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On reaching the station forecourt, the sight that greeted her sent her resolve nosediving. A solitary streetlamp shone a weak light on an empty lane, rain-sodden trees and a mass of inky blackness stretching ahead, but no sign of her client.
She checked her phone. The signal was poor and her battery was low. Great.
A sudden gust of wind caught her off balance and she knocked into her suitcase, sending it toppling over. As she bent over to retrieve it, her bag slipped off her shoulder and hit her on the head. The world was conspiring against her. Or rather, Pluckley was.
Having googled Calvin’s name, she’d then searched for information about the quaint Kent village, expecting to discover an abundance of fascinating history and images of gorgeous rural cottages. What she hadn’t expected to discover was that ‘cute’ little Pluckley was in fact the epicentre of all things supernatural. Like her life needed any more drama.
Cursing, she grabbed her bag from the floor and shook the mud away. The voice in her head reminded her that she wassupposed to stay calm, so she stopped strangling her bag and smoothed back her hair, removing a few rogue strands that’d stuck themselves to her lip gloss. Sucking in a deep breath, she concentrated on breathing. This was not the moment to succumb to another panic attack.
Feeling a fraction calmer, she tapped the screen on her phone, hoping it would spring into life so she could call Calvin and find out where he was, but the battery had died.
Thankfully, help came in the guise of a lone figure walking his dog, visible beneath the solitary streetlamp.
Grabbing her suitcase, she stumbled after him. ‘Hello! Excuse me! Can you help me, please?’
The man glanced back, plumes of smoke billowing from his pipe. Unlike her, he was appropriately dressed for the weather in a full-length mac and wellington boots.
‘My lift hasn’t shown up,’ she said, offering him a pleading smile. ‘Would you be able to call me a taxi? Only, my phone’s died.’
The man looked at her. ‘I don’t have a mobile.’
‘Oh. Is there a taxi rank close by?’
‘Ain’t no taxis running this time of night. Where d’you need to get to?’
‘The Rose Court Care Home. Do you know it?’
His face creased into a frown. ‘I do.’
‘Is it within walking distance?’
‘About a mile or so, I reckon.’ He seemed to study her. ‘You need to head that way.’ He nodded behind her. ‘Follow Station Road until you see signs for The Pinnock and then take a left past Screaming Woods. When you reach Devil’s Bush, take the lane towards Fright Corner. You’ll see the sign for the care home just past the crossroads. You can’t miss it – it’s by the large oak tree split by lightning.’
Kate wasn’t sure whether the man was being genuine, or simply having a laugh at her expense. Either way, it wasn’t exactly what she’d wanted to hear. Screaming Woods? Fright Corner? Who came up with these names?
‘And I wouldn’t hang around,’ he said, removing his pipe and whistling for his dog. ‘Whatever you see or hear, just keep going.’ He patted his dog’s head. ‘Good luck.’
He wandered off, leaving Kate pondering over his words.Whatever you see or hear, just keep going?What on earth did that mean?
But she wouldn’t panic; she reminded herself that she was in a remote village in Kent, not a pupil at Hogwarts School. Law of averages dictated that she was unlikely to meet with a sticky end at eight thirty on a Thursday evening at the hands of Moaning Myrtle.
Having suppressed the irrational fear of being bumped off by an irate ghoul, she continued down the lane. So, the place was reputedly haunted. Big deal. It was probably nothing more than a few fanciful old wives’ tales that the locals seemed keen to uphold. Clever marketing.
Besides which, she’d discovered a long time ago that people who were alive were a lot more dangerous than people who were already dead. Dead people didn’t gamble online, run up debts in your name and impregnate your next-door neighbour.
Her suitcase snagged on a protruding branch, jerking her sideways. Hadn’t the local council ever heard of pavements? They were all the rage in civilised towns. Even cute villages like this one had been known to employ twenty-first-century architecture on occasion. But not here. Oh no, the residents of quaint little Pluckley obviously felt it necessary to force its visitors to do battle with the undergrowth.
As she passed the sign for The Pinnock, she guessed she must be heading towards Screaming Woods. A thick blanket of treesloomed either side of the lane, tall and foreboding, and scarily silent. She couldn’t work out whether she felt protected by them or entrapped and about to star in her own version ofThe Blair Witch Project.
She continued down the lane, praying the care home wasn’t much further; her feet were cold and the damp was starting to creep up her jeans.
The welcome lighting from the railway station had long since dimmed and she was walking in virtual darkness. Only a break in the clouds, allowing a misty shaft of moonlight to penetrate the gloom, indicated the way forwards. A lesser woman would have been intimidated by such a creepy situation. Luckily for her, she was made of sterner stuff – or not, as it transpired.
Her calm resolve was shattered into a frenzy of swearing when the still night air was filled with a loud anguished scream.
She jerked away from the sound, a piercing noise that jabbed at her eardrums. It appeared to be coming from the woods, a weird lingering resonance that echoed around her, freezing her skin as it brushed over her.
She lifted her hands to cover her ears and the noise abruptly stopped. It was replaced by the manic movement of birds, a cacophony of wings beating against the air, as seemingly a whole flock flapped wildly in a bid to escape the terror of the woods.
