mirror or fish tank in there or something. We’ll probably cover that later in the day, anyway. Let’s get some lunch though, I’m starving! She stood up and made a point of making me get to my feet, so I placed my notes down on my chair as I stood up and made my way to the kitchen, following the excited buzz of voices echoing around the sterile white room which was the size of the ground floor of most people’s houses.

A beautifully marbled hallway allowed access to the kitchen, with its crystal chandeliers hanging from high white plastered ceilings, demanding attention and admiration, as I looked up at all of the jewelled flurries of strung together crystal and cut glass that made up the grandiose fittings.

The kitchen was huge, comparing it to modern equivalents, going off at a distance of some thirty feet and a width of twenty. At the far end was a cast iron Aga, loyally radiating heat as it no doubt had been doing for fifty years, or more. The ceiling was high, with modern down lights each casting bright white light out at intervals.

Everyone carried plates of vegetarian food and mugs of hot tea. The kitchen worktop was covered with a few plates of food. As the queue subsided, I examined what was on offer.

Salad. Rice. Quiche Lorraine. Untouched French bread.

It didn’t take much imagination to see how Jane had managed to keep her slim, youthful figure despite her advancing years.

I spotted Carolyn, who had retired to a less congested area of the kitchen, and as I joined her and began eating my slightly underwhelming meal, a middle aged woman, introducing herself as Sheila, came up to me and asked what I thought of the class so far, but before I could answer she continued.

I’m really into it, I think it’s fascinating! How about you two? She added quickly, realizing that Carolyn and I were together.

I looked over at Carolyn who looked at me, but by the time I looked back at Sheila she’d begun again. I bet you’re both learning a lot. Where are you from? I drove all the way from Mansfield-

Thankfully, Harry, who called out from the other room in a projected voice, soon interrupted her: People in the kitchen! Are you ready to resume? We’ll be making a start in five minutes!

I finished up the rest of the meal, and retreated to the bathroom. I thought about leaving the seminar, as I wasn’t interested in learning much more, and if Sheila was to be believed then it would only get more complicated from here. As Carolyn was sharing a ride in my car, we had loosely agreed for me to leave her here at the seminar until about 4:30. In the meantime I would go around Retford and look around its antique shops, something that interested me more than all of this fengshui.

However, as I emerged from out of the bathroom, making my way towards the exit, I saw Sheila smile and wave at me as I crossed the hall. Not stopping to say goodbye, I waved, which must have indicated something in her mind as she soon came over and began talking again.

Oh, she said, surprised. Are you leaving?

I am, yes. I said, feigning solemnity. I just find it all a bit too complex and hard to swallow.

I tried hard not to use the word ‘boring’.

Ah but Harry is a wonderful teacher, he’ll explain it in a way you understand! She placed an arm around my shoulder and led me back to the main room, like a nurse escorting back a disorientated mental patient.

When inside, she helped me to my seat next to Carolyn, not allowing me to get any form of a word in and by the time she had finally gone away, escape was impossible as the session continued, with Harry droning on about beneficial Chi and how to avoid dead areas by the strategic placing of plants, flowers, mirrors and other ornaments around the house.

I was beginning to lose focus. My mind was starting to drift and wonder and soon I was staring out of a window, a high Georgian window, where I was able to watch the wind gently blowing the unkempt grass lawns. It struck me that they were just that, lawns. No personal effects were gathered on them, no pieces of equipment or statues that carried memories of any sort. It was simply just grass. My eyes then drifted around the room, settling on Jane who sat a few rows ahead of me. I thought about how such an attractive woman could hold such deep sadness within her. I wondered about the angry man, who stormed throughout the building at the beginning. Was he the husband? If he was, she certainly spent no time introducing him, in fact, I don’t think she ever spoke to him at all.

I dipped in and out of concentration, half listening to Harry as he droned on about the correct way to assess geometric sites, the Lo P’an Chinese compass and how, in relation to feng-shui, it needs to always be pointing south, for reasons that escaped me.

Papers were handed out and I snapped back to attention. Harry spoke about a simple task using the sheets of paper in front of us. Printed on the paper was a list, headed by a question at the top. ‘Using any of the objects listed below, which one would be the best way to overcome a dead area in a household?’

Before I could study the paper in front of me in any more detail, Harry raised my name from the front.

What do you think? Harry asked me. The faces of the class all turned in my direction. Which would you use to overcome a dead area? A, B, C or D?

It was clear Harry knew I’d not been paying much attention, and as the silence following the question grew, it was clear I didn’t actually know the answer. I decided to have a guess.

Um, D?

There was a ripple of laughter from around the classroom. Harry himself smiled, but not in a way that suggested he was happy with my answer.

So, from a choice of a mirror, a fish tank, or a cabinet, Phil, you went for the rusty axe with a wooden handle?

I, er… I shifted about uncomfortably as the laziness of my inattention was exposed. After a few moments of quiet laughter, Harry looked at his watch.

Well it’s now four fifteen, I think we’ve all had enough excitement for today, so I propose that we wrap the session up, as there’s not enough time to start another module today. Jane approached him and spoke softly into his ear. The flicker of remembrance flared up in his eyes and he quickly readdressed the class. Oh! Just two more things to say before we all leave, the first is that there’s still places available for the Shamanic Weekend happening in Wales three weeks from now, if anyone is interested, please pick up a leaflet beside the door as you leave.

The murmur of busy people getting up, scraping chairs and squeaking shoes slowly ceased as Harry continued.

The second is that we should all show our appreciation to Jane for allowing us the use of her wonderful house, Jane. Harry stepped aside as Jane took to the centre of the raised podium.

Then something strange happened.

I looked on as grown adults all stopped whatever they were doing and outstretched their arms and splayed their fingers out in front of them, wriggling each digit as if they were casting some sort of spell on Jane.

This was accompanied by everyone making a strong hissing sound, similar to that of a slowly deflating tyre.

Jane nodded her thanks to the class, appearing genuinely grateful for the strange act everyone was doing in her direction. I looked over at Carolyn, who simply shrugged and told me that they were performing a ‘love shower’, which is more spiritual and gratifying than just a simple round of applause.

I chuckled to myself as the ‘shower’ passed, thinking about the reaction Jane’s husband might have if he were present.

As we were leaving, I helped myself to one of the leaflets on the weekend retreat, bundling it with all of the notes I’d taken that day. Carolyn and I said our goodbyes to the group, and made our way back to Grantham where we parted upon reaching Carolyn’s home. When I got back home, and completed all of the necessary chores and rituals, I took out the leaflet and studied it closely. I was relieved to see there was no reference to feng-shui, in fact it seemed very interesting, but I placed it on my living room table and thought nothing more of it.

I chuckled to myself. I looked around my immediate surroundings, making sure no one was there. Confident the coast was clear, I outstretched my arms and wiggled my fingers, all combined with the hissing noise, which, to me, became the soundtrack of the mentally unstable. I laughed more to myself as I did it, thinking, hey, at least I knew how to do a love shower!

C H A P T E R

TWO

Two weeks later, I was on the phone to my sister talking about their upcoming holiday to the Lake District.

After a few moments I shifted the topic to that of telling her my plans to spend the weekend with my two sons, Matthew and Jonathan.

You hardly ever see those two boys, and they only live 25 minutes a couple of villages away. My sister said.

I’m seeing them this weekend, in fact. I replied tersely. I’m going to take them to Nottingham for some new clothes, maybe we’ll go to a pub afterwards.

Oh! She sounded pleasantly surprised. They like the pub?

We usually go to a village pub near Ropsely. It has a back room that has a pool table.

That sounds nice, are they any good at pool?

They’re getting better. I smile to myself. Jonny can’t quite reach the table yet so I hold him up while he takes the shot. I laugh. Did I tell you about the last time we went and played pool there?

No? What happened?

Well, I began, putting the calculator with the horrific timeshare figures aside. In the back room there are a few tables and chairs for people to sit and eat their lunch or dinner, as well as a pool table and darts board and the like. Anyway, I took Matthew and Johnny into the back to play pool, and there, by the window, is a middle-aged looking couple, having a quiet meal. They gave us a quick look, and as we get the pool cues, they up and leave, their meal half-finished and their drinks untouched.

That’s strange. She said.

That’s what I thought, but I said nothing, and started playing pool. It was just Jonny and myself playing, and as I’m about to take a shot, I mention in passing that it was very peculiar for those two people to just leave suddenly like that. Well, Jonny spoke up and said, ‘yes dad, that’s because it was one of our teachers from school.’ I still didn’t see what the big deal was, until he continued, ‘but that wasn’t his wife.’

I’m laughed over the phone, as I hear my sister mutter an ‘oh dear!’

That wasn’t it, however, as I help him take his shot he continues, ‘the lady he was with was the school secretary, but she’s married to someone else!’ I honestly couldn’t stop laughing, they must’ve thought they were safe at that pub as it’s quite far away from the school, and as an additional precaution they chose to dine in the seldom used family room at the back, far away from everyone. I think the last thing they expected to see was a parent with two of their pupils walk in!

I hear my sister laugh at the other end, and we discuss the tale a bit more, laughing frequently before I look at the time, and decide to conclude the conversation.

We said our goodbyes, and hung up. I went into the kitchen to make myself dinner, and had just placed my phone down for a few moments when it suddenly rang again, this time it was my eldest son, Matthew.

Hello Matthew! I said enthusiastically. "How are you? What time would you like me to pick you up on

Friday?"

Actually, dad, could we possibly give it a miss this week? His voice was flat, as my disappointment bled into my voice.

Oh, that’s a shame. Why’s that?

Rob and Gav are coming over this weekend. I thought it would be a good time for me and Johnny to catch up with them.

Seeing as Rob and Gav were quickly becoming like stepbrothers to the two of them, I bottled up my disappointment and backed down.

No worries, if that’s what you want to do I’ve no problem with it. We’ll re-arrange for another time, then, perhaps next week?

Yeah, that’s cool dad.

We said our good-byes, and, now facing an empty weekend, I turned off my mobile phone.

Just as the screen died, a sudden thought came into my head, as I spotted the corner of the leaflet advertising the shamanic weekend popping out from underneath a pile of papers that had collected on the table. I took it out of the pile and looked at it, reading the definition that headed a lengthy paragraph describing the activities of the weekend.

Shamanism, it read, is the idolatrous ancient practice created thousands of years ago in which a Shaman would appease and worship demons, practice sorcery and heal the sick.

From the opening sentence alone I was already impressed, but also a little concerned. Worshipping demons? Practicing sorcery? It all sounded a little too out there and, frankly, a little bit dangerous. Intrigued nevertheless, I read on further.

"The three-day event will take place inside the picturesque Snowdonia National Park in North Wales.

Here, the ways of the shamanic people will be taught…" It continued on but I’d read all I’d really wanted to. It was the early autumn of 2001, and the weather was still beautiful: sapphire blue skies but chilled temperatures had spread across the country for weeks, and the forecast said it was set to continue for a little while longer. I looked at the leaflet again and made a cup of tea, debating if I could afford the excursion. After all, I always had the option of not taking part in all of the rituals and worship, if indeed there were any rituals or worship. What really appealed to me was the idea of spending a weekend in Snowdonia, bathed in the beautiful sunshine of the autumn season.

It was late in the evening, my house in the country bathed in the warmth of the dying day sun. I took my cup of freshly made tea and sat outside, taking a small book to read and the leaflet with me. I still couldn’t convince myself to go on the excursion as I didn’t know how much it would cost, and I couldn’t go if it was too highly priced as I was still paying financial support to my ex-wife and two boys.

I sat and thought for a while, debating with myself whether to go or not. I re-read the leaflet and found a telephone number on the bottom. I powered on my mobile phone and punched in the number, but as I put the phone to my ear I could hear the familiar crackling of poor reception as the dial tones stuttered into my ear, and looking at my phone I saw my battery was moments away from dying. I hung up quickly putting it on to charge upstairs in my bedroom before I returned downstairs and lifted up the receiver for the landline phone. I punched in the number again, sitting myself down on a chair, when the dial tone ended I was greeted by a cheerful sounding woman with a slight Welsh tint to her voice.

Hello, I’ve got your leaflet advertising the Shamanic weekend away in Wales, I’m just enquiring about how much it is and if there are any places left? I know it’s a bit short notice!

Okay, just a moment, I think there is a space going for one more person, let me just check. she cheerfully replied, and we went through the formalities of the finances, which was less than what I expected, and the sheer luck of having only a single place left on the event.

That’s perfect! I said as we started to wind down the conversation. It’ll just be me anyway. So, that’s all booked up is it? And I can pay on arrival?

Yes, that’ll be no problem. Okay! It’s all sorted, you’re registered and booked onto the weekend. Just to let you know though, the building is old and it’s been used for many things over the years. From the last group of people who went there, we have had some strange reports of un-

I never did find out what she was going to say next, as the next thing I heard was a tremendous crash happening behind me in the house. I got up immediately, dropping the phone, thinking part of a wall or something had collapsed inside.

I was frozen to the spot. What the hell just happened? Am I under some sort of attack? I didn’t hear a gunshot, or at least didn’t think someone fired a gun. I tried to recall some form of survivalist instinct, resolving not to make any hasty movements or go near any windows. Could it have been a brick? A bolt from a crossbow? Someone must be out there.

I waited, and listened, expecting to hear something in the deep silence from inside, or perhaps outside, the house.

There was nothing.

I started to move, slowly, my senses on fire, strained to their maximum being fuelled by adrenaline. I walked slowly though the house, now in darkness from the faded daylight, getting the feeling that any attempt to turn on a light would make me an easy target for whatever was in here with me. The first thing I noticed was the large crystalline chandelier, hanging above the main entrance, intact and still. It was the only thing big enough in my house to have made the sound, along with the noise of crashing glass. Seeing it unscathed did nothing to allay the sense of panic that was coursing through me.

I went through the house trying to find the source of the noise, but found nothing damaged or broken. All of the walls were intact and all of the lights were intact. I was at a loss, my mind racing; I stood still, trying to remember and make sense of the hideous crashing, as it sounded as if someone had thrown a brick through one of my windows. Could it have been something larger? Perhaps it was a microlight aircraft that had fallen from the sky, into my greenhouse?

There was definitely glass involved, I thought to myself. I definitely heard the heavy sound of shattered glass smashing into the stone floor.

That led me to rule out the source of the noise coming from upstairs, which was carpeted throughout. It must have come from the ground floor. Thoughts of golf balls or bricks being hit or thrown by intent, swam in my mind, but those thoughts drained away when I reminded myself that I lived out in the middle of the countryside, far away from any golf course and surely not a high risk target for any would be thief, especially when I was at home.

But what if it was a thief? After all, something had to have made that noise. The light was fading fast when I finally gathered my nerves and calmed down from the shock. I went outside to look for signs, perhaps footprints or torn clothing, perhaps even the perpetrator himself. I noticed the light sensors around my garden and driveway hadn’t activated, so nothing had either walked past or around them in the past few minutes since I first heard the noise. The road nearby was quiet, and I couldn’t spot any bright white blinking coming from approaching cars going through the nearby woods, nor the twin specs of evil red of cars that had just driven away. There was no one. There was nothing. There was only silence and the quickly approaching blackness that signalled, to me at that moment, malevolent intent.

I walked back inside the house, which was now completely dark and cold, and walked towards the dining room area. It was at the end of a long, windowless corridor, and the effect of the darkness, coupled with the hard beating of my heart, made the walls seem like they were enclosing around me. I reached the doorway opening of the dining room and felt with my hand along the wall to the light switch. My eyes, having adjusted to the darkness, saw no unfamiliar shapes, no ghostly figure or shadow. I saw nothing that should not have been there, except the sound of broken glass grinding on stone flooring underneath my shoes, I thought for a long time, and listened, but heard nothing.

Sensing the threat had passed, I turned on the light.

The floor was littered with thousands of shards of glass and many feathers. In the middle, just in front of the dining table, lay a large pheasant. It was a heavy game bird found in the countryside, specifically bred for the purpose of field shooting. It lay there on the floor, its body unnaturally twisted and contorted. I approached it cautiously, and with my fingers felt its neck, which was brittle and broken.

Strange, I thought, as I don’t recall hearing any death throws or shuffling immediately after the crashing noise, and as I was in a stage of full alert I’m sure I would have heard something. As I drew my hand away from the game bird’s neck where I carefully felt it’s temperature, another detail struck me as odd: the bird was cold to the touch, which, if it had been alive when it flew