Table of Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Simon Clark From Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Recent Titles by Simon Clark from Severn House
LONDON UNDER MIDNIGHT
THE MIDNIGHT MAN
VENGEANCE CHILD
WHITBY VAMPYRRHIC
HIS VAMPYRRHIC BRIDE
HER VAMPYRRHIC HEART
SECRETS OF THE DEAD
SECRETS OF THE DEAD
Simon Clark
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2014
in Great Britain and in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
Trade paperback edition published
in Great Britain and the USA 2015 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD
eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2014 by Simon Clark.
The right of Simon Clark to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Clark, Simon, 1958- author.
Secrets of the dead.
1. Mummies–Egypt–Fiction. 2. Castles–England–
Devon–Fiction. 3. Horror tales.
I. Title
823.9’2-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8417-6 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-526-1 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-567-3 (ePub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being
described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this
publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons
is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
ONE
Thirty years ago. The night the horror began …
DANGER! KEEP OUT!
The two boys ignored the sign on the ancient door. After the tallest of the pair unlocked it, they passed through to the other side. This part of the castle was so dark that John Tolworth bumped his face by walking into a wall. Softly, he swore under his breath as he rubbed the sore tip of his nose.
Philip was eleven – one year older than John – and he always took charge. ‘John, stand still, or you’ll fall down a bloody hole or something … Wait a sec. Ah, found it.’
The light switch gave a loud click. Immediately, a yellow glow revealed the stone steps that gave access to one of Baverstock Castle’s formidable towers.
Philip Kemmis began to climb the spiral staircase. Philip was amazing – absolutely amazing. John Tolworth had never met another human being like him. Of course, that could be because Philip was the son of a genuine English lord. His physical appearance was astonishingly different to other boys. He had blond curly hair that framed an unusually white face: its paleness made the freckles stand out so much that it seemed as if tiny spiders were running across his cheeks and his nose.
What made Philip even more striking were his eyes. Those blue eyes of his were humongous. Gigantic! When they’d first met, Philip laughingly introduced himself as ‘The Incredible Bug-Eyed Boy’. What had astonished John even more were the portraits of Philip’s ancestors in the huge entrance hall downstairs. Some posed regally in crimson robes; others wore armour and carried swords. To a man, they possessed those same massive blue eyes. All the family’s got the bug-eyed chromosome, John had told himself in awe. Every single one!
Philip Arthur Gordon Kemmis also talked posh. Very posh. If anyone talked as posh as that at John’s school the other kids would marmalize them.
In polished, elegant tones Philip announced, ‘You’re so scared, you could shit.’
‘I’m not scared.’
‘You were the one who begged to see our family’s mummy collection.’
‘I still do.’
‘Turn back if you want. I won’t tell anyone that you were frightened.’
‘I’m not frightened of the mummies. I just don’t want to get told off by your dad.’
‘Mother and Father are fast asleep.’ Philip offered this statement as he sauntered up the steps. ‘Dead to the world they are.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘After all that champers, a keg of bloody dynamite wouldn’t rouse them.’
Philip had such a funny way with words – comically funny, that is – and despite the boys’ social backgrounds being poles apart they were genuinely good friends.
John laughed. ‘They’re always drinking champagne. I thought your family were skint?’
‘Skint? Ah, colloquial for “broke”. Indeed they are “skint”, John. There’s no dosh to repair this Gothic heap. Ceilings are falling in; the moat’s run dry; ravens nest in the attic. My parents, however, prefer to describe their financial state as “genteel poverty”.’
‘They still drink loads of champagne.’
‘Must keep up appearances, old boy. Can’t let the locals think that the British aristocracy are falling on hard times. Ah … here we are. The mummy chamber.’
Philip switched on another light, revealing a wooden door covered in iron studs. John decided that this is how a door should be in a castle: as powerfully solid as those thick stone walls. John watched as Philip selected a rusty key from other keys on a ring.
‘You’re still free to go back, John.’ Even though Philip was eleven he could sound so grown-up. Almost fatherly. ‘We could watch a film instead.’
‘I’ve heard about these mummies. I want to see ’em myself.’ At that moment it was incredibly important to prove how brave he was. He didn’t want Philip to think he was just some cowardly little kid.
Philip pushed the key into the keyhole. ‘I need you to understand some important facts here. Egyptian mummies are dead people. Have you seen a human corpse before?’
‘No.’
‘Then prepare to be frightened. You’ll be looking at dead people’s faces. Three thousand years in a tomb has a ruinous effect on one’s complexion.’ Philip had a habit of invoking these funny turns of phrase. ‘I don’t want you haunted by nightmares.’
‘I’m alright.’
‘You’re trembling.’
‘It’s cold up here.’
‘Be warned. There are significantly horrifying corpses behind that door.’
‘Open it! Open it now!’
Such a strange energy blazed through John. Yes, he was scared. He was excited, too. This was the thrill of doing something forbidden. In all his ten years he’d never
experienced anything that seemed as ferociously dangerous as this.
‘OK, your funeral.’ Philip pushed open the door.
John shoved by his friend so he could rush into the room first.
Blackness. Silence. A jail cell of a place that imprisoned the dark rather than criminals. John Tolworth wanted to yell out. To shout something – shout anything. He ached to break the silence. Because that total absence of sound was like thick glue that gummed up his ears.
‘The mummies are in this room,’ Philip intoned from somewhere behind him. ‘Nobody’s been here in years.’
‘I want to see them.’ But at that moment John was screaming inside: I DON’T WANT TO SEE THEM! I WANT OUT OF HERE! The darkness turned ominous. It pressed against his eyes; there was a suffocating quality about that wall of black. He felt panicky, short of breath; his heart pounded so hard it hurt.
WHOOSH! John told himself that when Philip flicked the switch and the light blazed it really had made that dramatic sound. What’s more, its brilliance ripped the darkness to shreds and flung what was left beneath the tables and chairs to become lurking shadows. Patches of wet slime oozed on the walls. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling. A jagged hole in the floorboards, which made John think of a hungry, gaping mouth, exposed a dark cavity: possibly the room below this one. A misstep would have sent John plunging down into that blackness to smash his bones and leave him in agony. Meanwhile, the stink of decay haunted this cold, neglected chamber.
John stood there panting with shock. He saw everything … yet bizarrely he saw nothing. He’d expected bandaged people lying in coffins. Instead, there were mystery objects covered by dustsheets. One sheet had slipped away, revealing the statue of a black dog – or something resembling a dog, with sharp ears pointing upwards from an ebony head. The animal lay on its stomach, its eyes staring forward, alert to trespassers.
‘Anubis,’ Philip announced, coming forward. ‘Sacred jackal of the Egyptians.’ He patted the creature’s back. ‘Carved from wood. Three thousand years old.’
‘Show me the mummies.’ John’s heart raced. He felt bad through and through. Really bad, as if he demanded to be shown something dirty. Like sexy pictures of naked women. ‘I want to see them!’
‘The mummified dead are all around you.’
John stared hard at those worrying oblong boxes beneath their white sheets. At the far side of the room, an object beneath yet another sheet made him look twice. Someone appeared to be sitting on a chair beneath a dusty shroud. John burned with excitement. Yet he felt dizzy and sick at the same time.
He knew he shouldn’t – he mustn’t – but …
‘Which one’s the pharaoh?’ His lips were hot and gritty.
‘The gent on the throne. Do you want to see him first?’
John nodded. His heart got ready to explode.
Philip did that posh, sauntering walk across the room. John watched, hardly daring to breathe. Because, yes, beneath that sheet sat an Egyptian king who’d died three thousand years ago. Bones and skin, bones and dust! And the eyes! What do eyes look like after three thousand years? Will they be open or shut? What if the eyes stare at me?
His friend didn’t hurry. But Philip never behaved like a regular eleven year old. ‘My ancestor found these remains in the Gold Tomb in Egypt. That was a century ago. Lord Gordon Kemmis was so obsessed with royal mummies that he spent his every last ruddy pound finding this chap.’
The moment that John had both dreaded and eagerly wanted came. Philip swished back the sheet.
That’s the instant the light failed.
John could not prevent himself from yelling. Even though he yelled at the top of his voice, as he was plunged into darkness, he could hear another scream: this one even louder than John’s.
Philip yelled, ‘JOHN! GET OUT!’
John desperately scrambled across the room. He could see nothing. Objects smacked against him as he ran. Chairs? Tables? Mummy coffins? Who knows? He simply concentrated on reaching the door. By chance, he avoided that yawning hole in the floorboards. Somehow he found the handle in the dark. Behind him, Philip’s screams went on and on. Something was hurting the boy. Those were pain screams.
The stairway corkscrewed downwards forever. Or so it seemed to John. Down, down, down! He ran as fast as he could; his heart pounded with terror. Getting out of the tower dominated his mind … and getting away from those shocking screams. Reaching the bottom of the steps, he hurtled through the doorway into the residential part of the castle. The part that Philip and his family called home.
A corridor stretched away in front of him. Suits of armour flanked the walkway. There were soft carpets, bright lights. The faint aroma of the pizza they’d eaten for supper still lingered. As John ran, brittle thoughts clamoured: I’ll go back to my bedroom. Lock the door. Hide. I’ll be safe there.
But what was he running from? And why did I leave Philip behind? He made himself stop dead. You don’t run out on a friend. You stick together. John turned around so that he faced the entrance to the tower. He stared into cold shadows that accumulated there.
As he watched, something awful happened. A figure lumbered through the doorway. Its legs were oddly stiff. The apparition found it difficult balancing on limbs that were as rigid as wooden poles.
The disturbing creature spoke. ‘John …’ Its voice was flat … dead …
John took a breath to steady his nerves, and after rubbing his eyes with his palms he finally realized that the figure was his friend, Philip Kemmis. The boy lurched along the corridor, his eyes glassy. For some reason, Philip held a red cloth that was all shredded and raggy. The cloth was wet – sopping wet. Red stuff dripped on to the floor. Then John understood that he wasn’t seeing a red cloth at all. Those were shreds of skin that swung loosely.
‘Philip! What happened to your hand?’
But no. The question should have been: WHERE IS YOUR HAND?
Philip still walked as if his legs were sticks. He held out the ruined arm towards his friend. His face had gone slack. No expression. Those uncannily large eyes of his were dead. He stared without blinking, and though he continued walking he never seemed to get any closer.
And he kept repeating over and over: ‘John … John … John …’
TWO
Thirty years later. Horror returning …
‘John … John.’ His wife called him again, ‘John. The tea’s arrived. Don’t let it get cold.’
John Tolworth stood on a grassy mound that overlooked the sunlit patio of the quaint Devonshire tearoom. His family already sat at the table, where they watched him with some bemusement.
‘John, what are you doing up there?’ Ingrid wafted a bee away from the scones.
‘I can see it.’
‘See what, Dad?’ Eleven-year-old Oliver Tolworth stood up, ready to dash up the hill.
‘No, Oliver. Sit. We’re going to eat.’ The boy’s mother pointed at the chair.
‘What have you found?’ called Vicki.
‘Baverstock Castle. I can see it from here.’
Vicki gave him that disdainful look that sixteen-year-old girls manage so adroitly. ‘If we’re that close, why did we bother stopping here? I’m hot, I’m fed-up, I want a shower.’
John heard Ingrid say, ‘Vicki, your dad wanted to treat you to something nice.’
‘Cream teas are weird. I’m not eating anything.’
Oliver detected a promise of extra food. ‘I’ll have yours, then. Can I, Mum?’
‘No. Vicki will eat to please her father … won’t you, Vicki?’
John didn’t want the cream tea he’d been looking forward to so much ruined by an argument between mother and daughter, so, as he walked down from the mound, he decided to play peacemaker to the best of his ability.
His wife, Ingrid, wore a plain white T-shirt with jeans. She’d had her black hair cut shorter than usual, which coincided with her promotion to year-head at the school. Half-jokingly, she referred to the new hairstyle as a ‘power cut’
. On one brown wrist she wore the exquisite replica of a Celtic gold bracelet that he’d presented to her on their wedding anniversary last week. Daughter Vicki shared her mother’s exotic, almond-shaped eyes and shiny black hair, although hers reached halfway down her back. Genetic potluck had gifted Oliver with John’s paler colouring and blue eyes. Oliver possessed the same hair-type as his father, too: light brown and so bristly that it defied the toughest of combs to tame it.
John took his place at the table and, being mindful of his role as peacemaker, tried to distract mother and daughter from arguing by being pleasantly chatty. Sometimes it worked … occasionally … or, to be completely honest with himself, rarely. He tried anyway.
‘I used to come here with your grandma and grandad when I was Ollie’s age. There’s a pond over there that’s full of carp. Huge, they are. Monsters. Leviathans.’ He pretended his arms were jaws and clamped them on to Oliver’s shoulders. ‘Man-eaters. Aaarrr!’
‘No fighting at the table.’ Ingrid smiled. ‘I’m supposed to be relaxing, and already I’m having to scold the pair of you.’ Jokingly, she assumed firm schoolmistress tones. ‘Behave, boys, I won’t tell you again.’
‘Or what?’ Oliver chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
‘Behave,’ she said, ‘or I’ll chuck both of you in the pond and those monsters will gobble you up.’
Ingrid’s good-humoured threat to feed her husband and son to the fish made even Vicki laugh. John’s smile was one of relief as he spooned clotted cream on to his plate. His daughter never used to have inhibitions about being openly affectionate or joining in family fun. However, she’d now reached that awkward age when children scowl at their father’s jokes instead of laughing; her expression always remained stuck to ‘Very Serious’ mode. John knew she was passing through that prickly borderland between being a child and becoming an adult. He loved his daughter. Though she could be trying sometimes. So BLOODY trying. Lately, the arguments that erupted between Vicki and her mother could be so fiery. Ingrid had wisely explained to John that Vicki’s actions were normal in the decidedly abnormal world of adolescence. Ingrid had said, ‘Vicki’s testing our affections. It’s as if she’s saying: “If I behave like a total bitch to my parents, will they still love me?”’ Testing that love almost to the point of destruction had become immensely important to their daughter.