The Enchanter's Torment

By Philllip Ramsay

Cursed by an obscure, depraved and ruthless Cult five hundred years ago, can the last two members of the Baron family engage in a battle of wits and occultism and destroy their nemesis?

Knowing that if they fail they will lose not just their lives but their very souls, their only hope lies in understanding the forces unleashed by their ancestor five hundred years earlier??"an act of witchcraft which resulted in his gory death and the eternal curse upon his entire family.

Could an obscure five hundred year old riddle hold the key to their salvation?

Containing graphic descriptions of torture and mutilation and an undercurrent of erotic sensuality, 'The Enchanter's Torment is a novel that you will not want to put down.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fiction4All
• Release date: May 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224322374

Book preview

THE ENCHANTER’S TORMENT

Phillip L. Ramsay

Published by Fiction4All at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Phillip L. Ramsay

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This Edition Published 2024

by

Fiction4All

DEDICATION

For Gail, who has put up with me for so many years and been a constant source of strength; and for all those people who had faith in me when I had none in myself. To everyone who has helped me directly or indirectly ― many thanks.

This second (revised) version of ‘The Enchanter’s Torment’ came about quite unexpectedly for me. Many people were enthusiastic about the project, and I am grateful to them for their support. I’d like to add thanks, in this second version, to: Alex Lewandowski, Marion B., Lisa P., Becca C., Cinda W., and especially to Mary, my Mother-in-Law, with all my love and affection, always.

Phill Ramsay

Chapter One: Musings

The car swept along the rain-streaked road, at times its grip on the road surface less than perfect. The weather was lousy and only promised to get worse; rain had begun to pour heavily two hours earlier, the temperature dropping rapidly, the rain turning to sleet. The sky, almost mocking all those of humankind who wished to travel this day, was heavy with grim clouds and soon snow would fall, with the rising wind helping to create blizzard conditions.

Inside the car, in stark contrast to the whims which Nature delighted in manifesting, was a warm, smoke-filled atmosphere, created both by the car’s heater and the two occupants. The woman sat restlessly in the passenger seat; her expression might have indicated that she was on a day trip to the local cemetery, but in fact she was simply bored by the long drive. The man driving the car was in his mid-twenties, blond haired, a determined look upon his features. When not concentrating upon matters which he, rightly or wrongly, considered of supreme importance, his face could light up in a smile which had the effect of attracting people to him. He was aware of this, and exploited it when necessary.

Tony Baron was disappointed. He knew that they would have to stop for the night, if only at a country inn but he had reckoned on being much closer to his destination by now. The atrocious weather had made him cautious, but true to his personality, he accepted the fact ― even though it did annoy him. He smiled at the fact that he could find humour in his annoyance, and at the sometimes contradictory nature of his personality. He shot a quick glance at his companion.

She was a delicate-looking young woman just a couple of years younger than Tony. She had a narrow face, brown hair, blue eyes. Her name was Margaret Hunter. Although she looked delicate, her face could take on an intense expression of self-will, and usually did so when she was certain that she was in the right and anyone else thought otherwise. When Tony glanced at her she was staring dejectedly through the windscreen, the unpleasant weather slightly depressing her.

Bringing her mind from the weather, she thought about this journey, which seemed more than a little absurd to her. She ran the events which had led to it through her mind quickly, from when she first met Tony.

It had been just over seven months ago; Margaret, not really one for nightclubs had been persuaded, by several workmates, to try a night out on the town, but she hadn’t found the experience a pleasurable one. The noise, the bustle, the shouting to make herself heard, all combined to give her a pounding headache. She felt in her handbag for her cigarettes, but realised she had forgotten them. Excusing herself, (although her workmates couldn’t have heard her), she went to the bar to buy herself some. Whilst waiting, she felt eyes upon her; glancing to her left, she saw two men looking at her. She could feel them mentally undressing her.

Suddenly, her heart began to pound, she began to panic, feeling a claustrophobic atmosphere closing in upon her. Memories she had repeatedly tried to bury struggled to force themselves into her awareness, adding to her panic. Terrified, she turned and staggered away from the bar, cigarettes forgotten, workmates nowhere to be seen. She realised abruptly, with a certainty she had never before felt, that they had gone, moved on without realising she wasn’t with them. A low moan escaped her, and, looking over her shoulder, she saw one of the men following her.

Unreasoning terror overtook her, and she began to run toward what she thought was the exit, but it wasn’t. She veered to her left, unconscious of the curious looks which she was receiving, and as she rushed around a corner she collided with someone coming in the opposite direction. Arms encircled her, stopping her from losing her balance, and holding her in a close, but non-threatening embrace.

After a few seconds, which seemed to stretch out into long minutes, Margaret recovered sufficiently to realise she was being held by a man who appeared slightly older than she; her immediate reaction was anger at his embrace, but the anger faded as abruptly as it had appeared as she took in his features. He was smiling at her. Not laughing, not angry; he removed his arms from her waist, the smile still playing on his lips ― not in a condescending way, which would have made her temper flare, but in a ‘This isn’t your night either’ kind of way.

She stood stupidly, staring at him, at a total loss for words. His smile had somehow broken the ice, made her aware of a curious feeling of affinity with him.

If Margaret was speechless at these occurrences, her companion was not. He flashed his smile again, and, indicating a vacant table with a nod, he asked, Want to sit down?

It was such a natural suggestion, delivered so easily, almost as though he had known her for years. His very easiness puzzled her, and an echo of her only recently vanished fear returned. As they walked to the table, Margaret tried to analyse her reaction to his embrace of a few moments ago. Her breathing and pulse rate, already racing, slowed, although not by much. Her fear had gone ― not faded, but disappeared completely. A pleasant, unfamiliar feeling rushed through her, confusing her anew.

Throughout that first meeting, Margaret could never afterwards remember speaking, yet she knew that she must have done. She answered questions about herself, her likes and so on. A long time passed before she even thought of looking for the men who had frightened her at the bar, and especially for the one who had started following her and caused her panic, although she saw neither.

From being a total disaster, the evening seemed to have been salvaged. Margaret felt relaxed, calm, and was thoroughly enjoying herself, thanks to her companion. She felt a perverse sense of gratitude to the man who had frightened her, felt that her terror had been worth enduring.

It was so natural for her to agree to a second meeting that she did so without the hesitation such a request would normally have caused. Margaret sighed. Things had seemed so straightforward back then, but were so uncertain now. Although she didn’t like to, she thought about the psychic link which had established itself between them. Christ, it complicated things at times ― and gave Tony certain insights which she felt uncomfortable about. It wasn’t as though it was something which she could control.

White. Suddenly focussing on the present, she became aware of snow falling, the driving wind making the night outside the car seem full of rushing white flakes. She stretched, dismissing her previous thoughts, and tried to find a comfortable position in which to sit.

Whilst Margaret was thinking back, Tony was preoccupied with thoughts of his parents. He still missed them, would always miss them, no matter whether time healed the pain or not. He inclined to the theory that it didn’t. Perhaps you just got so used to the pain that you noticed it less and less. Over four years, and the pain was still as intense as it had ever been.

His parents had been travelling to Glasgow, his father on business, his mother going along for no better reason than she loved being with her husband, and was nervy and irritable when he had long journeys to make. She always tended to go with him on his trips ― he loved her company, too ― and she believed that no accident could occur whilst she was with him. Neither had seen the van whose steering had failed, causing it to cross the central reservation and crash obliquely into them. Chaos had ensued. A total of twelve mangled hulks were the end result, but that wasn’t the worst of it...

The funeral over, attended only by friends of his parents and a few sympathizers, Tony found himself wondering: ‘Is this it? Is this all a person’s life is worth? Years of working to succeed, to make your mark on the world, just so you can die prematurely, and be mourned only by a few friends and well-wishers’.

The absence of his Great-Uncle annoyed him. Tony knew that his Great-Uncle had heard about the deaths of his parents. He had received a letter which was short and unfeeling. It read:

Dear Tony,

You probably won’t remember me, but rest assured that life goes on, every setback may be overcome.

Great-Uncle Robert.

It was the thought that his Great-Uncle regarded the tragedy affecting Tony as a mere setback which infuriated him. It was this, more than anything that compelled Tony to find his Great-Uncle and confront him with his anger.

However, this was easier said than done; no matter how hard he tried, no matter where he looked, he could find no trace of him. It was almost as though his Great-Uncle didn’t want to be found; as if, somehow, he’d managed to slip out of the system, and become an unperson.

In desperation, Tony had gone to a lawyer who specialised in representing abused and neglected children, and who had successfully traced many runaways.

When Tony explained his problem, the lawyer pointed out that Tony’s Great-Uncle wasn’t a runaway child, and wouldn’t agree to help trace him himself. However, Tony’s smile once again worked its charm, and he left with the address of a man named John Peterson, who, he was informed, made his living finding people.

Mr. Peterson agreed to help Tony, but warned that if someone, like his Great-Uncle, really didn’t want to be found, then he might be wasting his money. Accepting that possibility, Tony gave his phone number, fully expecting John Peterson to have no more success than himself.

However, Tony remembered his startled reaction when Mr. Peterson rang him two days later and asked to see him. Something in Peterson’s tone of voice told him that he had succeeded where Tony had failed.

It was by accident, really. If I hadn’t been digging for information about a totally different matter, I’d never have come across it.

You know where my Great-Uncle lives? How d’you find out? Where?

Yes, here is his address ― miles from anywhere, I might add; as to how I found out, you don’t honestly expect me to tell you? But I was surprised, to say the least, when I found out who your Great-Uncle is.

What are you getting at? I don’t understand, Tony demanded, not liking the mystery, but intrigued, despite himself.

Let me ask a rhetorical question: ever heard of George Hayter?

Hayter? Of course I have; he’s one of the greatest living authorities on the occult ― he must make millions from the books he’s written; but what’s he got to do with my Great-Uncle?

Peterson grinned, a full ear to ear grin, which at any other time would have been comical to see, but Tony wasn’t in the mood for humour.

Okay, I’ll tell you the connection. George Hayter IS your Great-Uncle. No―

Tony had opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again as Peterson raised a cautionary finger. It’s true. I came across the original document of copyright for your Great-Uncle’s first book. Both names were there, but at that time George Hayter was only a pen-name. I think that’s changed now. Anyway...

But I don’t...

Mr. Baron, Peterson’s voice had a hard edge to it, either listen, or I’ll leave. Tony said nothing, and Peterson continued, As I was saying, although he’s become famous, he’s a recluse. He hardly ever leaves that mansion, said Peterson, indicating the paper with Hayter’s address. "He thinks nothing of prosecuting anyone who enters his grounds ― and the ground surrounding the mansion is his land ― without his express permission, which is rarely given. I don’t think he has ever even consented to be interviewed.

All in all, he’s a bit of a riddle. That’s about all that I can tell you.

You say it’s difficult to get to see him ― how do you know that? What’s to stop people just going to the door?

When I found out who I was looking for, I asked a few friends, and they provided the information. If you want to try going to his door, fine. From what I’ve been told, you’ll need a battering-ram to force the door open ― unless, of course, Hayter invites you there...and if he does, I’d think twice before accepting.

What d’you mean? Is there any reason I shouldn’t go there? Tony was getting caught in the conspiratorial tone adopted by Peterson without even realising it.

"Put it this way. I’d feel more than a little peculiar visiting someone whom I haven’t seen since early childhood, who’s never taken any pains to be associated with me throughout my entire life, who wouldn’t even attend his own nephew’s funeral, who lives in seclusion, and is an acknowledged authority on the occult.

I think I’d stay away: occult mysteries are out of my league. Jesus, the time! I’ve got a client to meet. He stood abruptly. Goodbye, Mr. Baron, I hope I’ve been of some use ― I’ll send you my bill.

Peterson grabbed his briefcase and fled out of the house, leaving Tony with conflicting feelings. He struggled to take in the knowledge that his Great-Uncle Robert was none other than George Hayter. At the same time, a strange sense of creeping fear began to pervade his mind at the very thought of meeting him.

That fear was to remain with Tony for some time, mostly at a subconscious level, and was to trigger his temper at times when he would normally have let his perverse nature seek humour in adversity. Perhaps its most insidious consequence would be to cause a hesitation. That hesitation, depending on Tony’s own reaction, would cause the death of either a hated enemy ― or of somebody close. In actuality, it was Tony’s equivalent of the Sword of Damocles, although he was completely unaware of it in that sense.

Tony glanced quickly at his watch. The rhythmic whick-whack of the windscreen wipers a hypnotic whisper, urging him to sleep. He tried to shut the noise out of his consciousness, concentrating on driving, keeping his speed within reason, given that the snow was still coming down thickly, covering everything with a frozen white glow. Taking advantage of a red traffic light (which, considering the amount of traffic abroad, seemed more than a little redundant), Tony grasped a cigarette, lit it, and breathed out a breath of fog in a gesture which seemed to say, ‘I needed that’.

As he accelerated through the junction (although that seemed too grand a name for the crossing where some Council had decided traffic lights should be erected), Tony again glanced at Margaret, and found her looking at him, smiling slightly.

Thanks for offering me one, she said, punching his shoulder in mock-seriousness. How much longer?

Another hour or so and we should be able to stop for the night. Tony grinned at her, Bored?

Yes, and bloody uncomfortable ― my backside feels as though it’s flat.

Cheer up, I’ll massage it back into the right shape when we reach an inn or whatever they have around here. Who knows, we might just end up with a single room and a double bed... The sentence trailed off as he noticed the alteration in her features, the confused frown, the subtle impression that he had reminded her of things that she didn’t want to bring to mind. She turned her face away from him, saying nothing, not having to, and looked dejectedly through the window.

Tony sighed; he’d never been able to guard everything he said all day of every day ― even when being light-hearted and only half-serious, he knew he had to be careful what he said. Margaret’s reaction to his attempt at levity irritated him.

He noticed the snow falling less heavily than it had been, and dismissing Margaret from his thoughts, he accelerated gently, falling back into his musings about George Hayter.

Having his Great-Uncle’s location, Tony remembered his reluctance to confront him. He had no reason not to do so, but a weird feeling of reticence constrained him to do nothing.

Indeed, he now felt no real reason to confront Hayter, as he had done at the time of his parents’ funeral. His anger had dulled itself into a vague resentment which, strangely, bordered on curiosity.

Tony found it difficult to equate the great George Hayter with his Great-Uncle ― it seemed so improbable. For years he had studied occultism. His basic ― and a large proportion of his advanced ― studies had been completed using Hayter’s material as a foundation. Through many a night, grappling with the esoteric mysteries of the Cabbala, Hayter, like a mentor, had shown him the way forward.

It was as though an unseen guardian had suddenly materialised just for him ― but Tony didn’t believe in such coincidence. Although he didn’t understand how or why, he knew, with a deep certainty, that there was a purpose in this discovery.

He dug out the letter which his Great-Uncle had sent to him, seemingly aeons ago. He remembered it as terse and unfeeling; now, as he reread it, he felt as though he could just divine another meaning, to which he had at first been oblivious:

Dear Tony,

You probably won’t remember me, but rest assured that life goes on, every setback may be overcome.

Great-Uncle Robert.

True, it had been a setback ― and yet, was it after all a message within a message? Was Hayter trying to reach out to his relative after all this time? Could Tony be deluding himself?

Tony had pondered this until his head ached. He went round and round in a circle, and still seemed to get no nearer to the solution.

He grinned as he recalled Margaret’s reaction to his studying the occult. She had looked at him as though he should already have a set of horns and a forked tail. Even after he had explained exactly what his studies entailed, it had taken her some time to come to terms with his being an occultist.

Several times she had hinted that she would be happier if he dropped the study of what she considered dangerous and sickening practises. Of course, Tony had chosen to ignore her hints, more from stubborn instinct than anything else. The study of the occult came easily to him, as though he were a sponge waiting for the correct liquid to absorb. The occult provided him with that liquid.

Finally, an uneasy equilibrium had been established. Tony only discussed the occult with Margaret when it came up in normal conversation, which wasn’t that often. Hayter had been a neutral subject, speculated upon by them both, until that day, three weeks ago. Their uneasy equilibrium had been shattered, and their first serious argument, caused by George Hayter’s second letter, had ensued.

Margaret lay back in her seat, gazing out into the windswept night with unseeing eyes. She felt hurt, a mild feeling of betrayal tinged her emotions. She understood that Tony had been joking with his quip about the double bed ― but her past experiences had made her hypersensitive and vulnerable, and her reactions tended to be automatic. She realised that her hasty response to Tony’s joke hurt him, but she felt unsure and insecure; half of her wanted to talk with him, to explain that she didn’t intend to hurt him; but another part of her told her to remain safe and secluded in her silence. Trying to resolve this dilemma was always a problem, which she resolved by refusing to resolve it. Then, feeling guilty at her own cowardice, she reached absently for a cigarette, lit it, inhaled deeply, and allowed her mind to wander.

She felt drowsy, and let her thoughts take what direction they would, as she closed her eyes. Her first meeting ― colliding ― with Tony; her contradictory feelings of nearness and distance to him; their first argument, the cause of this bloody uncomfortable journey.

She opened her eyes as she drew on the cigarette; she was sure, in a dreamy way, that had she been a moment sooner, she would have caught Tony’s eyes on her. Mentally shrugging the thought off, she closed her eyes again, listening to the drone of the car, the rhythmic thumping of the windscreen wipers.

She located the ashtray by touch and crushed the cigarette out, beginning to feel herself drifting, relaxing despite, or because of, the monotonous sounds around her. She thought back to her childhood, repulsed the memory as though it might hurt her, and then, slowly, tentatively, she recaptured the memory, treating it as if it might, after all this time, cause her pain anew.

She thought about her father, and then quickly about the mother she had never known. How different would her life have been, had her mother lived? The very question caused her pain, since it forced her to recognise how unhappy her childhood had been, forced her to bring it into focus, rather than leave it a blank in her memory, as she would do in normal circumstances.

It was her father’s brutality she could never fully comprehend; certainly she could never remember being given any cause to love him, and the severity of the beatings which she had been forced to endure had only helped alienate her from him.

As though the sluice gate of a dam had been opened, the memories repressed for so long began to unlock themselves, demanding attention before being either discarded, or examined more closely. Margaret was stunned to find that many memories which she had kept securely hidden for so long seemed to have lost their power over her. The pain associated with them was there ― but only as a memory.

Imposing order on her chaotic thoughts, she remembered things that had seemed magical to her, as a child. Her childhood had been an unhappy one, but not one totally devoid of happiness. She remembered watching the birth of kittens, every day visiting the neighbour who owned the cat, to marvel over the furry bundles. She pondered the mysteries of nature, which turned caterpillars into butterflies, with her surprisingly loving and open personality.

These memories, however, were in the minority. Most of the memories she brought to mind were unpleasant. Wanting to push the discovery that these memories no longer had the power to hurt her, she began, more confidently, to focus upon them.

She remembered her father’s severity; but it was more than just severe beatings ― there was a sadistic element present, of which, as a child, she had not been fully aware. Even at a relatively young age, she had understood that her father enjoyed stripping and hitting her with his belt ― and he did so for the most minor crimes.

Unconsciously gritting her teeth, she hesitated, then recaptured one of the memories.

She had been just over ten years old, she recalled. Her father had just cleaned the tiled floor, a job which, along with all housework, he hated doing, but which he would do if Margaret wasn’t around to be told to do it. This always resulted in his being more likely to lose his temper with her.

It was a Saturday, and she had run out of the house early, before her father was awake, breakfast ignored. It had been raining during the night, and, when she took a short cut across fields, it was inevitable that her shoes and socks ended up muddy.

An hour or so later, suddenly feeling hungry, she had decided to head back home ― and without thinking, she retraced her route across the short cut, making her shoes and socks even worse.

She was humming to herself as she entered the house, and was across the room before she turned to make sure the door had closed after her. Her heart seemed to stop for a second, and then it began pounding, threatening to tear itself from her chest. God, if her father saw the mess her footprints had made...

She hadn’t even got half way through trying to clean the mud off the floor when the door opened, and her father stood there, surveying both Margaret and the mess she had brought in with her.

She remembered being told to go to her bedroom; that was the signal that she would be beaten. Climbing the stairs slowly, hoping that the inevitable could be postponed somehow, Margaret began feeling an icy dread building up inside her, exciting her still palpitating heart. She wished it was later, with the punishment just a memory, the pain having died away. The sight of her bedroom made her queasy. That was where it always tended to happen, the room a constant reminder of pain.

She sat on the bed, waiting; waiting. She could never decide which was worse, the actual punishment, or the mental torture of waiting for it to begin. Just as her fear began to ebb away, she detected her father’s footsteps. She stood up, swallowing. This was it. God, she wished it was over.

Then he was there; she was told to get undressed, and she felt the humiliation of this part of the ritual as keenly as it was intended. Naked, she was told to bend over the footboard of her bed. Grabbing the bedclothes in her hands, she did as she was told, clenching and unclenching her hands in ghastly anticipation of the pain to which she was about to be subjected.

She understood instinctively, from the expression she had seen on her father’s face, that no mercy would be shown, and that, by the time this punishment ended, she would be feeling more than sorry for herself.

She heard her father taking the thick leather belt from around his waist, and tensed. She knew what to expect.

Wave after wave of pain tore into her consciousness. As the agony intensified with each stroke, she struggled to remain in the position which she had been told to assume over the footboard. If she jerked upright, as the pain from every blow demanded, she was only too aware that the next stroke might land anywhere ― on her back, or her legs, which she knew from past experience, would be even more excruciating.

The waves of pain became less frequent, as though her father were savouring her punishment; each time the pain flooded into her body, it was accompanied by the sickening whap of the belt as it connected with her buttocks.

Through her yelps and tears, and her sobs and screams, the punishment continued. She had stopped counting the strokes after she had reached twenty-five. All she wanted was for it to end, for the torment to stop. Her father, as though reading her thoughts and delighting in thwarting them, and in the pain which he was inflicting upon her, sadistically applied the belt to the backs of her legs.

Although she had been able to control her cries and tears to a limited extent whilst her bottom was being chastised, now that control was impossible. White fire seemed to run from her legs through her body, making her writhe and scream and beg her father to stop; through her tears and torment she thought she heard him chuckle, but she couldn’t be sure. The signals of pain which her buttocks were still sending seemed now to be unimportant, by comparison.

It was only when her legs wouldn’t support her any more, when they buckled and crumpled completely, that the end of this waking nightmare arrived. As she lay shivering on the floor, two further waves of pain hit her, stinging her side and back, and then, abruptly, she was alone.

Alone with her pain, and her tears, and her sobs, and her hatred, which she could only give utterance to in her pain-wracked mind. Shuddering, crying, she dragged herself to her bed, and heaved herself onto it, covering herself with blankets. There, alone in the darkness, lonely and afraid, she cried again; she sobbed out all her pain and anger, but most of all, her unhappiness.

Gulping a deep breath, Margaret opened her eyes; she realised that tears had been rolling down her cheeks. The memories might not have been as painful as she had feared, but it was an unpleasant experience to relive. She felt in her handbag for a paper handkerchief, dried her face, and tried to swallow the lump which had risen in her throat. She felt an echo of the despair that she had felt as a ten-year-old.

She glanced at Tony, wanting him to understand how she felt; she wanted to confide in him, to tell him about her childhood, but he seemed deep in thought. A frown creased his forehead, then erased itself. In that second, the moment when Margaret could have communicated with him was lost.

She reached for her handbag, wondering how many children were subjected to such physical maltreatment ― and to worse. Her maternal instincts cried out against such injustice; but her feelings about her own abuse as a child were strangely difficult to articulate.

Disturbed at her reaction to these memories, she plucked another cigarette from the pack, replaced it in her handbag, and concentrated on what she could see through the windscreen. It wasn’t much. The night was dark, the wind buffeted the car, the snow fell steadily. How long was it since Tony had said they would only be travelling for another hour?

Ten minutes? Thirty? She was growing restless, partially due to sitting in a confined space for so long, and partly as a result of her unpleasant memories.

Tony, although concentrating on driving, was thinking back to Hayter’s second letter. True, he had discussed Hayter with Margaret lots of times but never had either of them voiced the opinion that it might be Hayter who would take the initiative, and contact them. Tony had made vague suggestions about visiting Hayter, but always in a detached, abstract way.

He thought of the heavy envelope, addressed in bold strokes. He remembered, too, the strange feeling when his fingers came into contact with it. It felt warm to the touch, and a sensation which he could only describe as ‘searching’ seemed to take hold of him. Then, as it died away, the envelope cooled abruptly and seemed to him to be just an ordinary envelope. Tony had a feeling that he had just passed a test, and had been in danger. But what that test was, or what the danger had been, he couldn’t fathom.

He opened it, wondering what the hell it could be, and took out a piece of paper. He recognised the writing before it connected with a name in his mind. His Great-Uncle?

Tony took a deep breath before scanning the lines, and then, incredulous, he reread them, and reread them again. What he read took minutes to sink in.

Dear Tony,

I know it’s been years since you last heard from me, and then not in the happiest of circumstances. I doubt you ever remember meeting me, as you were so young at the time.

It seems to me that, for various reasons, we must meet soon. The time is drawing near. And, as your parents are deceased, I am freed from my promise; but perhaps I go too fast. This we can discuss when we meet.

I suggest you come here, say, the week after next. You can stay indefinitely, may have to, in fact. But, as you know, deep down, we must get together soon. I will assume, in my arrogance, that this will meet with your approval. Finally, Tony, I am looking forward to meeting you, at long last.

Great-Uncle Robert―George Hayter

P.S.

When I invite you, Tony, I automatically extend that invitation to Miss Hunter. I shall expect you both on the twenty-third.

Tony had to keep rereading the letter to prove to himself that what he had read wasn’t a figment of his imagination. He was certain that Margaret would be fascinated by it, and by the proposed meeting; he had already made up his mind: he would go.

But when Tony told Margaret of the arrival of the letter, and of the invitation which it contained, she was less than happy. Unknown to either of them, Hayter had come to symbolise to her, at an unconscious level, those aspects of occultism that she found so disturbing. She immediately attempted to use every argument that she could think of to deter Tony from embarking on the proposed visit; but all to no avail.

Finally, she abandoned the subtle in favour of the obvious. She asserted that Hayter and the occult meant more to Tony than she did, even though she didn’t believe it, and that precipitated their first serious argument.

It was an argument which Margaret felt she had lost before she began; she was a hopeless liar, and her clumsy attempt at manipulation was quickly seen through. Not only did Tony see through her intentions, but she had ended up agreeing to accompany him on this seemingly endless journey, the object of which seemed as enigmatic as Hayter himself.

Tony contended that here was a mystery which he felt he had to solve. Referring to the letter, Tony paraphrased the sentence which seemed to imply that time was precious. Why time was short, what Hayter wanted to talk to him (and presumably Margaret) about, seemed to be a puzzle. Tony knew, intuitively, that only George Hayter held the solution.

Margaret had given in unwillingly, mentioning that Tony had at one point wanted to confront his Great-Uncle about the message which arrived whilst he was preparing for his parents’ funeral. Tony had smiled and said: I can still mention it, can’t I? Leaving Margaret no answer.

As Margaret had tried to manipulate Tony, Tony felt only a slight hesitation in turning the tables around. Somehow, Tony knew that it was right that Margaret should accompany him: he knew it to be so, but couldn’t articulate why he felt it so strongly.

Thinking back, he brought from his memory a dim picture of a man; he was sure this man was Hayter. He remembered that the man had spoken to him, but what he had said was lost in the mists of time. He recollected that after he had been put to bed that night, he had stayed awake. Whether it was the excitement of knowing that there was a stranger in the house, or whether he hadn’t been able to sleep, he didn’t recall.

He did remember the drone of voices, which rose in volume and sharpness; the argument, (for such Tony had decided it must be) went on for what seemed like hours. But Tony was asleep long before the stranger left the house. His parents had never afterwards referred to the stranger, or to Great-Uncle Robert, in Tony’s hearing.

That seemed to be the only memory of his Great-Uncle (if it had been his Great-Uncle) which had lingered in his memory.

Tony wondered again about the letter which promised so much, but actually said so little. The one thing Tony simply couldn’t understand was Hayter inviting Margaret as well. How had Hayter managed to find out about her? They had been together for over seven months, but it was hardly the sort of information that Hayter would have been likely to come across; not unless he had been looking.

Thinking of Peterson, Tony smiled grimly. Perhaps two had played the same game: birds of a feather? The thought brought with it a sense of the ridiculous, causing him to chuckle. Margaret looked questioningly at him.

Well, so Hayter must have checked up on him; it was no more than he’d done to Hayter. Tony found himself wondering how much Hayter knew, or thought he knew, about his relationship with Margaret.

Examining their relationship, Tony found that there were many areas which were grey, unclear. He felt close to Margaret, closer than she knew. But he didn’t feel he was as close to her as he wanted to be. Tony felt intense affection for her ― but the possibility that he might love her he hadn’t even considered.

Margaret herself was a difficult person to know, and even more difficult to understand. Tony felt that, most of the time, he was trying to complete a jigsaw with half the pieces hidden. It was only now that he realised just how much he didn’t know about her. He remembered certain question which he had asked which had received only vague and evasive answers.

Further, her negative reactions to any sexual overtures that he might make, had, in the beginning, implied nothing more than she wanted to be certain of him; perhaps wished to remain a virgin until she married. That he could have understood ― but he knew that there was more to it. Her reactions, taken with her evasions, added up to what? Something that she didn’t feel confident enough to tell him about.

‘Perhaps,’ Tony thought, ‘I haven’t given her the opportunity that she needs.’ And with this thought, he became aware of the fact that he hadn’t been very responsive to her attempts to discuss her past ― few though those attempts had been ― and he resolved to be ready when the next opportunity presented itself.

Margaret was still trying to come to terms with the rush of emotion which had accompanied her deliberate probing of her early life. She drew again on the cigarette and heard Tony chuckle. She looked at him, her glance both questioning and wary.

Had he shared her memory? She realised quickly that the thought was absurd. The psychic link didn’t work that way.

A minute later, catching her glance, he smiled at her. As his eyes returned to the road, she caught herself wishing that he could know about her past, without her having to go through the pain and