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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

Alan Rickman!

The actor who had died a while back. That was who the Reverend Roland Fortinbrass reminded him of – a little, anyway.

The tall, thin man in the Aran sweater, his dog collar just visible.

He opened Photos on his phone and scrolled through the pictures he had taken earlier. And in particular, the one of Roland Fortinbrass’s grave and headstone.

Next, he looked at the Harcourt family’s inscription.

21 September 2015.

The same day.

Coincidence? Sure, it could be. Or had they all been together in an accident?

Had the Harcourts lived in the village? They must have done, or in the area, in order to be buried in the village churchyard, surely – unless they had some other connection to the place.

Who the hell was the man who’d said he was the vicar? Why had he been here?

The media was rife with warnings about identify theft, internet fraudsters. It had to be that, didn’t it? The only possible explanation. Some creep, posing as Fortinbrass, intent on insinuating himself into their lives before, at the appropriate moment, starting to milk them of cash.

But a very stupid creep. Did he really think he wouldn’t get found out in this parish?

He paused in his thoughts.

What if phony Fortinbrass was behind all the strange shit that had been happening in their house? Somehow making it all happen, then lo and behold, he conveniently rocks up claiming to be able to produce a Minister of Deliverance who would clear away the malevolent spirits?

For a large cash sum, doubtless.

‘Nope!’ Matt Johns’ voice suddenly intruded into his thoughts.

Jason picked up the phone. ‘Hi.’

‘There’s nothing there,’ Johns said. ‘These numbers – I can’t see anything.’

‘But it’s been happening – I haven’t imagined it.’

‘Beats me. I suggest next time it happens, take a screenshot and send it to me immediately.’

‘Sure, OK, I will.’

Johns disconnected. Jason sat down in front of the screen, opened his browser, typed in ‘Roland Fortinbrass’, and hit return.

The first hit was a Church of England website listing vicars. He scrolled down, through the alphabet, until the Fs. The browser had highlighted the name: Reverend Roland Fortinbrass, MA.

He clicked on it. After some seconds he was taken to an obituary in the Church Times.

The Reverend Roland Michael Fortinbrass, of the parish of Cold Hill. Dearly beloved husband of Angela and father of Christopher and Lucinda. Tragically killed in a car accident on 21 September 2015.

Beneath was a photograph.

He double-clicked to enlarge it.

Instantly a familiar image appeared. A tall, lean man, in a jumper, dog collar just visible below a rather weak face. Floppy, thinning hair.

The man who had been in their house yesterday.

But who could not have been.

46

Tuesday 18 December

Jason sat, staring at the dead vicar’s face, then saved a copy of the picture to his desktop.

Dead for many years.

Not possible.

Just not possible he had been in their house.