The Priest Hole

  Copyright 2015 Amy Cross

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition

  Dark Season Books

  First published: September 2015

  Revised edition: January 2015

  “He died four hundred years ago. They say his victims are still screaming.”

  When Laura and her family move to a remote house in the English countryside, they have no idea of the macabre events that took place more than four centuries ago. It's said that a priest once hid in the walls of the house and was never seen again. Some say he hides there still...

  Laura doesn't believe in ghosts, but when she and her sister start hearing scratching sounds and whispers from within the walls, it becomes clear that spirits in and around the house have some unfinished business. Is there really a priest still hidden somewhere nearby? Does the ghost of his tormentor still roam the forest? And why has Laura started to experience a series of intensely vivid waking dreams in which she finds herself in the same house, hundreds of years ago?

  The Priest Hole is a horror novel about two sisters uncovering the dark forces in their new home, and about the divisions that once threatened to tear England apart. Contains violent scenes.

  The Priest Hole

  (Nykolas Freeman book 1)

  Prologue

  Wyvern, England - September 10th, 1608

  “There's no priest in this house,” the workman muttered as he tilted his hand in the moonlight and began pulling splinters from his fingers. “We'd have found him by now if there was.”

  “It's not me who needs convincing,” another workman replied, glancing toward the line of trees and spotting a figure approaching on horseback through the darkness. He felt a shiver pass through his body, and then he swallowed hard before patting his colleague on the back. “I'd better get back inside,” he added uneasily, before turning and heading to the steps that led back into the house.

  “All this work for nothing,” the first workman complained under his breath, digging with dirty fingernails to extract a particularly deep splinter that had taken root in his red-raw palm. “If there was a priest hiding here, he's long -”

  Hearing the sound of hooves suddenly, he turned just in time to see the rider getting closer. His first instinct was to turn and hurry back into the house, but he froze in position for a moment too long, until he realized that he was going to have to be the one to deliver the bad news. He'd seen over the years what happened to men who gave bad news to Nykolas Freeman, and he knew full well that there was risk of injury or worse. Still, he also knew he couldn't run, not now.

  “Bring me word!” Freeman shouted as his horse slowed on the dark path. He looked toward the house for a moment, where more workmen could be heard hammering and sawing inside the large building. Finally, he turned back to the workman. “Have you dragged the papist out yet, or does he still hide in the walls?”

  “We're almost done,” the workman stammered, taking a step back. “Connaught himself'll -”

  “Where is the priest?” Freeman asked, climbing down from the horse and immediately making his way toward the steps.

  “That's what I was going to tell you, Captain Freeman,” the workman continued, hurrying alongside him. “We've searched the place from top to bottom and -”

  “Who are you, anyway?” Freeman sneered, stopping and turning to him.

  The workman flinched, cowering a little as if he expected to be struck. “I'm one of the carpenters who's assisting Mr. Connaught. You and I have actually met several -”

  “A simple carpenter?” Freeman asked, one side of his face picked out by the flickering light of a nearby torch, the other side hidden in darkness. “Do you have any idea who I am, man? Tell me, why should I not have you flayed alive for daring to even look me in the eye?”

  The workman opened his mouth to reply, but fear had gripped his soul and he simply took a step back.

  “Leave him be,” a voice called out suddenly from nearby. “Let him get back to work.”

  Needing no second chance, the workman turned and scurried up the steps.

  His eyes filled with anger, Freeman saw that a familiar silhouette had emerged from the dark house and was now making its way down the steps. Coming closer, the silhouette stepped into the torchlight, revealing the face of Harold Connaught.

  “What news?” Freeman asked. “Where is the priest?”

  “My men and I have taken this house apart,” Connaught replied, removing a pair of black gloves from his hands. He too had splinters driven into his flesh, but he let them be, along with the other, older flecks of wood that he'd never bothered to remove over the years. “You know my work, Freeman. You know I can find any priest hole in any house in the country.” He paused for a moment. “There's no priest in this house.”

  “You're wrong,” Freeman sneered.

  “There's no priest -”

  “You're wrong!” Freeman shouted, pushing past him and then stopping at the foot of the steps, staring up at the dark house. “He's in there. Somewhere in this house, concealed behind a false wall or beneath a false floor, Father Darian Kinner continues to hide himself from us. He was seen entering this place less than a week ago, and he has not emerged since.”

  “And I told you -”

  “There is a priest hole in this house,” Freeman continued, his eyes darting from one dark window to the next, even as more carpenters trudged out through the front door. “He's laughing at us. He thinks he has us beaten, that he can make a fool of us and emerge once we give up and leave. If you and your men haven't found the hiding place yet, it can only be because this particular priest hides himself with great skill.”

  “With all due respect,” Connaught replied, joining him at the bottom of the steps and looking up at the windows, “that's impossible. We've spent three days going through the house, Freeman, and we've left no part of it untouched. We've pulled up every floorboard and looked under, we've taken down every wall, we've even dug through the floor of the cellar. An ant couldn't be hiding in there, let alone a man.”

  “Not a man,” Freeman sneered. “A priest. A cowardly, treacherous Catholic priest.”

  “I'm telling you,” Connaught continued, “there's no-one hiding in there, and that is my honest word. You trust me, don't you? I even found the priest in that house in Knarlesford last year, remember? You'd had three other carpenters look the place over first, and they said it was clear, but I found the miserable wretch and hauled him out of his hiding place so you could hang him.” He sighed, as the last of his men emerged from the house with their tools. “As God is my witness, Captain Freeman, there is no priest hiding in Baxendale House.”

  Freeman paused for a moment, his eyes still focused on the dark windows.

  “He's here,” he whispered finally. “There is a familiar stench in the air.”

  “Captain -”

  “Bring out the owner!” Freeman shouted, turning to two of the nearby guards. “Bring out the miserable bastard and his family! Make them kneel before me!” Stepping back over to his horse, he opened one of the bags on the animal's side and took out an ax. After examining the blade for a moment to ensure that it was still sharp, he turned and made his way back to the steps just as the guards brought out the owner of the house along with his wife and daughter. All three were wearing the same nightshirts in which they'd been dressed before their arrest several nights earlier, and all three had their hands tied behind their backs. The adults were wide-eyed with horror, while the little girl was already so
bbing.

  “What are you going to do?” Connaught asked, eying Freeman with caution.

  “Your work is done here,” Freeman muttered, keeping his gaze fixed on the three terrified figures as he made his way up the steps. “Now my work shall begin.”

  “You're wrong!” the homeowner, Henry Baxendale, shouted as he struggled with the ropes around his wrists. “I don't know why you think I would hide a priest in my house, but -”

  Before the man could finish, Freeman swung the ax handle at his face, knocking him back with a loud cracking sound. Next to him, Mrs. Baxendale watched in horror while her daughter tried to run before being held back by one of the guards.

  “Don't lie to me,” Freeman said, standing over Henry as the man was hauled back onto his feet by a guard. The ax handle had already cracked his jaw and knocked several teeth from his mouth, adding to the cuts and bruises he'd already sustained while being questioned. “When a man lies to me,” Freeman continued, eying him with suspicion, “I am immediately set free of any restraints that I might otherwise feel upon my soul.”

  “We're not hiding a priest!” Henry replied, struggling to speak as blood poured from his mouth. “Why would we do that? Has someone made a false claim against me? Your men have taken my house apart, if there was a priest hole here they would have found it!”

  “Darian Kinner,” Freeman said calmly, his eyes fixed on Henry's terrified yet defiant face. “A seminary priest who has been running from me for several months now, defying my every attempt to catch him. He persists in spreading his odious, treasonous word across this county, and the Devil himself ensures that there are enough fools to hide him from the King's men.” He paused, still watching Henry carefully, searching for the first sign of weakness. “I have witnesses who saw Kinner riding this way less than a week ago, and I am certain he arrived at this house and has not left.”

  “No,” Henry replied, “please -”

  “Stop that!” Freeman shouted suddenly, turning to the little girl as she continued to sob. “Stop at once!”

  “Please,” Mrs. Baxendale said, with tears in her eyes, “she's just a child...”

  “How old is she?” Freeman asked with a contemptuous sneer, still watching the child.

  “She's just seven...”

  “By the time I was seven,” Freeman continued, taking a couple of measured steps over to the little girl, “I had already cried my last tear. I had learned to fight, and to serve in my father's workplace, and to train so that I would be able to join the King's forces.” He looked down at the top of the sobbing girl's head, unable to hide his disgust. “What is your name, child?”

  He waited, but the girl's head remained bowed as tears fell from her eyes and landed on her bare feet.

  “I asked you what is -”

  “Jessica,” Mrs. Baxendale told him. “Her name is Jessica. Please, she's just a child, can't you find it in your heart to let her go?”

  For a moment, Freeman's face twitched slightly, as if something unseen was disturbing him. His eyes seemed on the verge of looking to one side, but he kept his gaze firmly on the girl.

  “She's the child of sympathizers,” he muttered finally, staring down at Jessica for a moment longer before slowly turning to the mother. Flickering torchlight illuminated one side of his face as his expression soured further. “I do believe, Mrs. Baxendale,” he added finally, “that you just interrupted me while I was speaking.”

  She shook her head.

  “Oh, you did,” Freeman continued, with contempt in his eyes. “This might be your husband's home, but all of you are guilty when it comes to the matter of hiding that priest.”

  “There's no priest here,” Mrs. Baxendale stammered. “Please, you have to believe us...”

  “No,” he muttered, “I do not.” Taking a step back, he nodded at one of the guards. “Get her on her knees. Make her bow her head.”

  “No!” Henry shouted, before one of the other guards smacked him in the back of the neck with enough force to send him stumbling forward.

  Struggling, Mrs. Baxendale tried to rush toward her daughter, before one guard grabbed her legs and forced her down and another tilted her head forward, arranging her in front of Freeman with her head lowered. Her whole body was trembling as she cried, but she knew better than to try standing again. Her trembling intensified as Freeman reached down and moved her hair aside, exposing her bare neck. For a moment, he ran a finger against the large mole just below her hairline.

  “This is your last chance,” he said finally, turning to Henry. “Tell me where in your house the priest is hiding.”

  “There is no priest,” Henry replied, his voice shaking with fear as a guard held him back. “I swear to God, man, there is no priest hiding in my house! If there were -”

  Suddenly Freeman raised his ax and then brought it swinging down. At the last moment, Mrs. Baxendale flinched and tried to pull away, causing the ax to strike a little off-target and only cut through one side of her neck, albeit with enough force to send her body slumping down as blood sprayed across the ground.

  “No!” Henry shouted, held back by two more guards.

  On the ground, with her head half removed, Mrs. Baxendale gasped as she tried to get to her feet. Blood was flowing freely from her wound now, soaking the grass as she struggled for breath. She reached up to her neck and began to fumble for the wound, as if she was trying to push the flesh back together, but her heart was beating furiously now, only to pump more blood from her severed neck in a series of frantic spurts.

  “Cowardly whore,” Freeman muttered, staring down at the struggling woman for a moment. “If she hadn't tried to pull away, I would have cut her head cleanly away.” He watched as two of his guards pulled her up, and then he took care to adjust his grip on the ax. “This time, I shall take her cowardice into account when I aim my blow.”

  Nearby, one of the guards held the sobbing Jessica by her shoulder. The child's eyes were fixed on her mother, watching in horror as the woman continued to gasp for breath. As Mrs. Baxendale pressed the wound in her neck tight, blood immediately began to erupt through her throat instead, slopping out of her mouth and down her chin. At the same time, she let out a series of breathless gulps, before her hands dropped down and the wound in her neck reopened, once more leaking blood, some of which sprayed up onto her cheek.

  A moment later, Freeman's ax swung down for a second time, this time cutting cleanly through the remaining part of the woman's neck and sending her severed head rolling across the grass.

  “As God's will is made clear to me,” Freeman muttered, reaching down and picking up the head by its hair, “so shall I enact it in this world, and slay those who would harbor enemies of the Lord and the king.” He sneered at the head for a moment and then turned it aside, noting that his ax had cut cleanly through the very center of the mole on the back of the neck, and then he tossed it aside and turned once again to Henry Baxendale, who was staring ashen-faced at his wife's headless corpse. “I will ask you again, Sir,” Freeman continued, with the bloodied ax still in his right hand, “to tell me where in your house I will find that miserable priest. I am sure his safety was not worth your wife's life, and I trust that you will not imperil your daughter the same way.”

  Henry simply stared at the corpse, as if he couldn't comprehend what he'd seen. His eyes were open wider than ever now, as if some inner axle of sanity had broken.

  “Are you so cruel,” Freeman continued, “that you would choose to safeguard the priest rather than looking after your daughter?”

  He waited for a reply, before turning to Jessica, contemplating the girl for a moment. Finally, the contempt began to face from his expression, replaced by a calmer, more calculated smile.

  “Tell me, child. I know there is a priest hiding somewhere in your parents' house. Where can I find him?”

  Her whole body trembling with fear, Jessica stared with a shocked, glazed expression at her mother's decapitated head. Her seven-year-old mind was unable
to comprehend the horror she had just witnessed, and her pupils were rapidly enlarging and shrinking as if to express some deeper, more comprehensive trauma.

  “You're not like your parents,” Freeman continued, reaching down and gently placing his fingers under the girl's chin, before tilting her face up so he could see into her eyes more fully. “You haven't been warped and twisted by the vicious lies that fill their minds, you haven't turned against God and your country. You know, deep down, that the priest hiding in your father's house is a man who must be drawn out of the shadows and dealt with.” He paused, before broadening his smile. “Do you know who I am, child? I am Nykolas Freeman, and I operate on the authority of King James himself to root out any and all Catholic priests who try to spread their poison through our fair land. You're young, you probably know little of the troubles that have bewitched the country in recent years, but you must try to see things properly. Ignore everything your father has taught you, and listen instead to a man of the king. Out of the goodness of my heart, I am offering you this one, final chance.”

  Crouching down, he brought his face just inches from hers.

  “Tell me where to find the priest.”

  She stared at him, her eyes filled with tears, before looking down once again at her mother's head. She could feel Freeman's foul breath on her face, a stench of rotten teeth mixed with the ale that had dried in his mustache.

  “No,” he said, forcing another smile as he tapped the side of her face. With every word he spoke, there came another spray of foul breath. “Look at me, child, not at that traitor.”

  He waited, as a fresh tear rolled down Jessica's face.

  “Leave her alone,” Henry said firmly from a few meters away, where he was still being held firmly by two guards. “She's just a child, for God's sake!”

  “A child who knows the truth,” Freeman replied, staring at Jessica for a moment longer, watching as her eyes twitched with fresh madness. “A child who will not reveal that truth. Perhaps the rot is too deep in her mind already.” Leaning forward, he gently kissed Jessica's forehead before getting to his feet and turning to the nearest guard. “Put her on her knees and bow her head.”