The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women (Mammoth Books)

“Yes . . . yes, Thom. Thank you.” He cradled his arm. The pain subsided.

“I touched the stone before you came and wasn’t hurt.” Thom sucked his lower lip.

“Could be the children sense a kinship with you. Although—” Ailen stared at the monument, half-expecting the two sisters to open their eyes and stare back. “Objects can attract and house ghosts. I’m suspicious that the sympathetic rendering of the two dead girls has attracted a poltergeist. They are drawn to the young.”

“Aye. And I remember how difficult it is to trap them buggers.”

Ailen smiled and nodded. “Difficult, not impossible. But I may need to use you as bait.”

Thom and Naw busied themselves salting the doorways; the windows were adequately protected by their ecclesiastical stained glass depicting Saint Chad and other holy entities. Meanwhile, the sounds of stone being chiselled and idle banter filtered in from outside. The stonemasons had started work

“If you are afraid of ghosts you might want to step outside so we can close the salt line behind you.”

Nicholas found he was being addressed by the mummer Knight – or Popule as the boy called him. The man had impossibly blue eyes.

“I’m not afraid,” the canon lied.

“Should be.” Popule dragged down his tunic at the neck, revealing a web of scar tissue across his collarbones. “Poltergeist pinned me to the floor of my church in Ashbourne. Poured blazing lamp oil all over my chest.” He pushed up his left sleeve. His arm was scarred by healed burns and bites. “Ghosts lash out when provoked. They learn to throw a punch . . . or grow teeth.”

“You are a clergyman?” Nicholas wasn’t sure whether to find the fact reassuring or disturbing.

“Was.” Popule put down his pack and undid the string at the neck. He talked as he retrieved a number of items. “Once the spirits had laid their marks on me I was lost to the Shakes. Know what that is?”

Nicholas thought about Dean Richards, cocooned in eiderdowns. “I think I do.”

“I pray you never experience it yourself and know for certain. Even if you can find a Spirit Catcher to doctor you, the sickness never truly leaves your soul. It’s always hovering, just below the surface.” Popule glanced up. Surrounded by a weird cornucopia of objects, he looked like a warlock from a romantic painting. Nicholas recognized sticks of chalk, a small brass bowl, a bunch of lavender, smelling salts and a tinder box. Less familiar was a long belt fitted with cartridges of some white mineral and the gun which accompanied it.

Popule picked up the weapon and appeared to weigh it in his hand. It was a beautiful object, thought Nicholas, remembering the rusty flintlock his grandfather had used to shoot rabbits on the family estate. Popule’s gun had a long silver barrel, at least a foot and a half in length, and spiralled like a hazel branch. The loading mechanism was a traditional cylinder, but larger. The hammer and trigger were cast from an intensely black metal, the stock carved from exotic deep red hardwood. Symbols were inlaid in brass wire along it; they struck Nicholas as Arabic in origin.

The ex-clergyman sensed his interest. “A revolver. A few years ago, I was fortunate enough to be able to discuss my requirements with a visiting American, Mr Samuel Colt. He was able to adapt his brand new design to fit my specialist needs. Here . . .” Popule picked up the gun and spun the barrel. “The cylinder revolves to align the next chamber and round with the hammer and barrel. Shoots cartridges of solid rock salt. I can fire the salt as a bullet, or if I close this small grid across the muzzle then the salt splinters and scatters. See?”

Nicholas flinched as Popule pointed the gun at his face. He forced himself to stare down the capped barrel.

“Salting the doorways keeps the spirits where we want them. Inside.” Popule’s strange blue eyes twinkled. “And this revolver helps stun them if need be. Ghosts of the sort you have here are not inclined to come quietly.” He gave his weapon an affectionate pat and slid it into a holster at his waist, the long barrel running the length of his thigh. He slung the cartridge belt over his head and slid one arm through.

“If you are staying – and in these circumstances it’s always good to have a man of God not as lapsed as I – then you’d better open your mind to things the church doesn’t care for.” He put one hand to the side of his mouth, shouting, “Seal the doors! The canon’s staying put.” Kneeling, he picked up the chalk, appeared to examine the patterns of light on the flagstones and began to draw.

It started out this way. Men moved stones set in place for hundreds of years, with no mind to the consequences. Sometimes a structure was depleted of spiritual energy and alterations left the ground sleeping. But for a building as entrenched in bloody history as Lichfield Cathedral, the ghosts’ awakening was inevitable. Of course the disturbances could have been avoided with the right consecrations and herbal homages buried beneath the dirt at ten-foot intervals around the building’s exterior. Fortunately for a Spirit Catcher such as Ailen, these rudimentary ghost traps were not common knowledge – which meant there was a profit to be made from tidying up after enthusiastic architects.

Two hours in and the chalked traps were set. The mid-morning sun shone in weakly at the high windows. Dust speckled the air. Stonemasons could be heard at work on the Gothic facade. Behind the scaffolds, row on row of ancient kings were being restored to their plinths.

Inside the cathedral, Ailen called his men to order and asked, “Canon, would you say a prayer?”

The mummers formed a circle and bowed their heads. Nicholas started to speak, the tremor in his voice betraying his nervousness.

Ailen kept his gaze on his surroundings. He caught flickers of motion from the corners of his eyes. Three figures, all exceptionally tall – and twisting up from the floor near the South Transept. Each wore something on its head – a crown? The figures disappeared when he tried to focus.

Smaller shadows danced about the walls – hundreds of them, layering over one another. The floor was patterned with them, too. Ailen knew that, for all their numbers, these were harmless shades.

“See them, Mr Savage?” Despite his devil garb, there was still innocence in Thom’s eyes.

“I see them, Thom.” Ailen kept his voice low so as not to interrupt Nicholas. Prayer niggled restless spirits. Used in isolation, it was a slow, unreliable method of exorcism. Combine prayer with psychic weaponry and the fight became quicker if potentially messier.

The boy swallowed and stared down the length of the nave. “We’ve got to clear them all?”

“No, lad. Most are harmless. We’ve got three ghosts to parcel up. Powerful ones. And then there’s the poltergeist.” Ailen pointed a finger upwards. “I think we have its attention.”

Twenty or so prayer books levitated overhead. Canon Nicholas’s prayer petered out.

“Everyone back up slowly.” Ailen led by example, his dragon pipe trained on the floating books.

The circle of men widened.

With a tremendous crack of leather spines, the books began spitting out their pages. A few stayed intact and careered down like black hailstones. Ailen saw Nicholas receive a cut to one eyebrow. The wound bled into the canon’s eye; he dabbed at it with a handkerchief and mopped his glistening brow with a sleeve. Other books aimed themselves at Popule and Thom. The ex-clergyman fired his revolver. Slugs of rock salt punched through the books, the blast holes giving off smoke.

“I take it your prayer woke the blighter.” Willy winked at Nicholas. “You all right there, friend?”

Nicholas nodded. He looked deathly pale, though.

All the books had fallen. Except for the sounds of the men working outside, the cathedral was silent.

“Which direction next?” Ailen kept his pipe close.

Naw consulted his compass. He pointed south-east. “Originated at The Sleeping Children monument. But the reading is south-west now, vestibule most likely. Also—” The historian wheeled around, checking the coordinates. “I have a second reading from the South Transept.”

Ailen nodded. He had a partial view of the South Transept, a shaded arm of the cathedral at that hour.

“Tell me, Canon. What do you see in those shadows?”

The canon forced his gaze in that direction. He cocked his head.

“I see nothing.”

“Good. Then you won’t mind assisting Popule and Naw in investigating that quadrant.”

“Oh. Oh, I see. Do I need to be armed?” asked the young man tensely.

Popule brought two fingers to his lips, kissed them and pressed them to the cross around his neck. “Faith, Canon. All the weaponry you need.”

Nicholas thought he knew the cathedral intimately, but the South Transept’s atmosphere seemed queer today while its shadows deepened.