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Contents ( 89)
  1. The Secret of Cold Hill
  2. Table of Contents
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. 63
  66. 64
  67. 65
  68. 66
  69. 67
  70. 68
  71. 69
  72. 70
  73. 71
  74. 72
  75. 73
  76. 74
  77. 75
  78. 76
  79. 77
  80. 78
  81. 79
  82. 80
  83. 81
  84. 82
  85. 83
  86. 84
  87. Acknowledgments
  88. About the Author
  89. The Cold Hill Ghost Stories

All the time his thoughts kept returning to his bizarre conversation with the Bishop’s secretary. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.

And yet.

And yet.

After an hour he took a break, went downstairs and made himself a mug of coffee. Not having any appetite, he grabbed an energy bar for his lunch and carried both back up to his studio. He sat, briefly, at his desk, eating the bar and sipping the froth from his coffee. Through the window he saw the Penze-Weedells’ purple car returning from whatever expedition they had been on, pull up outside their front door.

The ridiculous couple began unloading package after package from the rear of the car. Sale bargains, no doubt. They were both looking mightily pleased with themselves. Maurice unlocked the front door and lugged some packages in, while his wife unloaded even more – impossibly more – boxes and carrier bags from the little car which seemed, at this moment, to have a Tardis-like capacity.

Claudette ducked back in and pulled out another two large boxes.

How much more, Jason wondered?

The answer was a lot more. Heavy-looking boxes, these. Bargain prosecco? he wondered, mischievously.

Finally, she had finished. Several towers of boxes were lined up, with Maurice trotting in and out, carrying them in. Claudette stood imperiously outside the front door, holding up what looked like the key fob. The up-and-over garage door began to rise. Moments later the purple car, driverless, started moving in an arc towards the garage.

Maurice picked up another box and staggered back inside.

His wife turned and appeared to bark some instruction to him. With her peaked cap and padded clothes, she looked, to Jason, like a pantomime penguin. He grinned at the mental image of her in a zoo.

Then froze.

The car suddenly stopped, in mid arc, and began reversing, gathering speed alarmingly.

Oblivious to it, Claudette was gesticulating to her husband, who was somewhere inside the house.

The car was heading straight back towards her.

Jason tried to shout a warning through his triple-glazed window.

The car was closing on her.

Frantically he hammered on the glass, tugging at the window lock.

Then, utterly helpless, he watched the car strike her in the midriff, slamming her into the wall beside the front porch and pinning her against it. Her cap flew off. Bright-red blood spattered the brickwork either side of her.

Somehow, miraculously, she was still alive, her head turning from side to side, her mouth opening and shutting. Maurice came running out of the house, looking utterly panic-stricken as he saw his wife. He ran to the car then jumped into the driver’s seat to release her.

Jason finally got the window open, in time to hear Claudette’s screams of agony.

But instead of the car moving just a couple of feet, it raced forward, into the road, out of control, with Maurice in shock behind the wheel, looking more a passenger than driver, his open door swinging backwards and forwards. The car accelerated fast, zig-zagging across the road.